Chapter 4

When Beckett went utterly limp in his embrace, Castle had no idea what to do. Sobbing, albeit she had clearly been trying not to cry, he could deal with – petting and cuddles, mainly. Catatonia was a whole different ball game, and if she wasn't catatonic there wasn't a lot of difference right now. Since he couldn't think of anything else to do, he simply sat there, cuddling her, and waited.

And waited, and waited, and waited some more. Some several long, terrifying moments later, Beckett's eyelashes fluttered, and scraped upwards. Her eyes were empty, and for another long, horrifying space (objectively, around two seconds: subjectively, around two hours) Castle thought that she was still unconscious.

"Urrgh," emerged from Beckett's throat. "Castle?" She tried to – oh. Ohhhh. Not pull away. Curl into. "You're…oh." Memory bloomed in her eyes, and then she did try to pull away. Castle wasn't inclined to let that happen.

"Stay put," he murmured. "Stay here." She stopped trying to move away, but she didn't start curling in again either, and she still wouldn't meet his eyes. "I got you." He petted, and softly encouraged her to move closer, until he had her tucked in and totally enclosed against his wide chest. She lay there, still limp, exhausted; breathing shallowly. Close-caught as she was, she seemed frighteningly thinner; a streak of bones with less covering than he'd have expected. He remembered how relatively easy she had been to lift, but just as he was about to blurt out more unhelpful imprecations, he bit his tongue and thought before speaking.

"Was that a flashback?" he asked instead, quietly, undemandingly. She managed a half-nod. He petted some more. He could have said anything, but instead emitted, "You need to take the antibiotics." The same half-nod. "I'll help you get to the bathroom, so you can take them over the sink." He didn't wait for her agreement, but set her on her feet, balancing her with large hands around her midriff and noting the sharp protrusion of her hipbones; the deep indentation at the waist.

"I…" she began, and gave up, sagging into his grasp.

He helped her to the bathroom, opened the medicine bottle, and gave her privacy to take it and do anything else she needed to do. When he heard her re-open the door, he was there to catch her as she wobbled and then swing her back up into his arms once more.

"Water? I'll go get you some, and you can put that t-shirt on. It'll be more comfortable than sleeping in your shirt." He exited, to find a glass and fill it and, on reflection, a jug. When he brought them up, she was drowned in his old, soft t-shirt; slipping off one shoulder to expose the jut of her collarbone. It should have been sexy; instead it was heart-breaking. Every jot of her lack of self-care was exposed by the pallid skin and jabbing bones. Once more, he bit his tongue. "Snuggle down and go back to sleep," he said. "You need the rest. We'll talk in the morning."

Beckett couldn't find the energy or intelligence to comment, let alone argue. She was asleep before he'd reached the door. Consequently, she didn't know that he'd turned back, stood looking down at her white face and black-circled eyes, and then knelt down beside the bed and kissed her forehead before he really did leave.

Castle went downstairs, poured himself another glass of wine, which conveniently finished off the bottle, and installed himself on the couch to think in solitary splendour. His first thoughts were largely that the day had been a fine mess, which disposed of a third of his wine in one irritated gulp. After that, however, he employed his brain rather than his roiled emotions, and began to progress more usefully. On the dreadful side, Beckett had indeed lied about hearing him; and was utterly failing to look after herself. On the even more dreadful side, she'd been running off and hiding from the moment she'd been discharged from hospital after the shooting because she remembered being shot – and now she was having flashbacks. On that same debit side, she'd said it was an accident that she'd cut her arm and knees, but he now wondered just how true that was. Punishing yourself, he'd said, and she hadn't disagreed. Her apartment had been a mess, and she'd been drinking alone…and that, he realised, was where the glass had come from – but Beckett had the hardest head he'd ever known, so…if she'd been functional the next morning – and she had; there hadn't been a hint of a hangover – then something else had caused her to break the glass and hurt herself on it without even noticing.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck. She'd had a major flashback, hadn't she? And in trying to escape from it, she'd broken the glass, and scrabbled, panicking, across it. Oh, fuck. Because then she'd completely ignored it and her injuries to solve the case, and he just bet that it was to hide from her own demons.

