Chapter 14

Mr Castle carried on. "So, um…I hate it but maybe you were right to go away after you were shot. You knew I wouldn't be able to leave you alone even if you asked because, um…" – he blushed scarlet – "um…I'd want to do something. Look after you. Cheer you up. See you. When we went after Coonan I know I said I'd do nothing, but I'm not sure I could have done for long. I do things. Like" – he paused unhappily – "like making you stay with me and trying to make you eat and pushing you to listen to my ideas about why you were – anyway, I'd try to do nothing if you asked me to, but…" He ground to a halt, swallowed, and restarted. "You knew me better than I knew myself. I'd told myself – tell myself – that I'd have left you alone to recover if you'd only asked…and I'd really have tried…but I'd have come to find you."

"What would you have done about the sniper case?" Detective Beckett asked, no expression of any sort in her voice; her head still down so that her face was hidden. Dr Burke, unusually, had no idea of her emotions.

Mr Castle paused. "If I'd had time to think? I wouldn't have asked you to step back. If there was no time? I probably would have said take a break, first up. You wouldn't have listened, though. Just like you didn't listen to Burke when he said it."

Dr Burke blinked, but did not make the mistake of breaking the flow.

"I would have hugged you," Mr Castle said. "You needed support, but…well, eventually I'd have worked out that it should be just like the Coonan case. With added hugs." He finally raised his gaze from his feet. "Beckett?"

Half an instant later he had plucked her out of her chair and wrapped her into an embrace that, Dr Burke thought frivolously, would not have disgraced a large bear; patting her back. "See?" he murmured. "Hugs. Hugs equals support. Even you need some of that."

So, thought Dr Burke, by not asking for support, which she would have received and indeed had received from Mr Castle, Detective Beckett was indeed punishing herself. He did not make the mistake of saying that aloud. However slow it seemed to be, progress was being made. He would not damage that. He glanced at the wall clock. The session had already exceeded its allotted time, and they had not fully explored the concept that Detective Beckett had been punishing herself. However, from Mr Castle's protective position, she was likely weeping, or close to it. Prolonging the session would not assist.

"I believe that we should end now. Please make your next appointment for Monday." Dr Burke smiled at Detective Beckett's damp eyes. "I prescribe a relaxing weekend, with no alarms or excitement."

"Thanks," she dragged.

"Home time," Mr Castle chirruped, and steered Detective Beckett out.

"I guess it was rough?" Castle said, as Beckett failed to produce any enthusiasm for anything other than tar-textured coffee with enough caffeine content to poison most of Kenya, from where the beans had originated.

"I don't want to talk about it." Beckett buried her nose in her coffee-adjacent drink.

Castle, for once happy not to pry, cuddled her in. "Okay. Let's have some lunch, and then think of something to do. We could go see an exhibition, or play tourist, or something?"

"I don't want to do anything. I'm not hungry."

Castle raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth – and abruptly shut it again. "Okay," he repeated. "If you want something later, say. I'm going to put on some soup and make grilled cheese."

Beckett flashed him a surprised glance. "Can I get some more coffee?" she asked.

"Sure. Tar again, or your usual?"

"Usual, please. I'll go take the last dose of meds."

Castle had wanted to insist that Beckett ate something, just as he had been doing for the last few days, however, after that morning's realisations, he thought that he should maybe not push right now. If she still didn't eat at dinner time, that would be a different matter. He made Beckett's coffee, added a pretty design to the foam, and smiled as he stirred the soup. Shortly, he heard her tread.

"Coffee," he pointed out. Beckett arrived immediately. Somewhat to Castle's surprise, she peered at the soup.

"What is it?"

"Tomato. Home-made," he added proudly.

Beckett said nothing for a second. Then, "Could I have a little?" she asked.

"Sure."

Over lunch, Beckett cast so many sidelong glances at Castle that he thought he must be developing green and purple spots. She didn't ask for seconds, but she finished what she had. Castle resolutely, and at some cost to his over-clenching teeth to prevent words escaping, didn't comment. Lunch done, he made yet more coffee, and repaired to the couch, where Beckett was already ensconced.

