Chapter 10

After lunch, in which Beckett had put away a reasonable quantity of food – if she were an elephant – she went upstairs, declining to be carried by Castle, took her meds, and returned downstairs to park herself on the couch with a cup of Castle's excellent coffee.

Castle ambled over to sit next to her, clasping his own coffee. "Come and be cuddled," he enticed.

"What?"

"I'd like to cuddle you. Do you want to be cuddled?"

"Uh…?"

Castle extended an arm, and waited. She curled in. "There. Much nicer."

Beckett couldn't disagree. It was nice to be snuggled into Castle's reassuringly wide, warm form. It almost made up for the pain of the therapy session and the still-present ache in her arm.

"I didn't mean to push you," Castle said, out of nowhere.

"Huh?"

"You said I was always there. I didn't give you any space to think."

"Ye-es," she said, slowly.

"I just…I couldn't stand not knowing if you were going to live. And then…I had to know that you were getting better. You died. I had to know you were alive."

She said nothing, but the silence didn't condemn him. Nor did it forgive him, of course. Neutral.

"Alive," she repeated. "Yeah. Well." The words dropped, leaving a bitter little silence behind each. "Alive." She swallowed. "I wasn't, though. Just for an instant…I wasn't." More of that bitter, bleak silence. "It's hard to…process. Especially when you're doped on pain relief all the time. Even when I woke up, I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything. It hurt to move; it hurt to breathe, and if I took enough pain relief that it didn't hurt then I couldn't think at all." She moved a little away from him, stiff-backed; holding control like armour; tonelessness like a shield. Castle wanted to bring her back into him: to pet and cosset and tell her it was all okay; all past; to tell her that she was alive and well and his as he was hers.

He didn't. He – now; now that he knew that she needed space to think; to talk – waited; seeing quite suddenly that she'd told him exactly what she had needed, before she'd gone. He just hadn't wanted to hear it. I just need a little bit of time. And then, after wards, everything I needed some space from…I needed some time to just work through everything. But 'a little bit of time' had been three months, without a word. A lot of 'working through', there. A whole damn lot, and not a word to him.

"You didn't call," he said.

"No." It fell into the room, heavier than lead. "I didn't. Because it took me a month to stop needing enough pain relief that I couldn't think straight. It took me a month to find out that I could walk more than ten yards without needing to sit down for more than an hour. My dad took me up to the cabin and stayed for three weeks. We stopped every hour on the way. A four hour drive took us nine, and I couldn't get out of bed the next day. Dad almost took me to the nearest hospital to readmit me." She caught her breath, harried – haunted. "And then…the next month – it took me all of that time to heal. To find out that yes, I was getting better. I would be able to pass the physical. I wouldn't freak out every time there was a sharp crack or a loud noise. I could cope." She turned, emptiness in her eyes. "I said this earlier. I didn't know if I'd ever heal. I still don't know what would happen if…" She trailed off, pain and grief for a future she might never have in her eyes. "So, no, I didn't call."

The dead quiet stretched on, and on, and on, until Beckett unfolded her feet from under her and began to rise from the couch. Castle held out his hand. "Please. Don't leave now. I understand." He waited, and she collapsed back into his lap, where he held her, as she pressed her head into his shoulder, right arm still in its sling to the outside. "Don't leave again. Stay here. Stay with me." He dropped a tiny kiss on her hair. "I'm not talking so you have time to think." His hand ran up and down her back. "Just please don't go."

When she nestled into him it felt like a victory.

Quite some time later, in which there had been no conversation but plenty of snuggling, Castle discovered that he had to move. He plopped another tiny kiss on Beckett's head, and moved her off his lap and out of his arms. She muttered sleepily at him. "Back in a moment," he said. "Then let's think about what's for dinner."

When he returned, for one horrible moment he thought she'd left. She wasn't there on the couch – but then he heard unmistakable noises from upstairs, and shortly her terrifyingly tentative tread on the stairs as she came back, her mouth twisting at the horrible taste of the meds. She'd changed into soft pants and a sloppy t-shirt.

"What's for dinner?" she asked softly.

Castle, who loved cooking and loved even more cooking for his loved ones, grinned. "Come and meet a really useful invention. You might have heard of it. It's called a fridge. I keep food in it, for cooking."

