For this fic, rather loosely set after 3.13, assume that Josh has reappeared from Africa, and that Castle's hand was more damaged than the episode implied, so requiring bandaged up by a medic rather than Beckett.

1: Hold your hands

She can't stop looking at his hand as the medic wraps it. She sees his hands almost every day, but not like this: bruised and cut and tough in a crudely physical way she'd never have expected her metrosexual writer to be. He hides that well. He hides other things well, too. Such as the strength in his arms and the force in his lips and the power and the passion and the pride when he'd kissed her, only an hour or two ago.

She can't stop looking at his hands, and remembering how he'd grasped her wrist and stopped her – stopped her – drawing her gun; and that one subsequent instant of hesitation turning to decision and the sharp grip and flex as his mouth had come down on hers. She remembers how his hands had felt as they pulled her in and held her tight against a hard body; how his hands had felt as they knotted in her hair and kept her in place. She remembers how she had felt bereft as he stopped and let go and then her hands had pulled him down on to her lip; how his hands had felt, returning to her.

Now she can't stop looking at his hands: large and long-fingered; fast and dextrous on his phone; always in motion: touching and fidgeting. His hands are never still.

Except now. Perforce, his hand is still as the medic laves it with embrocations, wraps it in sterile gauze and then white crepe bandaging; covering the cuts and bruises where he'd laid into Lockwood and beaten the shit out of him. Those same hands that move so delicately over his phone; those same hands that fly across his keyboard; those same hands that caught her in a blend of strength and passion and care. That same bloodied, bandaged hand; and all the blood and bruising and bandaging incurred in her defence.

He would have killed Lockwood, in her defence. As much as her own, unbloodied hands would have pulled the trigger, in his.

She takes his hands in hers, unable to reach round properly, over the bulky bandaging.

"Hey there, Chuck Norris. How's the hand?"

"Ah, excruciating."

"Hmmmm." But at least only one hand hurting. Small mercy.

"How's Ryan, and Esposito?"

"Mmmm… mild hyperthermia, wounded pride. Guess which one will heal first. Thank you, for having my back in there."

"Always."

She's not saying anything of what she wants to say. But she can't stop looking at his hands, holding them, slipping her thumb over the rough crepe of the bandages. Adrenaline is starting to wear off: she can feel her own crash coming but she can't stop it: it sounds as if his has already begun. But she can't let go of his hands, can't stop looking at them.

"Kate?"

The interruption is stunningly, appallingly unwelcome and ill-timed. His hands jerk in hers, pull back and away – retreat, as if there's something improper in his hands being in hers. Nothing has felt more right, more proper, in eight months.

She steps out of the ambulance, sensing, not seeing, the slump behind her, the soft exhalation of concealed unhappiness. She doesn't have to look to know that his hands are fallen into his lap, still and unmoving and for one in its bandages as pale as the dead. Those hands that shot the gun away and saved her life and punched their would-be killer bloody and unconscious, now still and pale.

His hands, under which she felt more alive than in years, under which Lockwood might most readily have died. His hands, which she might now be holding were she not here, another set of hands reaching out to her. Surgeon's hands, long-fingered and precise, slim.

The wrong hands.

She steps away from the ambulance, the curious bystanders and medics, still fussing and fretting over Ryan and Esposito with Lanie, who should not be here at all, dictating to all of them. There are sharp shards of terror in Lanie's voice, too, if she listens.

There are no shards of terror in Josh's voice. Mild, affectionate irritation, perhaps.

"Kate, how are you in an ambulance again? What happened this time? Are you okay?" his hands – the wrong hands – still stretching towards her, offering up comfort, consolation – but no more. They both know that there is no more, on either side. These hands have roamed her body, and never once felt, or made her feel, as had the hands she's left behind her in the ambulance.

"Not me," she says: only half a lie: she hurts, but it's not visible now and it could have been so very much worse, except for the gun in those hands some yards away. "Castle."

