He falls asleep right beside her, instantly unconscious. He has a dream.
Rick is sitting beside her hospital bed; they are talking. She looks pale; she can't lift her head. She's smiling at him though, one of those delirious smiles he's seen after a long night at a murder board results in an arrest. He's holding their son, newborn and scrawny, his head so tiny, forehead mashed in, eyes still closed. She tried earlier, but couldn't, still weak (she doesn't understand why, grumbles about it); the baby is taking a bottle like a champ though, sucking at it with energy. Kate is trying to tell him something about it, but Castle only has eyes for his son. His son.
He remembers this. It's not a dream, but a memory. He's been here; he knows what happens next. He's not holding his son, but watching himself hold his son, telling himself Look up, look up at her, pay attention. But the memory Castle is stroking his son's cheek, rubbing the little hands, not listening. Not noticing.
In the dream, Castle watches Kate. Can't take his eyes off of Kate. First her words slur; she frowns as she realizes she's not saying what she wants to say, and then the frown becomes bewildered panic, becomes fear; her hand fumbles at the railing for him, to catch his attention. She's sluggish, her movements lack grace; she breaks his heart.
Castle steps forward, tries to reach her, but there is a wall of memory between his now self and his past self. He runs against it, unable to move, to shout, as Kate's face goes from pale to suddenly very white, bloodless, and her eyes roll back. He sees, he sees it; the bloom of blood below her waist, drenching her legs, the sheets, so quickly exiting her body, and he strains with everything in him to get his own attention, to get help, help her-
His memory self catches on to the strange, wrong silence; his head comes up, still with that awed and pleased smile, and turns toward her to say-
What was he about to say? He can't remember now.
But instead, Castle jumps to his feet, the baby jostled and crying now, sensing the panic in his father, and Castle is one with himself now, reliving it, terrible and deadly, watching with his own eyes as the blood drenches the bed, drips to the floor; it is his raw and bellowing voice screaming for the nurse; they are his arms dumping the baby in the isolette beside the bed, heedless; they are his hands fumbling to lower the head of the bed, cradling her by the neck.
He yells again, again, again until someone is at his side and jerking the bedding off, swiftly spreading her legs, checking, and all he can do is watch her, the flutter of her closed eyes as she goes in and out of consciousness, his hand clutching hers to his chest, stroking her cheek, pleading with her Katie, Katie, please.
He startles awake, his throat raw, limbs frozen, his whole body shaking and sweaty, the fear pounding behind his eyes. Kate's cautious hand on his bicep, half-raised up in their bed and leaning away from him in the twilight of the room, wariness rolling off her in waves.
He turns them over and crushes her, tight, too tight, laying practically on top of her, breathing her in, still shaky.
"What was that?" she whispers.
"Nothing. Nothing. Bad dream."
She reaches out a tentative hand to his shoulder, snakes it around to the nape of his neck, trails her fingers up and down the way he likes, needs. He eases off of her a little, but can't bear to not hear her heart beating, lays his head on her chest, closing his eyes, rethinking that and keeping them open, breathing shakily in and out in time with her own breaths.
"Bad dream." She doesn't question him, but there's a question inherent in her tone. A challenge.
"A very bad dream."
"Is it okay now?"
"It will be," he says, can't help being honest when it's like this. His whole body gutted and splayed out before him.
"Do you have this dream a lot?"
"No. A few times since-just a couple times. Ever."
She rubs his back slowly with her palm; it goes against her nature and he knows it, and he appreciates it all the more for its reluctance and capitulation. She's doing it because she loves him, and wants to comfort him, and she's here to do it, and that's a great blessing, a huge blessing, and he can't even begin to imagine what would've happened to him, to Dashiell, if she had died that day in the hospital.
Something as small as a piece of the placenta, undelivered after the baby's birth, sucking down her blood, drawing it out of her body, more and more and more until it came out in a wave, pouring out of her, draining her. The doctor who delivered Dashiell explained that when they deliver the afterbirth, they check it to make sure they've gotten everything, and they had checked it, they had checked it he assured Castle, but-
"Hey, you're shaking again," she says.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Can't seem to get out of my own head."
She presses her mouth to his forehead, lips closed, a motherly kiss. "It's only six o'clock. Let's get up, take a shower, do some normal stuff. Get you out of your head."
He nods, but doesn't get up, won't let go of her just yet. He can't. He just can't.
"No more kids," he says finally, in the silence, hers waiting and inquisitive, his waiting and dreadful.
"What?"
"No more kids, Kate. We're done. Forget everything I said."
She's stiffened under him, but after a moment of her gradually building fury, she subsides, sighs softly. "You had a dream about the retained placenta."
She says it with such clinical detachment. He grunts his assent. "You say that like it's no big deal."
Kate sighs, pats his shoulder. "I was unconscious for that, Castle. I don't remember it. All I know is the look on your face when I woke up later." She sighs again. "That was bad enough, Rick."
He nods into her shoulder, the shift in her tone and attitude inherent in calling him by his first name, as if she understands and forgives him for this: for having both arms around her too tightly, bigger than her by a good measure, strangely enough. She's always so tall in his mind. So present. Laying against her in bed, she's sleight, and fragile, and-
"Okay, enough wallowing, Castle. Get up," she slaps at his shoulder and gets a knee under him to pry him off of her.
He retreats reluctantly, sighing loudly, pushed into a place where he knows his role: long-suffering, pouty Rick Castle being put off by his muse. It actually helps. Reverting to type, he gives her a puppy-dog look, so cliche, so trite, and she rolls her eyes but gets out of bed and pulls him out after her.
She pats his cheek once he's standing, her eyes not yet teasing despite her treatment of him, echoes of his nightmare in their depths. So it *does* affect her as well; it gets to her, the fact that it gets to him. He sobers quickly.
"You're fine," she says, as if dismissing him, but then leans in to press a gentle, devastating kiss on his mouth.
"I'll be fine. Little more of that," he murmurs.
She laughs, true laughter, and the darkness dissipates. It is only twilight in their bedroom, Kate wearing just a tshirt, and their son asleep upstairs. Only twilight; he's got lots more time.