Beckett scrunched her nose at him. "I have a fridge."

"Yeah. You keep Styrofoam in it." Her nose scrunched further. It was almost unbearably adorable. "This fridge, however, contains food. See?"

Castle's well-stocked fridge contained a number of options for dinner, none of which (for which Castle was thankful) were soup. After some discussion, they agreed on beef stir-fry, with plenty of vegetables and Udon noodles. Castle even produced Thai beer, though Beckett stuck to water and let Castle have the beer.

"And that, Beckett, is the value of a fridge." She simply yawned, stuffed with good food. "Now, go and sit down and I'll make us coffee."

Coffee made, he brought it over and, without any hesitation at all, put his arm around Beckett. She was delightfully soft and a little sleepy, and she snuggled in with as little hesitation as he'd had in hugging her. He liked this cuddly Beckett, though he did wonder how much of it was exhaustion. She hadn't slept the night before, he didn't think; not that he'd slept well. However, they'd jumped the first hurdle, and the largest. He leaned his head on hers, pillowed on his shoulder, and enjoyed snuggly, cuddly Beckett while he could.

There was a muffled noise under his ear. It sounded like nice, and was followed by Beckett tucking up her feet and wriggling into a more comfortable – and closer – position. Castle certainly didn't object to that. A moment later, her breathing had evened into the slow, deep cadence of sleep, though it was barely after eight. Castle thought with some satisfaction that he was having a good effect on Beckett, who needed several hours of quality sleep for at least a week and another month of eating properly, and only then realised that he'd have to take her upstairs.

Or…not. He could simply put her on (not in) his bed, and let her sleep while he wrote, or procrastinated, or both; and then wake her or carry her to her own room when he was ready to go to sleep. An errant thought reminded him how wonderful it had been to snuggle up to Beckett in her bed, but he shoved it away. It wouldn't be sensible.

He disentangled himself, lifted Beckett, and managed to place her gently on his bed without her waking, which was entirely not reassuring, since he was convinced that normally Beckett slept with one eye open, just like a cat. He then watched in utter amazement as she wriggled herself under the covers, buried her nose in his pillow, on his preferred side, sighed contentedly in her sleep, and rolled herself into a Beckett-burrito in his covers.

He could see the future, and it involved stolen quilts. His. And coldness. Also his. And tugging, by him – which might result in Beckett being snuggled into him. Not all bad, then. Not bad at all. She looked perfectly at home in his bed.

He resolutely turned his back on her and went to write.

Some three hours of intense writing later, most of which was suitable for publication, Castle removed the unsuitable elements into his private Nikki-folder and decided that he really ought to move Beckett to her own bed. He ambled into his bedroom, and attempted to disinter her from the covers. First, he ran a broad finger over the side of her cheek and down her jaw. That merely produced a disgruntled mutter and a firmer grip on the quilt. He next tried to undo her fingers from the quilt, but even in sleep Beckett exhibited the same vice-like grip on the covers as she would normally apply to his nose. Since he didn't want to break her fingers, he stopped that line of attack, and thought.

A solution presented itself. He could leave Beckett here, and sleep in the guest room. That seemed by far the easiest thing to do – and the only one which he could reconcile with both his conscience and the need to retain some covers to keep him warm. He conducted his night time routine, and trailed upstairs, wishing his conscience wasn't quite so lively. Somehow, sleeping next to Beckett seemed so much more intimate than merely being awake and in bed with her while she slept.

And, of course, she'd probably kill him while he slept, mostly for removing half of his quilt so that he didn't freeze. (but it would be worth it, a naughty little voice said. He ignored it. Naughty little voices were not helpful when Beckett was sound asleep in his bed and stealing all his covers so that if he was there too he would just have to snuggle up to her and… And no. Upstairs, Rick. Upstairs before you lose your conscience.)

He trudged upstairs, wishing with every step that he could have woken Beckett far enough to ask her if she wanted to stay in his bed. Virtue didn't improve his mood one iota. Nor did thinking over what Beckett had said earlier – and Dr Burke's rebuke. He squirmed and winced. He'd wanted to help Beckett. He had. You didn't give her any choice, his conscience said. She wouldn't help herself, he argued. Not your call. Not your decision, the voice argued back. You forced her to do what you wanted her to do. That's coercion and it is not acceptable. He sagged. He hadn't meant that. It's what you did. Back off. Stick to comfort and flirting and stop pushing her. It's her life. Not yours. She's not a doll, or Nikki. He cringed again. He'd just wanted her to be fixed. Stop justifying yourself. You were wrong, and trying to justify it doesn't make it right. It wasn't. Own it and do better. Leave her alone. If she wants to leave, take her home and don't argue.