"Ah," Josh says quietly, "your ever-present shadow."

She searches for an answer to that, but no good answers come to mind.

"Come here, Kate. You've had a rough day." But as his hands touch her waist she backs away.

"No, Josh. I can't. This… isn't right any more." His face blanks into surgeon mode; his hands drop away to his sides.

"I knew," he says calmly, "it was never the real deal." His hands hang still, almost peaceful. "I'd hoped… but I knew we'd never make it." He steps back. "Be safe, Kate. Be happy."

"You too," she murmurs to his departing form, and watches him leave. For all his calm words and demeanour, his hands are clenched at his side. She's only glad he made it civilised, easy. Much like their part-time relationship, born in rebound misery on his part and rejection-fuelled unhappiness on hers.

Gina had had her hands on Castle when they left, last summer, but that's all over, too: overheard endings in a precinct conference room.

She returns to the ambulance, pain crashing into her as the mask of adrenaline dissolves, wincing at each stride but concealing it as she comes into view. The medic is still lecturing Castle on taking care of his hand.

It's not her hands that hurt, nor yet her heart. Not for any part of this evening's work: no pain there, just the knowledge of a step she had to take. She won't cheat, not herself, nor Josh, nor Castle. It's been clear for hours that this evening's work was more than a ruse, and that being known, she couldn't continue deceiving herself, or Josh. No hurt for her heart, in leaving Josh.

She looks into the body of the vehicle as the medic finally finishes his barrage of instructions.

"Ready to go, Castle?" His hands tense, from the angle and rigidity of his fingers, but she extends hers to him all the same. "C'mon. Time to go home." Reaching out to reach his hands, the right hands, and one of those same hands all bandaged and immobile as she flexes and bends her fingertips to reach and meld with his. His hand, injured and now imprisoned on her account. She wants to cry, that he should suffer to defend her when his hands contain so much: passion and power and pride and personality. But his hand, however marginally, is held in hers.

She hadn't thought of him like this: hadn't seen the street fighter that he hides. Physical strength, yes, but not that brutal killer's instinct that had raged out through this brutalised hand. She'd known that he was strong since he had carried her out of her wrecked, flaming apartment, but had always thought him gentle, in action if not always in words.

She'd always thought his hands would be soft on her, not hard and forceful. And yet, even in those brief, desperate moments to fool the guard, she had felt the strength and the power and the force; and for the first time, now, she is certain that he's strong enough.

These hands could catch her if she fell.

She had doubted that, before: seen the ability to protect, defensively, but not the ability to attack. It had been why she had wished he would stay in the car, or behind her, a defender not an attacker: she had felt the need to keep him safe. Now, it seems that he has felt that same need, and expressed it through hard hands and forceful grip and brutal punches and the pull of the trigger.

Looking at his hands, in the bullpen or in the car, she would never have thought of this: thick bandages and bruising and blood; hard fingertips where she is holding him. She tightens her fingers as much as possible: her thinking lasting only seconds. He's not responding, hasn't responded since she stepped out to talk to Josh, hand motionless and lax, no answering touch.

"Castle? C'mon. Let's get out of here. No reason to stay." She tugs, only succeeding in disconnecting their hands; has to come back to him, pick up his bandaged hand again, more deliberately. No question that she's doing this for a purpose.

He's looking at their hands: looking down, avoiding catching her eyes, nor reacting to her fingers twined into his, emerging from their cocooned bandages. She doesn't tug again, still in view of too many interested eyes, but his hand is cold and still under her curving fingers.

His hands are yet unmoving in the car; hers on the wheel in perfect ten-to-two alignment. He's still quiet, withdrawn: and this is not what she expected, is not what she wanted – what she wants. Maybe it's the adrenaline crash, but she has finally seen the man whom she should have seen all along, and upon that realisation left her part-time lover to try for this man, with hands which are strong enough to catch her as she falls. But he is silent and still beside her, as she is motionless, to avoid wincing. Her back is bruised, where she was thrown around: no doubt the blue and purple paint-splash bruises are all over the canvas of her abused body. But she won't show the pain. The medics gave her painkillers, and that will have to do.