Well, fuck. Which epithet was getting repetitive, but was the only one that really captured his feelings. Was there actually anything which wasn't appalling here? Because he'd capped the whole damn mess by starting an – well, several – arguments.

One thing. One halfpenny's worth of bread to an intolerable deal of sack, in fact. That one halfpenny's worth was that Beckett was here. Not that he'd given her much choice, but she was still here. If she was here, they could fix this mess, together, like they should have fixed it on the swings, months ago.

If she'd heard him, then she knew how he felt. If she hadn't had him removed thereafter, she – worst case – didn't object; best case, reciprocated. She wouldn't string him along, he believed. He hoped.

No. Because if she had been stringing him along, she wouldn't have objected so bitterly when he'd insisted she come to his loft; she'd have jumped at the chance to dance him on her puppet-strings.

He sipped the last of his wine, and then, suddenly tired, washed and went to bed, falling asleep instantly until morning.

Beckett's sleep was disturbed every time she shifted position; plagued by nightmares and still running a temperature. Sleep finally overtook again her around five a.m., by which time the bed had had to be straightened twice, at considerable cost to her arm. She woke again at seven, shuffled to the bathroom, took a dose of antibiotics of which almost a quarter fell into the sink, which she had to replace; and returned to the comfort of the bed and the oblivion of sleep; finally waking again some way past nine. She felt sweaty, sticky and revolting, and wanted nothing more than a thorough shower and to wash her hair.

She couldn't wash her hair with one hand. She'd had enough trouble pulling her panties up after going to the bathroom. She shouldn't allow the stitches to get wet, either. She couldn't face the disappointment in Castle's face if she couldn't hold it all together.

She couldn't face anything. The shower in the guest bathroom would undoubtedly be superb; but she couldn't use it without wrapping her arm and she couldn't do that without asking Castle for help. She didn't want to do that.

She went back to bed and pulled the cover over her head, wincing with each movement.

Not ten minutes later, Castle tapped on the door and waited. She didn't respond, so he simply walked in, expecting to find her still asleep. When he saw the covers pulled over her head: only a lock of dark curl visible, he sat on the edge of the bed as he had done the previous night, and slid the cover back a little. Beckett's eyes were squinched shut.

"You're awake," he said. "I came to tell you it was time for your breakfast dose of antibiotics."

"I've taken them, thank you," she said in a small, chilly voice.

"Okay. Do you want some breakfast? You must want some coffee by now. You haven't had any for at least sixteen hours, so Manhattan's in imminent danger." He smiled cheerfully, though it cost him effort. "So, coffee then bath, or bath then coffee?"

Beckett stared at him. She'd expected the anger of yesterday, not this happy, bouncy, normal Castle. It left her completely befuddled. Had she been at her usual investigative force, she might have spotted the effort he was making not to be anything else, but she wasn't, and she didn't.

"I've found some plastic to cover the dressing, and after your bath we'll re-dress it with clean gauze. They gave you a few days' worth, didn't they?" He patted her shoulder. "I think you want a bath." His hand met her forehead. "Yep, still a little hot. I'll run the bath and then help you downstairs." He coloured. "There isn't a bath up here."

"Uh?" Beckett stumbled.

"Bath. I'll go fix it up."

Castle disappeared before Beckett's brain could stutter into something that might approach life. A few moments later he reappeared, clutching a dark robe. "It'll be a bit big for you but it's warm," he said, and dropped it on the bed. "Wrap up in it and then I'll take you down – I bet your knees hurt worse today and you were told not to walk on them more than you absolutely had to." He smiled seraphically. "Besides, I like picking you up and carrying you. It's proof that I'm ruggedly muscular. And handsome, of course."

Beckett tried to make a face at him, and failed. She took the robe, and stared at it for a few seconds, before Castle simply lifted her to sitting, eased her uninjured arm into a sleeve, regarded the robe and Beckett for an instant, and wrapped it around her, tying the belt. The fabric smelt deliciously of Castle, and unconsciously she relaxed a fraction. Her insertion into the robe accomplished, Castle picked her up and carried her downstairs and into his bedroom, where he placed her on the enormous bed.

