Chapter 11

"Have you a clip to keep your hair out the way?"

"No... ugh. I need one. I don't want lotion in my hair."

"I'll get one." He scooted inside, found a stray hair tie that Alexis had left, and scooted out again. "There. Just stay there, and I'll do it." He twisted her hair into a messy bun, and wound the band around it to hold it off her elegant neck.

He picked the bottle of sun lotion up from the table beside her, and squeezed a dollop into his hand.

"Ready?" and there was more behind the words than simply the application of sun lotion.

"Do your worst."

He intended to do his best, and his best was very good indeed. His fingers weren't only experienced on a keyboard. He smoothed lotion across her shoulders, and began to massage it in, taking care to work out all the knots in her muscles as he went, eliciting happy little contented purrs as his firm hands ranged across her and down below the tie of her bikini top. Another dollop of lotion arrived in his palm, and he started on her lower back, still working through knots, noting the protruding vertebrae and the barely covered cage of her ribs without comment. He kept massaging, and she relaxed under his masterful touch, arms down by her sides, the cast deeply incongruous with the deep green bikini.

"Shall I do your legs?"

"Mmmm, please," she hummed.

He took it slowly, starting at her ankles, working carefully up slim calves, the backs of her knees, above, not hurrying, but gradually rising higher and higher. Her breathing became shallower, quicker, as his hands rose. Smooth sexuality seeped into the air around them: Castle's fingers still didn't hasten. Anticipation, after all, was the best sauce. He was certainly anticipating.

"Higher?" he murmured.

"Mmmmm."

With full permission, he was precisely where he'd wanted to be, stroking lotion into the endless gorgeousness of Beckett's inordinately long legs. Shortly, she would turn over, and then he'd start on her front, just like the phone call. His palms rubbed gently, his fingers pressed, he reached the edge of her bikini bottoms and her breathing was ragged-edged but he didn't go one tiny fraction of an inch beyond the line of decency though he was certainly right up on it. It didn't stop him paying particular attention to the edge of the fabric, or the space where the high cut exposed the majority of her hips.

"There," he said, a half-octave below normal. "That's all done. Turn over?"

The atmosphere of lush, warm sensuality shattered on the instant.

"No." Pause. "Thank you."

There was a note of – uh? Worry? Fear? – in her voice; a sudden discomfort. Castle's own arousal fell apart as fast as Beckett's clearly had.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just wanna lie on my front."

He didn't believe that for a second. "C'mon, what's up? It's me here." He swallowed. "I saw you in hospital full of tubes and wires – and you were still gorgeous. I'm not bothered about your wounds."

"I am."

She buried her head in her lounger, but her arms didn't come up. Castle surmised that she couldn't raise them that far, even five plus weeks after getting out of the hospital. He patted her back.

"C'mon. You can't stay on your front for ever. You'll be parti-coloured: brown at the back and white at the front. That would be weird. Unique, but weird."

"I don't want to."

"I told you, I don't care about the scars. You can't spend all your time face down."

"Can so," she said very childishly.

"Okay," he acceded. "You can. I'll go call this O'Leary cop, and you can stay here and bake."

That worked.

"You won't without me" – Beckett swung her beautiful legs off the lounger and heaved herself up in a severe, if awkward, hurry – and Castle caught both her hands and held her so that he could clearly see her torso.

There was a moment of painful, ghastly silence. The damage was... less than he'd expected, but no less horrible for that. The wound between her breasts was raised, red and livid: an ugly carbuncle on the perfection of her skin. The slice from the surgery was neater, but still red and angry, fading slightly at the ends. Castle stared, unable to remove his transfixed gaze.

"Happy now?" she spat acidly at him, and tried to tug her hands free.

"How are you still alive?" His shoulders shook as he continued to stare. "Oh, Kate. How?" He pulled her into his arms and held her as close as he could. She... she had been dead, and looking at those remnants – only remnants, not even the original wound – he couldn't imagine how she had pulled through. "You could have been dead." His face buried itself in her hair, which disguised the wetness spilling from his eyes, and his arms tightened further. "You could have been," he repeated. "Don't ever do that again. Please, don't."

