Chapter 5

"Guess all you like," she breathed, and heard Castle's gasp with satisfaction. She'd made her decision way back in the hospital and reaffirmed it with each text and call since – so she would reaffirm it again. There had always, always been the spark; the knowledge of the fire just waiting to roar into coruscating life. She'd had her own phoenix moment, almost six weeks ago: reborn from crash surgery and a bullet to the heart. She would soar again, and she would soar with Castle.

"I think," he growled gently, "that you choose your nightwear like you choose your underwear" –

"You've never seen my underwear."

"Have so."

"When?"

"When you popped a button going into the Old Haunt – and you know that was totally unfair because you put your hand on your Glock and you'd have shot me if I'd done anything at all and you, Beckett, are a total tease." He took a breath. "Anyway, I saw – you showed me – the edge of your bra. It was black, lacy, and hot."

It had been. And she had been teasing him. But she wouldn't have shot him. Probably.

"So," his voice dropped to the deep furry sable that stroked her everywhere. "Your nightwear. Right now, while you're still hurting and the wounds itch, you're wearing a soft t-shirt, two sizes too large so that it slips off one shoulder and shows off the satiny skin: reveals it just perfectly to be kissed."

How could he have known that? "Yes," she dragged out on a sigh.

"But underneath, you've got a teeny-tiny scrap of something pretty, just so you can feel like your badass sexy self."

He must have hidden a camera in her coat, or something. How could he possibly have known that? More, how could he have known her mind and reasoning? She had packed her nicest panties – it had made up for the need to have soft, undecorated cotton bras with no redeeming features at all. When she was better, she had decided, she was going to burn those, ceremonially.

His voice slowed and dropped further: low and syrupy. "I think they're dark purple. Silky. Lacy. Promising everything and revealing nothing; temptation incarnate; totally erotic and still tasteful. If I could touch them, the fabric would slither over my fingertips, warm from your body, maybe a little damp."

She finally managed a breath. They weren't purple. That day. They were dark emerald green. The rest was absolutely accurate. Her blazing anger was rapidly turning to blazing heat under that wicked, dark-molasses tone. He kept talking.

"And maybe that's what you wear when you're alone. Sloppy, soft tees, but pretty panties. Just another contrast, another layer to unpeel." He drew in another breath, but Beckett could imagine his face: eyes midnight dark, hot enough to scald; his lips as they came down on hers in an alley; the strength of his arms and the breadth of his chest; the thick, hard heat pressing into her and her answering openness. She didn't say a word. "But when you're not…" and she knew he was thinking of them, together, in one or other bed. "…when you're not, then it's all so very different, isn't it? Then, you want to drive your partner wild." She thought he might as well have said – for certainly he meant – drive me wild. "You want him to be mindless and out of control, frantic to have you, willing to do anything for you. Don't you?"

How was he inside her head? How could he ever have known that she was always the one who wasn't quite lost in the moment: the one on top, the one in control?

"For that, you wear something quite different. Tiny little panties, still. Chiffon. Translucent, almost transparent, but still hiding the…essentials. Sometimes you wear a floating, drifting baby-doll in the same chiffon. Sometimes it's more…fitted. A Merry Widow, they used to be called. Now they're basques. Either way, it has intricate lacing and little bows that beg to be undone. If only your partner" – he was so very careful not to say I – "wasn't already totally undone, he'd undo them."

"Would you?"

"Would I? Are you offering me the opportunity? Because I am so totally up for that."

Oh, shit, she had not meant to give herself away so early. That – he – had ruined her cool with a handful of sentences in a darkly seductive voice. She hadn't answered, and Castle wasn't slow to draw conclusions from that lack.

"I would undo them," he said. "Very slowly, and after every single one I'd kiss the skin underneath, all the way down, and then I'd let it fall to the floor, and hold your hips, and then I'd..." Beckett made a small, wanting noise. "But I'm not there, so I can't."

Castle had to close this conversation off before it all became far too much for him. He was exceedingly uncomfortable already, and even Beckett's unlikely participation in telephone teasing wasn't removing his underlying feeling that something more was wrong. Regardless, the call had gone from flirtation – which he had definitely intended – to almost full on dirty talk without pausing for breath. It sounded like Beckett was pretty uncomfortable already, too, from the shuffling and rustling of bedclothes.

"No…" she sighed out. "You're not."

Disappointingly, but entirely predictably, she didn't add so come here. Astonishingly, and totally unpredictably, she added, almost inaudibly, "I wish you were."

Castle pretended he hadn't heard that, mainly because he was pretty sure that he hadn't been meant to hear it. Beckett still hadn't mentioned anything about why she'd called at all, nor had she explained her instant loss of temper at the mention of fish. He thought. Fish. Her father fished. She was worried, no matter of what she'd tried to convince herself, that her father had been drinking again. And she'd called very late indeed, considering that she ought still to be tired and healing and therefore sleeping earlier than she would ever have done under normal circumstances.

Castle put two and two together – without even knowing if he should be adding them – and arrived at four without a hitch. Most fortunately, he kept his normally unfiltered commentary behind his teeth, because saying Beckett did you think your dad was out drinking and that's why he scared hell out of you by arriving home really late? Have you had a fight with him? – was not going to help anything at all.

