Author's Note: I wrote this story in 2011 - after the Season 3 finale - so please keep in mind that nothing after episode 3X24 had happened (which is why Kate's injuries aren't concurrent with the show, their new captain isn't Gates, etc), but I found it when going through some of my old stuff and I really like it so I'm going to post it. Enjoy!

Martha descended the stairs fresh from a luxurious bubble bath. She gathered the tie strands of her silk robe as she went, knotting them at her hip. The time in the evening had come for one of life's simplest pleasures: a nightcap.

As she rounded the bend in the L-shaped staircase she spotted her son, a statue in the same position from an hour and a half earlier when she'd excused herself to her claw-footed oasis. The same position he'd been in since that morning's coffee. And, come to think of it, the same position he'd been in the day before. And the day before that.

He sat on the sofa, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. Laptop computer open in his lap. The screen remained unchanging for that entire period. A blank word document was open, the cursor blinking tauntingly in the upper left hand corner of the screen. The vertical line flashed persistently, daring a keystroke to be made. Though his fingertips rested just above the keys, not a letter had been typed.

Martha stood a foot behind the sofa and gazed sympathetically at her boy. She felt for him; it had been a rough few weeks. Chasing yet another killer. Facing the possibility of being chased by that killer. All his disagreements with Beckett. And, on top of all that, persistent calls from his ex (times two) slash publisher demanding a plot outline for the fourth yet-to-be-named Nikki Heat novel.

"Richard," she began softly so as not to startle him.

He started away and moved his laptop aside. "Yes, Mother? Did you need something?"

"Other than you to stop moping around?"

"I'm not moping; I'm working!" he defended. Martha eyed the laptop and "hmmed" under her breath. "I am working."

"Of course you are, Darling. I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright."

He plastered an appeasing smile across his face. "Just fine."

"Have you heard from her?"

"From who?" he asked with utmost casualty as he picked his laptop back up from the sofa.

"Richard," she glared as she folded her arms over her chest. "Do not 'from who' me. You know exactly who I'm talking about."

"No, I have not heard from Beckett," he informed her, monotonously. "But that's not surprising. Considering."

"Considering? Please. You two had a fight. You're old enough to understand the concept—you say things you don't mean, you apologize, you move on. I think diving on top of her in an attempt to save her from a bullet classifies as an apology."

"But I didn't," he muttered.

Martha sighed and shook her head. She'd had the "It's not your fault Kate was shot" conversation with him no less than three times since the event but for some reason it wasn't sinking in. "Perhaps you should go and visit her; that might make you feel better."

"Can't," he said absentmindedly. "She was released from the hospital today."

"Oh?"

He glanced over his shoulder and flushed under his mother's curious expression. "Ryan texted me," he admitted.

"Well this is even better—you can visit her at home."

"That would be rude," he said quickly. Martha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I mean, she just got home; she needs to rest."

"Okay, I'll give you that, but you should at least call her. Let her know you're thinking about her…" she said leading as much as she could.

"You're right; I am her partner after all."

"Partner. Right." Martha said dully while thinking her honed acting skills of subtly were completely wasted on the male sex. "Well I'm off to bed. Promise me you'll at least try to get some sleep tonight?"

He smiled. "I promise. Goodnight Mother."

When he heard her footsteps on the stairs, Rick turned back to his computer. Enough with this blank word document, he told himself. An outline; he needed an outline. He'd written dozens of them, probably one hundred if you counted all the failed novel ideas. Outlines were simple. He just needed a direction. Scratch that. He needed a direction…and a snack.

Depositing his laptop on the couch once more, he stood and arched his back, stretching out his vertebra. After the last satisfying pop of realignment, he lowered his arms and took one step towards the kitchen. Just as he did so, the doorbell rang.

Perplexed, he glanced at the clock with the mirror face just beside the entry way. Who was visiting him after eleven p.m. on a Wednesday night? Alexis was out with friends, enjoying her summer vacation. His mother's only callers were acting students who visited during the daytime hours.

His mystery writer mind spinning with possibilities, he crossed his apartment and whipped open the door. His unexpected visitor was not looking like her normal sexy-as-hell self. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her cheeks appeared more sunken and certainly less rosy. She wore no makeup (not that it mattered; her natural beauty was just as disarming).

"Kate," he exhaled, alarmed by the heavy sling apparatus on her right side.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly, tucking a strand of hair back from her face with her left hand.

"Yeah-yes. Yes please come in. Sit down!" he insisted suddenly with alarm. "You should sit down! Didn't you just get out of the hospital?"

"I'm fine Castle," she insisted with a casual hand wave as she crossed the threshold of his home. When she walked by him, he noted that she wore a zip-front grey hooded sweatshirt with the NYPD logo and navy blue sweatpants. Due to their friends-and-or-partners-only relationship, he had yet to see her in this level of casual dress. Had he not been so concerned for her health, he would have been entertained by it.

