pulse

She's wheeled into his room the day after Mr. Johnson dies, seemingly asleep, perfectly silent. The nurses are talking in hushed voices around her, the doctor explaining her condition in terms that, despite having been in the hospital for a few weeks now, he doesn't understand, their conversation marked by the high pitched beeping of her heart monitor. It lines up almost perfectly with the soft sounds of his.

He doesn't get a good look at her, just the flash of her blue hospital gown and the long brown hair that hides her face, and then the curtain between her bed and his is being whipped shut by a nurse.

The only thing he knows about her by the end of the day is that her condition isn't good.

She doesn't wake up until the next morning. The nurses come in every four hours, do his checks at the same time as hers. He hears her doctor—Dr. Davidson—say something about thinking her last surgery was a perfect success. And then that he had high hopes for Kate, never wanted to see her back in his hospital.

They wake him up every time, for his check, and her for hers and every time he hopes to hear her voice answer their questions. But he doesn't. They just talk about how her heart is so weak. About how she must be so tired, after having dealt with it for months. The nurse, Mrs. Mason, clicks her tongue at him every time he leaves, reminds him that he's not supposed to be eavesdropping.

He reminds her that curtains aren't soundproof, and though she smiles, she knows him better than that.

The morning check comes just past seven o'clock. They wake him first, because he's closest to the door. They check his pulse, comment on his oxygen being a little lower than usual. He's used to that. They always say the same thing: he's not getting any better. Nobody around here is.

Except for her. Because he hears the day nurse, Ms. Branton, try and wake her—he knows the gentle nudges to the shoulder well—and whisper her name. Over and over again until what comes through the curtain isn't the defeated mumble of Katherine Beckett, no change, but rather a pained, tired moan in a voice that is foreign, new. Beautiful.

"Miss Beckett," says nurse Branton, "it's nice to meet you."

The woman, Kate, mumbles back, just loud enough for him to hear: "Wish I could say the same."

He swallows back a chuckle, ignores nurse Branton's glare when she walks by his bed to get Kate's doctor, and the pointed look she gives him before whipping the curtain completely shut, telling him to not listen to the doctor's rundown of her condition.

He's never been one to listen.

He regrets it a few seconds later when he hears her soft cries, feels his own heart breaking for her.

The sentence: "Due to complications from a previous surgery, you've been added to UNOS' list for a heart transplant," doesn't sound all that happy.

She sleeps a lot. After a week, that's the one new thing he's learned about her. That's it. Her name is Kate. She's thirty-two. She needs a heart transplant and she sleeps a lot. It's not much, considering he shares a tiny hospital room with her, but it is all he knows.

She hasn't had a visitor since she was brought in, and he almost feels bad when his mother and daughter, Alexis, stop by. He doesn't want to bother her, not knowing she needs a transplant, not knowing that the only person she seems to have in her life is her father—to whom she definitely minimizes the situation—and the boss she calls in sick to. But she never complains, never tells them she's trying to sleep. One time, he's even pretty sure he hears her laugh at something his mother says, but he can't be sure, it's so soft.

He's tempted to open the curtain, but he doesn't want to annoy her, doesn't want to initiate something she wants nothing to do with, so their contact is limited to soft, shy smiles as she walks past his bed and into the bathroom.

Then, one day, she's getting checked by a nurse when he hears her ask: "The man on the other side of the room, is he nice?" Her voice is soft, almost melodious, and if he wasn't trying to pretend he not eavesdropping, he would answer himself.

Instead, he lets the nurse answer. She chuckles first and then she tells Kate: "I'm not supposed to share my opinions on my patients, Miss, but since I know he's listening, I think this is okay. In my opinion, he's a very nice man."

"That's what I thought," he hears Kate whisper, like she's talking to herself, like she's forgetting that the only thing that separates him from her is the thin curtain. "Well, then," she continues, just a little louder, "can we open the curtain?"

The nurse's head pokes around the curtain, and she smiles. "Are you okay with that, Mr. Castle?" she asks.

"Very," he answers.

She pulls the curtain open as quickly as they usually pull it closed, and he's met with the sight of one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen, as cheesy as that sounds. Her hair is messy, hasn't been washed in a couple days. She's pale, frail, weak. But her eyes are vibrant and green, her smile wide.

"Hi," he says.

"Hey," she answers. "I figured we might as well get to know each other, since we're stuck together until one of us either kicks or gets a transplant."

"How do you know I need a transplant?" he asks, even though he knows.

