Under the moonlight
Weathering with your warm embrace
I feel so safe here
Baby we're worth the wait

One Million Bullets - Sia

"I open my eyes and look at you."

She smiles up at him, at his face so soft, his eyes so tender and loving, and reaches up to brush her fingertips across his cheek. "Thanks for coming to get me," she whispers, barely audible in the silent hours of the night.

He returns her tight-lipped smile with a tender one of his own. "Always." His lips meet hers in one, two soft pecks before he rolls onto his back, his arm wrapping around her when she follows.

Her head settles on his chest, broad and firm under her cheek, and she grips his shirt with her other hand, settles into his strong embrace. She's safe here, warm, eternally grateful that this wonderful man has found her and given her a reason to fight, a reason to live. Her eyes drift shut as his hand strokes her arm, his touch soft and soothing, helping relax her into sleep.

But she can't sleep. Not for long.

His eyes flutter open when he hears it: a quiet sniffle, a creak of a floorboard, the door of the refrigerator. He's on his side, the two of them having shifted in their sleep so her back was to him, his arm around her torso. They almost always end up like this, regardless of how they fall asleep. She's told him it makes her feel safe; he loves how their bodies line up perfectly with each other. It's comfortable. It's home.

Except for tonight.

He swipes the empty space in front of him; it's still warm. So she hasn't been gone long. Really, if he thinks about it, he isn't surprised. She hasn't had to see Dr. Burke for months, not since the early weeks of his return, she'd quietly admitted one night. But every so often, after a bad case, usually one that reminds her of her shooting, he finds her in his office, staring out the window, lost in thought. Usually he leaves her alone, lets her work through whatever she can't talk about, until he welcomes her back into bed with open arms.

But not tonight.

He glances at the clock as he slides out bed; it's before 2, so they haven't been home but a couple hours. His body aches with the stress of the previous few days, and his eyes scream for relief. But he can't sleep, not when the love of his life is obviously hurting, not when he can see the faint light in the kitchen that wasn't on when they went to bed.

He doesn't bother with his robe. It's the middle of February, almost Valentine's Day, but the furnace is high in an attempt to ward off the chill from their dual near-death experiences. It's not quite as internally chilling as their brush with death in the freezer, but it's close.

She's sitting at the kitchen island, hunched over, her back to him. He approaches her carefully; the first time this happened, he surprised her, and almost got an elbow to the nose because of it. So he gives her a wide berth until he's in front of her, the counter between them, and he grabs himself a glass of water to match hers.

Her eyes are glued to the front door, but he sees them occasionally dart to the ceiling, the walls, even the decorative vases above the cupboards. He knows exactly what she's doing; she'd done the same thing after their previous brush with Tyson, when Castle had been framed for murder and almost murdered himself.

She's looking for the cameras that he'd used to spy on them over two years prior.

He leans against the counter, his eyes on her face until she finally looks at him. Her eyes slowly focus on him, and he sees the moment she's back: it's the moment her fingers find her wedding ring.

"Sorry," she whispers, but her hands curl tighter around her water glass. "I hope I didn't wake you?"

He reaches his hand out, brushes his fingertips against the back of her hand. "You can always wake me, Kate." He rests his hand on the countertop, waiting for her to put her palm against his. When she finally does, his fingers curl around hers, squeezing gently. "Always."

They're silent for several minutes, until his back starts screaming at him to stand up. But he ignores it; they need this, she needs this, needs the silence. The strength, the support. She just needs him to be here.

He'll always be here.

"I killed her," she finally gets out, her voice hoarse, and her fingers tighten around his. "I've killed people before, but this…" Her voice trails off, but he waits her out. "A scalpel. Not a gun, not even a knife. A scalpel."

She's starting to breathe faster, panic bleeding into her eyes, and he makes his way around the counter until he's beside her, their hands never breaking contact. "You did what you had to do to survive."

She looks up at him, her eyes wild. "She was right there, Castle. I looked her in the eyes and stabbed her. And once I got free…" She shakes her head, her gaze falling to his chest, unfocused once again. "She fought me. Or, she tried. But I stabbed her again...and again...and…"

He lets go of her hand then, only to pull her into his arms, a hand at the back of her head, the other at the small of her back. "Kate…" he whispers against her hair.

"The worst part?" she mumbles into his chest before looking up at him, her chin on his sternum. "I don't even feel bad. She was a psychopath. A serial killer. She was evil. I thought I'd be torn up about it, about taking another life like that." She shakes her head. "But I'm not. Not one bit. How do I live with that?"

He cups her her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, her temples, the face he almost lost forever. "I don't know," he admits. "But what I do know is that you're the strongest person I know. And you did what you had to do to survive. And you should never, ever, apologize for defending yourself."

She lets her face fall to his chest again, and she finally wraps her arms around his back, her hands clasping together. "I'm going to call Dr. Burke tomorrow. I think it would be good for me to see him."

"I agree." They stand for a few minutes, swaying in place, before he pulls away and reaches behind him to take her hands. "Let's go back to bed."

The next night he wakes before she does. She's whimpering, her back to him, curled into herself. He props himself on his elbow to look down at her; her eyes are screwed shut, tears escaping into the pillow, brow furrowed. He slips out of bed and moves to kneel in front of her, his fingers tracing the creases of her forehead, her temple.

"Kate…" he whispers, his eyes on her closed eyelids. "Kate, sweetie, wake up."

She finally wakes with a jerk and she sits up, eyes wild, gaze darting around the room until it lands on him. Her eyes focus and she takes his hand from where it had landed on the mattress, pulls it to her chest. "Rick," she says, her voice trembling.

He slides in next to her and pulls her into his arms, and she curls into him, buries her face in his chest. "You're okay," he whispers into her hair. "You're home, you're safe. I got you."

Nightmares aren't new; they both get them, have spent many nights comforting each other. He relies on her physical tells when she has them; she doesn't vocalize her feelings well, never has, but he's learned to read her body, learned that she'll tell him what she needs. And tonight, she just needs to be held.

So he does, hauls her into his lap, rocks her gently while she cries into his shirt, his hand splayed against her back. He feels a few tears escape his own eyes; he wishes he could take her pain away, could make her forget about Tyson and Nieman just as he forgot his own disappearance.

But he can't, so he makes a silent promise to her, to himself, to make new memories, replace the bad ones with good. To wake her with soft kisses and caresses instead of light touches and concerned eyes.

He'd had plans for Valentine's Day, their first as a married couple, but he makes a mental note to cancel them. They'll go to the Hamptons, he decides, get away from the city for a few days. They use it as a temporary escape when she's able to get consecutive days off work. And she's under strict orders not to return to the precinct for a week, so it's perfect. Hopefully it can give her a chance to recover, a chance for both of them to purge the thoughts that plague them in the dead of night.

Her sobs eventually fade into quiet sniffles, and when her breathing evens out he shifts, lays them down, his arms secure around her. And finally, with her tucked firmly on top of him, her legs tangled with his, her tears dry, he lets himself give in to the call of sleep.

AN: A belated birthday fic for Rach, aka rippedateveryedge, a person who I am proud to call a close friend. Thank you for being you.