Sleep was hard to come by after that round of unpleasant realisations, added to which (one) it wasn't his own bed and (two) the scent of Beckett was everywhere. It wasn't fair that she was surrounded by his aroma and clearly comforted by it, and he was made completely uncomfortable by hers. Of course, he was frequently made uncomfortable by Beckett, usually around the nose and ears. This was more…below the belt.

Finally, he fell asleep. His dreams were an unpleasant mix of shaming and terrifying, and he woke to find himself further ashamed of his behaviour. He salved his feelings by going out to ensure that there was a delicious breakfast, in which Beckett might find something she wanted to eat.

Beckett's sleep was deep, restful, and soothing; punctuated by pleasantly affectionate, tending towards sexy, dreams.

Beckett woke up slowly, and failed entirely to understand where she was. It wasn't her bed, and it wasn't the guest room bed – it was around ten sizes larger, for a start, and the room didn't – oh. Oh. She was in Castle's bed. She sat up, and looked around. There was no evidence that Castle had been in the bed at any point. No dent in the pillows aside from the one her own head had made, no lingering warmth. How very disappointing. She snuggled back down, unwilling to wake up fully when the bed was so beautifully cosy and she was so comfortably wrapped up. Shortly, she dozed.

The tempting smell of frying bacon twined into her nostrils, and encouraged her to re-open her eyes. It was accompanied by the sound of sizzling, which might indicate pancakes. Shortly after that, the life-giving aroma of coffee filtered into her consciousness. She heaved herself out of Castle's bed, and wandered through to find out if the coffee was ready. At that point, she realised that she'd slept in the sweatpants and t-shirt, and then that her knees no longer hurt, though, when she checked, they still looked as if they belonged to a clumsy toddler. Her arm, however, did still ache enormously, which she didn't think was helpful or fair.

"Hey," she said hopefully to Castle, who was brandishing a spatula as he flipped pancakes. A small stack was already on a plate.

"Breakfast," he carolled. "Bacon, pancakes, cereal" – Beckett spied it on the table – "orange juice" – that too – "pastries."

Beckett looked him up and down, and noticed that he was fully dressed. He'd evidently been out to get some of the comestibles. "And coffee?" she checked.

"Don't insult me. Of course there's coffee. You run on coffee. Everything else is just a bonus."

Beckett engaged the pre-coffee instinctive find coffee reflex, and tipped back half a pint in short order. She blinked, and then swung into life. Pancakes hit the table, syrup followed, milk exited the fridge and arrived next to the cereal carton, and Castle finished the picture by adding the bacon, perfectly crisped.

Beckett discovered, rather to her surprise given the amount of dinner she'd eaten, that she was hungry, and constructed her breakfast from orange juice and cereal to pastries, taking in pancakes with syrup and bacon along the way. She washed it all down with another couple of gallons of coffee, and then grimaced at her arm. She then fixed Castle with a beady-eyed stare.

"Why did I wake up in your bed?"

"Because you fell asleep on my shoulder, and if I carried you upstairs you'd have woken and I'd have damaged my back," Castle pointed out. "So I put you in my room and I slept upstairs."

Beckett's mouth snapped shut. "You slept upstairs?" she squeaked. She would have thought that Castle – especially having snuggled up to her the other day – would have taken the golden opportunity to snuggle up to her all night last night. She couldn't decide whether to be delighted by his chivalry or offended by it.

"I tried to wake you but you wouldn't. And you're a quilt thief, too. You clung on to my quilt and wouldn't let go. It's not a good trait. I'd freeze."

"What?"

"If you steal the quilt, I'd freeze if I were in bed too. Unless I cuddled up to you so closely that the quilt still covered both of us." He smiled angelically. "That sounds like a good plan," he added.

Beckett's automatic snap of No it is not! magically lost its way somewhere between her brain, lungs and mouth, converting itself into a gleep that made her, she thought acidly, sound like a new-hatched chick.