She grins, eyes sparkling. "These curtains aren't soundproof, Rick," she answers.

He smiles back at her. "I know, Kate."

She falls asleep again not more than two hours after they meet after a good hour of trying to stay awake. He watches her as she sleeps, watches the monitor at her bedside, the peaks and valleys of her heart rate. It's steady, but slow. Her oxygen is a little low, too. Higher than his, but still lower than what it should be. He watches her stats, watches her, the heaving of her chest, the parting of her lips until he starts to feel like he's intruding on her privacy.

They've only actually known each other for a couple hours, after all.

He doesn't actually know she's awake again until she speaks. Her voice soft. Quiet. "Sorry." It's a whisper, so soft that for a minute he thinks he imagined it, but when he turns to face her, she's looking back at him, eyes wide, innocent. He smiles at her, and she manages a tiny smile in return. "Dr. Davidson says it's a symptom of my heart problems: the fatigue. I think it's just a pain in the ass."

He chuckles. "No worries, I have it, too, sometimes." He motions to the screen behind his bed. "Apparently low oxygen levels can cause that."

She looks up at the screen, then back at him. "What do you have anyway?" she asks. "The nurses come in all the time and they talk about you needing a heart lung transplant and your position on UNOS' list, but they never really say why."

He chuckles joylessly. "Yeah, well, when you've been in here for a few weeks, they stop reminding you of your situation," he tells her. "But, yeah, you're right. I need a heart lung transplant for IPF, Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis."

"What does that do?" she asks, her gaze holding nothing but genuine curiosity.

"It causes, uh, scarring of the lung tissue, but nobody really knows why," he answers. "It causes stress on my heart, which means my heart function is going down. That's why they want to transplant both, even though they say my heart would work fine." He smiles, tries to make it look reassuring. "What about you?"

She sighs loudly, then winces, and her pulse slows just a bit. He watches the monitor until it comes back up, and then looks back down at her.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods. "Yeah, heart just doesn't appreciate deep breaths," she mumbles. She turns back to him, smiles sheepishly. "Long story short, I got shot in the heart and the surgery they did to save me has caused extensive scar tissue to build up. Apparently they tried to remove it surgically when I first got here, but there was too much or my heart was too weak or something. Said I need a transplant. Soon."

"That sucks," he mumbles.

She rolls her head and stares up at the ceiling. "Yeah. I think the worst part is that I saw the signs. They warned me about them, what to look out for. I just… didn't wanna believe it," she says.

"What made you come in, then?"

She turns to face him again, a frown tugging at her features. "I didn't. I passed out during a takedown and my team had no choice but to call an ambulance. Next thing I know, I'm on the heart transplant list and stuck in here."

"Oh, it's not all bad," he tells her, "you do have a ruggedly handsome roommate."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, that totally makes up for the fact that I'm risking heart failure every time I laugh."

He's fairly certain it was meant to be a joke, but it doesn't feel like one. It feels like a serious reality check. A really big reminder that they're here, in the cardio-pulmonary ward of New York City's best hospital, and both of them could die.

And there's no words adequate to express what that means. So he doesn't say anything.

The next day, when his mother and Alexis come to visit, Kate is in one of her awake periods. They'd been talking all morning, once again ignoring the fact that they're dying, side by side in a sterile hospital room. She told him about her job, and he told her about his. She told him about her dad, how he's in Scotland and she doesn't want to worry him too much to make him come back.

He wondered what could possibly lead her to thinking her father should be in Scotland while she's dying.

They're talking about how Dr. Davidson flirts with her every time he comes in when the door opens and Alexis walks in, saying something about how his mother ended up stopping to talk to one of the older doctors—flirt, to be more precise—when she stops in her tracks and sees Kate.

He's not sure if he actually wants them to meet, doesn't really introduce Alexis to most of his friends. But he also knows it would be extremely rude to close the curtain in Kate's face when they were in the middle of a conversation. So he smiles at Alexis, motions to where Kate is sitting.

"Alexis, this is my roommate, Detective Kate Beckett," he tells his daughter.

Kate smiles. "I would get up to shake your hand, but I'm bedridden unless I need to use the bathroom," she explains. The chuckle she lets out is forced, but he doubts Alexis notices.

Instead, his daughter walks around his bed to stand by Kate's and shake her hand. "I would say nice to meet you, Detective Beckett, but this is never a good place to meet someone," she says.

It's almost the exact same thing Kate told the nurse that first morning.

