Chapter 21

By dinner time, Castle and Beckett could barely keep their hands off each other. Castle had spent so much time in the water he resembled a hundred-year old prune; Beckett had nibbled her lip to shreds; and the tension around the pool was sky-high. It would take a single unguarded touch for it all to explode.

"Dinner?" Castle said.

"Sure. What are we having?"

"Chicken fajitas. Quick and easy."

"Great."

"Wine?"

"Yes, please."

She slid off the sun lounger and followed him to the kitchen, during which time she realised that she really, really wanted a shower.

"Have I time to get a shower?"

"Sure. I won't start cooking till you're done."

"I could cook."

"Nope. My kitchen. I cook."

Beckett disappeared to her shower with an offended flip of her hair. Clearly she thought she should be allowed to cook. Castle thought that till she could move totally freely, he should handle heavy, hot objects. Actually, he thought that he should handle one very particular hot object, but for the sake of her injuries, he wanted to do so in a comfortable bed, which was the only reason they hadn't been thoroughly indecent earlier. Otherwise, he'd have followed her to the shower and they'd have had a really good time. And they'd have been clean at the end of it.

He decided that he should also have a shower, so as not to be sticky and disgusting. He was pretty sure that a lovely clean Beckett would want to snuggle up to a lovely clean Castle. After that, they could get dirty together.

He sped through the shower, and was placidly chopping peppers and onions when Beckett returned, fresh in a loose top and shorts. The top draped silkily over her form, and simply begged to be touched. Castle couldn't resist its pleadings in the slightest, and drew Beckett into his arm as he supervised the sizzling of the skillet. The top was as silky under his fingers as it had looked, and his hand roamed her side. Quite unbidden, his lips touched the top of her head. Her face turned up, mouth quirked, eyes softly mischievous, and he couldn't help but kiss her.

It wasn't till a sizzle from the skillet flicked his hand that he stopped.

"Dinner!" he squawked. "It'll burn!" He frantically shuffled the food with the spatula to preserve it. "I think we'd better eat," he said, and flipped soft tortillas on to a plate for Beckett to take out while he shovelled the fajita mix on to another. She returned for the salad bowl, Castle for plates and cutlery, and then for the wine, and shortly there were the sounds of happy munching and the quiet clink of wine glasses on the table.

"Delicious," Beckett said, happily replete. "Can I do the clear up?"

"Nope. It'll take me two minutes, and then I'll make coffee."

"You won't let me do anything," she grumped.

"Nope. I don't want anything to go wrong. I have plans for us, my dear Detective."

"Do you?" she flirted, peeping at him from under swept lashes. "How do you know I'll like your plans?"

"I'm pretty sure. But if you don't, we'll simply change it." She looked sceptically at him. "It starts with coffee."

"I like that bit."

"I'd call 9-1-1 if you didn't."

Castle efficiently cleared up, tutting at Beckett every time she made the slightest move to help. She tutted back, which had no effect at all, just like usual. Castle wouldn't even let her carry her own coffee: putting it all on a tray and carrying it round to the pool, as had also become usual.

Just as usual, when he put it down, she curled up next to him, nestled in the curve of his arm. Not just as usual, he then lifted her into his lap, tipped her face up, and kissed her.

"Do you like that plan?" he teased, and kissed her again, before she could answer. Her response didn't come in words, her mouth being somewhat occupied, but by locking her hands around his back, and diving into the kiss. They'd kissed before, here, passionately, but now, late into the evening, under the stars, somehow, some way, it was more. Tongues explored and twined, hands roamed, lips were locked, and as the long-denied heat flared between them the neglected coffee cooled, forgotten.