"So you agree?" Castle asked, batting his eyes. Beckett gulped down another mug of coffee, and tried to put some thoughts together that weren't completely contradictory. It wasn't fair of Castle to produce thoughts before she had drunk enough coffee to make her brain work.

"Urgh," she said. "Coffee."

Castle poured her yet more coffee, and didn't pursue his line of conversation, though his eyes twinkled mischievously. The longer Beckett didn't answer, the more he twinkled. By the time she'd finished the coffee, he was twinkling so much that he could have replaced the North Star, or possibly the Horsehead Nebula. It didn't improve her mood at all. Twinkling like that was not attractive.

And then the day took an abrupt downward turn as Beckett remembered her appointment with Dr Burke. She stared into the almost-empty coffee cup, and shivered.

"What's wrong?" Castle asked, twinkle gone in a flash. "Oh," he added, clearly remembering. "Round Two of your match up with Dr Burke."

"You have to be there too," Beckett snipped. "If you hadn't had all those ideas then you wouldn't be. Anyway," she added childishly and nastily, "your first one was wrong."

Castle declined the bait. "I don't have to go if you don't want me there," he pointed out.

"You're coming. I'm going to deal with your crazy theories."

"What time's the appointment?"

"Eleven, again."

"It's not even nine. Plenty of time."

Beckett made an indeterminately miserable noise that eventually resolved itself into a mutter of don't like therapy. She didn't want to do this at all.

"What shall we do till it's time to go?"

"I need to have a shower, so could you wrap my arm, please?"

"Okay."

Three quarters of an hour later, Beckett had showered, dressed, salved and rebandaged her arm, noting that it was healing and that she should probably see about getting the stitches taken out soon, and managed a modicum of make-up, very cautiously. She felt much more in control with her make-up on. She could do this. Prove the next stage of Castle's crazy, wrong theories false.

She read determinedly until it was time to go. Castle, whose tapping could be heard through the loft, had written steadily and not disturbed her. She wasn't sure she approved of a not-bothering-her Castle, but she supposed he had to do some work sometime. Just…maybe not now. She shoved that errant thought away. If it wasn't for Castle coming up with crazy theories she wouldn't be doing this – or at least, not this way.

No, said a nasty little voice, you'd still be lying to yourself, Castle, Burke, and everyone around you. Beckett squished it.

At exactly eleven, Dr Burke called in Detective Beckett and Mr Castle. He removed Mr Castle to a separate room, established in his absence that Detective Beckett wished him to remain, and took Detective Beckett to his usual treatment room.

"Now, Kate, which of Rick's theories do you wish to address today?"

None would not be an acceptable answer. "The second one," she scowled.

"That was that you consider that if you are not perfect, your team will not trust you. Why would Rick think that?"

"No idea. I make mistakes just like anyone else."

Dr Burke raised an eyebrow. He had read Detective Beckett's file. Mistakes were not evident. She might pursue a false trail, but her closure rate was as close to perfect as any human detective could achieve, and not one of her arrests had been unjustified. Not one had been questioned for dubious evidence or lack of evidence, either.

"My team trust me just fine."

"And you also rely on them?"

"Yes."

"How does that reliance manifest itself?"

"I trust them to have my back and to be there with me."

"At work."

"Yes."

"What about in non-work related matters? Did you, for example, tell them any details of your recovery?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I had recovered. It wasn't relevant."

"Mm. Are they aware of your injuries?" Dr Burke instantly perceived that he had erred.

"I'm a cop, not an invalid." Detective Beckett's anger was palpable. "I don't need to discuss my scars with the team. They were there when I was shot."

"Apart from with your doctors, have you ever discussed your injuries?" Dr Burke amended.

"I showed the sniper the scar, to solve the case." Detective Beckett snapped the comment short.

"I see." Detective Beckett nodded once at him, sharply. "So, have you discussed your shooting with your team?"

"Espo showed me the rifle that shot me," Detective Beckett bit.

"What did you do?"

"I said that I was damaged."

"How did he respond to that?"

"You think it's a weakness? Make it a strength."

"And from that you conclude?"

"That the team are just fine with me as I am. They trust me."

"Do you trust them?"

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Edited to add: some people are having difficulty posting reviews. Having had the same problem on other stories, the solution seems to be to clear cookies and then try again. It worked for me.