He wakes up to the sound of soft jazz piping through the loft, some old Miles Davis track maybe. Her side of the bed is empty, though the sheets are still warm and he can still scent that cherry-vanilla essence he associates with his wife on the pillow. A languid stretch reminds him of sore muscles and dull aches throughout his body, especially on his chest where the taser had struck, but even though the bed is warm and comfortable all he really wants is to see her. Touch her. Make sure that she's still here, that the nightmare that has been the past 48 hours is really over.

When he pads out to the kitchen and sees her sitting there, his shoulders relax infinitesimally and he lets go of a breath he doesn't even know he's been holding in. She's wearing one of his large sweatshirts, the faded blue of it comically large around her thin frame, falling off her shoulders and he can see the glint of the ring peeking out from past the overly large arms as she picks up her coffee.

"Hey."

She looks up at him, and smiles. It's not the warmest, happiest smile he's ever been on the end of from her, but it's a smile and he'll take it.

"Hey, coffee if you want it."

"When do I say no?"

He walks over and pours himself a mug as she continues to peruse the paper. Gates has thankfully given them a few days off, days that they both need to recover from their bruises, both physical and emotional. He still remembers how utterly distant she seemed when they'd burst in on Nieman's lair, blood dripping from scalpel in hand, the way he'd embraced her to try and bring her back. The way she'd sank into that hug like it was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

That was all about survival, and she's moved past that stage now. He knew going back to the precinct had helped, as had their conversation last night. It wasn't all going to be smooth sailing of course.

He sat down next to her at the table, lacing his fingers through hers as she looked back up at him again. Usually her eyes were bright and sparkling, emerald green or hazel. Today they were a bit more wan, a bit more the colour of dull jade.

"How are you feeling?"

He squeezed her fingers gently, and she quirked her lips into a smile again, appreciating it.

"I've had better days, I won't lie."

"What do you want to do? Take off for a few days? Go to the Hamptons? Or somewhere else? Hawaii? Go see Burke?"

"All of the above, and none of it. I feel like crawling into bed and not coming out for hours, but at the same time I don't particularly want to close my eyes and relive the last day or so very much."

He stroked his thumb along the back of her hand, and she hummed pleasingly.

"Well, how about food to start the day? Pancakes? I think this is a pancakes kind of day."

"Sounds good, Castle."

He gestured her into the kitchen, trying to get her mind off things and into something simple yet pleasurable, and she willingly followed suit. They worked in quiet, companionable silence for a few minutes, whipping up the batter, putting together the syrup and all the other ingredients they'd need before he took over at the stove and she lounged nearby, hips leaning against the kitchen bench.

"I'll call Burke a little later on, make an appointment."

"Good. You should."

She arched an eyebrow up at him, questioning.

"Do you want to make one too?"

He reigned in the flippant answer that came immediately to him, knowing she deserved better, they deserved better. It had been a traumatic set of circumstances, but oddly enough, he felt at peace more than anything else. It weighed on him, still, of course what Tyson had done, how close he'd come to ripping away the person most important to him. He felt guilty for her wounds, what she'd gone through. For Tyson's other victims, all claimed after that fateful night in the motel room, when he hadn't been fast enough and neither had Ryan. For all of that he bore his chains, and he knew he would bear them till the day he died. The mystery of his own disappearance now weighed on him afresh, as he had a small taste of what she'd gone through over those two months. That too weighed on his shoulders and would till they got more answers.

But what happened in the country house?

No. On that, his conscience was silent. Nothing gnawed at him. Tyson had threatened him and his family, and had come too close to taking it all away from him. He had to be put down like the rabid dog he was.

And for that he felt no regrets.

"No, I think I'm OK for the moment. Not that it was easy, but it had to be done."

She nodded, and then looked down and away, her gaze dropping to her hands. He poured the first of the batter into the pan, the sizzle the only sound between them as he let her breathe, let her find the words she needed to find in her own time.

"I keep looking at my hands, Castle. I keep looking at them and seeing blood dripping off them, expect to find myself still holding the scalpel."

Her voice was soft, withdrawn, barely a whisper. He flipped the pancake, and then turned the stove off, turning to face her.

"I know I had to but…still, I've never done that before. I can't- I don't know what…"

He could barely hear her now, and her neck was bowed so that her hair hung in front of her, almost like a veil or a shield. He slid his fingers past it, sliding his hand over her neck, pulling her into his broad frame. She curled into the hug, and he could feel tears sliding against his t-shirt.

"I feel like a monster, Castle. Am I a monster?"

She muffled the words into his chest, and he felt his heart break for her.

"No, Kate. No. You're nothing of the sort. You did what you had to do to survive against a psychopath, and you're the furthest thing from a monster to me. You're a hero. This doesn't make me love you less, it makes me love you more, for how hard you fought to survive. To make sure that she wouldn't take you from me, that we could still build a future together."

She leaned back slightly, looking up at him, eyes still watery and arms wrapped around his back.

He dropped his head, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

"If anything, I'm the monster in this family. You did what you had to do in self-defence. I planned to take out Tyson all along. He'd threatened someone I love for the last time."

It was her turn to brush a hand over his features, over the rough stubble of hair on his cheek and jaws, pushing back the lock that fell on his forehead.

He met her gaze, unbowed, unapologetic for what he'd done. Not wanting to hide from it or from her.

"I can't say I'd have made the same choices, but I'm glad you made the ones you did."

She leaned up on her tip-toes, hands now wrapped around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that deepened after a moment, her tongue insistent on entry. She tasted like coffee and sunshine and home, and he buried himself into the feel of her, luxuriating in the heat that sang through his veins.

She let go with a sharp nip at his bottom lip, their faces barely separated by a sliver of distance.

"You might be a monster, but you're my monster, Castle. I love you, and I don't want you think that this changes that for even a second."

Emerald green eyes, unblinking and direct, shone with the truth of that statement and he took it inside him without hesitation, steel to call upon later when he needed it. In reply, all he could do was kiss her again, fast and bruising and furious, till they were both breathless and shaking, golden smiles curling over their lips.

"Now, where were we with those pancakes?"

A/N: I wanted to explore something of how Castle felt after what he'd done in 'Reckoning', and really how he'd be not very troubled by it and not shy away from telling Beckett about it. Anyway, please let me know what you thought.