She parks below her apartment, rousing Castle from his chill reverie.

"Coffee, Castle?" She hopes to break this odd, uncomfortable silence.

"I thought you were dropping me off." He almost sounds… irritated.

"It's" – this is not quite the time, nor yet the place, in her car. In a moment, in her apartment – "been a tough day. Come up for coffee. You don't want to be alone" – she stops, realising her own stupidity in making that statement: he wouldn't be alone. He has his family. It's she who would be alone. Of course, she is well used to that – "It's better to be with someone who understands the situation."

"Okay," he says, but it sounds almost begrudged, and his hands don't move towards her when she opens the car door for him: she needn't do so, he has one good hand, but she wants to spare him such pain as she can.

It's only when she sets the mug in front of him that she realises that he can't use his right hand to lift it, and his left is tremulous. It's one thing too many, on top of her own adrenaline crash and the change from the hard hands holding her, the firm lips kissing her, to this silent, cool, unresponsive form, one thing too many: another mistake in a litany of mistakes that she, unknowingly, must have made, some time between the ambulance and now.

"I'm sorry," she says, hopelessly, and gestures at the full mug, his hands. "I didn't think…" She slumps on to the couch next to him, her own mug wrapped in her hands, unheeding of the burn. "I just thought you could use the coffee and a chance…" A chance to pick up where he had left off, hours earlier. Well, that's not going to happen. "…to decompress before you went home."

"Yeah." There's another chill pause. Beckett shuffles a little further away, and drops her head to let her hair conceal her face. The coffee doesn't help. His next words are forced out, as if he can't keep them behind his teeth any more. "I'd have thought you'd be – decompressing." The last word is freighted with a kind of weary, half-contemptuous resignation.

"I thought I was," Beckett mutters, "but seems like offering you coffee was a mistake." And then louder, "I've been in this situation before. I know what to expect."

"What did you say?"

"I know what to expect."

"No. Before that."

"I've been here before."

"Before that. You said something before that."

" 'S not important."

"You only say that when it was important but you don't want to repeat it where I can hear. What did you say?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

Castle's coffee cup clinks down, a note of finality that puts a period to this misbegotten plan to move matters along; a plan grounded in the earlier feel of his hands and lips. He had acted with her, as if they were both drunk. He had been an excellent actor, to fool her so. She had thought it had been real. It had felt real: something larger than both of them; something that they've always known and denied was there. But he had been acting: his mother's talent turned to his own purpose.

Now he's drunk his coffee, and he'll go. She'll be alone with her pain: but pain heals, as his hand will heal. In a week nothing will show, for either of them.

"What did you say, Beckett?" Oh well. What can it hurt, more than she does already? She's already checked out of this conversation, and this evening, planning a hot bath, and two Advil.

"I said that I thought I was decompressing, here. Seems not. I'll have a bath and I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

Another gap appears in this non-conversation. Beckett hides her face in her coffee and her hair and shuffles another few inches away from Castle.

"So you thought I needed company to decompress, but somehow you don't?"

"I've done this before. You haven't." She shrugs, dismissively. "I thought it might help, before you went back home to your family."

"But you could be in company." There's a noticeable bite on the final word.

This time the gap is caused by Beckett's failure to reply.

"Couldn't you?"

"Don't you count as company?"

"You know what – who – I mean. Stop prevaricating, Beckett. Why aren't you with your boyfriend?"

A two shot, conclusion tomorrow.

Inspired by a prompt from Mobazan27, which formed the title, and a conversation which I was having concurrently with WRTRD.

All comments are very much appreciated and, as ever, all logged-in reviews which accept PMs will be answered.