The bed is soft under his fingers when he wakes. His head hurts but the burn of his arm has dulled to a barely-there shimmering of pain.

It's the fluorescent light overhead that makes him sit up.

"Easy, Castle." Kate sounds tired and too far away. "You're okay."

"Where…?"

"Palisades. We made it."

When he turns his head, she's not at his side. Not close enough to touch, at least. She's across the room in her own bed, her own IVs and monitors hooked up. Her hair is still unwashed, tamed by a hair elastic that makes the dull strands hang over her right shoulder. "What happened back there?" he asks, his voice so quiet he almost isn't sure he spoke at all.

She smiles slowly. "You fainted like a drama queen. Apparently our combined weakness convinced those guards that we weren't going to cause any trouble. Got you into a SUV and up here." Kate traces her fingers along the rail of her bed. "How's the arm?"

"Better, I think," he says, glancing down. Everything below his shoulder is bare of the hospital gown. The elastic bandage is clean, wrapped around his arm to hold the gauze against the graze. But the skin doesn't spark in pain when he shifts and his bicep twitches. "Either really good drugs or the infection is gone."

"Let's aim for the second choice," she breathes. "Though you've probably got decent drugs too."

He swallows, mouth and throat dry. "I want to touch you," he groans. "Why're you over there?"

"Malnourished," she says, eyeing the IV pole attached to the bed. "Got this thing for another couple of hours. But we made it to New Jersey. Thank God."

"Don't hear that every day." He tries to laugh but it comes out too rough and harsh. "Thank God for New Jersey." Castle sobers, the weight of everything crushing the breath from his lungs. "Kate. Our family."

She shakes her head, hand tightening on the sheets. "They're smart. We'll find them and figure this out and then we'll go home and─"

"Have our girl," he finishes when she runs out of air. "Or boy. I don't care as long as it's with you."

"Definitely good drugs," she sighs. "Normally your lines are much better than that romantic comedy stuff."

When he opens his eyes again, the sun is rising just over her shoulder.

Maybe Eliot was wrong.

Maybe this isn't the end of the world. Just the end of the world as he knew it.