Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He doesn't know what to say or where to look. He's trying not to think about his balls, which isn't easy, given what she just said and the way she's fixed on him—and he's trying to keep his eyes on her face, which also isn't easy, given how she's dressed. Or not dressed. Almost undressed. She must have had that tee shirt since she was a teenager because it's faded and almost see-through from countless washings. It's probably the softest thing she owns, which would explain why she's wearing it: it sits gently on her skin and her wounds and bandages.

Don't look, don't look, don't look, don't look.

Still holding the bowl of cantaloupe pieces, he's belatedly aware that he and Kate haven't even exchanged hellos yet. He hasn't asked her how she's feeling, although that's hardly necessary now. Still, he should.

"Geez, Beckett, where are my manners!" he says, sitting straight up in his chair, which moves him a bit farther away from her than he had been. "I haven't asked how you're doing. You know, healing. Mending." He's already running low, short on inspiration because she's so distracting. And he's feeling guilty about his less than pure thoughts for a woman who was shot barely three weeks ago and has a boyfriend. Who is not here, the scumbag.

"I'm fine, Castle." She's smiling and she looks so relaxed—giddy, really. He knows it's the drugs, but it makes her even more beautiful. She runs her open palm lightly over her collarbone. "See my shirt? This is Rosie the Riveter, did you know that?" She pauses, apparently waiting for his answer.

"Yes, yes I do. From the Second World War. Great, uh, great icon."

Beckett beams as if he's her pet pupil who has just responded correctly to the toughest question in class. "She's my hero. She's strong. Look at her muscles. I'm not very strong right now, but I used to be and I'm gonna be again 'cuz I do my PT. Hey! That rhymes! Be and PT!" She giggles and leans steeply towards him, her body language that of someone who's had at least one drink too many. "You're really strong, aren't you Castle? I can all see your muscles. They're so big. Let me feel your bicep."

When she wraps her fingers around his upper arm and squeezes, he needs every particle of his self-control to help him sit still and keep his mouth shut. He offers up a prayer to what's her name, the Greek goddess of restraint. Who is she? Sophrosyne, that's it. "Help me out here, Sophrosyne," he pleads silently.

"Wow, I could never arm wrestle you," she says, squeezing again. Her face is about two inches away. "You'd beat the pants off me, 'cept I'm not wearing any. Remember? No pants." More giggling from her, and he's almost choking. "Do you want to wrestle later? Not arm wrestle, wrestle wrestle. It would be very sexciting. We can do it! See? It says so here on my shirt. WE CAN DO IT. Right? Only not in my shirt. We would be naked."

That's his cue to leap to his feet, preferably without knocking her over. "I think what we can do right now is eat breakfast," he says, scrambling to get to the kitchen. He's seldom felt so clumsy. "Sorry!" he yelps as the screen door slams shut behind him. He yanks open the refrigerator door and pulls out a carton of eggs, the butter dish, and a glass that's holding some fresh herbs in a bit of water. "I'll make an omelet," he shouts over his shoulder, and sees that she has gotten up and is standing unsteadily on the porch. She's wobbling like a tree in a cartoon before it topples over, and he drops everything on the counter to run to her. He takes hold of her left arm. "Are you all right, Kate? Do you want to come back inside?"

She tilts into him, and presses her forehead against his neck. "Wanna go to bed. Sleepy."

She's only been up for a little while. It's the pills, then, knocking her out. "Okay, we'll go back in and you can take a nap. Let me know when you wake up and then we'll eat, how's that?"

"Nope."

"Nope? What do you mean, 'Nope'? Gourmet cook here, may I remind you? I've been told by discriminating types that my omelets are irresistible."

She's smacking him lightly on the pecs. "'sistible. You're 'sistible. Not your omelets, you. You have to take me to bed now."

Oh, dear God, what he'd give to hear her say that when she actually knows what she's saying, and when she's not so frail that he's afraid if he holds her tight she'll break. "All right. Just take my arm and I'll have you there in no time."

"Doncha wanna pick me up, Castle?" She tosses her head back so she's looking up into his eyes. "I'm not heavy. Promise I'm not. Much faster to get me into bed. You've wanted to get me into bed forever and ever and ever."

