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

The instant the question leaves her mouth—"Castle? What the hell are these texts?"—he feels the rock and the hard place crushing the air out of him. It had occurred to him less than two hours ago, while he was shaving, that she might eventually remember having sent the texts, but he'd figured that he'd have time to work up a response. What he hadn't considered was the all but inevitable: that she'd find them on her phone long before any memory surfaced. Goddammit, he's an idiot. Why hadn't he sneaked into her room while she was asleep and deleted them? Too late now. That ship hasn't only sailed, it's hit a freaking iceberg.

"What texts?" he asks, feigning innocence and hanging onto the hope, like a man with a waterlogged RMS Titanic life jacket, that he can talk his way out of this. That there are still enough drugs in her system that she'll believe whatever story he's going to have to spin in the next few seconds.

"These texts," she says, holding up her phone with the screen facing him. It's hard to tell which is trembling more, her hand or her voice.

"Let me see that." He closes the gap between them in four strides, and takes the phone from her. "Which texts? Is there a whole sequence? I'll go back to the start." He does, then hits delete and squints at the screen as if he were trying to break an arcane code. "You mean this one from your dad? Saying he got home safely and will see you Saturday?"

"Castle!"

"What?" Thank you, mother, thank you, he says in his head. Thank you for bringing me up in the theater. Thank you for letting me learn by watching you act. Thank you for passing along enough of your talent that I can manage to sound convincing as I fib to Beckett. Bless DNA. Bless genetic predispositions.

"You know what. Where are my texts?"

He looks at the phone again. "I don't see any. Oh, except one that says, 'Thanks, Dad. Love you.' Why are you upset about that? Short and sweet."

"Give me my phone."

He shrugs. "Of course. Here you go." He puts it in her outstretched hand. "Still don't know what this kerfuffle is all about." Uh-oh. Kerfuffle might have been a give away. Her eyes are narrowing. Her nostrils might be flaring a little, too, unless it's a trick of the light in here. Bright light, very bright. Which is not how he would describe himself at present. Dim bulb is more like it. Kerfuffle. God, what a bad choice of words. Word.

"There were hideous texts on here, Castle, and they've disappeared."

"Hideous? You wrote hideous texts? I don't believe it."

"I saw them. They're not here now, but they were. I saw them."

"How can your texts be hideous, Beckett? They're in Helvetica Neue, very clean. Nice font. Excellent. Looks so modern." This had better be buying him some time. He'd had to dig deep to come up with that.

"I'm not talking about what they looked like, it's what they said. I said."

"Wrote."

"Fine, wrote."

"Typed, actually."

"Castle!"

"Well, as a father myself I can say that I'd have been really happy to get that sweet little text from you."

"Sit down."

"You want me to sit down? Why?"

"So I can talk to you."

"Okay, that's good. I think it's a little hot out there, though." Not as hot as it is in here, of course. Sizzling in here.

"We'll stay inside." She walks slowly to the sofa, and bends equally slowly until she's seated.

"You want coffee, Beckett?" That could eat up a couple of minutes, very handy. He could organize his thoughts, or at least come up with one.

"I don't want coffee, Castle. I just want you."

Oh, if only. He looks at her from the corner of his eye. Dear God, is she blushing? "Mmmm?"

"I mean, I meant, I just want to speak to you."

Definitely blushing. He joins her on the sofa, at a decorous distance. It's not easy, especially since she's still wearing almost nothing. He wonders if she'll notice. More like when, not if. "Okay. What can I do for you?"

"I couldn't have written, uh, typed, those."

"Those? The phantom texts?"

"They didn't sound like me. I hope. No, they didn't. I wouldn't have said—I might have thought that. But…" Her voice trails off.

She looks both miserable and furious, and he's not sure what to do. Before he can say anything, she straightens up a little and turns towards him.

"Wait a minute. Did you do this? With my phone? Put them there?"

"Huh?" He's legitimately confused.

"Is this a joke? While I was asleep you stole my phone and typed in these embarrassing texts? Did you think that was funny?"

He's often willing to take one for the team, but not this time. Absolutely not. "No. I didn't. I did not sneak into your room and compose embarrassing texts."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying." He kind of was before, but not now. "I would never do that, Beckett. I swear." He might delete them—did delete them—but she didn't ask about that.

She's looking hard at him, and he's trying to hold her glance, unwaveringly. He needs to stave her off a little longer. "I was out on the porch readingThe Brothers Karamazov the whole time you were napping." He points towards the screen door. "See? It's on the table next to the chair. It's pretty hard not to tell the truth when you're in the middle of that, you know, all the debates about morality."

She's still looking at him. Apparently his Dostoevskian interlude hasn't worked its magic. "Your phone. Where's your phone?"

"Uh, my pocket, I guess. Why?"

"Hand it over."

"Hand it over?"

"It's a simple request."

"Doesn't sound like a request."

"Fine. By the power vested in me by the New York City Police Department, I command you to surrender your phone."

"Geez." He reaches into his back pocket, uses two fingers to extract his phone, and passes it to her.