"Just wait there a minute while I get some Saran wrap to cover the dressing," he said, and lolloped off, to return with a roll of wrap. He gently uncovered the offending dressing, and swathed it in half a yard of plastic. "There. Now you can have your bath." Without waiting for any commentary, he swooped Beckett up again and took her into the bathroom. The bath was filled with steaming, bubbly water.

She blinked back shameful, pathetic tears. "Thank you," she managed.

"Call me if you need help." He clocked her slight movement to her hair. "In fact, call me when you need to have your hair washed. I'm the Vidal Sassoon of hair-washers. I'll be in the bedroom so you don't have to shout too loudly. Writers," he added naughtily, "can do it anywhere." She couldn't even muster an eye-roll at his smug arrogance, or at his back as he left, shutting the bathroom door.

Beckett let the robe fall, squirmed her way out of the t-shirt without too much difficulty, seeing as it was practically falling off her anyway, peeled off her panties, and sank into the bath with a huge sigh. It was wonderful.

It was the only good thing in a morass of awfulness, and it all went right back to being shot. She sat in the steaming water, arm on the edge of the tub, and cried all the tears she hadn't wept since she'd woken up attached to tubes and wires and beeping machines; been told she'd died twice; run off to escape the memories and the unwanted pressure of healing. She cried for her own stupidity in lying, and not explaining, and Castle's entirely understandable, justifiable anger; for the loss of something she hadn't even had. He'd never want to move forward now. She sank further into the bubbles, and wept silently until her eyes were so red and swollen that she could barely see.

She was fruitlessly trying to wash her face with one hand, hoping to conceal her misery, when Castle tapped on the door. "Do you want your hair washed now, Beckett?"

She did. She really, really did. "Just give me a minute," she said: her voice almost completely steady.

Outside, Castle caught the slight tremor in Beckett's voice, although it was so minimal that only his three years of observation and listening to every tiny change in her inflection allowed him to notice it. He wanted to charge in and cuddle her: pet and cosset again; make it better – but she'd never forgive him for picking up on her sobbing and anyway they had to talk this out. If he rushed straight in to cuddle her they'd never get to talking, because he'd do nearly anything so she wasn't crying, and then they'd be no better off at all because she'd close up and he'd get mad with her and it would just be a horrible mess. Again.

Which all added up to: no matter how much you want to cosset Beckett, Rick Castle, don't. Yet. There would be plenty of time for cossetting, later. His motivational talk really didn't help him, when Beckett asked him, a moment afterwards, to help her wash her hair.

When he walked in, after a warning knock, she was buried in bubbles. The centrefold picture didn't stop him noticing the redness of her eyes, but he said nothing. He was sure she knew he'd noticed, but she didn't say anything either.

"Castle's hair-washing service, at your service," he bounced. "What shall it be? Shampoo and set? Braids? Permanent wave? Marcel wave?"

"Marcel wave?" Beckett squawked, shocked out of her swamp of misery. "Is this 1920?"

"Gotcha. No, of course you don't want a Marcel wave. It'd look awful on you. Braids?"

"No, thank you," Beckett said with a return of most of her usual briskness. "But please would you wash it? I feel horrible."

Twenty minutes later she didn't feel horrible – physically. Mentally wasn't as good, but at least she was clean. Castle decamped to allow her to dry herself and put on clean underwear, a clean t-shirt and the robe.

She shuffled out of the bathroom to find Castle sitting on his bed, waiting for her. "Do you need to re-dress that arm?" he asked.

"I guess." Beckett looked at the bandage without any enthusiasm.

"Okay, let's go find the clean stuff and do it, then you can have coffee and breakfast."

Beckett didn't argue. She didn't get a chance, as Castle swept her up again – he seemed to think that was the only way she could get from one place to another – and took her through to the main room, swathed in the oversize robe. He rolled up the sleeve to her shoulder, and carefully unwrapped the bandage. He tugged very gently at the gauze and packing, but it didn't shift.

"We'll soak this off," he suggested. "Tearing the skin won't help anyone."

"No," she agreed, but her voice wobbled.