"A-are you sure you're alright?" he asked, trailing behind her in his perfected manner. She nodded as she sat down on the couch, insisting she was fine, though he noted a wince cross her face and her left hand instinctively went towards her right arm. "You should be resting," he told her.

"That's what my father said when he dropped me off at home, but I just couldn't stay in my apartment any longer."

"Any longer? You've been in a hospital for two weeks!"

"Yes, Castle, in a hospital, stuck in one single room. It was worse than prison."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Somehow I doubt that." She glanced over at him and smiled gently as well.

Silence hung between them for a moment before she looked to him and said, "Thanks for the flowers. All the flowers."

"You're welcome," he smiled. He'd sent her a different bouquet for every day of her hospitalization making the local florist very happy. "I wasn't sure what you liked so I had to send a variety."

"Daises," she told him with a nod. "But any flower is nice. Oh, and, thanks for the chocolate…and the balloons."

He laughed inwardly. "I was covering my bases in case flowers weren't your thing."

She nodded with a smile. "It was very sweet, Castle."

"Well, I…how's your shoulder?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly when he felt that familiar thickness in the back of his throat.

She tilted her head quickly to the side, indicating indifference. "It's still there. Doctors say I have to wear this thing for at least two more weeks and they won't release me to go back to work until its gone—and maybe not even then!" she insisted with notable horror.

"You need to rest, Kate, and take care of yourself."

His soft tone made the hair on her arms stand up. She could hear just how much he cared. "I know, people keep telling me."

"So naturally you think we're all just making it up…"

She eyed him, annoyed. "No, I know I just…I can't sleep."

"Well I'm sure my mother has some-"

"No, Castle, I can't sleep because he's out there. He's out there and with each passing day the trail gets colder and-"

"Stop," he said, placing his right hand over her left. "We'll find him. We'll find him. You, me, Ryan, Esposito—we'll all work together and we'll find him, but right now you need to rest."

"You're right," she admitted lowering her gaze to the floor.

Her hair fell across her face and he could not see her expression. Then again, he thought to himself, considering she might be the one person who possessed a better poker face than he, seeing her expression might not have done any good. He needed to do what he always did—go with his gut. Unfortunately, at that moment his gut was infested with butterflies.

His heart fluttering at a rapid pace, he blurted out as calmly as he could manage, "Why don't you just stay here?"

Her head whipped in his direction, tossing all her hair back in a heart-pounding swoop. "Here?"

"S-sure. I mean, that way I can make sure you're really resting. You can take my bed." He stood and took one step in the direction of the master suite, indicating his seriousness. Much to his surprise, she did not argue or protest. She stood at a notably slower pace than usual and began to follow.

Noting her slow gait, he put a gentle hand on her upper back which earned him a snippy, "I can walk," from her.

"Sorry," he mumbled and instinctively jerked back his hand. Ten steps later, he opened his bedroom door and ushered her inside.

Kate gazed around at the room she'd yet to explore in Chez Castle. The bed was nestled among black built-in shelves which were, unsurprisingly, full of books. Dozens of titles—paperback and soft back—lined the walls, the colors of their spines creating a unique artistic effect. The king sized bed was unmade and the granite-toned sheets were balled up in the middle, leaving a Castle-shaped spot open on the side closest to them.

"Is this ok?" he questioned softly.

She turned and smiled at him. "It's perfect. Thanks Castle."

He nodded and opened his lips tentatively. "Is…is there anything I can get you? Help you with? Y-your shoes? Can I help you take them off?" Normally, suggesting that Kate Beckett, superwoman, could not take care of herself would be a fate worse than death. However, given the logistics of her bandaged arm, he thought just maybe she needed an extra hand and knew full well she'd never ask.

"Um, yeah, actually that—that would be great." By the time she'd lowered herself on to the mattress he was already kneeling on the floor, untying the laces of her Nikes. As he removed the first shoe, he asked if she wanted her socks on or off. "Off," she told him.

Following her instruction, he slipped his fingers between the top of her sock and leg and guided the item over her heel and off her foot. This simple, care-giving action made Kate's fingertips dig in to the sheet and her breath hitch in her chest. As he went for the other sock, no question existed in her mind: it was happening—tonight.

After putting her socks in her shoes and her shoes by the wall, he looked back over his shoulder about to ask if she needed anything else, but the moment he locked eyes with her, he forgot every word in the English language. Desire burned in her gaze unlike he'd ever seen before. Suddenly he understood exactly where the character name "Nikki Heat" emanated from.

"I-"

"Shh," she hushed him quickly. She reached out her left hand to grab his shirt, but there was no need; his lips were already halfway to hers. Their lips met in what was technically their second kiss but after being partners for three years, they both knew it was the prelude to so much more.

Still in his kneeling position, his hands settled on her hips, his little fingers brushing against the mattress. He felt her left hand brush against the back of his neck and wondered at that moment if it was possible to lose consciousness from being overwhelmed by emotion.