Castle moved from Beckett's lush, hot mouth round to her neck, careful not to leave a mark, trailing a long, hot streak across her jaw, searching out the sensitive nerve at her ear, a tiny nibble on the lobe, and her head fell back as he explored, giving him permission and freedom. He held her close; her hands tight on his back, lost deep in the delight of kissing her without interruption, let or hindrance. Her familiar cherry scent was drawn deep into his lungs; the shape of her body fitted perfectly into his; they might have been made for each other. She moved her head, unfairly stopping his explorations, and took his mouth with certainty: her private playground. Her hands shifted, one coming round and sliding under his cotton t-shirt, finding warm skin and smooth muscle. Her fingers danced along his bottom rib, tugging the t-shirt up. Castle obeyed the unspoken order and flipped it off, and having been given such a clear hint, followed up by (much more carefully) disposing of Beckett's. He deeply appreciated the pretty bra underneath.

"I think we should go inside," he said reluctantly.

Beckett made a cross noise of disagreement, and followed up with a searing kiss and a movement of her hands that almost fried his brain.

"I don't want to get bitten by mosquitoes," he added, and stood up, which necessarily meant that Beckett stood too. "C'mon." He wrapped her in and walked her into the house, inadvertently abandoning the t-shirts.

"More plans?" Beckett muttered as she was walked into Castle's bedroom.

"Only if you want more plans. If not, you can snuggle down and go to sleep."

"What if I have plans?"

"I'm sure we can accommodate your plans too." He waggled his eyebrows lecherously. "Will I like your plans better than my plans?"

Beckett lost patience. "Kiss me, Castle," she growled. His name sounded more like idiot.

"That's your plan? How convenient. It's my plan too."

He kissed her before her irritation could form into something which would spoil the plan, and then, since they were now at a distance where he wouldn't do himself considerable damage in trying, swept her up into his arms and then laid her out on the bed to remove her shorts. It left her in the pretty bra and a pretty pair of matching panties in soft purple.

"See, I was right," he said smugly. "Sexy little scraps of silk under those soft, sloppy t-shirts." He raked hot eyes over her. "Designed to drive me wild." He sat down. "It's working," he added, leaned down and kissed her hard, then lifted off again. "Be mine?"

"If you'll be mine too."

"Always was. Always am. Always will be."

Her eyes were completely transparent, all the way down to her heart. "Me too," she said. "Just love me." She reached for him, still so carefully calibrated not to stretch the long scar down her side, set her hand on his waist, and waited for him.

For a long moment he only looked at her, his heart as clearly in his eyes as hers was, one thick finger delicately running around the livid knot at her breasts, along the slashed red wound of her surgery; and then he bent to take her mouth, lying alongside her with an arm slipping under her neck, bringing her into him, meeting her lips softly. Her hands roved, learning the planes of his body without haste, until he kissed down the valley between her breasts, above, then below, the bullet wound, downward to her sternum, the prominent ribs and sharp concavity between the jutting points of her hips, and stopped there, where she could roam the muscle of his shoulders without strain, cup his face and stroke his cheeks.

In a moment, he could rise up again and lavish attention on the small, pert mounds of her breasts. In a moment, he would. But in that moment, his head lightly pillowed at the base of her ribs, he was content simply to have her there with him. Her fingers stroked through his hair, playing gently – petting. He reached up, and caught one hand in one of his, repeated with the other, and balanced up on his elbow, their hands clasped. Just for that moment, everything was still.

And then he shifted up and their mouths met again and nothing was still or calm at all. They raided and ravaged, neither of them in control or in the lead, consumed by the ability to release all of the suppressed tension that had been dammed up since the day that they'd met, without having to hesitate or take care. Mouths went mad, fingers frantic, the scraps of clothing were stripped away and discarded without a thought. When his hand slipped between her legs she was already soaked, as she reached down he was full and hard: both of them desperate, and she pulled him above her and guided him home as he took her in one smooth, powerful thrust.

Everything stopped. He was perfect within her, above her, around her: she made a helpless little noise of sheer desire and satisfaction which he matched two octaves below, and then he moved, and she moved, and arched to him, and there was no pain when she gripped his shoulders and he touched between them where they joined slick and hot and then the world was lost.

There was no talking, yet, but their hands were clasped, breaths still panted out, bodies limp beside each other. Peace filled the room.

