Title: X-Ray
Rating: T
Fandom: Castle
Pairing: Castle/Beckett
Summary: He’s standing in the hallway, holding a probably too expensive bottle of wine, some ice cream and a bag from the pharmacy down the block from her building.
Notes: 1947 words. Set vaguley around season 2/3ish.
Castle knows her too well.
It’s normally a curse, he’s there to observe her (at least at first), learn from her, learn about her. That’s kind of the point, he’s supposed to know her but most of the time, it’s annoying as hell. He presses her buttons, picks out the more intimate details of her at the most inappropriate times and is both the most infuriating and the sweetest man she’s ever had to spend this much time with.
He knows her too well and most of the time Beckett hates it.
But right now, right now she kinda realises she loves him for it as well.
He’s standing in the hallway, holding a probably too expensive bottle of wine, some ice cream and a bag from the pharmacy down the block from her building. By the looks of it, there is more than just painkillers in there and she slowly steps aside to let him in.
“I figured you wouldn’t go to the hospital,” he tells her, striding in like he owns the place, which doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should. He places his things on the coffee table and strips off his jacket. She goes to take it from him, with her right arm, and hisses when she reaches out for it. “You probably should though,” he adds, hanging his own coat up.
“I’m fine,” she says, automatically, then chuckles. She knows she’s not; she was pushed down an entire flight of stairs and bruised more than one rib on the way down, but she didn’t hit her head, and they still got their suspect (thanks to him).
He knows she’s not fine, she knows he can hear the harsh inhale when she moves, the hiss and groan as she sits. The way her entire body is tight, the tension of favouring her left side because all of her right side is bruised to all hell is clear on her face.
“But thank you,” she adds.
She watches as he moves around her kitchen, pulls a glass out of her cupboard without even needing to check it’s the right one, fills it with water and digs in the bag for something.
“Start with this,” he tells, handing her some painkillers and the water.
Beckett does as she’s told and downs the tablets, without even asking what they are. She’s in enough pain that she doesn’t care and she trusts him. Castle doesn’t wait to make sure she does before he’s back in the kitchen, pulling out wine glasses and bowls and spoons. She wants to sit back and enjoy the view, enjoy watching him move around like he lives here; like he belongs here. She wants to enjoy the way he rolls his sleeves up his arms, the way his shirt tightens over his muscles as he moves, the glimpse of his backside when he heads into the bathroom for something.
She can’t though, because it hurts to sit back on her less than comfortable sofa (damn the salesman) and also because she doesn’t think she can react quickly enough not to get caught. Nor can she properly school her face into innocence because it’s taking everything in her not to cry.
Still, she can enjoy the concerned look on his face as he heads towards her, and places wine and ice cream on the coffee table. She can enjoy the blue of his eyes in the lamplight as he perches on the sofa next to her.
“Let me see.”
He’s got the pharmacy bag and a towel, and she’s a bit pain-fogged to understand what he’s asking for a moment.
“It’s okay,” she says. “The painkillers and wine will help.”
“Let me see,” he repeats, his tone much harder this time but not threatening, just, just insistent.
“Okay, but don’t…” she doesn’t know what she wants him not to do. Laugh? Insist on a trip to the ER? Make a lascivious comment?
“I just want to help,” he says, tone softer now, quieter and she looks into those blue eyes again and nods. Because Castle does know her, does want to help her, even if he has to be serious for a moment.
She reaches for the hem of her t-shirt and pulls, but groans when she tries to lift it any higher than her breasts. She drops her arms, takes a deep breath and goes to try again.
Castle stops her, grabs her wrist and holds it there.
“Let me okay?”
He’s not looking at her face when he says it, nor her breasts as she assumes, but at the hem of the soft blue t-shirt in her hands. She lets go and then he looks at her, waits for her to nod again and keeps his eyes lock with hers as he eases her out of the t-shirt. It still hurts like hell; she tries to hold in the pain and manages a respectable hiccup of agony. He drops it on her lap and squeezes her thigh.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No,” she answers and he chuckles
“How did you get it on?” he asks.
“Very slowly,” she says, with a tight smile.
“Did you ice it?”
“Yeah, when I got home, till the ice pack warmed up,” she watches his face, the twitch as he holds himself from glancing down at her. “The other pack I had leaked all over the place.”
“I saw the remains in the sink,” he says, and he digs around in the bag for a new ice pack. He wraps it in the towel and finally he glances down at her chest.
