Good things never come of warehouses.
He's a writer. He knows this.
She's got her vest, and her gun, and her boys. She's safe. He always thinks, tells himself as he follows the steady rhythm of her heels. The only words that can possibly help him see through the place's darkness, if only partially.
But the vest, and the gun, and the boys can't protect her from the bullet that comes whizzing toward her.
No doubt, her forehead is the target.
It misses – oh god, oh god, oh god - and the sound she makes is horrible and there's blood everywhere, all over her face like they've been transported to some god awful horror flick –
His brain goes absolutely numb.
Half of the world is blood-streaked and blurry, and half of it is pitch black already. She can't feel her body, but she feels every rip and tear in what used to be her eye.
Castle's pleading with her from far away – stay with me, Kate, it's gonna be okay, just hang on, hang on, Beckett – and she can't figure out who's in limbo, him or her. She supposes it's her. Can't be sure, though, her mind isn't functioning quite right.
She's barely aware of his hand fluttering uselessly, wanting to staunch the flow but can't press his palm against it, and suddenly the pain's fading.
That's good, right? It's good if doesn't hurt anymore, that has to be good.
She feels sleepy. She can't hear Castle all that well. Maybe she's just tired.
The second half of the world goes black.
The hospital smells funny. It makes him nervous, fidgety – the alien quality of it. Of everything. Her blood, splattered all over him, the memories that replay every time he closes his eyes – the goddamn sterile smell –
He stands abruptly.
Several pairs of eyes – both teary and stony – shift to him. They see him his shaking, his hands shaking, and he feels their sympathy. Doesn't need that. He needs Kate; needs to know if Kate's okay.
He takes a step forward, fully intending to go bully a doctor or nurse into revealing Kate's condition, but Lanie takes his hand. She gives it a gentle tug, and he acquiesces. He sits back in his chair.
Lanie doesn't let go of his hand.
It's bad.
That's what the doctor says, the first thing the man says.
Wow. Castle wants to say. Really? I never would've guessed. You must've passed med school with flying colors.
He sees it again, hears the bang of the gun and her gut-wrenching screams, hears his own voice begging Ryan and Espo when they return – help me help her do something help her –
He's vomited several times in the past several hours, and wants to again. Feels like he's going to. Feels like he's going to pass out, too.
But he forces himself to focus on the doctor; focus on the doctor's words, Detective Beckett is alive, but it's bad. Very bad.
That's not an issue. He can work with bad. Has before, hasn't he?
He's learned to be civil with bad.
As long as bad is not dead, bad can stay for as long as it needs to.
She has her own room, unlike the last time she was shot. The curtains are open, the summer sun shining cheerily on a nightmare, and the first thing he does is shut them. It's only appropriate, he thinks.
All her hair has been shaved off – he's sure they didn't need to take all of it, but leaving her with half a head of hair would've been plain cruelty.
Half of her face is hidden by bandages.
Her left eye is gone.
Her face is damaged permanently.
She's different, and she'll be different when she wakes up.
But she will wake up.
She's not dead; things are bad, but she's not dead.
She is not dead.
That's good. Somehow he'll make this good.
He takes her hand.
Smooth and soft as ever.
A/N: I'm not crazy. Cross my heart.
-Ellie