"How's your arm?" he asked instead. "Slings and casts are not sexy, you know – though I guess you could get a tattoo artist to draw all over it and decorate it with all sorts of art."

"There are no tattoo artists out in the woods, Castle," she answered with a snap. "And seeing as I only have one working arm, I can't drive. Anyway, Roscoe's pretty vanilla. I don't think it has a tattoo parlour."

"There are a few here," Castle said idly.

"You have a tattoo?"

"Nope. My rugged body doesn't need any more decoration." Beckett made a disgusted exhalation. "What? Just because you've got one – you told me, though I've never seen it which is very unfair – doesn't mean I need to get one. Matching tattoos is so last year."

She spluttered. "Matching tattoos? Are you crazy?"

"I don't want any sort of a tattoo, matching or not. Weren't you listening?" he added sweetly. "Not even for you."

"Ugh," Beckett emitted, which ended that line of discussion, swiftly followed by, "Thanks, Castle. I feel better."

"Anytime, Beckett. Anytime."

Beckett curled down in her bed and at last managed to sleep, though in the morning, she couldn't truthfully have described it as restful.

At breakfast, her father was clearly pursuing the path of ignoring her annoyance and behaving as if everything was just fine, which didn't improve Beckett's mood one single solitary iota. She rammed down her fury and ignored the elephant in the room just as industriously as her father, who left precipitately for fishing without even trying to do the dishes. Neither of them said goodbye.

Beckett flounced out of the kitchen, collected her phone and book and installed herself on the swing seat until the sun's heat should raise the air temperature enough so that she could lie on a lounger and be warm. She hated being cold, or chilled, but even though Cherry Ridge barely got beyond seventy most times, it was good enough for her. As soon as she thought the air temperature was high enough, she flopped on to the lounger in shorts and a t-shirt, tried to read, and finally fell asleep again.

Jim, meanwhile, was marching defiantly down the trail to the pond in a fine temper himself. Katie had had no right to call him out as if he were a child. He was her parent, not vice versa. He'd done nothing wrong, just been a little late home. She shouldn't have worried about him – it wasn't he who'd been shot or fallen down the stairs, after all, but she had, and he wasn't hovering over her and complaining if she was out of his sight for more than a minute. He carefully forgot that he'd told Katie not to do anything strenuous and that she wasn't actually capable of going more than a couple of hundred yards or so, so the chances of her being late home were zero.

He thumped crossly down at the edge of the pond, set his rod and line in place, and didn't hesitate before soothing his wounded feelings with a tot of whiskey. Duly soothed, he put the whiskey away and brought the apple juice out. See, he thought angrily, see what she's done? He'd never have needed a drink if she hadn't upset him so. He'd been looking after her all these weeks and all she'd done was blown up at him for being late home. She'd been unreasonable. It was her fault that he needed a boost.

Lost in his own feelings of discomfort, Jim absolutely didn't acknowledge that it was understandable that she'd been worried about him: that without him she would be helpless: stuck in the cabin until she could call someone for help, unable to drive or to search for him. Instead, he ignored it, squashed the small niggle and feeling of guilt down, and, a little later, when it resurfaced, drowned it in another sip of Jack.

Quite deliberately, he stayed at the pond till after five, and only then packed up to walk the mile home, in which distance he chewed three breath mints and then swigged back his apple juice.

When he got in, Katie greeted him with a hint of constraint. She'd made dinner, too, though Jim had no idea how she'd managed that with only one working arm. He concluded that she was trying to apologise for her irrational temper yesterday.

"Very nice," he said after they'd finished. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No, thanks. I've had my two caffeinated cups for today, and decaf isn't the same."

Jim was just a little miffed that Katie had turned down his offer, which he'd meant as a thank you. Still, she'd always held grudges as a child and teen, and the only thing which had worked to fix it was time. So he'd give her time. He was on the bright side of the line here.

"Okay," he managed mildly. "I'll get one anyway."

"I'll put it on, since I can't wash up."

Katie fussed with the kettle, awkwardly. Jim sat on his hands and bit his tongue not to comment. Finally it was filled and switched on, at which point he was finally able to start the dishes. By the time he'd finished, Katie had already gone upstairs, leaving behind only a quiet "Goodnight, Dad."

Jim settled himself with his coffee and a current affairs magazine for the rest of the evening, and didn't move from the rocking chair.

In the morning, he washed out the apple juice bottle and refilled it from the fridge. It was almost finished.

"Katie," he called. "I need to go into Roscoe. D'you want to come?"

"Sure." She arrived downstairs, slowly, and smiled. "It'll be nice to see something that isn't here."

"Are you sure you can manage it?"

"Yes, Dad," she replied in a very put-upon way, and picked up her purse.

Beckett was, in fact, suffering a severe case of cabin-fever. Going to Roscoe had to be better than staring at the trees again. It had been restful for the last month, but today she wanted out. Even a small town like Roscoe was better than nothing at all, and if she got tired there was a diner in which to sit and have coffee.

