11: Till the end of time

Beckett nips his shoulder, not particularly gently, in rebuke.

"Now I need another shower," she points out. Castle smiles happily.

"What a good idea," he drawls, smiling lazily.

"Alone." The smile falls off his face.

"You're no fun," he grumps. "I could wash your back."

"You supposedly washing my back is what got us here," Beckett reminds him, and slips a hand down to point her moral. Not that morals have figured much in the morning so far. Immorals (is that even a word, he wonders, and decides that it is if he wants it to be), on the other hand, have figured very largely. He slips out of her, and steps a fraction back, and lifts her down. She probably doesn't need it, but he wants to. He just wants to keep touching her.

"Out."

It's his bathroom. How is he leaving his own bathroom just because Beckett ordered him out in that particular tone of voice that goes straight to his hindbrain and leaves him mentally paralysed? It's not fair. The shower is going on behind him.

"Close the door, please."

And that's not fair either. If he can't touch, he should at least get to watch. Still, he is a decent man, and he'd better start remembering it. He closes the door gently and gathers up the towels as a displacement activity, putting them in the washer and then deciding that he'd better add his robe once he's showered again.

Beckett doesn't take long, but one look at her face tells Castle that she's tweaked her ribs in the shower. Discretion being the better part of valour, he doesn't comment, but notes that he's going to have a shower – by himself, and she's not allowed to peek at his sculpted body – and then he'll make some lunch and more coffee. She's still making disgusted noises at his arrogance when he closes the bathroom door.

When he comes out, cleaned, Beckett's sitting on the couch in her own clothes, and a t-shirt of his is lurking by the washer.

"You could have kept the t-shirt on, Beckett."

"Nah. I don't want to smell of Paco Rabanne."

"Paco Rabanne? Paco Rabanne?" Castle squeaks with indignation. "Do you know nothing about male grooming?"

"Why would I? I'm neither male nor acquainted with many men who have time for primping and pampering?"

"That scent is not Paco Rabanne." He humphs. Paco Rabanne is for a different sort of man. Esposito, perhaps. Ryan probably uses Brut, just like he likely did when he was sixteen. "That is Ambre Topkapi." Beckett looks completely blank. She has no appreciation of fine men's fragrance. "I know you like it," he says provocatively as he sits down next to her. "Your nostrils flare a fraction when I'm wearing it."

"Trying not to sneeze, Castle." She wrinkles her nose at him to try to convince him.

"Liar," he grins, and puts an arm round her. He looks down at her hands, removes his arm, bounces off and bounces back again shortly. He keeps his hand behind his back, and goes to make coffee and food. Beckett stays firmly curled on the couch and refuses to move, which is just as well because it means that Castle doesn't have to risk his life by telling her not to. He makes them both lunch, and brings it over.

"Why have you grabbed my arm, Castle?" Beckett says accusingly.

"It's missing something."

"Huh?"

"Needs something on it. A bracelet. I could get you one. All sparkly with little pink charms to suit your girlish personality."

"Detectives do not wear sparkly bracelets," Beckett muses dangerously. "On the other hand" – Castle sniggers – "they frequently cause others to wear cuffs." She glares.

"Ooohhhh. Will you wear them too?"

"No."

"You're no fun."

"No. Now take your hand off my arm. I need it for eating my lunch."

"I could feed you. Very romantic."

"If it weren't grilled cheese. Grilled cheese is not romantic."

"You forgot something when you got dressed."

"No, I didn't. Despite your obvious hopes I am fully clothed." Castle pouts.

"You did."

"No, I went upstairs to my room and got dressed. In a full set of clothes."

"Can I check? After all, you've forgotten one very important thing. You might have forgotten others." He looks helpfully hopeful. Or hopefully helpful. Neither works on Beckett, who is rapidly acquiring her usual air of irritated bemusement at his insanity.

"What have I forgotten, then?" she snaps.

"This," Castle says, produces her father's watch, and proceeds to fasten it on her wrist. Aw, hell. That was a mistake. He should at least have waited until she'd eaten some lunch. She stares at it and at his hand putting it on and her eyes are brimming.