She tries to open it. "It's password protected."

"Of course it is."

"Password, Castle."

"I don't have to give it to you. I'm positive that there are federal statutes about that."

She stabs in four numbers and looks a tiny bit smug as the phone unlocks. "You need better protection."

"How did you know my password?"

"Oh, please. It had to be Alexis's birthday. Duh."

She's right. He'd wanted to change it to Beckett's badge number, but it was one digit too long, so he'd left it. "You're right. Duh."

When she clicks on his texts, her eyes grow wider than he's ever seen. He wonders if she'd read all of them earlier, or just some? There are six. Two from her, then one from him in response, then three more from her in quick succession. She'd stopped only because the meds knocked her out. So, it could have been worse, from her point of view, anyway. He'd have liked to get twice as many as he had. He's memorized all of them and can't decide which is his favorite. "Nighty night" is so adorable, but so is "We have a song!" Not to mention the woman-eating mosquito one. Although, seriously, what she's said to him since he arrived is far more adorable, and entertaining. And funny. And sexy. Balls. Sexciting. Oh God, sexciting. If only she knew. He wants to replay in his mind her last drug-induced monologue, the one when he was carrying her to her room, but he doesn't dare. Not in front of her. She'd read him like a book. Like The Brothers Karamazov which she, unlike him, undoubtedly finished years ago and then reread. In Russian. Whoa, she's standing up. "Beckett? Where are you going?"

"You have to leave," she says, averting her head so that he can't see her face.

He may not be able to see her expression, but he can hear, and what he hears is pain. Not the physical pain that she's been living with for weeks, but emotional pain. Distress. So she's kicking him out? No. No no no no no no. He won't go. He pushes down the rising panic and keeps his voice light, once more mentally thanking his mother. "Can't leave, Beckett," he says cheerfully as he gets up from the sofa. "We haven't even had breakfast, and I promised you an omelet. I know I suggested toast a while ago and I hope you don't mind, but I switched to English muffins when I saw that you have raspberry jam in the fridge. It fills all those nooks and crannies so yummily."

Castle heads for the kitchen before she can object. If he works in just the right spot he can watch her, see where she's going and what she's doing. He flips the switch on the coffeemaker, starts the toaster, and turns on the gas under the omelet pan. He'd assumed she was going to her bedroom or the bathroom, but she's moving in the direction of the porch. Maybe she's going to sit down there, and wait for him to bring her breakfast. The pan is hot now and he's just about to tip the beaten eggs into it when he realizes that she has gone down the three porch steps and is going—where? The pond? She's walking to the pond. He quickly turns off the stove, puts the bowl of eggs on the counter, and takes off.

"Kate!"

Her arms are folded across her chest. She's not stopping.

"Kate!" He catches up to her but doesn't touch her. "Why are you going to the pond? It's time to eat. Come back. Please."

She's looking straight ahead and walking slowly, undeterred. "I can swim. I'm going to swim away."

That does it. He has to make a move. "You know, Beckett, much as I'd pay a huge amount of money to see you in a wet tee shirt, this is not a good idea. You have to eat some breakfast." She's still inching her way to the water. "You wanted to talk to me. I'll talk to you. About anything. I will. Or not, if you don't want to anymore." Still walking. She must be exhausted by now. "Okay, you've driven me to it. I've done this once before, and I'll do it again." And in one easy move he scoops her into his arms. "I'm carrying you to breakfast. You must weigh less than the hen that laid the eggs we're about to have."

She's silent. He is astonished again by how light she is, and by how silky her legs are. "Let's eat in the kitchen, okay? The omelets will be ready in two minutes, tops."

"Bathroom," she says, about two decibels above a whisper.

"You want to eat in the bathroom? Funny place for that, but sure. I'll bring in a couple of chairs."

"I want to go to the bathroom and wash my face first, Castle, before breakfast. While you cook."

Okay, that's progress, huge progress. They're on the porch, and he sets her down, opening the door so that she can go in ahead of him. "I'll do the eggs now. Two minutes, all right?"

"Yeah." While she creeps across the smooth wooden floor in her bare feet, she thinks about what he said when he picked her up. 'I've done this once before, and I'll do it again.' When has he ever carried her in his arms like that? Even when he was helping her out of her apartment after the bomb last year, he didn't carry her. And yet when she was cradled against his chest—his bare, massive chest—just now it felt so familiar. How could that be? What had he meant? She's made it into the bathroom, and turns the water on in the basin. That's when she sees it. Them. On the doorknob, inside. His boxers. On the floor right below are his socks and sneakers. She stretches out her arm to feel the towel on the bar: it's damp. He must have taken a shower while she was sleeping. He hadn't brought a bag. She hasn't seen one, and she would have. He must have left the city in such a rush to get here that he hadn't packed anything. She closes her eyes. Oh, God. He's commando. He's naked under those perfectly-fitting jeans, in the very next room.

TBC

A/N Thank you very much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following. It's such a wonderful treat for me in the hot weather, which I dislike!