"Thanks," Beckett said, and nibbled thoughtfully on her lip, adding another slightly confused glance at Castle.

"What is it?" he asked. "Do I have smudges marring my rugged handsomeness? Have I developed green and purple spots? Or are you just admiring my wonderful face and form?"

Beckett blew a raspberry. "Handsome is as handsome does," she snipped.

"In that case, I'm a very Adonis," Castle smirked.

"You're too old. He was a youth."

Castle made a childish face at her. "Why were you staring at me?" he asked again.

"You've spent most of the last few days telling me to eat. Why not today?"

"Uh…"

Interrogation Beckett fixed him with a deadly glare.

"Uh…well, after this morning I thought maybe I shouldn't be pushing you to do things – even eating though you should eat more – because it, um, hasn't exactly always worked out well when I just act and I didn't want another fight and, um, er…" He broke off at Beckett's astounded stare.

"You what now?" she squeaked.

"I, um, thought maybe I shouldn't" –

"Shouldn't look after me?" Beckett said in an absolutely unemotional tone.

"Uh…" Castle exhaled, realising that something was wrong. "I just thought…uh…it sounded like you didn't like me galloping straight in and doing something so I thought that making you eat or pushing you to look after yourself or let me look after you would be wrong and so I thought maybe I shouldn't do any of those things." He finally took a breath.

"You thought you shouldn't," Beckett repeated in that same flat voice. "So you're trying to change your approach."

"Yes? Er…No?" Castle vacillated between the two answers, neither of which seemed to be finding any favour with Beckett.

"You're trying to change?" she asked again.

"Uh, maybe?"

"You idiot! I don't want you to change! You idiot!"

"You don't?" Castle weebled. "But" –

"But nothing. You're supposed to have no impulse control! You're supposed to bring me coffee and remind me to eat! You're allowed to look after me even when I yell at you!"

"Like you're doing now?"

"Shut up and listen, you idiot! You're not to change! I don't want you to change!" She grabbed him and kissed him hard. "You don't change, get it! I love you just the way you are!"

Castle hauled her into his lap, utterly devoid of words for almost the first time in his adult life, and plastered her mouth with desperate kisses, heedless of her arm, pressing her as close as he could. He had never expected her to say the words out loud. Subtext and hints: that was his Beckett; though she'd provided those, a flat statement of her feelings hadn't been in his purview.

He didn't stop kissing her for a moment: fervid and passionate; overwhelming and overwhelmed; heat blazing between them; the flaring inferno that incinerated all sense and feeling except desire. Mouths devoured each other, hands clutched at skulls or shoulders; tongues tangled until kisses could go no deeper.

One of Castle's hands slid to Beckett's back, finding the waist of her pants and slipping under the soft t-shirt to meet smooth bare skin; fingers exploring. She brought her own hand down from his shoulder, flicking open his button-down to allow her to glide her own elegant fingers inside the cotton. It fired him further: his hand moved to her stomach, bunching the t-shirt out of the way as it moved higher; teasing at the undercurve of one small breast. She gasped, pushing into the touch; fiery sparks rising where his fingers met her flesh. Her hand moved further down, delicately opening his belt, the button, the zipper; he gasped as she stroked across and then gripped his hardness.

"Mine," he breathed, and kissed her deeply again. "My Beckett. My love."

"Mine," she contradicted. "My Castle."

There was no more talking. Lips met, mouths joined, hands explored and sought and found, but then there was only quiet; frantic motion diminishing as sense returned.

"The bed would be more comfortable," Castle murmured.

"Mm," Beckett hummed, not quite agreeing. "Don't want to move."

"I like you in my lap. But my bed's still comfier." Castle shifted slightly. "I could carry you," he suggested softly. "You're a featherweight."

"Caveman," she teased, without snip or snark or malice.

"Nope. Not a caveman." His fingers shifted and his voice changed. "Bed. Bed is nicer."

Beckett grumbled wordlessly. She was warm, cosy, and comfortable right where she was, snuggled into Castle's wide, and, crucially, bare, chest. She didn't want to move at all.