"I'll get a basin. Warm water. I wouldn't want you to have frostbite." He pondered for a second. "Though if you were that cold we ought to share body heat to keep you warm. I'm famously hot."

Beckett made a noise. Normally it would have been disgusted. Today, it was simply unhappy. Castle flicked her a sharp glance as he filled the basin with warm water.

"What? I am," he said smugly. "I'm on the New York Ledger's Most Eligible Bachelors list."

"Number Nine. And that was over a year ago."

"I was Number Seven the year before." Castle smirked.

"Less eligible by the moment," she snarked.

"You wouldn't want hordes of pushy women shoving you out of the way at crime scenes to get to me," he oozed. As she spluttered, he popped her arm by the basin and gently sponged the gauze and packing. A little later it came away easily. Castle looked at the wound. "Wow," he breathed. "That's bad." He grinned evilly. "You'll have a scar. You can tell everyone you got it in a sword fight and they'll think you're almost as badass as me."

"What?"

"I, my dear detective, can fence. Rather well, if I do say so myself. You can't."

Beckett humphed. She couldn't.

Castle smiled internally. Regardless of his previous musings, Beckett could always be irritated and, he flattered himself, amused, by his conceit and flirtation. Since he preferred irritated, lively Beckett to miserable, crying Beckett, he was quite prepared to continue annoying her.

"You'll be like those German duellists from the early 20th century, though I wouldn't recommend scars on your head. It would be a shame to spoil your gorgeous face. Scars elsewhere," he continued, "would be a mark of honour."

Beckett made an extremely peculiar noise.

"They would. They'd be a testament to bravery and bad-assery. You could only have them by committing deeds of derring-do and worthfulness" –

"That is not a word!" Beckett interrupted.

"Who's the writer here? It's a word if I say it's a word."

"You aren't Humpty Dumpty either. A word means what the dictionary says, not what you want to invent."

Castle noted with considerable interest that Beckett hadn't cottoned on to the fact that he was complimenting her scars, and with more interest still that she hadn't recoiled from the mention of scars. Since she hadn't, since before the summer, either worn something that might go that low or popped an extra button, he'd had the idea that she was unhappy about them. He, on the other hand, while he deplored the damage to his beautiful Beckett, was far happier that he had a live Beckett with scars than a dead Beckett mouldering underground. He shivered.

"If you're so keen on duelling," Beckett snarked, "why don't you have any scars?"

"You could investigate me to find out," Castle oozed. "Wanna start now? After all, I've seen yours."

The animation drained from Beckett's face. "No," she said flatly, and drew her arm away. "Where's the clean dressing?"

Castle produced it, desperately trying to work out why it had suddenly all gone wrong. "Put your arm here," he said. Beckett did as she was told, expression locked down, staring at the table and the slice through her flesh, the four neat stitches in fine black medical thread.

She barely managed to maintain a blank face when he drew her arm towards him, and oh-so-gently smoothed on the clean packing and gauze, then lifted it and wrapped new bandage in place. "There," he said when it was done, but he didn't let go: his hand slipped from arm past her wrist down to keep her slim span entirely covered within his much broader one.

She ought to pull away, but she couldn't. The warmth of his big hand seeped into her chilled skin and crept upwards: reassuring her that maybe, just maybe, all was not lost. Except…he hadn't seen the real scars. Not the scratch on her arm, but the carbuncle left by the bullet; the still-red, shining slice where they'd opened her chest to save her life. Both still twinged if she over-stretched; ached in the chill of November evenings, and no doubt would ache far more in winter, no matter how much ointment or moisturiser she used to soothe the taut skin.

He hadn't seen the real scars, and all his piffle over duelling was just that: piffle and persiflage. She could barely stand to look at them, so why should anyone else? They didn't carry any heroism, or anything of worth. She hadn't been saving victims, or protecting civilians. She'd been standing giving an eulogy. That wasn't heroic, that was simply…duty.

She'd always done her duty.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.

Sorry, it just would NOT post earlier!

If there is anyone out there who'd like to start the Casey series, Death in Focus is available for 99 cents or 99 pence in the US or UK Amazon stores. Search SR Garrae. I would do the same in other Amazon stores but they don't allow it - which is weird. Sorry.