Please remember that this is a very strong T.

2: Hold your heart

She stands, collects both coffee mugs, and starts for the kitchenette.

"Because I broke it off with him two hours ago. And now I'd rather have my own company, thanks." Despite her dishwasher, she starts running water into the sink, swishing her hands in it to dissolve the washing up liquid.

"You broke up?"

"Yes, Castle, that's what I said."

She starts to wash up, her back firmly to the open space of her apartment. Turning her back on the situation, the evening, the failure of her hope: all slipping through her empty hands as the soapy water does. At least her hands and heart are clean of guilt. She should never have started with Josh, or he should never have started with her, or both, but now they're done. No need for guilt about her behaviour or emotions.

The mugs are set forlornly on the draining board, the cooling water gurgling down the sink, unwarrantedly cheerily. She turns around, hoping, though the door hasn't opened or shut, that Castle will have left. Solitude seems the most attractive of the available options, but, as with every other one of her desires today, it is unlikely to come to pass.

Turning around, her apartment is not empty, nor is the space behind her. Castle is already reaching towards her: no room to step away, avoid, evade, elude. Escape.

"You broke up."

She shrugs. "Happens."

His hand – this hand not bandaged, fingers flexible – slips on to her shoulder, light on her shirt. The route past his bandaged, damaged right hand is clear; the movement simple, easy.

He stops her – stops her – by putting his other arm in her way, and the light touch on her shoulder changes to that forceful, potent grip from earlier. The mood in the apartment changes, from chill unhappiness to a darker, hotter atmosphere, Castle's aura shifting into something new, something dangerous: something more akin to four hours ago.

"You broke up."

"Are you auditioning for a chorus line? I know that. You don't need to keep reminding me."

"I'm just making sure I heard you right."

"You heard right," she snaps.

This time, there is no instant of hesitation, only, simply, decision; as his mouth comes down on hers for the second time today, and there is no denying his strength now. There had been no denial earlier, either: no chance and no desire to deny.

Not his hands, but his body, pushing her back against the counter, imprisoning her without hands, only an arm and one hand in her hair, mouth still devouring. One hand only, knotted at her nape, hard fingers pressing and holding. No escape is possible, and none is desired or required. The soft bulk of bandages and gauze curves around her back, the arm around her waist; his body pressing hard and heavy into the waiting, welcoming space, heat where she needs it and strength to catch her as she fell.

Earlier, she finally let herself fall for him. Now, he's caught her: strong enough to catch her, hands strong enough to hold her.

His mouth is still covering hers, not, now, devouring, but investigating, tracing, softer, persuasive yet still forceful. She succumbs to the persuasion and the force, open and receptive and responsive in her turn; her own hands have come up to clasp his shoulders, frame his face and hold him to her; never let him go. Heat blooms in her body and pools between her legs where he's large against her, pressure where she wants and needs him: closer than he was before and no rescue needed that will stop them.

Still sharing only kisses, these kisses passionate and desperate to make up for all the time she's wasted before now, now that she knows how his mouth feels, how his body feels tight and close to hers and yet not close enough, how his lips feel moving from her mouth (and she whines a little for the loss) around on to her neck and her jawline, nibbling with leashed potency at her pulse points and around to below her ear. Still sharing only kisses, with her head thrown back to give him freedom to take and plunder as he pleases, throat bare to him, and the soft bandaged bulk behind her back supporting as his other hand, a little clumsy as if it's not the one he'd usually use for this, tracing over her neck, down her shoulder and the cut of her collarbone, over the collar of her polo neck and starting to pull at it, and now it's about to be more than kisses; the air is hot and thin around her, too little oxygen to let her breathe freely. Her breath comes in short quick gasps, her hands tightening on his frame to hold her up.

Her polo neck is rucked up and out the way, and if his hands are not available his mouth is certainly not a mere substitute. She arches to him, his hands strong at her back, as his mobile lips tease and play, slipping silk and lace across sensitive skin, the flesh swelling slightly in aroused response. Her nipples harden, and though she's held back slightly because it feels so good and she doesn't want him to stop, she detaches a hand from where it's been clinging to his neck and starts to unbutton his shirt in return, wanting the chance to trace his muscles and taste his strength, to show him that she's all in, all here, all his.

Under his shirt is all the muscle she could want, tougher than she'd ever expected before today: and she wonders vaguely when he works out, how much he lifts or bench presses. Maybe he spars: those punches hadn't looked amateur. Her fingers trace downwards, unbuttoning further as she goes, a light scrape of fingernails that makes him gasp, tighten his grip on her – through arms, not hands, only one hand can hold her.

His mouth takes hers again, rising from teasing and playing with her breasts to exploring her mouth and eliciting small noises which he swallows, pressing closer and closer until her hands are trapped between them and all she can do is flicker over flat nipples and curved pectorals and kiss him back as if he's the only one.

He is the only one.

She kisses him with frantic need, all hints of chill or discomfort or the pain from her bruising smothered in her hot desire, rips his shirt apart and pulls it slightly off his shoulders, takes and plunders and ravages his mouth on her own account and leaves him nearly reeling.

It only lasts an instant, before he fights back, shoving her sweater one-handed from her form and leaving it tangled round her elbows, pushing back into her mouth and, one-handed or not, bending her backwards over the counter and leaning over her till her leg rises round him to keep her balance, not allowing her to have it her own way, as he hadn't let her draw her gun, hours before. He returns to attend further to her breasts, dampening the silk as he licks across her nipples and then bites deliberately over each, making her moan and press her core against him, rolling to find friction, unable to reach down and release either of them.

"Mine," she gasps out. "Bedroom."

"No. Right here. Right now. No more waiting. Just you. Just me. Just us."

