Chapter 3

Beckett, drowning in her small dark world, wrapped around the pain of her four stitches and incapable of moving from her bed to find any form of pain relief, wasn't aware, and in any event would no longer have cared if she had been, that she was still crying silently, soaking her comforter under her face.

Outside, Castle, opening windows to clear the fug of unpleasantly stale air and searching for a broom or vacuum to tidy up the broken glass, didn't notice. He took out his frustration on the mess, and cleared it up with short, sharp strokes. It wasn't until he'd finished and put some coffee on that he realised that there had been no sound whatsoever from the bedroom.

He ignored the silence in favour of a coffee, didn't disturb Beckett, and sat on her couch to consider the situation. Bad, was his summary, tending to atrocious. Every other time he'd visited her apartment – this one or the previous one – it had been tidy, with a patina of books and phone overlaying general cleanliness. This was…unpleasant. All of this was…unpleasant.

He didn't know what they'd done to her arm or knees, but the need for antibiotics indicated an infection, which, together with the state of her apartment and the memory that she'd had the bandage on for a few days, further indicated that she hadn't cleaned it out properly and/or hadn't paid attention to it. Which, if she'd been self-medicating with alcohol, as was obvious from the smell, all added up to her being entirely unable to care for herself or be left alone. He wasn't going to stay here, so she would just have to suck up staying at his loft.

All he had to do was get her there – without being arrested for kidnapping, though he thought that, this time, Gates would weigh in to defend him. Hm. Gates. Gates had looked pretty damn worried, under her normal shell of cold authority. It might just be possible that Gates was a better captain than he'd understood – or wanted to notice.

He drained his coffee, and went back into Beckett's bedroom, from where he removed the hold-all without her turning her head or, indeed, moving in any fashion. He still had her keys, so he took the hold-all down to put it in the trunk of her car, and then returned to retrieve Beckett.

Beckett was almost asleep, though it was anything but restful. The tears had ceased, but she was still tight-curled in the centre of her bed, trying to block out everything. Everyone.

Castle sat down on the bed: she felt the movement, and ignored it. She didn't want him here; she didn't want anyone here.

She couldn't ignore being picked up and wrapped into his embrace. He was gentle, avoiding touching her knees or arm, but inexorable.

"Come here," he murmured, "come here and be hugged." He was still angry, but he could control it, for the sake of getting Beckett out of her apartment and into his loft where he could look after her. Looking after her would ease his anger and hurt that she hadn't let him help, hadn't let him in, already. She should have let him in during the case. He had to force himself not to squeeze her to him. "You're coming home with me. Your bag's already in the trunk."

She couldn't ignore that either, and she was too tired and too sore to fight it any more. She slumped within his enclosing arms, and leaned on his shoulder. He set her on her feet, and stood up, then simply picked her up. He shouldn't be able to do that, she thought tiredly, and didn't care.

Castle also thought that he shouldn't be able to pick Beckett up like a doll, and equally didn't – yet – care. He would do, later, he knew; he would wonder – later – why she was so thin and light. But not now. It wasn't relevant now. He simply needed to take her home with him and start to make this whole horrible mess better.

He put her down to lock up, and didn't miss the wince; swept her up again to take the elevator, where he had to let her stand again. He didn't think she'd realised that she'd whimpered painfully and heartbreakingly; but he couldn't carry her out of the building without setting her down now; and she'd be in far more pain if he forced her to walk.

"Stay here," he said, at the entrance, and put her down again. "I'll open the car and then help you in."

Beckett didn't say a word all the way to Castle's loft, but when he looked across at her, her teeth were once more implanted in her lip, and her eyes were shut. Creases crawled across her brow, and her hands knotted whitely in her lap. Every time he couldn't avoid a pothole, she muffled a cry. He drew up with an internal sigh of total relief, and lifted her out of the car and into his building. The doorman quirked an eyebrow at him, but whisked from his post to call the elevator for Castle and his armful of Beckett, who'd evidently given up on bravery and whose breathing was harshly close to a pained panting.

Castle was only too relieved to bring Beckett inside and deposit her on the couch, after which he closed the door, noted thankfully that his mother was absent and recalled with more thanks that Alexis was away on a school trip, and went to make coffee. Halfway to the machine, he remembered the antibiotics, searched out a spoon and put both in front of Beckett. "You'd better take a dose," he said. She reached for the bottle, but her hands shook so much that Castle opened it for her, poured it into the spoon, and as if she were no more than a small child, put the spoon to her mouth. Unlike a small child, she obediently swallowed it, though the revolted grimace bore much to a small Beckett and very little to the adult woman.

"I'll make coffee," Castle said. "You need it." He didn't give her a chance to say yes, no, or maybe, but attended to it. While the machine was producing excellent coffee, he whipped downstairs to collect her bag, and arrived back in the loft just as the machine produced the final drips of the first cupful. He set a cup for himself brewing, and put the first one in front of Beckett, carefully close to her left hand. His own coffee dripped through, so rather than sit next to her and then collect it, he went back to the kitchen until it was done.