She didn't really talk on the way to Roscoe. Beckett wasn't a great passenger at the best of times, and it wasn't the best of times. She knew that her father had had apple juice in that bottle. She did. But she simply could not shake the feeling that something was up and she wasn't spotting it. Her problem, which wasn't getting better for fretting, was that she was in no position to simply sneak out and search the outbuilding, which was what she really wanted to do, to prove to herself that she was merely totally paranoid, probably as a result of the meds.

Thinking of which, she'd better check whether she could start stepping down the painkillers. She'd been really careful to stick to the schedule, but she was tired of the fuzzy feeling with which they left her and the way in which they weakened her control and filters. Maybe she would go get coffee and ring her doctor: check it out.

Her dad pulled up in the centre of town. "Do you want to come to the supermarket, Katie, or shall I let you out here and meet you at the diner?"

Beckett considered for a second. "Let me out here, please. I'd like a little walk, then I'll go to the diner."

"Okay. Anything I can get you at the supermarket?"

"Um… some candy would be nice. Hersheys?"

"Sure."

Beckett didn't need her dad to get her anything else. And, somewhat ridiculously because he'd likely changed her diapers when she was a baby, she wasn't going to ask him to get her sanitary products. She'd manage to walk far enough to do that herself, thank you. The Country Store would do, and it was only about a hundred yards from the diner.

For entirely different reasons, both Jim and Beckett breathed a sigh of relief when she creaked carefully out of his car.

Some time later, Beckett plonked herself down in the diner with a discreet bag, a long sigh of relief and a large cup of coffee. The necessities of life established, and the doctor having confirmed that she could reduce the painkillers, she started to plan out a stamina-extending exercise schedule, starting with adding a minimum of fifty yards (each way) a day to the distance she could walk. It was quite insupportably ridiculous that she hadn't been able to manage more than a third of a mile, and she intended to fix that immediately. It had been more than a month since she was allowed out of hospital, and she had had quite enough of invalidism. She would get back to fitness before the summer ended.

Deep in her subconscious, a naughty little wriggly not-exactly-a-thought noted that she would like to be fit so that she could participate in some other activities.

Her dad joined her, waving casually to a couple of fishing acquaintances who Beckett didn't recognise along the way.

"Coffee, Dad?"

"Sure."

Beckett stood up.

"Uh-uh. I'll get it."

"Nope. I'm getting it. It's about time I did a bit more than sat around all day." She grinned. "No getting fat and lazy for me."

From her father's expression, he thought that a little more fat and a little more lazy wouldn't be a bad plan.

"I've got to get some stamina back before I get back to work. I'll need to do some range practice, too." She had a sudden thought. "I don't suppose there's a range anywhere here, is there?"

"Katie," her dad said with some exasperation, "your arm is in a cast. Right down to your knuckles. How exactly do you think you're going to shoot? You can't have the sling off for another few days, and the cast will be on for another three weeks."

Jim absolutely could not stand the thought of guns and Katie in the same place whether she was shooting said guns or not. He didn't think that he could cope with the gun range, and he certainly wasn't going to tell her that there was one at Howard Beach, just a few miles down the road.

"Oh," she said dispiritedly, and then, horribly, tried to wiggle her fingers as if she were holding her Glock. It didn't work. She made a very childishly disappointed noise at her hand. Jim managed not to sigh audibly, mainly by burying his nose in his coffee. At the back of his mind was the knowledge that later he could soothe his irritation. He'd forgotten just how soothing a tiny nip could be. But he'd got it all under control.

"Just let it heal. Go ask the doctor for some exercises, if you really must, but don't be surprised if they won't give you any."

"I'll stick to building stamina, then," she said, rather sulkily.

"Be careful."

"Yes, Dad."

Honestly, Katie could produce more attitude at thirty-one than when she had been fifteen. He'd forgotten just how self-reliant and downright prickly she could be when she thought that anyone was questioning her ability to take care of herself.

After lunch, her dad went off to fish (Beckett was sure that he was merely sleeping or reading in the sunshine where he couldn't be worried by her exercises) and Beckett took herself for a walk, measuring the distance on her phone. She was going to use that as her baseline, and then extend it every day. Running, sadly, was out of the question. She returned, having had another idea. She could do some more strengthening exercises. Just a few more than the schedule expected, just… speeding things up a bit.

And to reward herself for her good behaviour, she decided, every day she managed to meet her self-imposed targets, she would call Castle.

The one thing that she didn't think – extremely carefully didn't think, in fact – was that if she was thoroughly exhausted, and talking to Castle, she wouldn't have time or space to worry about what her father was getting up to. Which not-thought was swiftly not-followed by a further not-thought that the sooner she was able to walk a lot further, the sooner she would be able to go find him if he were late.

So that was precisely what she did: drained herself physically each day when her father wasn't there to see her pain and pushing – and called Castle most evenings to indulge in some ever-more heated conversations. It worked for her.

In the Hamptons, however, despite his delight in Beckett's frequent calls, Castle was becoming more and more concerned.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

To all in the USA, happy Fourth of July for tomorrow.