Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
She wasn't kidding. The stepped-up PT she did today—and she insisted on going it alone—has left her short-tempered. She snaps at him over nothing, apologizes, and a minute later gets mad about something else. He knows that it's the pain talking, but it's tough for him to take and even tougher for him to realize just how hard a road she's on, has been on for almost a month.
He's worried that she'll over-medicate again, so even though she's fighting him he maintains his resolve. He's the keeper of her prescriptions, at least for the present. They're in the kitchen, and she's hanging on to the counter as if it were a mooring in a storm. Her cheeks are flaming, making the pallor underneath all the more unsettling.
"I'm not five years old, Castle."
"I know you're not. You're six times that, plus a year to grow on."
Humor, or his attempt at it, does not temper her mood.
"You have no right to keep my meds away from me."
"I do if you're going to be careless about administering them."
"I'm not careless. I'm very careful."
"Really? Because I have evidence to the contrary, and you love evidence."
"I took too many because I didn't know how many to take, all right? Because my father treated me like a helpless child and doled the stuff out to me. Never let me get my hands on the bottle, so when I was alone and in pain such as you will, I hope, never even begin to imagine, I took too much. So sue me."
"Not going to sue you. Don't want to face you in court. What I am going to do is hand you a pill, one pill, and some water. If there's anything that I can do to help, like massage your feet or read to you or make you a chocolate milkshake, I will."
"Give me the goddamn medicine bottle, Castle."
"Say please." He's trying to defuse the situation, but as soon as he says those two words he knows it's a mistake, and he can't take it back. He should have let her anger run its course.
"Say please? Are you kidding me? Please?" She yanks hard on the neck of the oversized shirt she's wearing, pulling it down so far below her collarbone that most of the dressing on the wound in the center of her chest is exposed. "You want to see this?"
He backs off a step, involuntarily, aware of his own blood leaving his face. "No, I don't."
"Too bad, because I'm going to show it to you. I can't wear a bra because it's still too uncomfortable. At least I save myself the torture of putting it on and taking it off, because the stretching that requires is pretty awful."
She stops to get more breath. Witnessing this is such agony that he wishes he could put his fingers in his ears. Man up, he tells himself, that's about a thousandth of the pain that she's living with right now. And then she starts to peel away the large gauze pad. Very slowly, using one fingernail. "Don't. Please don't, Kate." He's imploring, not simply asking.
"You can say please all day, I'm still showing you this, Castle. So you get it."
He's not sure which is worse, the reality or what he had imagined, because seeing the wound wipes his memory clean. No, not completely clean: one memory has taken over his consciousness. She's lying in the cemetery, and blood is coming through her dress blues. Red blood that he thinks must be blue. She is bleeding blue for her dead captain. Their friend who is about to be lowered into the ground when a bullet lowers her to the same ground.
"My ribs were cracked. Did you know that? There's nothing to do about it except let them heal, but they still ache some of the time. I hope to God I don't cough, because when I do it feels as if my rib cage is exploding." She presses the bandage back into place and releases the neck of her shirt, but she's not through with him yet. Now she pulls up the hem, baring half her side, from just below her breast to her waist. "This is where they sliced me open, Castle. Hurts like a son of a bitch if I move too quickly, or twist too hard. I'll spare you what's underneath the bandage." She drops the hem and looks down. This has taken everything out of her, and she's wobbly.
He's at a loss. He, a 40-year-old man with considerable experience with women and even more with words, doesn't know what to do. Here he stands, mute and motionless on the linoleum kitchen floor of a cabin in the woods, within arm's reach of the woman he loves more than he had ever thought possible. What the hell is wrong with him?
It's only because he, too, has lowered his eyes that he sees what happens next. A tear lands on the floor between them, spreading out in a way that reminds him of the blood when it seeped through her jacket. And then another one falls, landing slightly to the left of the first so that it partially overlaps it before moving outward in a different pattern. She's crying.
He takes two steps forward and wraps her in his arms, holding her as tightly but gently as he possibly can. He doesn't ask permission and he's not crossing a line. He's just trying to be whatever she needs right now, whatever that is. The world has been so rough on her, and he wants to be the opposite. "I'm sorry that everything hurts so much," he whispers. "I'm sorry that I didn't understand how hard everything is."
She's crying quietly, but she's still holding herself stiffly and he wishes that she'd relax. Gradually she does, but it's a long time before she says anything, and his arms are still wrapped around her. "It's the stakes."
He has no idea what she means. Stakes or steaks? Neither one makes any sense, so he'll just wait for her to elaborate.
