Disclaimer: I ate mac and cheese for every meal today, so it's obvious that I'm not a functioning adult. No, I do not own them.

A/N: It's been a long time, right? I started this as a multi-chapter fic over the summer, and I kind of hadn't thought of it again even though I'd written two full chapters. Recently, I was stuck at a house without internet, television, cell phone service, or a house phone, so I had to find something to do. Here's the edited first chapter. It's rather short. Yes, there will be a second chapter, but I want to let the first sit for a while before I post the second. Enjoy!

There's nothing that I take back,

But it's hard to say there's nothing I regret,

'Cause when I sing, you shout,

I breathe out loud,

You bleed,

We crawl like animals,

But when it's over,

I'm still awake.

- Of Monsters and Men, "Silhouettes"

Her clothes were soaked by the time she was at his door.

She could feel the rainwater deep within her boots and right against her breasts; somehow, she'd managed to sit in the rain for long enough that her clothes had gone heavy, long enough that her garments had become a thick second skin that she desperately wanted gone. Maybe he'll open the door, she thought. When she'd tried to call him earlier, he hadn't picked up, but she'd expected that, had expected him to deny any advances that she would give. Part of her wished she hadn't pushed him away while another part wished she'd forced him to leave long beforehand, that strange man. When she'd spoken her words of rage, she'd meant them, but after he'd gone, she'd finally felt herself come to the /because I love you/ wall, finally had realized the truth behind his words despite his constant honesty throughout the statement. She'd then gone into her bedroom and had lain down in bed, had stretched out as she felt her heavy face give way to tears. And what exactly was she crying for? For Castle, for the case, out of stubbornness, for herself?

Most of all, she wished that she could've gone back to her days as a little girl, back to when she could've curled into her mother's arms and cried there instead of crying alone in her bedroom. When she tried to think of how to move forward, she was stuck; she couldn't think of a way to get past the place where she was, and now, she had no where to go. She was a cornered mouse, too meek and tiny to get away, so she was forced to run into the trap, to sacrifice herself because she was far too small. So she consulted the one person she could trust, her mother.

Things quickly went sideways mainly because Kate hadn't listened to her mother. At the grave, she could think of one thing; she had to bring justice to the situation, so Kate had tracked down her shooter. Now she was wet, bruised, suspended, unemployed, and madly in love with Castle even though she couldn't tell him that. Though she'd believed that justice would be found if she tracked down Maddox, Kate was mistaken; instead, justice was in Castle, in what she and Castle could be together. She hadn't listened to her mother, and now she was trying to. Maybe things would work out for her and Castle. After all, she'd spoken and had memorized the words she wanted to say to him; now she just had to let go and say everything. She could live with whatever outcome came so long as there was an outcome.

With three nervous raps on his door, she tried to muster the courage to speak.

He came to the door slowly, and with each step of his she heard, she felt her nerves spike again and again. Finally, he opened the door, presented himself with an uncaring face as soon as he saw her.

"Beckett, what to do want?" he said with annoyance.

And then she felt her stomach lurch, felt her breath stop, felt all of her preparations melt away. Wasn't she supposed to say something? She had to say something; she'd practiced the words over and over again, but now he was asking her something, was saying something far from her script. Now she had to improvise.

"I'm hurt," she forced out, as though she were coughing something up. "I'm hurt, Castle, and I need help."

He didn't look concerned; instead, he ushered her in as she finally took another breath. And she was hurt, being that her posture had turned from high to that of a feral cat's. Contracting over slightly, she walked toward his living room, felt her clothes dripping onto his floor. As he shut the door, he came back to her, brought a hand to her back; with the touch, she flinched.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice low.

She glanced to him, and as he saw the nervousness in his eyes, he offered an asking, "Kate."

"Can you take my jacket off?" she asked, meeting his eyes.

He nodded slowly as he went to her back, as he tried to pull the leather off of her arms. When he tugged the jacket off of her, she flinched again, and for a moment, he wished he could've already know what had happened. Was she even actually hurt? He had no idea.

She felt lighter without the jacket, but her shirt was still there; though she still wore most of her armor, she at least had her back mostly free. How could she get her shirt off? After Maddox had thrown her to the ground, had beaten her until she couldn't breathe, she'd felt her back bruise, but now the marks were truly taking her over; she could barely move, and when she did, she hurt throughout her spine.

"Beckett, what happened?" he asked again as he walked toward the kitchen, as he laid her jacket against one of the chairs.

Glancing to her, he searched for an answer, and this time, he actually did seem concerned.

She couldn't think of what to say, and though she wanted to explain everything to him, she couldn't find the words, so in an attempt to show him, she tried, "Can you cut my shirt off?"

"Kate-"

"Please."

He closed his eyes, let out a sigh as he motioned for her to come closer. Dripping as she walked, she went into the kitchen, and when he pulled out kitchen scissors from a drawer, she leaned over the stainless steal sink there and waited for him. He brought a hand to her back as he went to cut, and when she flinched again, he begged, "Kate."

"Just cut it, Castle," she said, hushed.

She dug her hands into the sink as he trailed the scissors from the base of her spine up; as he cut higher and higher, she felt relief going up her back, and when she finally had the shirt cut in half at her spine, she sighed out of thankfulness; however, he stopped breathing.

"Kate," he asked as he finally exhaled.

And there was the concern she hadn't seen before; now he was scared, but somehow, she liked the unconcerned Castle more.

"What does it look like?" she asked, craning her neck back but finding that the movement hurt as well.