His desire for Katherine Beckett formed somewhere in between the first minute he met her and the second minute after he met her. At that stage it was pure lust driving him. She was a sexy, headstrong cop who could kick his ass in to the next decade if she chose. He was in awe of her. Working with her was a mixture of a dream and a joke. A cop he was not, but what little boy didn't want to go around hunting bad guys fighting for truth, justice and the American way?

As their relationship progressed from annoyer/annoyee to partners his lust turned to respect turned to friendship and, finally, turned to love. Despite his many trysts, Richard Castle had only truly loved four women in his life: his college girlfriend—the one that got away, Alexis's mother, his second wife (though some days that love was arguable), and her. He may have been skilled at writing about love, creating the fantasy and the romance, but feeling it? That was a different story.

He broke their kiss and somehow by the will of god was able to put one syllable together. "Kate."

"Don't," she shook her head, diving in for another kiss, but he leaned away.

"But Kate-"

"Don't," she repeated. "Don't, Rick, not tonight."

He was thrown off at the sound of his rarely used first name but recovered quickly. "I was merely going to point out your injury."

She smirked a sexy, knowing smirk. "So don't throw me against the headboard and I'll be fine." With this final comment she got her way and his lips were back on hers.

Slowly, using her left hand as a guide, she backed her way towards the center of the mattress, allowing him to join her on the king-sized area. In that moment she had never been more annoyed with her immobilized limb. Pain she could put up with, but only being able to run one of her hands through his floppy-yet-sexy hair? That was torture!

His brain barely functioning at that point, Rick's hands instinctively went towards the zipper on her sweatshirt and he encountered his first problem. He stopped kissing her and stared without subtlety at her chest. "What?" she asked breathlessly.

"I literally have no idea how to undress you."

She let out an airy laugh. "Come to think of it, I don't know if I do either!"

"That could be a problem."

"I just need to take this off," she said, reaching for the Velcro strap of her arm brace. He stopped her with his hand atop hers.

"But it's a cast."

"No, it's a brace," she corrected. "The doctor told me I could shower without it."

Rick pushed the image of wet, naked Kate from his mind and began to assist her with the sling. Once the Velcro had been unattached from her arm and from behind her neck, the item slipped right off. She winced and pulled her arm against her chest. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it when she shot him a challenging look.

With their first injury-based hurdle cleared their lips joined together once more and Rick returned to his prior task. He unzipped at a rapid pace and slipped one hand under the garment only to find she wore nothing underneath. Unable to resist a moan as he did so, he ran his fingers across one of her firm breasts before pushing the shirt off her left shoulder.

"I got it," she whispered, sensing his hesitation. She pulled her left arm free and used her hand to guide the item off her right side as carefully as she could. Even with the slow pace, it caused just as much pain coming off as it did going on. With her arm finally freed she tossed the item on to the floor and looked back to her companion. His eyes were trained on her mid-chest region.

At first, she was irritated with his slack-jawed ogling, thinking it was directed at her breasts, but then she remembered the bandages and bruising covering most of her upper right side. "Hey," she sighed, calling his attention back to the present. "Help me lay down."

Her voice pulled him from his flashback to the cemetery where she was bleeding out in his arms. "Wha-uh, oh. Are you sure that this is a good idea if-"

"I have to lay down to sleep, don't I? It's not like we could avoid this part," she informed him practically. Though he had his doubts, he obliged her request and cradled her torso as she reclined against the pillows. Her face contorted with pain for a moment after she was down. "I'm okay," she insisted, though her eyes remained shut.

He squeezed her hand solidly and watched her take several deep breaths obviously trying to escape the discomfort. She squeezed back for a moment then opened her eyes and smiled softly. Taking this clue he lay beside her and kissed her sweetly. Then he moved his lips down over her jaw line, across her throat, and down to her collar bone.

When he met the bandages he stopped and merely rested his lips against the center of her chest. The horrible memories from that day were burned so deeply in his mind he knew he would not forget them even if he lived one hundred more years. The reflection off the shooters sight glass. The sickening sound of bullet meeting flesh. The smell of iron as her blood coated his hands. The way her eyes rolled back in her head as he professed his feelings for her. The moment before Lanie checked her vital signs when he thought he'd lost her forever. But she wasn't gone. She was there, with him, in his bed and he would not take that for granted.

After giving her breasts the attention they deserved he removed her sweats and panties, trying his best to do so without jostling her upper body. She teased him about his fully dressed state and he responded by whipping off his clothing at a lightning-fast pace. As he made love to her, he was constantly torn between three years of pent up sexual tension and her obvious injury, which seemed to cause pain with even the slightest movement.

He let her name spill off his tongue as he climaxed and she did the same. Spent, he was about to collapse beside her when he remembered the brace for her arm. It took him a moment to find it in the pile of discarded clothing, but when he did, he helped her secure it to her right side and then joined her beneath the sheets, where she was already asleep.