Path to Paradise

a continuation of A Season in Hell

"The path to paradise begins in hell."
-Dante Aligheri

X

Rick Castle shifted slowly to his right side, the bedsheets hot and clinging while the air outside his covers was chilled with late autumn. He took a shallow breath, all he could summon this morning, and dragged his legs out of bed. He knuckled up, grunting as the effort stretched his misused and stiff muscle, and he managed to get to his feet.

There he swayed.

Stayed. Determined to stay. He would not collapse back to bed this morning.

He waited for the sensation to pass.

He had an informal schedule for today and he wanted to get started. The sooner the book was finished, the more time he had for this thing with Kate. This hazily-discussed but naturally easy partnership with the woman he loved.

He was chafing under these medical restrictions, and while he'd do it again, save her from a bullet, he wasn't enjoying himself these days. He was with it enough to want things, feeling good enough to resume his life, but he had absolutely no endurance.

He was falling asleep in his chair most nights: eight o'clock, to his eternal shame. Kate had let herself out more than once, a spare key to his place on the chain around her neck. She was a latchkey girlfriend.

Castle stumbled towards the bathroom, relieving himself with that same grunt of annoyance mixed with solace. At least this he could do on his own. At least this came easily again. He washed his hands, didn't bother to dry them as he fumbled with the settings on his shower.

Heated tile kept his toes warm in the cold morning. October had already brought record lows for the month, but social unrest and protests had only increased, calling his detective to the streets for extra manpower. He wasn't happy with his city these days, but honestly, Rick Castle wasn't happy with anything lately.

He hurt too much. And he had the uneasy sensation that the whole damn country was corrupt to its core. He watched the protests on television with relish, feeling like they all deserved it, they deserved to feel, up close and personal, the wound in the world.

He had been shot. Kate had been shot at because of it.

And now they were counting on a stranger with a selfish streak to keep them safe from all that corruption and violence, safe from bullets marked with her name, and Castle just couldn't trust it.

He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that wasn't like him.

But weeks of agony and months of rehab and the lingering scars and stiff muscles and frozen shoulder had conspired to depress his natural easy-going manner. Nothing in his world was easy; life wasn't easy. Even for a millionaire.

And that was depressing. Social justice was a crock, but all his money should buy him something.

He was the writer tag-along to an extraordinary police detective. If he had no hope...

Castle sighed and stepped carefully into the shower, gripping one of the nozzles to keep his balance. The hot water scalded his face and chest, a welcome burn, and he closed his eyes and lifted his chin to it, wishing Kate was here.

Wishing he was allowed inside the Twelfth again. Wishing the new Captain hadn't called him a liability to the work of real detectives. Wishing he felt strong enough again that he didn't quietly agree with Gates. Wishing the pain meds didn't make him depressed. Wishing it was easier, all of it.

Mostly, he just wished Kate was here.

He really ought to be better than this. He ought to cheer up, get a brisk and invigorating shower, and then call his detective and see if he couldn't bring her by some coffee this morning. He wouldn't stay. He would just-

The door clicked as it opened. Cold air poured through, but he couldn't turn around fast enough. Arms twined around his torso, cold lips and cheeks pressed into his back. Naked woman warming herself against him. Kate.

"You beat me to it." Her voice rode low, just under the thrum of water, and he lifted his hands to cover hers. She was here. "Thought I'd surprise you this morning."

"Surprised," he croaked, lacing his fingers with hers.

She hummed pleasantly, taking deep breaths so that he felt her chest expanding against his spine. "I see that. What has you up so early?"

"It's like this usually," he mumbled. Lame joke but she laughed anyway, brushed a very fast - very clever - hand over his up. He smiled into the water peppering his face, and turned his head slightly to see her. "Every morning since you said you loved me, I wake up like this."

Beckett buried a kiss at his shoulder blade. "What's wrong with me that I find that romantic?"

He chuckled and stroked her arm back to her elbow, tried to pull her around so he could see her face. She wouldn't come though, not at first, and he went still as she laid her lips against the scar at his back.

He waited through her moment of silence, the difficult and throat-closing respect she paid to an event he only sketchily remembered.

And then he tugged again and she came around with not a hint of sadness on her face, only the natural reserve of her faint smile. He ducked down and kissed her, a peck in deference to the blast of the shower in his face.

"Nothing wrong with you," he told her. "Not that I can see."

"Come back and do that again," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Do it right this time, Castle."

"Water's in my face-"

"Oh, poor baby. Now give me a kiss."

He grinned and cupped her jaw in his hands, leaned in to devastate her mouth.

If he didn't drown first.

X

She fussed over him in the only way Beckett would ever fuss - sidelong looks, her presence not more than arm's length away. She didn't comment on the wince on his face or the strange way he held his arm, elbow bent, as he struggled to groom himself. Shaving would kill him, one of these days, and now he was nearly too exhausted to style his hair. Didn't help that he was watching her back, pleased to have her beside him, getting ready this morning.

She was wrapping her hair around her fist, and then she tied it off at the nape of her neck, a trick of feminine knowledge he couldn't quite follow, despite his paying attention.

She twirled her finger. "Eyes up front. You're going to poke an eye out with that thing."

"No," he grinned. "You took care of that in the shower."

Beckett's lips twitched, but she reached over and took the comb from his fingers, her touch erotic around his wrist and at his thumb. A circle, a swipe. Calling to mind recent memory. "That's not in question," she murmured, side by side with him at the bathroom vanity. "Your manscaping, however, leaves something to be desired."

He made a face, but she simpered at him in an unflattering manner, nudged his towel-clad hips back away from the sink. She was right though. It hurt to raise his arms above shoulder height.

"Here," she said, business-like again. She caught his wrist with one hand, as if to restrain him, and brought up his comb. She stroked his hair straight back, her eyes on the job, avoiding his gaze.

She was combing his hair.

He had suffered through drying off, brushing his teeth, even shaving his cheeks, jaws, and throat. All without her. She hadn't even hinted that it was troubling her to watch his painstaking effort.

She wasn't gentle now. She was efficient; she did it without flourish or style. And it was over in a moment.

But it was tender for all that. And styled completely wrong, but he didn't care.

"There," she said, putting the comb flat to the counter. "Better."

"Better," he gave, lips twitching at her.

She moved to escape, but he pinned her hips against the sink with his own, kept her there.

"Castle."

"Thank you," he said, barely sounds. He leaned in, inexorably pulled to her, closer, too close, until her lashes fluttered against his cheek as she reflexively closed her eyes.

He placed a light kiss over her eyelid.

Beckett's arms wound around his waist and curved up his spine. Her cheek pressed against his bare shoulder, and he felt her sigh.

"Better," she murmured. Like it was all she'd wanted when she had sneaked in his apartment this morning - to somehow help.

X