He moves a little, that previously clumsy left hand slipping down to cup her through her dress pants, to spring the button: certain and sure and of course he would be ambidextrous, although she still thinks his other hand is the one he uses most; the one that would catch her first; the earlier clumsiness simply the awkwardness of being on the opposite side of the angles of her sweater coming over her head. There is no clumsiness now: just the knowledge of his useless, wrapped, right hand behind her, still supporting her. His hand slides into her pants, and the shock of it halts her move to free him; at last to take his weight in her hands and then into her body; his hand forcing her pants away, leaving only thin fabric and heat and the searing pressure against her, blazing through her.

Touch had never been like this before: hands never so sure or searching, demanding and desperate; her response never so rapid, so inflamed. She reaches again for him, one hand holding him, never to let go; one hand flicking open buttons, lowering the zip, mirroring his own movements and stoking him higher, hard and ready in her fingers as she strokes; her panties are gone and she kicks the useless fabric away from her, opens for him and then there are no hands, only bodies and so close, too close ever to distinguish between them. Mouths and bodies joined, everything so near; he in her arms, under her hands and all his strength against her; all her strength given up to him and she falls, spiralling, to be caught by him and held safe; he falls, crashing, caught by her and held close.

Stumbling, half-blind with passion and need, not satisfied in any way, they stagger to the bedroom, trailing clothes as the fabrics fall behind them, shoes broadcast over the wooden floor, not letting go of each other, both lost and yet found again. They fall on to the bed together, stripping the last barriers of clothing, awkward to bring his shirt over the wrappings but unwilling to concede to the hampering crepe. Skin to skin, face to face, lips and breath and bodies joined again, falling together, hand in hand.

Soon, there is silence, soft breathing and then, as afterglow diminishes, small noises of pain on movement as the cuts, bruises and damage of earlier bloom again, not healed as their hearts are healed. She looks at him, the bandages dull against the sheen of his sweated skin, the slick of her on him; sees the damage to her own cream skin reflected in the pain in his eyes, the opening of his lips on a word of surprise.

"Beckett… Kate?"

"Don't worry, they'll heal."

"But…"

"Worth it, Castle. You're here."

Her hand twines into his, small proof, fingers delicately petting over the knuckles and veins of the naked skin of his left hand. It's the wrong side for her, but she needs the contact, needs him to know he should stay, needs to touch him, not wrapping and bandages and crepe and reminders of pain. There has been enough pain, tonight. His fingers curl softly around hers: the way she'd once expected would be the only way they could. Tonight, his hand was firm on her, forceful, strong. Now there can be softness, and care; following power and passion and potency. Strong enough to catch her, soft enough to care.

"Mine," she states softly, hard intent behind the words, and her grip tightens; she rolls up on to her right flank, heedless of the darkening purple on her side and back, leaning over him, and finds herself pulled down, bandages and wadded gauze no hindrance to catching her in.

"Mine," he answers, contradiction, confirmation and consent at once as he keeps her close. His arm lies over her, no chance of avoiding all the bruises, but the soreness is irrelevant when his body surrounds her and she can rest safe in his strength, as he can rest safe in hers. Sleep washes over both of them.

Morning creeps in, slow and diffident; struggling through the windows. Sometime, the comforter has risen over the exhausted forms, concealing hurts and healing alike. Sometime, Beckett has spread her own arm over Castle's chest: holding him. She wakes only when she tries to move a little, finding no flex in the arm holding her and only discomfort in her back. Blue eyes regard her gravely.

"Don't go."

"Not going anywhere." Enough has been said. A hand ghosts over her back, lightly enough not to hurt. "I need to wash, though." Slight loosening attends that statement, and she tries again to move, the restriction gone. The pain is still apparent, but it is possible to ignore it, and ignore the discolorations speckling her flesh. Some several seconds later, sitting on the edge of the bed, gooseflesh rising in the chill January morning, she determines on a bath, and rises to draw it, wincing with each motion but sure that heat and salts will mend her ills.

Sinking down into the scalding heat, she sighs, which exhalation brings Castle, broad in the narrow space of her bathroom, gentle as he kneels beside the tub and delicately washes her, his fingers lighter than she could manage; could she but manage to reach in any case. Delicacy turns to controlled power as he massages out the knots of stress, avoiding all bruising, until she tips her head back and brings his mouth to hers and shows him without words how much this means, invites him in to soothe his hurt as well, though the space is cramped.

He lifts her out, stands himself and simply holds her, desire now restrained in the aftermath of yesterday and the bodily hurts that they both bear: no endorphins now to mask them. Still, they stand together, close as the lovers they now must be, will be, and are; until the chill air shivers them and they dry each other, dress as swiftly as pain and bandages allow.

Beckett makes coffee, brings it to where Castle sits, looking down at his still bandaged hand, reaches to him and takes his hands in hers again.

"I never knew," she says softly, "how strong you were." She strokes over his hand, and looks up into his eyes.

"Strong enough for you?"

"Yes. I… I want you to catch me when I fall."

"I'll catch you when you fall, Beckett, if you'll catch me in return."

"Okay." Quiet peace surrounds them, curled together on her couch. "Castle?"

"Mmmm?"

"You already caught me, when I fell for you."

Fin.

To the guest reviewer who was wondering - this is slightly AU and assumes Josh has returned from Africa, and that at some unspecified earlier point Kate's been hurt along the way in a case that didn't make it on screen. Just to make this story flow, I agree it's not canon!

To the guest who asked about a longer story - thank you. There is one in progress but its progress could currently be outrun by a geriatric snail. Eventually it will appear.

To everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, favourited - thank you all very much. All of it is deeply appreciated.