"Are you okay?" Castle finally asked, a little worried by Beckett's silence.

"Mmmm, yes," she hummed. "Tired. Need to clean up."

Castle forced his own tired, sated body to sit up, then stand up, and when he was sure his knees would hold, went into his opulent bathroom and started a bath running. He threw in a handful of bath salts – okay, so they were his, and she might not like them, but he felt that she might need them: he was pretty sure that sex wasn't on her list of physiotherapy exercises – and when the bath was full enough, switched it off and went back to the bedroom.

Beckett was sprawled out, completely unmoving, with her eyes shut.

"Wha'?" she mumbled.

"Bath," Castle said, and picked her up, conveyed her to the bathroom, and plopped her in the bath, only just avoiding a wave that would soak the floor.

"Oh – ohhhhh." She slid down into the warm water. Castle, never one to let an opportunity go begging (and also slightly concerned that she might fall asleep in situ), slipped in behind her and let her rest against him. Beckett wriggled slightly and then relaxed into his arms. "Nice," she yawned.

"You're too tired for a shower. Easier this way, even if it's a bit slower." She hummed at him, and her eyes drifted shut. Castle reached for a sponge, and gently washed the reachable areas without trying to arouse her (which was self-control worthy of wings, halo and harp, he thought), then leaned her forward and washed her back. "All done. Bed time. I've worn you out," he said, a fraction smugly.

"Wear you out," she grumped under her breath, which Castle ignored as being totally untrue – for now. He heaved himself out of the bath, wrapped a towel around himself and then lifted her out to do the same for her. Of course, that meant that he could first cuddle and then dry (also known as stroke) her; but that done, she stumbled sleepily back to bed and was unconscious before he returned.

When she woke, she was alone. There was a dent in the other pillow, which still smelled faintly of Castle. She stole his robe in order to go through her morning routine, and soon appeared in the kitchen.

Castle wasn't there. She made herself coffee, and wandered out, to find him by the pool. He saw her, bounced up, took her coffee away, which was positively suicidal, and kissed her slowly and thoroughly, which stopped her thinking about killing him – as long as he gave her the coffee back afterwards.

He did. She took a long drink, then set it down and took a much longer draught of Castle's lips. He appeared somewhat stunned, so she did it again. Then she decided she liked it, so she had a third go. About that point, Castle recovered his brain, or at least a proportion of it, and managed to kiss her back.

Some time later, she discovered that her coffee was cold, by taking a gulp.

"I'll make more. And some pancakes."

Beckett merely produced a feline smile, and nodded.

"You'll need to come round to the table." She didn't want to. She was happily curled in the sun, basking. "That's where the pancakes will be. It's in the sun too." Oh, okay then. If she had to. He did make good pancakes, though maybe she ought to have made half of them? Maybe tomorrow. She uncurled and padded round to the table, to find a lavish display of pancakes, fruit, syrup, cream, pastries and coffee.

"Wow."

Castle smiled mischievously. "It's an edible thank you," he said, "for not falling asleep in the bath and drowning." He received an eye roll of true Beckett intensity, and snickered. "Dig in," he said, and she did.

The days passed quietly thereafter. Some days, they went to the range. Some days, they simply lazed by the pool. Beckett did her physio exercises – privately – every day, and gradually the scars became less livid and her range of movement and fitness increased. They spent their nights together, learning each other's bodies and what pleased them most, ending snuggled together: lax, sated and loving. Everything was almost perfect.

Almost. As long as Beckett didn't think about her father, and what he was doing. She hadn't heard a word from him since his text to say he was trying. She had to let him do it for himself, because she couldn't control or cure it, but it hurt. Every day that she stopped herself texting, every day in which she didn't get a message, it hurt.

Castle didn't say anything, but when she slipped off alone to walk on the beach, and came back tired, with reddened eyes, he was there to hold her close and provide the comfort and peace that she needed; when she woke in the night, and went out, returning much later, he was there to curl against and, even sleeping, lend her strength.