Kate and Alexis talk for about half an hour. Alexis does some research on Kate's condition, finds an article on the shooting that put her here in the first place. He sees Kate's face when she mentions it, remembers her comment about not being able to laugh without risking cardiac arrest. He figures crying isn't much better, so he asks Alexis not to read the article. At least, not in front of Kate.

He can't risk having her die in front of him.

He's not sure why the idea hurts him so much.

"I'm bored," she announces one day. He turns to face her, and she does the same. "Waiting for a heart transplant is boring."

"You don't have to tell me," he reminds her, and though he means it as lighthearted, the exchange feels heavy.

She stares at him for a minute then turns to face the ceiling. "We should do something," she says. "I've always hated doing nothing, and now I've been doing exactly that for almost three weeks."

"We could do something," he suggests.

"Like what?"

He hums softly. "I would suggest truth or dare, but being bedridden and unable to do much of anything, that would be no fun," he answers. And then he turns to her. "Ooh, how about twenty questions?"

She turns to him, brows furrowed. "Twenty questions? What are we? Twelve?"

"Well, last I checked, you're thirty-two and I'm forty-two, but we can pretend we're twelve, it that will make you play," he answers. She rolls her eyes at him, again. "Come on, Kate, you said you're bored. Ask me about my deepest, darkest secrets."

"How about we start with something more trivial. Like, middle name?"

She gives in. She's going to play. And that makes him smile.

"Alexander before the name change, Edgar now," he answers. "You?"

Her face contorts into an adorable little frown. "Don't laugh," she warns. He nods, smiling. "Houghton."

He doesn't laugh, because although not the most… feminine last name he's ever heard, it suits her. Somehow, he just knows it does. So, instead, he nods.

"Your turn," she says.

He thinks for a second before asking: "Birthday?"

"Lame," she huffs, shaking her head at him. He notices her pulse slow, and then rise again. "It's November seventeenth, seventy-nine. You?"

"April first, sixty-nine," he answers.

She turns to him, a smile on her face. "April Fool's baby?" she asks. He nods. Her smile only grows. "Guess that makes you a big joke."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny, Kate," he mumbles. "That has to be the worst joke you've cracked yet."

She laughs softly, and her heart rate falls again, comes back up when she stops as quickly as she started. "Sorry," she whispers, "I couldn't help it." Her gaze meets his, and for the first time since she's come in, she looks genuinely scared.

Something in him tells him he needs to distract her.

So he does. "Blood type?" he asks.

She smiles, and although he knows it's forced, he does, too. "O positive," she answers.

He feels his smile widen at that. "Me too."

"So," he asks one day when they're just lying there, silently, and it feels too much like they're just waiting, "anyone special in your life?"

She turns to him, brows furrowed. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Just wondering," he answers. "I would guess no, because the only people I've heard you talk to were your dad, and, uh, Gates? But I mean, maybe you just don't want to worry him, either or maybe it's long distance of something."

"So, you wanna know if I have a boyfriend?" she asks. He nods. "Because you're just wondering. I don't know, Rick, I think you're trying to figure out if you can flirt with me, or if I'm already taken."

"If you are taken, it's a little late to instill a no flirting rule, don't you think?" he counters.

She chuckles softly, and her heart rate falls, her hand pressing against her chest like it hurts. "Yeah, I guess," she whispers. It sounds pained, and he's tempted to tell her not to talk, to let her heart recover from whatever her laughter triggered, but her pulse is already rising and he sees her relax a bit. "And no, I don't have a boyfriend. What about you, any special woman in your life? Besides Alexis and your mother?"

"Nah. The hospital isn't the ideal location for a date," he answers.

"I don't know, Rick, I think you're doing pretty good."

He's positive the words were not the deliberate, the implication not meant to be there, but he can't help but grin at her anyway and chuckle softly when she winces as she realizes her own mistake.

"Does that mean this is a date, Kate?"

"Not what I meant," she grumbles before falling silent for a moment. "So," he pipes up eventually, "if not a girlfriend, who's the Gina person you talk to on the phone all the time?"

"Publisher," he answers, "and ex-wife."

That draws her attention, her innocently curious gaze. "Ex-wife? Alexis' mom?"

"Nope, that would be Meredith, the other ex-wife."

"Wow. Two ex-wives? What happened, if you don't mind my asking?" she asks, and he can tell she's still nothing but genuinely curious.

So he tells her. "Meredith cheated on me with one of her directors. I, uh, caught them in the act," he says, "and Gina and I never should have gotten together in the first place, never mind married."