She does not expect the “Oh Kate,” that spills from his lips to be quite so reverent, and she flushes warm. He reaches out and trails his fingers over the large bruise that covers what feels like her entire right side. His eyes definitely flick to her bra for a moment, and she wouldn’t be wearing one just before bed, but it had hurt too much to get her shirt off and the t-shirt on that she daren’t even try to take off the blue lace.
He presses the ice pack to her side and looks at her face, she smiles at him, thinks about kissing him and hopes to God it just looks like she’s in pain, ‘cause she really can’t help it. All her defences are down and Castle, damn it, Castle probably knows that too. Can probably see right through her.
“I feel like I should strap two or three of these to you,” he says, mostly to himself. “Can you breathe okay?”
“As long as I don’t breathe too deeply it’s okay.”
He nods, but she can tell he’s not happy with the answer.
“Can you hold it?”
“Slide it under my arm.”
He does so, and she presses against her side. It’s not really helping, the cold, but she appreciates the effort Castle is making to help her heal. To make her feel better. He places a bowl of ice cream in her lap, on her t-shirt and takes a drink of his wine before placing his own ice cream on his lap.
“Let me know when you want your wine,” he tells her.
“Thanks Castle,” she says.
“I’ve got some of that painkiller gel as well, for later,” he tells her. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
“Sure, help yourself,” she goes to grab the remote control from the coffee table and he stops her, taking her hand before she can stretch and hurt herself.
“I got it.”
“You can choose,” she tells him, starting on her ice cream. “I’m easy.”
He grins at that.
“Well, I do have your down to your bra,” he says, and she flushes but levels him half a glare as well.
“Only because I can’t take it off,” she tells him.
“Oh really,” then he pauses. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine,” she says a little sterner than she intends, then she smiles. “Maybe later.”
He opens his mouth but decides not to push, and she settles back a bit in the seat, finally feeling a little easier in herself now she had painkillers and ice and ice cream.
“Do you want a blanket?” he asks, “You look cold.” He tries to be innocent, but, well, Beckett can see the smirk he’s desperately trying to supress.
“No, I’m not cold at all,” she says, with a smile. His eyes flick down to her nipples for a second, then he gives her that salacious grin of his and goes back to choosing a film for them to watch. She finishes her ice cream while he does so, and without even needing to ask, Castle swaps the bowl for her wine, then settles back to watch the film he’s chosen.
He’s chosen She, the remastered and coloured version and she tries not to wonder if that says anything.
Despite the pain, this is probably the most relaxed Beckett’s felt in months. She shifts a little, grunting because it still hurts dammit, and tries to settle back a little onto the sofa.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Can’t get comfy,” she tells him. “I hate this sofa.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, getting up and Beckett is feeling the effects of pain, painkillers and wine because her brain doesn’t quite figure out what he’s doing.
“What? Now?”
He shakes his head and holds up the cushion from her armchair.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
He helps her sit up and places the cushion underneath her, then another and then he fetches her pillows too and soon she’s cocooned in soft furnishings, in just a blue bra, with the man she’s definitely attracted to and more than a little love with.
She blames the painkillers and the wine for her errant thoughts, for admitting it to herself. She never normally would. She likes to file those thoughts under classified, do not enter, but it’s hard when her ribs hurt and her brain is muzzy, and he is sitting there like he belongs here. Belongs to her.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.”
“Need a new ice pack?”
“No, I’m fine.” He eyes her for a moment, but seems to believe it this time, because, of course, she is actually fine right now, before pouring them both more wine and settling back down beside her.
They watch the film mostly in silence and Beckett feels comfortable enough to doze off. At one point, the wine glass in her hand is gone, but she can’t remember when or if he took it from her. She doesn’t move; she simply drifts off.
He’s gone when she wakes up.
This doesn’t surprise her, much, it was far too intimate for him to stay and she knows he won’t push even though he wants to. She knows he wants to. But even as willing as she was tonight, he’s not a cad.
Not when it comes to her.
It doesn’t surprise her to find she’s now under a quilt, the ice pack replaced (but still warm), the dishes and glasses back in her kitchen (and probably clean, knowing him) and – still not surprised – her bra is gone. She doesn’t know how he’s managed it without waking her, but it’s definitely gone. She sits up – very slowly, groaning as loud as she likes now he’s gone – and sees it sitting on her coffee table with a note on top. She reaches for it, remembering to use her left arm for once and grins when she sees what’s written there. It could be a lie, of course, but as much as Castle knows her, she knows him.
“I didn’t look – RC”