When he sat down next to Beckett, on her left so that he didn't inadvertently nudge her sling or arm, she hadn't touched her coffee.

"You're not okay," he said.

Her head turned slowly towards him, but her gaze wasn't fully focused. "It hurts," she whimpered. Castle melted again, and instinctively put his arm around her shoulders. "Snuggle in. I can't stop it hurting, but just snuggle in and be comforted."

"I didn't mean to," she whispered, staring at the bandage. "I didn't."

"Who said you did?" Castle asked gently, wondering didn't mean to what?

"It was an accident."

Which cleared up what she meant.

"Gates didn't…she didn't not believe me."

Castle saw rather more from that than Beckett would have liked, had she noticed. He'd thought it was an accident, but…the mess of Beckett's arm and apartment now inclined him to think that, while it hadn't been deliberate, she hadn't taken any steps to prevent it either. Careless, in the literal deconstruction of that word. She hadn't been bothered enough to take care.

"She said I should have gotten it treated, but we had the case." She shivered, but the loft wasn't cold. "Case first. The dead demand justice and their family shouldn't have to wait." She shivered again.

Castle put a large palm over her forehead. "You're shivering, but you're running a temperature. I think that infection's getting to you."

"Not ill," she dragged.

"Not yet. You'll have to take all those antibiotics – what are the instructions?" He found them. "Four times a day, evenly spaced. Okay. It's late afternoon now, so call this one the dinnertime dose, then one before bed, one at breakfast, one at lunch, one at dinner."

With something to do that allowed him to look after Beckett, Castle felt much happier and far less likely to lose his fragile hold on his temper. He knew that he was protective – over-protective, Alexis pointed out rather too frequently for his peace of mind – but Beckett never let him protect her, arguing that she was the cop with the gun. Now, he could at least take care of her while she recovered, and then they could talk. Happiness, temporarily, restored; he had a brilliant idea, and spilled it out of his mouth without a pause.

"You could have a hot bath," he said. "That would stop you shivering."

"Sling," she whimpered.

"They gave you instructions, didn't they? We'll redress it after you've washed. You like baths," he coaxed. "Just have a nice bath and then you can have dinner and go to bed till it's time for another dose of antibiotics."

"Bed…" she breathed. "Sleep."

Castle recognised reality, aided by Beckett's failure to drink her coffee and her slumped posture. "Okay. Let's get you upstairs and then you can go to sleep. I'll wake you when it's time for more."

Her eyes were huge, exhausted and dull in her pallid face. Dampness puddled at their corners, but didn't quite spill over. She started to struggle to standing, but Castle, not inclined to let her do it herself, hopped up and assisted her.

Some few moments later, Castle returned to the family room, drained his coffee, then drained Beckett's. Then he went and considered the contents of his well-stocked fridge, and shortly after that lost himself in the pleasure of good cooking. When he'd made dinner, he sneaked upstairs and peeked through the guest room door. Beckett was buried under the covers, and, when he sneaked further into the bedroom, asleep. He left her to it, and ate his solitary dinner with a soothing glass of wine. Just as he finished his meal, his mother returned, full of fuss and bother.

"Oh, Richard darling. I'm so glad you're home. I have to pack and leave right now."

Castle gaped. "What have you done, Mother? Do I need to post bail?"

She fixed him with a maternal glare. "Of course not. I am not you." Castle spluttered. "I have a role, but I have to be in Chicago to start rehearsals tomorrow. Will you arrange a flight, hotel, and a car to the airport for me?"

"What's the role?"

"Lady Bracknell, in the Importance of Being Earnest. Can you fix it, darling?"

"Of course I will. You go pack, and I'll call my travel agent."

His mother bustled off, but, fortunately, remained quiet as she hastened upstairs. Castle thought, unworthily, that his mother leaving would avoid all sorts of difficult discussions relating to Beckett's presence, and rapidly called his travel agent to arrange everything.

His mother descended the stairs. "Have you managed to fix it?" she asked.

"Yes. Shall I bring your suitcase down? The car'll be here in twenty minutes and your flight is at nine. There'll be a car at the other end." He smiled. "I can't have you lost in Chicago. Though it would stop your depredations on my best wine."

"Pish!" Martha elevated her nose, clearly already inhabiting Lady Bracknell.

"However, since we're celebrating your part," Castle said, pouring a glass, "here's some of that wine to toast you. Break a leg, Mother."

"I'll drink to that," she said.

The wine was barely finished when the car arrived. Castle ensured that his mother left without noise or fuss, and waved her off with actor-friendly good wishes and no references to Macbeth. He breathed an enormous sigh of relief when the door closed and there was absolutely no risk of his mother 'helping' – translation, interfering and getting in the way. He went to write for a while, until he could legitimately intrude upon Beckett's slumber.