She was rigid in his grasp: he couldn't feel a hint of easing. It occurred to him that she was terrified, not mad.

"You pulled yourself through," he murmured damply. "I'm so glad you did." There was a hint of softening. "Kate, please" – he lifted his head a fraction – "look at me."

She took a long, frightening moment to unfurl from below his cheek, and when she raised her face, though there was a defiant set to her mouth, her eyes were uncertain and almost scared, as if she expected rejection.

He took another long, deliberate look at each wound, not speaking.

"Haven't you seen enough?" she bit out. "They're vile. I know. Stop proving it."

Castle made a split-second decision. Aggravation always worked. "Shush," he said. "I need to research. I've never seen a bullet wound up close before." He pouted at her. "Lanie won't let me into the morgue without you and anyway the ones in the morgue aren't healing. This is my one chance to see it and you're distracting me."

Beckett emitted a wordless, infuriated screech of pure rage. "I am not some freaking research subject!" she yelled. "You insensitive oaf! You lout!" The rest of her tirade was abruptly stopped when Castle traced a finger beside the long gash on her ribs and then around the blot between her breasts.

"You're still beautiful," he said very quietly, and dropped a light kiss above the angry red. "And you're alive, which is far more beautiful than anything else."

She fell forward against him, sobbing – at least, her shoulders were shuddering though there was no sound. He collected her back into his arms, and held her until the shaking stopped, murmuring softly and meaninglessly into her hair: don't cry, I've got you, it's okay.

"It's not okay. Dad's drinking and it's not okay," she wept. "I just ran away from it and here I am leaning on you when I need to do it myself..." She dissolved again. Castle simply held on, and waited for the storm to pass.

"You're hardly leaning on me," he said into an exhausted silence. "You only arrived yesterday" –

"And what was that in the middle of the night? Me leaning on you. Or did you not come in and then take me back to your bed because I couldn't cope with being on my own?"

"You sleeping in my bed isn't a hardship for me," he pointed out. "You should do it a lot more often."

"So you can deal with my nightmares?"

"No, so I can cuddle you in. I never had a teddy bear when I was small. You're a very good substitute."

"What?"

"Now that you're listening, let's get a few things on the table. You aren't leaning on me. I invited you. You came. If it makes you happy, you can pay for groceries or buy me dinner or knit me a damn sweater if you want to" –

"I can't knit."

"Whatever. But stop saying you're leaning on me because you're not. You wouldn't even when you should have and you aren't now." He rolled right over her incipient words. "Second, your dad isn't your problem. He's his problem. I'm sure there's an ACOA group here – God knows, there are enough addicts," he added bluntly, " – so if you want to go I'll take you. I can amuse myself while you're doing whatever they do."

"I can take myself."

"In what? You're not driving my Ferrari. And you can't drive until that thing" – he tapped the cast meaningfully – "is off anyway."

Beckett clearly hadn't considered either that he wouldn't let her drive the Ferrari or that he didn't have a second car somewhere. "Oh," she said, in a very small voice. Castle cuddled her some more. "But Dad... I just left him."

"Beckett," Castle said very patiently, "what did you learn last time?"

"Didn't cause, can't control, can't cure," she recited automatically. "Oh."

"Yeah. So what were you going to do with one arm, half fitness, and trying to recover from serious injuries, huh?"

"Oh," she emitted again. "But... he's all on his own and miles from anywhere and what if..."

"You know he was okay yesterday evening, because we each had a missed call." Castle left it at that.

"I guess..." she said slowly, "if he didn't call then I could call Roscoe PD."

"Yeah." He paused. "Now we got that fixed, come here."

"Huh?"

Castle didn't wait. He lifted her up into his lap and tucked her into a comfortable position which didn't involve the cast punching him in the stomach, raised her chin and kissed her.

