A/N: I've done some research on both strokes and their repercussions. However I'm not a doctor, so if the medical stuff isn't as accurate as it should be I ask you to both forgive and indulge me. All that technical jargon was hard on my poor writer's brain and I waded through it as best as I could to come up with a plausible scenario.

Chapter Eleven: All stops and in-betweens.

He's breathless when he arrives at the hospital, one look at his anxious face and Kate can tell that he's forgone the elevator and taken the stairs, most likely two at a time. She sidelines him at the door to his mother's room, willingly risking rejection when she holds onto him by his bicep, forcing him to delay entering. She takes a deep breath and slides her fingers down grasping onto his hand and holding it firmly within hers.

"They're assessing her," she hurries to explain. "We need to wait out here and let them finish. Her surgeon promised me he'd update us as soon as they're finished."

Castle looks down at her, then down at their hands and Kate wages a war between wanting to hold onto him and stepping back. She studies his face and when he tugs gently to free himself - his eyes meeting hers again, she reluctantly lets him go.

Her husband turns his back on her and wanders over to the bench outside Martha's room that she's taken to sleeping on. He drops his weight down onto it and slides his fingers through his hair mussing it unbearably. It's a habitual thing he only ever does when he's overwhelmingly frustrated.

He's silent for a long time although he doesn't seem to be angry with her. Still, since there's so much unresolved between them she can't honestly say she's getting an accurate read on him. All she knows is that once he was such an open book to her, and now he's become something of an enigma.

Her heart aches with the weight of it.

"I'm sorry, Rick," she says quietly in the end, and his eyes shoot to hers, panic flashing across his features as he clearly wonders immediately if there is more bad news that she's about to break to him. She looks at the floor to avoid his eyes. "I'm sorry," she says again, "I should have called you the moment she so much as stirred, and especially as I know you didn't expect her to wake up just yet. I mean none of us did. And I know you wanted to be here. It's just I wanted you to get some real rest. You needed to sleep so badly and it was just her fingers clenching – really it was just that, and then she opened her eyes. But I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I should just have called you." She's rambling, apologies and sincerity spilling out of her because the last thing she wants is any more resentment between them.

Castle doesn't immediately respond, she just hears him blowing out a frustrated sigh.

"Look at me, Kate," he demands at length. His voice is even and moderated, but firm. I takes everything in her to drag her eyes up from the floor to his face.

"I feel so much better having slept," he confesses. "And it's not like mother woke up alone or anything. You were there, Kate. She saw the face of someone she loves when she came around and that's all that really matters to me."

Someone she loves? Oh . . .

"But still-"

"No. No still," he says interrupting her. "Thank you, for staying with her. And thank you for forcing me to take a break. Because if you hadn't been here, Kate - if I hadn't had that option. I mean I couldn't ask Alexis because this latest trauma . . . "

He stops suddenly mid-sentence with a tight smile that masks a grimace, but she feels it like a slap in the face. All her failures this past year hang large in the air between them, deliberately left unspoken. The huge pit of all she's burdened him with alone yawning like the Grand Canyon again, even as he offers her up his genuine gratitude.

Eyes shining she holds his gaze, "I really am so very sorry for failing you," she whispers, and they both know she isn't talking about his mother here.

The regret in his face when he says, "I know," is huge. "But I can't tell you that its okay," he adds before he closes this avenue of conversation down by saying, "How long have they been in there anyway? I want to know what's going on."

Swallowing the sharp pierce of pain from his words, Kate pulls herself back into the here and now.

"Fifteen minutes maybe," she says, turning from him as discretely as she can for a brief moment as she wipes quickly at the moisture threatening to overflow her eyes. "Her surgeon did tell me it might take them a half hour or so," she adds before turning back.

Castle nods thoughtfully.

"Would you like some coffee then?" he asks.

It's a familiar olive branch. Bittersweet. And Kate grabs for it.

"I'd love some." She doesn't offer to go and get it, knowing full well that he's giving her a moment to herself as much as he's trying to offer her something of what they once were. At least as much as he's able.

He disappears without further comment, and the visual of his tall, broad-shouldered form walking away from her causes pangs that hurt unbearably. She sits and waits - her thoughts as ever these days both tortured and spiraling.

