92. 92: Sunday continued

92 (continued)

She stands in the corridor.

The blur of noise, the smudges of color, and she's staring. Her hands hang at her sides, half-curled, empty.

Staring long after he's disappeared.

She's not allowed behind those blue doors. The nurse repeated it, over and over, as if Kate wasn't listening. But she was. She's not allowed.

But Castle - Castle's back there.

Castle's back there, behind the doors, maybe dying, and God, what is Kate supposed to do-

"Beckett, come on."

He cannot die. Hear me, Castle? You don't get to die on me.

If he dies-

"Beckett."

A firm, uncompromising voice, a hand at her elbow.

Esposito.

She turns.

"We need to get your statement," he says, dark eyes meeting hers, holding her up. Thank God for Esposito; he knows. He knows exactly what she needs.

"Yes," she says, finally finds her voice. Yes, yes, statement, anything. Anything.

"Do you want to get cleaned up first?" he asks, doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't use covert words. Just plain truths.

Just what she can handle.

Kate looks down at her hands, sees the red, Castle's blood. Encasing her forearms like morbid, satin gloves up to her elbows. Cinderella invited to a deadly ball. It's soaked into her clothes too, crusted at her knees, but nowhere is the red as bright as it is on her bare skin.

Castle's blood.

"No," she finally says, voice flat. "Statement first."

She follows Esposito out of the corridor, eyes down, and all she can think about is this-

She's not going to wash it off.

The blood on her hands - this is how much Castle loves her. It's what he gets for loving her.

Kate grits her teeth, focuses on her breathing, in and out, on the familiar outline of Esposito's shoulders, her fingers curling into protective fists.

She's not washing it off.

Not if it's the last thing of Castle's she's ever going to have.

"Beckett, you need to clean yourself up," Ryan tells her, too gentle, too much comprehension in his blue eyes.

She averts hers, shakes her head. But Esposito says, "He's right, Beckett. You stay like this, you gonna scare Little Castle."

Alexis.

Oh God, Alexis - Martha-

"They're on their way," Ryan says in that soothing voice, like that should make her feel better.

Of course it doesn't. What on earth is she going to tell-

Esposito pushes a bag into her arms. What- "Some clothes you left in your locker at the precinct," he answers, probably reading the confusion on her face. "Workout sweats, but they'll do for now. Bathroom is the first on your right, down that hall. Go change."

She swallows, nods stiffly.

Change clothes. Okay.

She goes.

The bathroom doesn't have a mirror, and at first Kate thinks that's a good thing.

She doesn't need to see her own tired, tear-streaked face, her blood-drenched clothes.

She starts by washing her hands, slow, careful. She puts on just enough soap and then rubs, tries to get it from under her nails, chip the dried blood off the lines of her hands.

Alexis, Alexis, she repeats like a mantra as the water swirls red at the bottom of the sink.

Alexis cannot see her like this.

When she's rinsed off most of it, she bends over the sink, rests on one elbow as she slides her opposite forearm under the faucet, trying to get as much water on it as she can. That's when she sees it.

Fingerprints.

Neatly formed into the smear of blood on the underside of her wrist.

He must have - he must have been trying to hold on to her. His hand - but she can't remember, it's all a blur, the panic and the begging, Esposito's voice on the phone, and she wishes she could remember, she wishes she could-

A sob breaks free despite her clenched teeth and suddenly there's nothing she can do. She bows over the sink, the tears strangling in her throat, leaking out of her eyes, mixing with Rick's blood against the white ceramic.

And that's when she wishes there was a stupid mirror, because if she could see herself crying, if she could her face twisted with it, how afraid she is, how in love with him, maybe she could stop.

Maybe she could get it under control.

But there is no mirror, no one watching, and she can't.

She can't.

The door of the bathroom creaks open and Kate jerks upright, a panicked no on her lips, the back of her hand pressed to her open, still-sobbing mouth.

"Kate, it's me. I'm coming in."

Oh.

Lanie.

She swallows heavily, wipes the moisture off her cheek, meets her friend's eyes as she comes in.

"Oh, honey," Lanie sighs, so much sorrow in that soft sound. She opens her arms.

"Don't," Kate warns, lifting a pleading hand. "Or I'm gonna cry again."

