AN: This assumes that you have seen 6.04 and are currently schmooped by how freaking adorable they are. :)

He wakes to the sound of her voice again, twice in as many days and a lifetime hereafter that he's more than okay with. The light tippy-tappy movement of her fingers brush out over his cheeks and though he feigns sleeps just a little while longer he can't help the smile that creeps out across his face.

"Castle, breathe." Her lips brush past his ear and the palm of her hand drops from his face to lay over his chest and he inhales slowly and mother fu-

"Owwww." He whimpers and his eyes open wide, this hammering, pummeling pulse pounding right at the center of his chest, out over his heart like horse hooves, splintering his sternum with shards of agony.

He can taste the wave of pain at the back of his throat and he wants to hold his breath, to fight the spasm of his muscles as they react to the ache, but that makes it worse and he jerks, gasps and swallows the breath, his chest restricting tighter.

"Breathe babe, deep and slow." She tells him and he meets her eyes, meets the tender, knowing look of concern that burns there, hears the words, feels the press of her fingers more intently as she tries to give him her strength, encourages him not to give in to the urge to freeze up. "Breathe."

He tries, and it takes a few spluttered gasps but he does as she says, listening to her voice. That first properly inhaled, deep to the base of his lungs, breath that he doesn't fight hurts like a bitch, like fire licking at the bone beneath his skin, but he does it, does it again and again and again as the fire recedes and the sound of her voice keeps him afloat.

"Good job," she hums, "nice and slow." She watches as he lets out another long breath and smiles, "Okay?" Kate asks and he nods, feels her hands brush over his chest, "Sit up for me, Castle." She helps him, presses him back into the leather headboard of his bed with his legs folded under him, and slips her fingers down at the long vee of his t-shirt, peering between the gap of cotton and skin. She grumbles and grimaces, tugging lightly on his shirt, "We need to get this off, I can't see properly."

He grins when she starts to pluck up the hem. "Trying to strip me, Beckett?"

She doesn't roll her eyes or purse her lips, doesn't do anything other than watch him with sympathy and a soft smile as her hands stroke out over his chest. "It's gonna hurt." She warns, "One arm at a time, we'll go slow."

She reaches for him again and he shakes his head, waves her off feeling ridiculous, yeah he was shot but he wasn't actually shot, surely he can take off his own shirt. "It's just a bruise, Beckett. I can do it."

Kate unfurls her legs and sits up in front of him, all her weight balanced on her knees and her hands spread out on her thighs, just waiting, poised and ready if he needs her.

He smiles, more determined than ever and fighting the grimace that comes when he raises his arm up above his head. Shit, why does that hurt? He got hit in the chest not the arm.

He shifts, changes tactic and gets one arm out through the sleeve rather than both up and over his head. He meets Kate's eyes again, gets a smile of encouragement and then uses his free hand to tug the shirt past his ears and down his other arm.

It's pretty easy actually, not like when he first woke up. Now the pain is more like a band that is wrapped tight around his chest, a pressing weight that sits awkwardly, but once he adjusts to it. He looks to Kate expectantly, waiting for comments but finds her eyes focused intently on his chest, brow furrowed and lips a thin white line and he follows her gaze.

"Woah." Castle squeaks, getting a full view of his bruise the morning after and his mouth hangs open as he stares, "I look like I've been shot with a paintball gun."

She scoffs, "No, just an actual gun." She smiles, but it doesn't meet her eyes, "And real bullets."

"Bullet." He corrects. "Singular. Just one."

"One too many."

He strokes his thumb out over the back of her knuckles, her ring, his voice low, bringing her attention back to his chest. "I meant the pattern."

He's not wrong, but her eyes stay cloudy as her fingertips touch at the marks on his skin, and he sighs, his hands rising to cover hers. Kate lets out a long, slow breath, like the breaths she woke him with, before looking up.

"It's pretty." She offers touching at the circles that billow out from the point of impact like ripples in a pond. "Purple's clearly your color, Castle." She cocks her head, smile stronger now, their fingers sliding down to his stomach as they hold hands.

"And green and yellow, and red." He counts off, the rainbow blur that mars his skin getting more interesting and intriguing as he looks at it. "I'm like a human Rorschach test." He snickers, "What do you see when you look at me, Beckett?"

He means it as a joke, wants her laughing and smiling at the inkblot mess of his skin, but seriousness floods her features and she leans up, her hands on his crossed legs so she can press herself closer.

"My partner." She whispers, knees poking into his ankles, "My fiancé." One hand travels over his heart the other on his face as their lips meet. "A man too kind for his own good." She ducks her head and he startles when her mouth opens hotly against the contusion, kissing him softly on the chest.

She feels the quiver race through his body and lifts up, wrapping an arm around his neck, "Hurt?"

"A bit."

"D'you want the cream?" She cocks her head, reaches before he can answer for the tube that sits on his bedside cabinet.

"S'that what you do?" He asks, suddenly realising he has no idea how she copes with the hazards of injuries like this.

She smirks, drops her hand back and traces light circles just shy of the edge of the bruise.

"What?"

"I usually just tough it out." Kate laughs when he huffs, scrunches his face and pouts.

"Well, you're more hardcore than I am, Beckett." He states, thinking of the marks on his delicate skin, and the hidden strength in her slender fingers as she soothes him.

"I already knew that." She hums, snaking her arms more tightly around him, wriggling into his lap and brushing the tip of his nose with her own. She sighs, "I have to go to work." But she smiles down at him, radiant and glowing and just a little too weird and enthusiastic. He knows she loves her job, has hated the lack of focus and meaning her life had whilst she was unemployed, but still...

"And you look so sad about that, Beckett." He grins back at her, feels the shudder exhilaration race over her skin at the use of her last name and his hands bracket her waist, thumbs sweeping up and under the flimsy shirt she sleeps in.

"Devastated." The word hangs on the tail end of her beautiful smile, "I was just getting used to the idea of being a kept woman."

He raises a contradicting eyebrow, coasts his hands and lets his tone drift low to mimic her bedroom voice, "As much as I would enjoy being your Sugar Daddy -" she snorts, giggles at the movement of his fingers, " - I don't believe that for a second, and you're going to be late on your first day back." He warns, tangling his fingers in her shirt anyway and seeing how far underneath he can get.

"I have time for this." She smiles, leaning down and kissing him, but her eyes flick sideways and they dart to the clock, flashing open wide, "Oh, no I don't. Rain check?" She jumps up, grimacing as she carefully extracts herself from his bruised and battered body and skips off towards the bathroom.

She pauses in the doorway, "You coming in today?"

He nods, "Give me a minute."

She laughs and leaves him smiling in her wake, but not before she runs back to the bed for two last quick kisses. One to the bruise on his chest and one louder smacking kiss to his lips.