95. 95: Wednesday

95

When he wakes suddenly, he feels like shit.

His eyes are heavy, eyelids dragging and scraping, but there's Kate. And if he feels like shit, she looks worse.

"Hey," she says softly.

He swallows around the catch in his throat, licks his lips before speaking. "Hey."

When he flexes his fingers and lifts two from the bed, she immediately laces theirs together, drawing closer, her other hand coming to his forehead. He likes that. Good touching. Soft, cool, tracing lines down his face.

He realizes he's closed his eyes again only when her fingers squeeze against his, a tense jolt of her worry circuiting through to him. He makes the effort to open his eyes and reassure her.

He can actually see her slow breath out. "When'd I get here?" he murmurs, casting a slow look around the room.

"They took you up this morning. You're on a recovery floor instead of ICU," she says quietly, still standing at his side like she can't bear to go that extra distance for the chair.

He tugs on her hand with what strength he has, and even though it's not this shoulder that got shot, his whole chest aches so badly that it steals his breath.

But she must understand, because she sits down at his hip.

"Have you slept?" he asks, cataloging the lines around her eyes, the deeper ones at her mouth.

She shakes her head silently, and she must not realize that her body is canting towards his, yearning.

"Scoot me over," he mumbles, shaking her hand loose to put a fist into the mattress. He tries to lift his hips and slide over but his whole body trembles on the finely balanced edge of pain.

"No. Castle, don't-"

"Kate. Either help me or watch me kill myself doing it alone."

He immediately regrets it, poor word choice, and his eyes fly up to hers. Shit, he needs to not be on pain medicine - it makes him so stupid, and he has no filter for his mouth - but if he didn't have the pain meds, he'd cry-

She's helping him.

And damn it hurts. But.

He pants and leans his head back, thoroughly exhausted, but he can lift his fingers and tap the empty space next to him. "Sleep. Sleep, Kate."

"Castle-"

"Right now. Sleep with me. I can't keep my eyes open, and you look worse than I feel."

"Well, thanks."

His eyes flutter open at that dry tone, and he stares at her, mouth dropping as he realizes. But she's already sliding carefully into bed with him, keeping well away from his body, for which he's both grateful and annoyed.

His whole chest hurts so badly, every shift in position is agony, and she must know that. No wonder she didn't want him around for her recovery last summer. This is brutal. And he doesn't want her hovering over him while he grits his teeth and tries not to cry.

Damn it. "Now I get it," he mutters, rolling his head on the pillow and slowly opening his eyes.

She's right there, so close, staring at him, studying him, like she can't possibly get enough. He'd like to lift his arm and stroke the hair back from her face, but he just can't.

"Now you get what?" she says, her voice so low and soothing, exactly perfect. Just what he needs.

"I get why you never called. This sucks. And it's worse knowing you're right here witnessing how very much this sucks."

He can hear her shaky indrawn breath and he tries to mentally review what he's said, but damn, it's gone. He doesn't know anymore. It's all garbled and slippery with pain meds.

"Now I get it too," she's saying, her fingers light and cool on his cheek so that he opens his eyes again and looks at her. "I get it. And I'm sorry."

"Why?" He's completely muddled. None of this makes sense and his body is now this light, airy thing drifting away from him. He can't pull it back, can't lift his arms to catch it.

"I'm sorry because there's no way in hell you're getting the three months you gave me."

"That doesn't make any sense, Beckett, but okay. Love you too."

He can hear her burst of laughter even as dark sleep drags him away.

He's goofy and sweet on drugs. And a little uncensored - which isn't quite as nice. But he's gotten honest with her, and it's endearing even as it can also cut, and she wonders how much of this was stuff he wanted to tell her months ago and didn't have the guts.

Or didn't think she did.

She hums and strokes the hair back from his forehead, holding the cup of water and the straw to his lips. "You broke your promise."

He gives this sloppy grin and his eyes meet hers. "And I didn't even do it on purpose."

She's relieved at his answer. Not because of the promise, just because he knows exactly what she's talking about. He remembers.

"But really, Beckett, I'm still alive. You're alive. So it's all good."

"I've noticed love is like that."

"What does that mean? Love is broken promises?"

Kate laughs a little, takes the cup away and slides it onto the tray before coming back to him. She leans on her elbow next to his head, strokes the hair at his temple. "No. I meant - doing what's best for the other person despite what they think is best. Or despite what I think is best."

"You like to be right," he hums, nudging into her hand with his head. Practically purring.

She smiles again and scratches her nails at his scalp, traces his eyebrow with her thumb. "I do. You got me there."

"I feel good," he sighs. "You make me feel good."

"You're not quite sober," she murmurs back, can't help the grin that lifts her face. She got about four hours of sleep early this morning - when he made her - and it's done wonders for her mood. "But I'm glad you feel good."

It won't last - the good drugs feeling. She knows that too. She wishes he wasn't getting the same experience she had last year, but hopefully his recovery time will be faster, smoother. She'll help. It sucks, just like he said, but she'll be here.

"Are you gonna kiss me or just hover there?" he mutters.

She smiles down into those blue, sleepy eyes and then leans in and brushes a soft, light kiss to his lips.

"Sleep, Rick."

Awareness comes back sharply - a flash of pain down his right side - the burn of wakefulness.

"You're awake," she's murmuring. "You're awake. What do you need?"

Rick opens his eyes, keeping very still, trying not to breathe too deeply because even that hurts, even the shallow, slow breaths are like knives-

"Castle. Focus on my voice. You're awake. Look at me."

He shifts his eyes to her and his body releases a little tension, easing to the mattress, and he realizes he must have tried to turn over in his sleep. He takes another slow breath and blinks at her, then feels the drug-haze thinning, the throb in his shoulder slowing to a dull roar.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Sore."

She nods. And well, she knows all about it, doesn't she?

"Damn," he mutters. She lifts a questioning eyebrow. "Guess I keep waking myself up."

"Yeah," she says softly. "You got about two hours though."

"Did I wake you?"

She shrugs. "Yeah."

"Good," he murmurs, taking a deeper breath, slowly, slowly-

"What?" she laughs, sounding startled.

He stares at her, the gorgeous light and the transformation across her face. Pleasure and surprise and teasing. Love.

"What?" he echoes back.

"I said you woke me up and you said good, Castle."

"Oh." He grins back, realizing how it sounded. "I meant. Good you were sleeping. At all. Not - not that I woke you up. Although, I'm glad for that too. I like waking up to your voice in my ear."

She shakes her head at him but she's smiling too, that tender smile that flips his insides out. Could be the drugs. But it's probably just her.

And she keeps touching him, too. He may be drugged up, but he can feel that. Her fingers smoothing the hospital gown over his shoulder, the brush of her thumb along his thigh, the constant threading through his hair, at his brow, his temple, his jaw. Like she thinks she can ease his pain with her touch.

Maybe she can.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks, mesmerized by the feel of her fingers now stroking his forearm and down to the inside of his wrist. Over and over.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't get kicked out? It's late." That's his dinner tray - most of it still sitting there congealed even though she did manage to feed him nasty green jello and mashed potatoes before he just couldn't.

"Can't kick me out," she says, trailing the back of her nails flat along his arm and up to his elbow. "I'm here for good."

Yeah, that sounds lovely. All that gorgeous meaning. Does she know-?

Oh, look at that beautiful, broken smile. Yeah. She knows.

"I'm okay," he says, curling his fingers around her hand when she passes close again. He squeezes hard, hard enough to hurt himself, but he doesn't care. "I'm okay. And I love you. And we're going to be fine."

She nods, but her eyes are wet.