Her wishes didn't stop Castle moving her. A moment later, she found herself on Castle's bed, being divested of her shoes. He plumped down beside her, smiling.

"See, it's much comfier." He produced an entirely inappropriate, saintly expression. "If you took your clothes off, you could snuggle under the covers and be cosy."

Beckett raised a sceptical eyebrow at him. "Really?"

"You could be hot, if you prefer. You without clothes would be seriously hot." He grinned boyishly. "Or seriously cuddly, depending on how tired you are and how much your arm still aches." The grin turned distinctly naughty. "I could kiss you better."

"Kissing it better is for small children," Beckett pointed out.

"Kissing is for adults," Castle countered, and demonstrated with a flirting, teasing kiss on her lush mouth; a tantalising flick of his tongue along the seam. She opened instantly, and fought right back, diving in and turning the tables so that Castle fell back on the pillows and could only accede to her conquest.

"That's kissing for adults," Beckett pointed out smugly, having rolled away.

"After dinner, I'll demonstrate proper kissing for adults," Castle oozed.

"I thought that was," Beckett humphed, "but if you didn't like it, fine."

Castle acquired a predatory, wolfish expression, and licked his lips languorously. "I did like it. I just think we could, um, kiss a little more. Later." He licked his lips again. Beckett tried not to blush at his overt sensuality, and largely succeeded.

"Why wait till later?" she enticed.

He smirked. "Anticipation. I like to anticipate. It adds so much to the eventual experience." His smile was lazily rakish. "Isn't an essential part of pleasure the expectation?"

Beckett nibbled her lower lip, and then soothed it with her own tongue. "Only if expectations are matched or exceeded," she husked. "Otherwise, it's just a disappointment."

"I never disappoint." He caught her challenging glance. "You'll see," he promised. She nibbled her lip again, and watched the heat flare in his eyes. "You'll definitely see." His eyes softened. "But right now, it's time to make dinner. Come and chop vegetables. I'll make a stir fry."

Beckett chopped peppers, onions, and mushrooms; opened canned bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, and baby sweet corn; and threw it all into Castle's wok. Shortly, there was dinner; a spicy sauce sizzling appetisingly, full of chicken and vegetables, with rice. Beckett ate at least her fair share, and followed up with ice cream.

Over coffee, however, Burke's words came back to her. Summarised: two cases in which she'd been forcibly reminded of direct trauma: her mother's death; her own shooting. And two times in which she'd worked so hard that she'd damaged her health. One, corrected for a time by extensive therapy; the second treated at the ER, but not before she'd been in danger of a very nasty infection. In both cases, she'd only been made to stop by someone else; someone who actually had the power to enforce orders. Her captain. The one person who could force her to stop, backed up by the threat of benching her. It was the only threat she'd ever have listened to; the only punishment she couldn't stand.

She had stood all the other pain. Even welcomed it, because it meant that she was doing her job properly: finding justice. What did it matter that she was burning herself up to keep the fires of justice stoked? There hadn't been anyone else to worry about, or to worry about her. Justice had been her god, and she'd dedicated all her pain to it.

All her pain. Not just the pain of losing her mom, of watching her dad drown in whiskey, but every injury, every time she'd worked too long, not rested, not treated a small cut – or a larger one. She'd called it seeking justice.

Maybe she should have called it punishment. Pushing herself far beyond acceptable limits, to fill the gap in her life; to make up for not saving her father, for not appreciating her mother as she might have done. Filling the void in her soul, where there should have been two loving parents. Even now, she thought, she wasn't always completely convinced that her father still gave her unconditional love.

"Beckett? Beckett, what's wrong?" A Kleenex arrived in her hand. "Beckett, Kate, why are you crying?" Castle's arm tugged her into his side. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry." He encouraged her head into the crook of his neck, and patted her back. She sniffed damply, and tried to stop the tears. She wasn't successful. Castle patted and petted, provided Kleenex, and patted and petted some more, until Beckett hiccupped herself into relative calm. "What's up?"