And kissed her. And kissed her. Because kissing her the night before in the dark of her misery and exhaustion hadn't been like that. Kissing her in the bright sunshine and summer heat was entirely different because he could lean her back on to the lounger and lie beside her and rise above her, balanced over her on his elbows and pressing right where he wanted to, and still have her luscious, lush mouth wholly open to his exploration and conquest. He kept kissing, and she kept answering in kind, until finally he turned on to his back and lifted her over him to be pillowed on his chest with their legs tangled.

Neither of them said anything. Castle was far too comfortable and happy to spoil the moment. Beckett – well, he couldn't see her face, but she was softly curled around him so he reckoned she was pretty happy too. He petted gently, and she made a tiny contented noise and snuggled closer. They stayed close for some time, until Castle realised he was thirsty.

"Want a drink?"

"Uh..." She woke up a bit. "Yeah. Please."

"Uncurl, then. I can't get up."

She wriggled a little. "You sure? There are pills for that."

Castle spluttered. "I don't need pills." She quirked a mischievous eyebrow. "But you, my dear detective, need to be mended." The eyebrow joined its fellow in a pitch-black scowl. "Nope. You can't lift your arms yet. Ergo, you are not healed. I'm not making you worse. You do that all on your own." The scowl was matched by a growl, which affected Castle not at all. "What would you like to drink?" he asked sweetly.

"Soda, please," emerged from Beckett's gritted teeth.

"Okay." He had a sudden thought. "And I can call your O'Leary-cop."

"He's not mine," Beckett flipped back.

"I can still call him."

Castle disappeared to find sodas and his phone, and since Beckett's phone was there as well, brought it too when he returned.

"O'Leary," he said, after his soda had vanished. "There's got to be a story there, since you – most unkindly – won't tell me about him." Beckett merely smiled enigmatically. Castle tapped his phone, and put it on speaker at her meaningful glare.

"O'Leary," rumbled into his ears. He'd never heard a voice that deep. It built bass resonances through his bones.

"Er, hey. This is Rick Castle?"

"Yeah. Beckett's boy."

"What?"

"Beckett's boy. Now, I gotta tell you, you 'n' me ain't gonna be pals iffen" – iffen? Who was this? Iffen? Didn't that go out as a mode of speech some time around 1930? – "you don't treat her good."

"Really?" Castle said coldly, already offended. "Well, I can tell you now that we 'ain't gonna be pals'" – the quotation marks were audible – "iffen you don't get your head out your ass. I don't take threats from you or anyone – give me that back, Beckett!"

"O'Leary," Beckett snapped, "you stop that right now. Castle's my friend and I don't care how long you've known me, you don't get to tease him like that."

"Aw, Beckett," subwoofed penitently into the air. "Din't mean nothing by it. You know that."

"I know that. Castle doesn't. Now you say sorry to him, you big lunk."

She put the phone back down.

"I'm sorry," rumbled out of it. "I just wanted to see what you were made of. Can't let just anyone be with my pal" –

"O'Leary!" Beckett expostulated, craned over the phone.

"Oh, okay. Gee, your temper don't improve when you're on vacation. Anyways, what did you want, Castle?"

Castle recaptured his phone from Beckett's over-protective hunch. "Beckett suggested I invite you up here for a day. It doesn't sound like that's a good plan, though."

"Sure it is. I wanna meet you, and she wouldn't introduce me." There was a slightly shamefaced-feeling hitch. "I got all your books."

"So do lots of people," Castle said, still a touch irritated.

"An' I got all sorts of tales about baby Beckett," O'Leary offered. Beckett turned lobster scarlet. Castle raised eyebrows.

"O'Leary!" she growled.

"I'm thinkin' you'd like to hear some of 'em."

Castle began, rather unwillingly, to grin. Beckett was not grinning. Beckett was emitting a subsonic noise which made her sound rather like a cross cat.

"I might," he offered in turn. The subsonic yowl intensified.

"She tell you she was a rookie when she met me?"

Castle's generally amiable nature – and his curiosity – took over. "No."