"Oh," she breathes, and brings her other hand up to cover his fingers, working to fix the watchstrap round her wrist.

"No more crying, Beckett. You wouldn't want to ruin all my hard work to get it fixed, would you?" She shakes her head, and sniffs. A drop splashes on their linked hands. "Come here." He guides her head into his shoulder and cuddles softly for the moment or two it takes her to recover. He'd never realised just how much the tangible evidence of her father's victory had meant to her, till now. And yet she'd said that he was more important.

"Castle…" It's all she seems able to say. "You…" She sniffs damply again. "You…" Her hand is clamped over his and there's no way he could move it even if he wanted to. Her pulse is leaping under his fingers. He keeps her in his arm where she's safe and comforted. She's been zigzagging emotionally for all the time she's been here but he knows her: he knows how to deal with her like this. Be with her, hold her, just be there for her. She needs stability and strength and he is both stable and strong. And so he holds her close and firm, not tightly but so very obviously there, and waits patiently till she should have gathered her roiling thoughts and emotions.

"You always know," she sniffles. "How do you always know what to do?" Castle hears for me unspoken at the end of that sentence.

"You're my partner," he murmurs into the top of her head. "Of course I know you." He adds a kiss. "And you're my friend." Another kiss, and his arm closes her in a little. "And you're my girl," he adds mischievously, and awaits developments, which arrive swiftly in the form of a splutter.

"Your girl?" But under the normal Beckett snark there's another note: a little uncertainty, a little hope, a little something else that he sees in his mirror most mornings.

"My girl," he says definitively. "Unless you're about to tell me you're only using me for my nightmare-banishing qualities and stunningly handsome body?" He tips her face up and pouts exaggeratedly. "How could I possibly bear being misused so, Beckett?"

"No," she says quietly. "No. How could you think that?" She's stiffened in his arms.

"Too soon?" She nods, wordless. "Sorry, Beckett. I've never thought that." And relaxation. He kisses her forehead, and then softly on her lips. "Come here." He picks her up and settles her into his lap. Her hand is running over her watch, over and round and over and round; she's staring at it, large on her slim wrist: it doesn't really suit her but he thinks she can't not wear it; he's only seen her without it when they went to the fundraiser and these last few days. His fingers slip on to hers again, stopping the movement by curling through hers and interlinking, a small reminder that she needn't do this alone.

She wriggles a little, not seductive but simply getting close, carefully tucking herself into him, still with her fingers intertwined with his, and her head rests on his shoulder where she really ought to have it all the time they aren't actually on a case, because it fits very nicely there.

"You okay, Beckett?" She snuffles a very little and doesn't answer, still tracing circles round her watch face and staring down at it. "C'mon. Can't have my girl dripping like a watering-can. It'll be okay."

"Not a girl," Beckett mutters, crossly.

"No, but 'my woman' is a bit antediluvian for me. Modern man, here."

"Not if you're using that ridiculously possessive phrase. It's not modern at all. It's nearly as old as you."

Castle pouts some more. "I'm not old. Mature."

Beckett snorts, swinging back to snark and snippiness again, just as Castle had intended. "Mature? You? The man with toy helicopters in his study and light sabres under the bed?"

"They're not under the bed. They're in the closet. I don't want light sabres in the bed. My own… sabre… is quite enough." He wiggles his eyebrows. Beckett snorts disgustedly. "Anyway. I'm mature. Experienced. And" – he stops, waiting for some reaction, which arrives in the form of an exasperated sigh of very Beckett familiarity – "if I say you're my girl, then you are. So just snuggle in and enjoy it."

"So I'm your girl, Castle." Ah. That sounds like a threat. "Really? Where exactly did you get that idea from?" He's about to speak when her hand moves. "Was it the bit when I" – ohhhhh, her voice has slipped from stern to sultry – "sneaked into your bed and wasn't sleepwalking? Or maybe it was when I kissed you?" Sultry turns to scorching. "Or maybe when I did this?" Ohmigod. Oh fuck. Ohmigod. Don't do that, Beckett, or she'll be flat on her back naked in his bed.

