A/N: Previously I published under the name castlefreak1213, but will be moving to this account permanently.
He's unconscious again in seconds.
She's poised by his side, uncomfortable furniture the least of her worries, her palm anchoring him to the stale sheets. Her hands never still, never stop tracing the lines of his face, the dark lines reflecting starkly in the harsh light. His hair flops messily over the lines of his forehead, shorter now than it'd been in the park months before. He'd gotten it cut before the book tour, something about how the west coast humidity would make it look bad, and she couldn't find the courage to tell him not to. Not over the phone. She couldn't tell him about how when she runs her fingers through the rows when he falls asleep first, chest rising rhythmically beside her.
She rakes a hand through her own locks, exhales and tries to forget the last twenty four hours. None of this was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be promoting Nikki Heat, or spending time with his daughter, not inhaling stolen government toxins.
He could've died today.
She hold his hand in hers, hopes he can feel the coldness of the band pressing into his palm. She loves keeping him close to her heart, around her neck, but she knows he loves seeing it on her. Out in the open, no layers of clothing covering it, no walls separating them. Not anymore. Not ever again.
He could've died today.
His face contorts in sleep and she musters a brilliant smile, because he didn't die today. He saved millions, by doing exactly what he's always done. He found the story in the words. Literally. And connected them to a desperate man seeking vengeance for those he lost.
And she did what she's always done, backed him up. Because that's what partners are for.
"You should get some rest, dear," The familiar voice fills the room as the soft clack of heels fills the silence. Martha's hand comes to rest on her shoulders and Kate does all she can to keep from melting under the warm touch that is so genuinely motherly. "He's not going anywhere."
No, he most certainly is not. Kate follows the older woman into the already sickening waiting area, poised and stoic until thin arms are snaking around her shoulders and her chest heaves with silent tears held in since he'd collapsed in the grass just hours ago. She sinks into the sterile chairs, make-up darkening her cheeks and his mother running a hand up and down her back, silently soothing her in a way she doesn't remember forgetting.
She straightens herself, suddenly embarrassed, and moves to wipe the smears of mascara off her cheeks. "Oh, darling you're going to ruin that wonderful blouse. Here," she says, removing a pink and yellow handkerchief from her equally vibrant jacket pocket. "Use this."
"Thank you," Her voice is still heavy with unshed tears and a fair dose of embarrassment. "Thank you for everything."
"You don't need to thank me, Katherine. It's what mothers are for." Kate freezes, her heart seizing and she can actually pinpoint the moment her skin blanches and her throat closes up. Martha is already recovering from her statement, stumbling over an explanation, dramatic flair cast aside and replaced by sincere apologies. Kate releases her breath, fumbling for composure and reaches for the ring still held around her neck.
Martha falls silent then words replaced by the gentle weight of a hand on Kate's forearm, somehow saying more than words ever could. "I wish she'd met him," The words fall uninhibited at a volume no higher than a whisper, but seem to echo throughout the empty room. "She would've hated him."
A sharp laugh resonates from the older woman as Kate's lips turn upward in a knowing smile. "I don't doubt that, dear." Martha's hands move towards Kate's, aging fingers finding the diamond adorning equally slender ones. She pauses to admire the magnificent jewelry before speaking again. "But you can't deny that Richard certainly has a way of getting people to love him."
She turns the diamonds around her finger, quietly content despite the circumstances, until she realizes she hasn't responded to Martha's statement. "Yeah," she chokes out, "He does." There are more words to say, and she wishes she could vocalize them all, but the older woman seems to understand the depth behind the sentiment.
"Thank goodness he found you." The words are sincere and slice sharply through Kate's ribs and piercing her in a way she's never felt before. "He's so much better with you. Present condition excluded," she chides.
Kate smiles once again and rolls her eyes, trying to take a page from his playbook and deflect with humor. She's not sure she'll ever be able to laugh about it, but in the meantime it keeps the pain of reality subsided.
"Thank goodness is right." Kate wants nothing more than to tell her about how Castle did more than just wear her down from Beckett to Kate. She wants her to know about the rabbit hole and her mother's murder and her PTSD recovery, and how she lied to him and her son her son is the reason she is who she is today, but this is neither the time nor the place.
But the older woman's eyes see straight through her. Castle must've told her some aspects of their partnership. Perhaps some things are left unspoken, shared only though silent nods and appreciative gestures. The language of strong women. The language of lionesses.
Thoughts?
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