Beckett muttered something that couldn't have been understood by the most accomplished of polyglots, and buried her nose in Castle's collar. Petting was considerably more desirable than talking. She didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe with Burke. Her lips pursed as though she'd sucked a lemon.

"Snuggle in," Castle said, and repositioned her into a more comfortable position. "I got you." She lay against his shoulder, taking shallow breaths, bringing herself back to normality, pushing down the shock of the realisation.

"Could I get some coffee?" she asked, though she couldn't quite conceal the shake in her voice.

"Sure," Castle said. Beckett noted his decidedly slow un-snuggling, and regretted that it wasn't possible for him to make coffee while still hugging her.

Castle watched Beckett out of the corner of his eye, concerned by her silence and then tears. Crying Beckett worried him, especially when it came out of the blue. He was pretty sure her arm no longer hurt, which didn't give him much doubt about why she might be upset. He was already certain it was to do with her therapy, and most likely she'd had a realisation that she really, really didn't like. His hands made coffee, automatically perfect, and his brain worked. He didn't actually know what Burke had discussed with Beckett before he'd been called in, but…reason it out, Rick. Reason it out. They'd talked about her lies. They'd talked about trust.

Therefore, today they had talked – or started to talk, until he'd been called in to talk about support – about punishing herself.

He drew a little design in the foam, and took the coffee back. In line with his newfound resolution not always to jump straight in (regardless of Beckett's commentary on not changing), he didn't blurt out his thoughts.

It didn't work. Beckett fixed him with a piercing glare. "Just spit it out, Castle," she ordered. "You're thinking so loudly they can probably hear you in Texas."

"Stop reading my mind," he complained. "It's not fair."

"Why? You spent the last week wandering through my head as if it were your own. Now spill." Her glare intensified.

"You're thinking that Burke was right about something. Or that I was," he said resignedly. "And since we went through two of the three things, it must be the idea of punishing yourself."

"And?"

"You've just realised that you have been, and why. And it's upset you." He swallowed, and went for it. She had asked. "Because it wasn't deliberate, but you were doing all the same, and you thought you knew yourself and you were fine and now you've realised you're really not fine at all and you have to fix it and that means Burke and you hate therapy." His words had flowed faster and faster, without a single breath, until he stopped, hands defensively in front of him in case Beckett took direct action.

Instead, she fled upstairs; and worse, left her barely touched coffee behind. That had not gone well. He gave it three minutes – long enough to let her absorb the hit; short enough that her coffee hadn't cooled – and took her coffee upstairs with him.

He couldn't hear anything as he went, which could be either good – she wasn't crying – or bad – she had buried herself in pillows to mask it. So he didn't bother to knock, just walked right in.

"I brought your coffee up."

"Thanks," she said tonelessly. She was sitting against the pillows, staring at nothing. He put it on the nightstand, and then sat beside her, picking the mug up and pushing it into her hands, waiting for a second to ensure that she had a grip on it. He was far more relieved than was reassuring when she actually held it, and more so when she put it to her lips and drained it dry.

He took the empty mug from her, put it back on the nightstand, and then slung an arm around her. "It's okay," he said. "You don't have to talk. I know how much you hate talking. Just let me hug you and be quiet."

For an instant, she stayed rigidly defensive, resisting – and then she half-fell against him; her shallow breathing the only indication that she was conscious. He thought she was trying not to cry again: his beautiful, brave Beckett.

Brave until she had to apply that bravery to herself: be brave enough to open up. She hadn't been able to do it so far…but now she was trying. Under the threat of benching until she did manage it, but trying.

She had to succeed, if there were ever to be a chance for them. He had to cling on to that thin thread of hope: she was trying. If only trying meant succeeding…

"Have you ever failed at anything?" fell out of his mouth. As soon as he'd said it, he wished he hadn't: she'd never found the man behind her mother's killer, though she'd found the one who'd done the deed; she'd never managed to admit her feelings for him…until now. She'd managed that now. So maybe his ill-disciplined mouth wasn't going to ruin him today.

Except…she wasn't answering.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.