"Mebbe I got a lot to tell you, then. Starting with how we met."

"O'Leary, I will kill you," Beckett yelled. "You're not allowed to tell that tale!"

"But Beckett, your boy Castle here, him 'n' me are gonna be pals. Pals share stories."

By that point, Castle was struggling to control his laughter.

"You won't be sharing any stories about me because you will be dead," she threatened the phone.

"You can't shoot me. You're in plaster 'cause you fell over – an' I bet it was those heels" –

"It was not. I haven't worn a high heel since I" - she stopped. "Got shot," she finished, in a very different tone.

"Hey, now," O'Leary started. "None of that. You're here. An' I'm sure all those heels of yourn'll still be in your closet waitin' for you. You'll still be small, though."

Castle boggled. Beckett, small? Not in his estimation. Perfectly formed, sure. "Small?" he queried.

"I am not. Never mind that."

"O'Leary," Castle said, thoroughly intrigued, "how about you come up for a day?"

"Waaaalllll," he drawled, which amused Castle even further, "I guess I ain't on shift day after tomorrow, an' I got nothin' much else to do, so iffen you give me the address, I reckon I c'n find you."

"Okay." Castle reeled off the address. "Any time you like – after sunrise, though."

"Okay. An' don't let Beckett break anythin' else afore I get there. She c'n be right clumsy sometimes."

"Beckett?"

"O'Leary!" Beckett yelled again. "That's not true."

"Seeya day after tomorrow," he said cheerily, and was gone.

"Wow," Castle managed. "What should I expect? An earthquake? A tsunami? A hurricane?"

"Not stories," Beckett snipped.

"Ooohhh," he said annoyingly. "That means there are stories."

"There are no stories."

"I don't believe you," he singsonged. "I think there are stories. I'm going to enjoy the day after tomorrow."

"If I get this cast off tomorrow I will shoot the pair of you," she grumped, and lay back down on the lounger, face down, sulking.

Castle thought that Beckett was adorable when sulking, even if she was humphing to herself. He slid back into the pool, since she'd been so impressed by his wet, sleek self earlier, and indulged himself in some easy freestyle until he thought she might have stopped grousing to herself. He put his elbows on the edge, and surveyed her. Her face was turned toward him, and she was nibbling on her lip again. He concluded that she was impressed, even if she didn't want to show it, and pulled himself out of the pool, making sure that his biceps flexed attractively, to pad over and find his towel.

Beckett watched Castle from behind her sunglasses and tried not to let her tongue hang out. He was really most impressively muscled, and those swim shorts weren't hiding much. They hadn't been hiding much when he'd been kissing her, either, and it was just not fair that she couldn't raise her arms above her head for long enough, or indeed at all, to wrap hands round his neck and hold him right there. On the other hand, she could ogle, and she did. Extensively. That would fuel her dreams in the right direction.

Her eyes wandered up and down his torso, examining the broad sweep of his pectorals, the tight abs – he'd hidden those well – and the...um...pretty package beneath them. Strong thighs, mmmmm, and a positively delicious ass. She thought about what strong thighs and glutes could achieve, and wriggled. Only a little, and she could and would put it down to the heat of the sun. Staring at Castle, her sulks evaporated like the drops of water hitting the tiles where he'd sauntered off to find his towel. She decided that he was just as attractive without water droplets trickling down his chest as with... though she had some considerably better ideas about how to remove them than a mere towel.

He could, she decided, make up for his instant rallying to O'Leary's traitorous side by coming back and kissing her some more.

And if all that lust was merely covering up her terror and shame at having simply left her father to the whiskey bottle and his own demons without even trying to help him, well, she wasn't thinking about that at all, because if she did she'd simply dissolve into a miserable mess of misery all over again.

It carried her through the whole evening, dinner outside, ignoring a missed call from her dad, coffee spent gazing at the stars within Castle's firm embrace, wishing she could channel some of the vast indifference of the sea and sky, and finally to bed. If she wept herself to sleep, no-one would have known it. Certainly Castle heard nothing.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.