"If it wasn't for you," she murmured sadly, "I don't know what I'd do."

"Cope. You would manage somehow."

She slumped down on the couch for their nightly coffee.

"I wish he'd text."

So did Castle, but he couldn't rush in where Beckett feared to tread. The last time he'd interfered in her life without consent, it hadn't gone well – understatement of the century – and he'd promised her he wouldn't do anything she didn't want. While she bit her nails to the elbows waiting, he could do no less. Though he – and she – was desperate to do something, anything, they held fast. And so they both waited, not daring to hope, and in that waiting kept each other safe.

In Manhattan, Jim was exerting grim resolution not to fall off the wagon again. Still on leave, he forced himself to AA, forced himself to see his sponsor daily, forced himself not to enter bars, or scan the liquor shelves in stores. It hurt. Every moment he had to accept that it wasn't seven years, he was counting in days now, it hurt. Every moment, though, he knew that if he ever wanted to face Katie as a father again; if he ever wanted to regain her respect; if... if he wanted to walk her down the aisle towards Rick Castle...; if any of those things were to occur, then he had to persevere.

For his own self-respect, he had to persevere. He had done it before, and Katie had come back to him, forgiven him, accepted his amends, and they had re-established such a good relationship that he had been the one she asked to look after her when she left hospital.

Until he lapsed, and she left, and ran to Rick Castle. Sober, he wondered suddenly why she hadn't started with Rick. She'd certainly run there fast enough later on. He'd never thought to ask, but then, she'd said she was talking to him from quite early on in their stay at the cabin. Still, that was a question to which he wouldn't mind an answer, some day.

He wanted to talk to her, and to Rick. He had an apology to make to Rick, he knew, and unpleasant as it would be to say sorry, he had to do so. But...not yet. When he'd been dry for more than a few days. When he'd managed thirty days, he promised himself. When he'd managed thirty days, he would call.

The day he reached thirty days dry, back at work, which helped because he had to concentrate on the niceties of anti-trust law, which didn't leave much room for thinking about anything else, he opened his phone, closed his office door to indicate the need for privacy, and dialled.

"Katie?"

"Dad?"

"It's been thirty days dry," he rushed out. "I promised myself I'd call when it was thirty days." There was silence on the other end. "Katie?" More silence. "Katie, are you there?"

Finally she answered. "That's great." Ah. There was a break in her voice. "That's so great."

Jim could hear a rumble in the background. It sounded comforting. Then there was a rustle. Then Katie spoke again. "I'm so glad." Jim would have bet, from thirty-some years of parenthood, that she was close to tears. It had really mattered to her. It really had. A small thorn dissolved, unnoticed.

"We'll" – we?, thought Jim – "be back in the city tomorrow. It was going to be next week, but... I want to see you, Dad." There was a hitch. "Um... if you've got time?"

What? If he had time? If she hadn't left – and it had taken a lot of talking to Ed for Jim really to get the point – he'd never have fixed himself.

"Of course I've got time. How about you come by at seven – my apartment?"

"Sure. Yeah. See you tomorrow." Her voice fell. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye."

"Thirty days. He waited thirty days." She sniffed, and dabbed her eyes.

"A long time."

"You don't get it."

"Mm?" Castle was confused.

"Thirty days is big. A month. It's real. A day, or a week, that's really good – anything is really good – but thirty days is real commitment." She mopped her eyes again. "If you can't come back for the day, can you give me a ride to the station tomorrow?"

"Of course I'm coming back. I'm not leaving you to go it alone now."

She turned into him. "It's not... he was so unfair to you."

"I can handle your dad." He grinned at her. "But right now, I'd much rather handle you." There was a disgusted snort. "Snuggle in." He wrapped arms around her, and petted. "It'll be okay," he said seriously.

"And if it's not?"

"You've got me. We'll be okay."

She slumped against his chest, and stayed silent for some time.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Last chapter on Sunday: time uncertain (in transit).