"All of the above," he squeaks.

"Good," she purrs. "Seems like I am your girl." And she puts her head back on his shoulder and closes her eyes. This means that she can't see him opening and closing his mouth like a demented ventriloquist's dummy, which is possibly just as well. It's not a flattering expression.

"You're my girl?"

"Didn't I just say so? But if you go into burning buildings without me again to recover things, I will shoot you. And then I'll ditch you for total idiocy."

"Aw, Beckett. I knew you liked me. Threatening to shoot me is just so romantic. It's just like Sally in second grade."

"Girls threatened to shoot you in second grade?" Beckett sounds boggled.

"Well, at that age it was mostly throwing spitballs. But it's the same idea."

Beckett appears to have exhausted her always-limited supply of conversation, and remains nicely snuggled up. Castle takes the opportunity to keep her tucked in, and the opportunity to finish his lunch, which is now cold, and then the opportunity to annoy Beckett by reminding her of her unfinished lunch. From the faces she's making, she's either no longer hungry, or doesn't like cold grilled cheese. Or both, perhaps. Still, she chokes it down. Unsurprisingly, the cold coffee doesn't get a similarly unhappy reaction. That goes down with alacrity.

"More coffee, Beckett? Or ice-cream? Or both?"

"Coffee, please." He'd have taken her back to the ER if she hadn't wanted coffee. "Not ice-cream. I've had enough." Castle looks at the top of her head. He doesn't think she has eaten enough, but maybe it's just all the emotions filling up her stomach. Anyway, if she says she's had enough it's not his business to interfere. He stands her up so he can stand up, and then lowers her down again.

"I think I can do it myself," she says. "Go make the coffee and I'll practice." Castle pads off as requested and tries to ignore the noises behind his back. He's doing really well at the ignoring part, massively helped by the noise of the coffee grinder blocking out everything, when he hears a much louder and definitely not coffee grinding noise, whips round and finds that Beckett is suddenly snow white. Not Manhattan snow, either. Pristine white Antarctican snow, freshly fallen. Metaphors are not helpful right now.

"What have you done?" He's already across the room to her before he's finished speaking.

"I" – she breathes harshly in – "lost my balance" – another scraped breath – "and sat down too fast." And another. "Fuck, Castle, that hurts."

"I think we'd better get you back to the ER," Castle says calmly, belying his frantically skipping pulse and worry. "You might have done something to the break. Let's get it checked out."

When Beckett doesn't argue and simply nods he's even more worried. She was arguing when she'd just been blown up, and she argued after Dunn dropped on her and broke her ribs. And now she isn't arguing and she is breathing very shallowly and she is still white and in obvious pain. Castle lifts her up to standing, helps her shuffle to the elevator and into his wide and extremely comfortable Mercedes, and delivers her to Bellevue – again! – with a minimum of trouble and a maximum of avoiding potholes, bumps, and anything pain inducing. Thank heavens for the car's excellent suspension.

The doctor looks indifferently at Beckett in the waiting room, pulls up her notes, and then scowls blackly at her. "Not you again." He glares. "You were told not to do anything strenuous for three weeks. What have you done?" Then he glares at Castle, which is entirely unfair. "You were told to make sure she didn't do anything strenuous. What have you done?"

"Nothing!" Castle says. Beckett being apparently unable to speak, he carries on. "She lost her balance and sat down too fast and then she went white like this and so I thought we'd better come in and because she didn't argue I knew something was really wrong." He runs down. The doctor has stopped glaring.

"Okay. So you did something sensible. Ms" –

"Detective!" is hissed from below him.

" – Beckett," the doctor carries on, unfazed, "it's another X-ray for you. Could you perhaps avoid any more potential breakages? There are limits on how many times we need to use your ribs as a training exercise for new interns, and there are no frequent-flyer miles or quantity discounts available on your health plan." Castle knows the doctor is joking, and admires his dry humour. Beckett, from the fulminating look in her eyes, is not so impressed. "Take your necklace off, please."