He has to take care of this right away. "Okay. I'll just, I'll just carry you to your room and you'll be off to dreamland." Dreamland? God, almighty, what he's reduced to. Dreamland. Pathetic. He shakes his head to clear it, then bends over, slips one arm under her knees and the other around her back and scoops her up. She wasn't kidding: she weighs nothing. "Can you grab the door for me, please?"

She does, and immediately after it feels as though she's out—until he walks into her room she starts talking. "Just like when we get married."

What? What? He hadn't intended to say it out loud, but he does. "What?"

"Married. You're gonna carry me cross the threshold like this, aren'tcha? When we get married. Go on our moneyhoon." She giggles again. "Not moneyhoon, I mean honeymoon, even though you have a lot of money. We'll go on a honeymoon."

Is he asleep in the car outside? Because he's pretty sure this isn't really happening. His mind is slipping. "Mmmm." Oh. There's her bed, the sheets still rumpled from last night. He sets her down on the side she hadn't slept on, where the linens are still smooth. "I'll just straighten these out for you so you can be comfortable." And then she takes him by surprise, reaching up from her perch on the edge of the bed and hauling him down next to her. For someone still so weak, she has a hell of a grip.

"This is your side," she says, patting the far corner of the mattress with her free hand. "Do you like to be on this side? Cuz I like that one. Where I was before. When you came and I woke up. But now you're here and we can go to bed. It's very sexciting to be in bed with you, Castle." And with that she slumps over, sound asleep, and looking like a goddess. Very gently he maneuvers her onto her side of the bed, and once again calls on the unBeckettlike goddess Sophrosyne to keep himself from yielding to temptation and kissing her. He looks longingly at her and tiptoes out, closing the door behind him.

Except for the brief, pre-dawn snooze he'd had in his car, he has been awake for more than 30 hours and desperately needs a shower. Now. Preferably cold. Extremely cold. The cabin's only bathroom opens off the same hallway as the two bedrooms. It's next to Jim's, but there's a large storage closet between it and Kate's, so the noise of water running shouldn't disturb her. He strips off his pants, boxers, socks, and sneakers, finds a large, clean towel in a big wicker basket, and takes a restorative shower. He even washes his hair in her cherry-scented shampoo, which necessitates another blast of lust-repressing cold water. After wrapping the towel around his waist, he scrounges up a disposable razor from the back of the medicine cabinet and shaves contemplatively in front of the mirror.

Kate's under the influence, but she's been speaking to him, coming on to him. It's his name she's using, not Davidson's. So what's going on? Is Josh out of the picture, or is she just sore at Doctor Motorcycle Boy for not being here? How far, how much bending, does the unconscious do, anyway? Or is he just a convenient substitute until the cardiologist returns? Shit. He has to regulate her meds. Make sure she eats right. Does her exercises. Sleeps. Getting her back on her feet is what's important, not his feelings. Will she even remember any of this? And if she does, how will she react? Will she be embarrassed, ticked off, what? Will she make him go home? He's not sure he could bear it.

He'd been so happy, and now he's mopey. He drapes the towel over a bar to get dressed when it hits him: he has no clothes. None except what he'd been wearing since yesterday, anyway. He's averse to putting on the same boxers, so he'll just go commando under his Levi's. His tee shirt is in a wrinkled heap on the kitchen table and not only smells strongly of coffee but would be in aromatic competition with his newly cherry-scented hair. He'd borrow a shirt from Kate's father, except the guy is about half his size. He can go shirtless for today, can't he? No harm in that. Besides, she loved his shirtless state. Would it be so terrible if he indulged in this just until tomorrow? Of course it wouldn't. Tomorrow he'll go into town, wherever and whatever it is, and buy something. For today, well. He looks hard at his reflection. "Eat my dust, Davidson."

Back in the kitchen, he chops dill and thyme for the omelets, splits open some English muffins to toast, and refills but does not start the coffeemaker. Once she wakes up, he can have everything ready in less than five minutes. Until she does, he'll sit out on the porch and read. He's on chapter three of The Brothers Karamazov, which he's ashamed to admit he's never attempted, when he hears her call his name. He marks his place with a paper napkin and goes inside. She's standing in almost exactly the same spot where he's first seen her a few hours ago, only this time she's minus the pink sock and plus a cell phone. She's got it in a choke hold in her hand, and a look of abject horror on her face. "Castle? What the hell are these texts?"

TBC

A/N I apologize for the long gap between chapters, but work and family obligations intervened. I'm back on my more manageable schedule now.