Her friend pauses and purses her mouth, cocks her head at Beckett. "You know, Kate Beckett, some people would say crying is a normal reaction after some goddamn traumatic event has happened."

Kate lets out a trembling laugh, a garbled sound with tears in it, and she presses her palm to her mouth, feels the thin, fragile edge that she's walking. "Don't make me laugh either," she asks from under her fingers.

Lanie looks at her for a long moment, gives a little nod. "All right. What do you need?"

Kate stares, startled by the question, by the obvious answer that pounds in her heart. Castle. Oh god, she needs Castle-

Enough, Kate.

"I um, need to wash off the - b-blood," she gets out, pushes the word past her lips. "And change. Clean clothes. Espo-"

"Oh, you are not wearing those old rags that man brought you. I stopped at your place and grabbed all the stuff you might need," Lanie says with a small smile, lifting a bag from her side.

Kate wants to smile back, but her face feels stiff, frozen. Stopped by your place - but her favorite pair of jeans are at Castle's.

Stop.

"Thank you," she says.

The ME comes forward, depositing the bag on the floor, and she grabs Kate's hands, squeezes them. Her palms are warm and firm; Kate's skin feels clammy against them.

"He's going to make it," Lanie says, her voice so fierce and loving that Beckett's chest twists with it.

"You don't know that," she protests, shaking her head against the affirmation or the tears that gather, she can't be sure. "You don't-"

"Girl, listen to me. I know you. And I know him. And there's no way in hell that man lets something as small as a bullet nicking his lung take him away from you. You hear me? Not Rick Castle. Not if he has anything to say in it."

Kate presses her lips together, drags a breath in, lets it expand in her lungs before she pushes it out. Does it again. The tears stay put. She attempts a tiny smile.

"Now," Lanie says, her face softened, her eyes gentle. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Alexis's hand is in hers. She doesn't know how long it's been, how long they've been waiting in the too-clean room, shifting in the unforgiving plastic seats, waiting for doctors who come and go with unhelpful statements like "He's still stable," or "Surgery's going well."

When did Alexis get here?

Kate sits up, stretching her much-abused back, meets Martha's eyes.

They exchange a strained, joyless smile filled with too much understanding. Neither of them speaks; there is nothing to say.

Alexis is dozing, her head thrown back against the wall, mouth half-open. But her hand is warm and loose in Kate's, their fingers intertwined, and sure, it's sweaty and uncomfortable, but Beckett is not about to let go.

Her world has shrunk down to a handful of sounds and colors: the tick of the clock, the stretchers being wheeled in the opposite corridor, the green of Martha's summer scarf as the woman smoothes it on her knee, over and over, the feverish blue of Castle's eyes as he said, Tell Alexis.

So Kate holds on to that hand, his daughter's hand, because this is the way she keeps her promise. This is the way she tells Alexis that she's loved, that she will be loved. No matter what.

And maybe, maybe if Kate keeps her promise - maybe it's not too late to make him keep his still.

Save your life for me, Castle.

Her head jerks up when the door to the waiting room opens - new doctor.

New doctor.

Oh God.

Alexis's hand in hers cramps painfully, but they all stand. Everyone - so many people in here, for him, for Castle. All these people turning their faces to the guy in surgical scrubs, clean and neat-looking except for one small stain at the hem of his shirt. Blood.

Oh God.

Kate can't do this - she can't-

The surgeon stops in the middle of the room, meets Kate's eyes, a hand out to her elbow.

"He's alive."

He's alive.

Kate rocks on her feet under the force of it, feels like she's getting her first clean breath in hours.

He's alive.

The amount of relief triggered by those words is ridiculous.

Of course there are a number of facts that come in to moderate the optimism of that first statement - not out of the woods, he's lost a lot of blood, they're not allowed see him yet - but Kate is only half listening, the pound of her blood too loud in her ears.

Richard Castle's heart is still beating.

The doctor patiently answers Alexis and Martha's questions. Lanie's arm is around Kate's waist, but the ME is listening intently, her brow knitted, and Beckett knows she can count on her friend to make sense of it all later.

She feels blank, empty, scraped raw by the sweeping gratitude - nothing left of her.

Only those words.

He's alive.