"They're so much higher now."
Ah, stakes. At least he knows which one she means, even if he's still on the dark side of the moon. "Why's that?"
"Because it's not just me anymore," she says into his shirt. "Now there's you."
He's a romantic, a full-blown romantic, but he has always dismissed the notion that something can make your heart sing. Until the moment she says "now there's you." Now there's him? Him! A fully-staged Mozart opera magically appears in his left ventricle. Ella Fitzgerald begins warming up in the right atrium. Elvis. Willie Nelson. Sinatra. Adele. Prince. Lou Reed. Aretha. They're all in there.
Why is she looking at him like that, as if she's confused? Can't she hear his heart singing?
"Castle? You okay?"
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Yes. I am so very much okay. I am. I am. There's not just you, there's me. That's us, right? Oh, and you need your pill. Here." He thrusts the little yellow container at her.
"You keep it," she says, pushing it back to him. "I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about." He takes one pill out, presses it into her hand, and reaches for the glass of water that's right next to him. "Take this." He wishes she could hear his heart. Right now Adele is singing "One and Only," full tilt, with Lou Reed backing her up.
She swallows the pill, drains the glass, lies down on the sofa, and falls asleep instantly. He's grateful, because he's longing to push her, but he knows he can't. At least while she's sleeping he can resist temptation. "Hell of a morning," he whispers, watching her. "Turned out well though, didn't it? Oh, what a beautiful morning. Want to sing that one, Ella?"
Kate sleeps a long time. He considers waking her, wondering if a two-hour nap will make it hard for her to fall asleep tonight, but lets her alone. He's rewarding/punishing himself with some more Dostoevsky, and mulling over what to serve for lunch. There's some homemade gazpacho in the fridge and he'll make grilled cheese sandwiches to go with it. Grown-up comfort food.
He's feeling a little antsy and really doesn't want her to wake up and find him staring. Maybe there's something that needs doing. Yes! The laundry. When he'd wadded up his red tee shirt earlier he'd noticed that the hamper in the bathroom was almost full. Doing the laundry is one of his favorite tasks, and at home he seldom leaves it for the housekeeper. It's easy and it's satisfying and it smells good. It appeals to his sense of order.
He carries the hamper to the tiny room off the kitchen—it must have been the pantry at one time, he thinks—that's just big enough for a washer, a dryer and a small cabinet that holds detergent, stain remover, bleach, fabric softener, and clothes pins. He can hang things out to dry! He sorts everything into two piles, lights and darks, and checks to see what needs a squirt of Shout. His coffee-stained shirt, for one. His jeans are plenty grubby, too. Why are there so many towels? Oh, because she uses a fresh one every day for PT. Down to nothing but his tee shirt and shorts—a plain-vanilla pair of Jockeys, courtesy of Harry Meets Sally—he's starting the first load when he hears her bare feet behind him.
"What are you doing?"
"The laundry. There was a lot, so I thought I'd get it out of the way."
"You can't wash my clothes, Castle," she says. She sounds desperate, maybe even borderline panicky.
"Sure I can."
"But my underwear is in there."
"So?"
"It's my underwear."
"Nothing I haven't seen before. I don't mean on you. I mean that I wash Alexis's. And worse, I sometimes wash my mother's. Makes you understand why underwear is sometimes referred to as unmentionables. Believe me, there's absolutely nothing I haven't seen."
She looks unconvinced.
"Hey, Kate, this is your golden opportunity. You can make fun of my underwear. Go on, give it your best shot."
Thank God, he's made her laugh. "Doesn't seem fair, Castle. There's such a limited selection at Harry Meets Sally. If I made fun of you now I'd just be shooting fish in a barrel."
"Only if I were wearing tighty-whities."
She laughs so hard that she coughs, which makes her press her hand to her chest and curl over. "Shit."
"Oh, God, I made you cough. I'm sorry, I'm sorry again, it must be excruciating." He's afraid to touch her, but he stands by, waiting. She's beginning to straighten up. Thank you, thank you, thank you. No damage.
She's wincing and smiling at the same time. "It is. Was. Excruciating. Little better now. But you know what? Totally worth it."
He's so relieved he wants to kiss her. Well, he wants to kiss her all the time, but especially now. Instead he puts on a sober expression. "Detective Beckett?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know what we just did?"
"No, Mister Castle, what?"
"We just crossed a line?"
"Really? And what line would that be?"
"The clothes line."
TBC
A/N Special thanks to all the guest reviewers to whom I can't respond personally.