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The sterile white walls of the hospital corridor hum with the fluorescent buzz of overhead lights as Ryan’s gurney rattles past, wheels squeaking against linoleum. Blood soaks through the gauze pressed to his shoulder, a slow, stubborn seep, and Castle’s hands tremble where they clutch the edge of his jacket. He smells gunpowder and funeral lilies still clinging to his sleeves.
Esposito’s voice cuts through the numbness, sharp as glass. "This is on you." He doesn’t shout—that’s worse. It’s quiet, deliberate, the kind of rage that simmers. "You pushed Beckett into reopening her mother’s case. You dragged Ryan into this mess." His knuckles whiten around the strap of his shoulder holster. "He shouldn’t have been there."
Castle doesn’t argue. The truth sits heavy in his throat, metallic like blood. He watches the surgeon’s gloved hands flash behind the swinging doors before they swallow Ryan whole.
Hours crawl by. The waiting room coffee tastes like burnt cardboard, but he drinks it anyway, just to feel the scalding heat punish something. Esposito paces, a caged animal in a cheap suit. When the surgeon finally emerges—gloves peeled off, mask dangling—Castle’s heart lurches into his ribs.
"Stable," the man says, and the word is a benediction. But stable isn’t safe.
Ryan’s awake by evening, propped up on morphine and confused. His eyes skate over Castle’s face like he’s searching for a landmark in fog.
"Hey," he rasps. The heartbeat monitor stutters when he tries to sit up.
Castle reaches out, then freezes, hand hovering. "You remember what happened?" Castle asks, too fast, too desperate.
Ryan frowns. The monitor ticks louder. "...Funeral. Beckett’s eulogy. Then—" He rubs his temple. "Nothing."
A fist tightens around Castle’s lungs. He doesn’t remember. Not the sniper’s muzzle flash. Not shoving Beckett down. Not the kiss—god, the kiss—in the shadow of the church, desperate and sweet with grief.
Ryan exhales, weary. "I need time. To heal. I’ll... call you." It’s polite. Distant. A dismissal.
Castle nods like his neck’s rusted through. Outside, rain slicks the pavement, distorting the streetlights into smears of gold. He doesn’t go home. He walks until his shoes are ruined, until his phone buzzes with Beckett’s unanswered texts, until the guilt is a living thing gnawing at his ribs. Somewhere, a sniper reloads. Somewhere, Ryan dreams of empty spaces. Castle drowns in the silence between rings.