He's back before she notices the passage of any real length of time, the take-out coffee cup just appearing beneath her nose and distracting her from dwelling in melancholy. She looks up as she gratefully takes it from him with both hands, and this time when he smiles at her tightly there's both affection and nostalgia creeping warily onto his face.

She'll take it.

Twenty minutes later the coffee cups are empty, and Castle is pacing in ever-decreasing circles that end with him fisting his hands uselessly at his sides, and shooting murderous glances at the closed door of his mother's room.

"I'm sure if won't be much longer," Kate offers, the words falling on deaf ears as the door to Martha's ICU room suddenly swings wide.

"How is she?" Her husband practically accosts his mother's surgeon, stepping inside the doctors' personal space and looming over the much shorter man like some frightening deity.

"Why don't you take a seat Mr. Castle?" Dr. Browne says with a firm tone and an incline of his eyebrow that brooks no refusal.

The writer swallows heavily and does as he's bid, sinking down next to Kate and reaching for her hand without consciously thinking about it. Her slight fingers wrap surely around his and he feels it ground him, even as he berates himself. He doesn't want to keep sending her these mixed messages.

Then the words, "How bad is it?" are out his mouth before Dr. Browne even has the opportunity to speak.

"Actually, I think it's safe for me to tell you that it's better than I hoped." The surgeon begins. He takes a seat himself at the far end of the bench with them, leaning forward with a small smile that immediately eases some of the tightness in the author's chest.

"Your mother is both awake and lucid. She also doesn't appear to be having any trouble with understanding what's being said to her."

"But that's wonderful news." Castle gushes. Dr. Browne holds up a hand to forestall any further celebration.

"Yes. That is very good news, Mr. Castle," he agrees. "It's a wonderful start. But I have to set against that the fact that your mother cannot communicate."

Kate's fingers immediately tighten on his and Castle feels his jubilation sliding rapidly away.

"So you're saying she can't speak?" he asks, seeking clarification.

Dr. Brown nods. "She understands. She can respond to questions with a nod or slight shake of her head, but she's clearly sustained some damage to the Broca's area in the lower rear part of her frontal cortex. Basically the large bleed that we operated to stem, has resulted in compromised ability in two areas. The paralysis on her left side will most certainly improve; in time I'd expect her to fully recover her mobility although she may have some lingering weakness on that side. The language issue however is much more complicated I'm afraid. I'll need to do some better scans of that area, but I have to tell you there exists the possibility that the damage that's been caused there is permanent."

"So she'll never be able to talk?" The horror in her husband's tone is just gut-wrenching, and Kate finds herself leaning against him instantly, hoping that the feel of her body pressed against his is somewhat comforting. The pressure he's exerting on her hand is becoming painful, but she bears it willingly. Welcomes it even, these tiny, precious few moments when he actively seeks her. His head bows and she swears she can feel the grief pouring out of him.

Dr. Browne sighs, his face a perfect picture of both compassion and sincerity. "I'm not saying that. Everyone's brain is slightly different Mr. Castle. Frankly even with everything we now know about it, absolutes like that are surprisingly hard to come by. What I can tell you is that this part of her brain is mainly responsible for her ability to express herself, both in spoken and written forms. That's why her understanding of language remains intact while she just can't get her own thoughts out. Well at least, not right now."

Wow.

"I just can't imagine how she's going to cope with this," Castle breathes in despair. "This feels like the worse thing that could happen to someone like her. Someone who does what she does, whose whole identity is so. . . theatrical."

Dr. Browne reaches out and places his hand on the writer's shoulder; he rests it there until the younger man manages to look at him.

"This is much better than I expected," he says gently. "I don't like to be a doomsayer when my patients are post-op and unconscious because sometimes – instances like this one Mr. Castle, they pleasantly surprise me. Your mother's head injury was severe, she was lucky even to make it to surgery. And I know right now it feels like she's been seriously compromised but the fact remains that she's clearly still with us. She's clearly still in there. Spoken language, written language –these aren't the only forms of communication. Looks, nods, gestures all tell tales of their own. Yes, she cannot for the moment find the words for what she wants; even though she'll recognize them when you give them to her. But neither is she so severely damaged that there is no hope of recovery. And she could have been - she so easily could have been."

"So we've just got to hope – that's what you're telling me isn't it?"

The neurosurgeon nods, "Always. There is always hope Mr. Castle. Your mother is awake, alive and stable. Everything will be a step forward from here."