"Castle…Will you keep it?" She takes the necklace off, and then, though she hasn't been asked to, her watch too. "And this. Just in case."

"Sure. I'll keep them safe for you." He doesn't joke or rag her. It doesn't seem… helpful. She's taken off to X-ray, again, while he merely gets to sit in the waiting room. This is getting very tedious. Now she's his girlfriend – he smiles sappily – he'll at least have some chance of looking after her one day per year, which is a bit better than the no days per year he's previously been permitted. He'd better not mention that, because he's been looking after her for at least five days now and she might ration him, in which case he'd better start planning for 2015 to be his next opportunity.

He sits in the waiting room and observes the organised mayhem around him. It seems to be centred around the same bossy nurse who had been on duty last time, whose descriptive language is still blisteringly brightly coloured. He amuses himself in the same way as last time by plotting a scene where Nikki is faced with a nurse who is even more strong-willed than Nikki, but regretfully realises that it is unlikely to be usable when it begins to descend into a wrestling match in an examination room with Rook ending up being stabbed with a sedative-filled needle. Panic always makes his mind a little jumpy, and he is definitely worried about Beckett. Fortunately she is returned to him not much later, and undoped.

"No further damage, Mr Beckett. Your wife has been very lucky."

"Sorry?" Beckett had called him Castle. Why did the doctor think he's Mr Beckett? Don't they listen?

"What?" That's Beckett, of course.

The doctor looks a little nonplussed, and then embarrassed. "Sorry. I thought… I assumed you were her husband." There's an uncomfortable pause.

"She's staying with me. Her apartment blew up. We're not…" – he gulps – "married." But it's a very good thought. It lodges in the front of his brain and blocks any other thoughts.

"We're partners," Beckett says. That's a phrase that can be interpreted in a number of ways. The doctor looks relieved that he's not got it completely wrong. Castle improves the impression by putting Beckett's chain back on for her and, not incidentally, tracing fingers over her neck.

"C'mon, then, partner," he says. "Let's go home."

"My watch," she says, a little petulantly, and holds out her hand. Castle takes it, and buckles the watch back on. He doesn't let go of her hand once he's done. Her fingers twitch under his, but don't pull away. The doctor looks at the pair of them knowingly, and says nothing.

"Take Ms" –

"Detective" –

"Beckett away, please. And this time, Detective, please try not to come back here for at least" – he stops, and considers, and grins at her – "oh, a week? That would be a record." Castle watches Beckett half-smile, reluctantly. "Take some painkillers when you get home, and rest. And you, Mr" – he pauses.

"Castle." –

"you take care of her. Since she obviously won't. I don't want to see either of you again." That's just fine. Castle doesn't want to see the doctor, the bossy nurse, or the inside of the ER again either, however many stories he might make up.

"Let's go, Beckett. Before you break something else. Carrying you is one thing. Carrying half a ton of plaster cast and you is another."

"I didn't break anything."

"Sounds like that's just good luck. Maybe you shouldn't practice standing up and sitting down for another few days, if you can't balance." He smiles happily at her. "I'll help you. I'll make sure that you go up and down as often as you like."

Beckett turns bright scarlet, and Castle sniggers. A silenced Beckett is not a common occurrence, and he's quite enjoying his momentary triumph. He reinstalls her in the car and smoothly takes them both home, where he reinstalls her on the couch, produces water and painkillers, stands over her while she takes them, grumbling all the while and – he thinks, he's getting to recognise that particular cadence and sub-vocalisation – swearing under her breath in Russian.

"The doctor told you to take them."

"They're horse pills. And they make me sleepy."

"The doctor said rest, too. So take them, Beckett, and then I'll tuck you into bed for your rest."

"I can tuck myself in. Anyway, I don't need to go to bed."

"You need to lie flat and not strain yourself. So go to bed and lie flat in comfort." He only just doesn't say go through to my bed. Seconds later he's very glad of that.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.