"Hmm… Well, with two divorces under your belt, and the, what was it, understanding of people you get from being a writer, you must be able to come up with a pretty good answer," she says. She turns to him, serious as could be. "If we were to get together, what would make us fall apart?"

"Nothing."

It comes out before he can think, but his heart flutters in his chest—the good kind, not the ones all the doctors in the ward warn you about—and he realizes it's true. So very true.

Until her words, soft and confused, cut through his joy.

"Really?" She actually sounds lost, like his answer made no sense to her. "I mean, you must have know Meredith for at least a couple months before you got her pregnant, asked her to marry you and had a shotgun wedding for the baby's sake—yeah, that sounds like you —and you must have known Gina for a while, too, before you guys got married." Her eyes meet his. "We've only known each other for a few weeks," she says, "why do you think we would work out better?"

Her eyes flash with something he can't read. Hope, maybe.

And he's dead serious—okay, bad choice of words—when he answers.

"Because I think our relationship, founded on this, something big, life changing, life threatening and completely serious, would be stronger than any relationship based on an unintentional—albeit not regretted—pregnancy or or a publicity stunt," he tells her, keeping his gaze locked on hers.

She stares at him for a what feels like forever, swallows thickly and turns away. "I'm tired," she mumbles.

For a minute, he thinks she's avoiding him, but she's out within five minutes.

She sleeps a lot more, almost like a newborn. She wakes up to eat, go to the bathroom, and occasionally they talk. But most of the time, she's asleep. She's weaker, too. She wobbles to the bathroom, walks so slowly, a hand pressed against the wall like it's the only thing holding her upright.

She's dying.

He knows it. The doctors know it. But worst of all, she knows it.

Because in her moments of consciousness, her head rolls on the pillow, and her eyes meet his, and sometimes it looks like she's begging for help, but others it looks like she just wants to give in to the fatigue and the weakness and never wake up.

Sometimes, he wishes the curtain that separates her from him actually was soundproof, and this evening is one of those times. Because he knows he's going to hear something he doesn't want to hear the moment nurse Branton walks by, shooting with a sympathetic gaze that he knows can't be good. And then she, along with Dr. Davidson, disappear behind the curtain, into Kate's side of the room.

"Kate," he hears Dr. Davidson say, "your heart function is diminishing more rapidly than we anticipated. You've been moved up on the transplant list, and we're all very hopeful that you will get a new heart on time, but UNOS can make no guarantees. Is there anyone you would like us to call?"

Her dad still doesn't know. She's dying and her dad doesn't know and he half expects her to finally give in and tell him the truth about her condition. But she doesn't.

All he hears from her is a pained hum, and a mumble that sounds a little like his name.

The most bittersweet day of his life begins at 2:47, when he's woken by the most pained scream he's ever heard. His eyes pop open and he pulls it a quick breath that makes his failing lungs ache and he turns towards the curtain because, even screaming, he recognizes that voice. He would recognize it anywhere.

His thumb hits the red button to call the nurse, and he's almost tempted to ignore doctor's orders and climb out of bed to go calm her down, but then nurse Mason is running into the room. She spots him first, and then hears Kate and runs past him, swiping the curtain closed between them.

"Page Dr. Davidson!" she calls into the hall.

He can hear nurse Mason attempting to soothe Kate, but her breathing is labored and he can hear her pained moans and her choked, sleepy sobs that are fading, fading. And he tries not to focus on that, to focus on the beeping of her heart monitor. But the beats are slowing and he hears nurse Mason call for the exact same thing she did right before Mr. Johnson was pronounced dead. A crash cart.

But now it's not old Mr. Johnson, but Kate. Kate who is only thirty two and has so much ahead of her. Kate, his friend. Kate, the woman he's pretty sure he's falling in love with.

And she's dying.

Dr. Davidson runs into the room just as the monitor makes a new sound, a fast beeping he vaguely recognizes, and the doctor shouts something followed by "charge to three hundred!" and then "clear!"

He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the first jolt of electricity, the spasms of her lifeless body, the rustling of the sheets beneath her. His fingers curl around his own sheets, fists so tight they hurt when he hears them do it again.

And then, finally, Dr. Davidson tells the nurses "We got her back."

He's almost reassured, until he hears the doctor tell the nurse to update UNOS on her condition and have her moved up the list. If she doesn't get a heart within the next few days, at most, she's not going to make it.

Thank you to my friend Christina for reading this over for me and correcting all my face palm worthy mistakes. Stay tuned for part two, and thank you for reading. :)