the gasp and stutter of a heart 11/11

––

They let him see Kate first.

After so long spent teetering on the edge of the knife's blade, of waiting for the fall, wishing for it and dreading it both, now that he's here, now that he can see her, he's not sure how he feels.

He doesn't know what to do with all the left over emotion. Anger and relief. Sheer joy and terrible, aching fear. He feels all of it, all at once. It's heavy, a thick knot between his shoulder blades, twisting and spinning until it bubbles over, steals into his breath on a sigh.

"Oh, Kate."

She's not awake, not yet, but it's just a matter of time, and he knows that, tries to remember that, even as he takes in the delicate gossamer white of her face.

Rick sits on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her as his eyes trace the lines around her eyes, the veins that are dark beneath her skin. His fingers itch to do the same, to soothe away the crease in her forehead, but he holds himself back. His hand pauses, hovers in the air above her skin, a whisper from her cheek. She looks so fragile, so terribly and utterly close to broken, that he can't. He just can't. Can't risk that she'll fall apart beneath his fingertips.

He needs to touch her, though, the desire like an ache in his chest and so he settles for taking her hand, then, careful and gentle as he threads their fingers together. Her skin is cold, her hand limp in his, and he sits in silence, watching her face, listening for her breath.

"Wake up," he tells her. And then, "Please."

But she doesn't stir, he didn't expect she would, and he doesn't leave. He can'tleave, even when the nurse tells him he can see his son, because – how can he? And so he just sits, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist, his warmth bleeding into her skin.

The minutes bleed into each other, the seconds tick into hours and still. Still. He doesn't leave.

––

He senses her stir, feels the shift towards consciousness, even before her fingers tighten around his own. He readies his face, forces a smile past the crack in his lips as her eyes flutter open.

"Hey there," he says, voice cracked from lack of use.

She starts to smile, a soft whisper of a thing, but she shifts in the bed, tries to sit up and her expression twists into a wince. Her face wrinkles in confusion. "Castle?"

"Lay still," he instructs, a gentle hand against her shoulder, pushing her down onto the mattress. "Try not to move."

"What happened?"

"You were shot."

Her eyes cloud over and then, "I remember."

And he wants to go for help, to call for a nurse, but he sees the moment when she realises, watches as her hands ghost over her flat stomach. Her face twists in pain, a different, harsher kind, and then he can't leave. He can't leave her.

Not now. Never. But especially not now.

"He's okay," he tells her.

Kate's eyes lock with his, hazy and unclear and desperately hopeful. "The baby?"

"He's okay, Kate." His hands move to her jaw, cradle her cheek, slip around to tangle in her hair. She faces him. He makes her. Eye to eye. And, "We're okay."

"He's okay," she echoes, and there's no question in her voice. Just relief. Relief and hope and a little bit of awe.

"He's beautiful," Rick says, and he feels a trickle of guilt down his spine because they're his mother's words, not his.

She sinks back into the mattress, eyes heavy with sleep and relief, and she takes him with her, draws him down.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, starts to pull away. A nurse. He needs to find a nurse. But her words, her question, cuts him short.

"You've seen him?"

Rick shakes his head. "Not yet."

And Kate tries to catch his hand, fumbles for his wrist, squeezes with an urgency she shouldn't possess. "Make sure."

"I will."

"Promise."

"I promise."

The hand around his wrist relaxes, the tense lines on her face fading. "Love you," she says. "Love you both."

The words stick in his throat. "I know."

Her eyes are drifting closed as he presses his lips to her temple, his silent, you too.

––

Touch, they tell him. His son will respond to his touch, will learn it, will live for it.

Touch him.

And so he does.

He gives what he can, all he can. A shaking fingertip against the boy's cheek. A nervous hand to his skin.

The boy is swallowed by the breadth of his palm, small and delicate and breakable, and he feels the whole of him, his entirety, all at once. A stuttering, gasping heart beating beneath his hand.

Rick can feel just how fragile the boy's hold on life is, how strongly he clings to it, and it still hurts somewhere deep and elemental inside of him, watching the boy struggle to cling to life, but with each rise and fall of his small chest, each hard earned breath, hope starts to curl in his own. He doesn't want to, doesn't want the hope to build him up, but can't help it. Because this is him, reflected back at him. His son. His and Kate's.

Blue, the card at the bottom of the bed reads. Blue eyes.Not her hazel ones. But the boy's ears, those are Kate's. And his hands, the long, thin fingers, yeah, those are hers too.

"Hey there, kid," he says. He bends over, his thumb brushing across the shell of the boy's ear, and he feels awkward, talking through the plastic. "I'm your dad."

The boy's face wrinkles, a frown, and Rick feels it bubble inside his chest, the urge to laugh. He almost lets it out, the laughter, the nervous sense of relief he feels, because yeah, this is Kate Beckett's kid, alright.

"Your mum says hello," he says, moving his face closer. "She wishes she could see you."

The boy calms beneath his hand and settles deeper into sleep as Rick keeps up the monologue, the low hum in his voice. "She's sorry you had a rough ride, but she wants you to know she loves you. I do too."

And with every stuttering breath, with each beat of the boy's heart, the pain in Rick's own chest starts to dull. The fear bleeds out of his shoulders. Hope and chance and maybe, just maybe, settles in its place.

The shattered pieces of his heart start to rebuild, to glue back together, and it's not the same shape, it's not like being whole, but it's close. Close enough. He starts to dream again, to imagine. A future. He can picture a life beyond this day, one with his daughter and his son and Kate, all of them, together.

"Welcome to the world," he says, breath fogging against the clear sides of the crib. "Just hang in there, son. I promise it gets better."

––

The End.

––

Notes: Thanks are in order. Firstly, to my Bro, without whom this wouldn't be half the story it was. Literally. Egg farts aside, thanks, dude. To PenguinOfTroy for the endless encouragement.

To everyone who has reviewed or commented or messaged me, thank you. This is the first multi-chapter story I've completed in seven years. It's all to you, really.

And, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.