She hurt, still. Beckett winched her eyes open without any pleasure at all, found that it was dark outside – and indeed only barely light in her room…oh. This wasn't her room. This was the guest room in Castle's loft, where she did not want to be. She pulled the covers up, and closed her eyes again. If she were asleep, she wouldn't hurt, and maybe she would discover that this was all a bad dream and the alarm would sound so that she could go to work.

"You need to take another dose of antibiotics." Castle's low rumble pierced her consciousness, and brought her to painful, unhappy life.

"Urgh." Coherent speech was beyond her, but under Castle's gentle pressure, she was made to sit up.

"Can you do it yourself?"

She brought her hands out from under the cover, and held them out. They shook alarmingly. "Maybe?"

"Or not." Castle's grin was forced. "I don't want you to spill antibiotic mixture on my beautiful guest bedlinen.

"Do it in the bathroom," she tried to insist. "Sink." Castle raised eyebrows at her. "Yes." She realised that she still had her shirt on, and extracted her legs from the bed.

"What the hell?" Castle exclaimed.

Of course his eyes had gone straight to her legs – and the mess of her knees.

"What happened to your legs? Is that why you couldn't walk properly? Is that another thing you didn't fix while the case was hot?" His voice rose. Beckett blinked back tired, shaming tears as hard as she could, and refused to meet his eyes. "What's wrong with you? You're not normally this dumb so what the fuck is up?"

Castle's renewed anger was the last straw. Beckett half fell back and, awkwardly left-handed, pulled the cover back over herself. She couldn't speak. She couldn't deal with Castle being angry with her, and he'd been almost nothing but angry since he'd been forced by Gates to take her to the ER and he'd discovered her lie. She sniffed back tears, and wished that Castle, and his accusing anger, would just go away and leave her to her misery.

He did go away. She told herself that was a good thing, and curled back into her dark, lonely, painful little huddle.

Two minutes later, she felt the bed dent as Castle sat down on it again. "I've brought you a t-shirt – it'll be more comfortable than that button-down." He pulled the cover back. Beckett curled up tighter, and ignored him until she could bring her leaky eyes under control again. "Nuh-uh. Out you come. No hiding."

"Why bother?" she managed. "You're just going to yell. I've enough to deal with: I don't need you yelling at me."

"If you took care of yourself, I wouldn't be yelling!" Castle yelled. Beckett, considering that he'd amply proven her point, tried to curl up away from him again. "If you won't let me look after you, at least look after yourself. You can't keep running away and hiding and then pretending it never happened" – he stopped hard. "Look, come out. I can't talk to your back. We can't go on like this. It won't work and you know it."

"I could look after myself in my own home," Beckett forced out through rigid control of her voice. "You're the one who insisted I had to be here."

"You weren't looking after yourself. There was glass all over the floor and it smelt like a liquor store after an earthquake. You've a nasty infection in your arm and your knees look like a four-year old's – and I came up to make sure you had the next dose of antibiotics, not to have a fight."

"You started it. Give me the antibiotics and then take me home."

"Won't. Take you home, that is. You can have the antibiotics."

"Then go away and let me take them and go back to sleep."

Castle, thoroughly exasperated, pulled Beckett up again. "I'm not going away. Why would I go away now?"

"Since you've spent the whole day telling me what a mess I am, it's pretty obvious," Beckett managed to snap. Snapping wasn't difficult: she merely had to channel her pain to her voice.

"Because I'm worried about you! You've been weird all this last case and now I find out that you're injured and not doing anything about it! Why are you punishing yourself" – he stopped again. "Because you lied to me," he said slowly. "You can't deal with it. You can't deal with your shooting and you can't deal with having lied."

Beckett wrenched herself away from him and shuffled as fast as she could to the bathroom, where she intended to lock the door against Castle, take the goddamned antibiotics, and stay undisturbed and unanalysed until Castle got bored and went away.

It would have been a fine plan, if only she weren't shuffling. She couldn't move any faster, and Castle, big, anger-fuelled and uninjured, was unfortunately capable of considerable speed. He reached the bathroom door two strides ahead of her best efforts. Only sheer willpower was keeping her on her feet anyway, and her knees were blazing with pain as the cuts and scrapes reopened.

It would have been okay, still – well, as okay as anything was with injuries, infections, and Castle being so angry that she was sure they were finally, fatally, broken – if she hadn't tripped over. One-armed, she couldn't save herself, and the floor came up to meet her.

She screamed with the pain as her knees hit the hardwood floor, and again as her arm did, agonisingly. An instant later Castle was there, lifting her, carrying her back to the bed and putting her on it, then sitting down himself and cuddling her in.

She started to cry. She couldn't help it, and she couldn't stop it, and the more Castle stroked and petted and cossetted to try to make it better, the more she wept. It all hurt: her knees, her arm, her mind. With the pain, came the flashback, and she was lost.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Very much appreciated.

Thank you to everyone who's made suggestions for Nashville. Also very much appreciated.