She heard him as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, and although he knew better than to do so, he softly unhinged her bra, letting her back be entirely bare. Then, he took a picture and passed the phone up to her. While she looked at the picture, she listened as he walked away, and even though she wanted to know where he was going, she couldn't take her eyes off of the picture. On her back were a series of large, puckering bruises, and with black and blue covering her spine, she looked as though she'd been brutally beaten, which maybe she had been. Now she could see why moving hurt. Of course, being hurt hadn't been her reason for coming, but she was there in his apartment, and at least that was something.

Eventually, Castle returned, and she passed his phone back to him; he took the piece quickly.

"Kate, I need you to tell me what happened," he said, leaning on the countertop alongside her so that he could meet her eyes.

"Where did you go?" she asked.

In front of her, he placed a tub of ointment so that she could see.

"Arnica gel," he said as he folded his hands and turned to her. "Does wonders on hickeys. The bruises will go away much quicker."

She didn't react to his comment, instead just stared at the tube of gel.

"I can try to put some on," she said, reaching toward the gel but finding that doing so hurt.

"No," he said quickly, putting his hand over hers in order to stop her movement. "Let me."

He went behind her, and once she'd had enough courage to tell him not to, he'd started slathering gel onto his hands; then, with soft, kind motions, he brought his hands warmly across her back and stroked the outlines of every bruise. At first, the touches made her wince, but after the first few strokes, Kate relaxed her body against his hands, leaned over the sink just a bit farther as he rubbed the gel on her back.

"I'm guessing that this feels nice," Castle said as he continued to massage her back.

"At first, the bruises weren't painful, but then they were so excruciating that I could hardly..."

And then she let out a low, breathy, almost silent moan because, damn it, his hands were nothing but warm comfort against her battle scars, and secretly, the sound she made caused his knees to go weak.

"It's quite nice," she said afterward, trying to clear the air.

"Yeah," he offered, a bit put off even though it was in a good way.

His hands slowed, and with every knead he gave against her skin, she felt herself continue to relax, and suddenly, she wasn't thinking of the day, of her resignation, of how she'd gotten those bruises; she thought of him, of how his hands danced a slow waltz down her spine, of how she wished these touches, though they didn't seem entirely platonic, weren't platonic. Suddenly, she wished that he'd touched her not because she was hurt but because he'd wanted to touch her, and now that he was touching her, she never wanted him to stop. From the relief of the gel, the softness of his touch, and the sudden lightness on her torso, she felt better than she'd ever felt before. But then his hands stopped, and immediately, all of her thoughts, the troubling ones and the good ones, came back in a flood, and every bit of relaxation he'd given her seemed to subside; now she was just hurt and battered, and now she didn't have him comforting her. She almost felt as though she were missing a part of herself after he'd taken his hands off of her, felt as though one of her limbs were missing even though all of her limbs were intact.

"Thank you," she said as she stood up straight again.

"You're welcome," he said as he leaned on the countertop next to her. Glancing to her, he said, "I should take you to a hospital, shouldn't I?"

"No," she said immediately. "I don't need a hospital. I'm fine now, Castle."

Looking behind herself, she saw where her jacket was, heard that the storm outside had already worsened.

"The subway may be crowded because of the rain, but I'll fit," she said as she headed toward her jacket, as she tried to clasp her shirt together in the back even though every movement hurt.

"Kate," he called after her as he trailed her to where her jacket was, "we both know it's best that you don't leave."

"I'm fine now, alright?" she said, meeting his glance as she picked her jacket up off of the kitchen chair. "I just needed some help; that's all."

"You can't just leave, Kate," he said, following as she started toward the front door. "You can't just turn up hurt, let me take care of you, and leave."

"Castle."

And then he took a few strides in front of her and pressed himself against the front door, blocking her way.

"Rick," she said with tired annoyance, as though she were too tired to argue.

"I'm not letting you leave," he said, shaking his head.

Now she could see utter concern in his eyes, an unwavering care for just how badly she'd been hurt. And maybe he could see her emotional scars as well; maybe, as he looked into her eyes, he could see an untold story of fear, of anguish, of defeat, and now that he'd seen the book-jacket, he had to read the story. No matter what she would do, he had to know what had happened, to know what had gone wrong.

"I'm not letting you leave, Kate," he repeated, shaking his head.

Letting out a breath, she looked down, found that he'd blocked her, and, as she looked up to him, she asked, "Then what happens next, Rick?"

He looked to her, opened his mouth the speak but couldn't find words. Though she knew what she wanted next, she couldn't tell him such things. For her, the next action would be a kiss, a slow, passionate kiss, and then they would stop and discuss what they were doing. Maybe they'd declare it right there, that if they kept going, they wouldn't stop; maybe they'd say that this was it, and if it happened, then it happened, and if it didn't, then it didn't. Had he been waiting for such a thing as long as she had? For Kate, the situation was only frightening because she couldn't initiate a beginning; however, if he started to love her in a physical way, she would love him back so quickly and so well that he would wonder how they'd ever not loved each other in such a way. Then, they would take a bath together, and as he rubbed hot water against her back, she would press her chest against his, would kiss that one spot on his neck that she secretly, and desperately, wanted to taste. She wanted to hear it again, his I love you, and she even wanted to say it back.

But that wasn't how things would go. Instead, she had to be realistic.

"The couch is comfortable," he said, glancing toward the living room. "I don't want you going up any stairs while you're injured, so the guest room is out. However, the couch is comfortable, and there are plenty of blankets, so you should be fine. You'd best be taking a shower before you go to sleep, and I can lend you a pair of sweats for the night. And, Kate?"

She met his gaze again and hummed in response.

"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me how all of this happened," he said.

She would've retorted had he not looked so scared by all of her bruises. Though she wanted to tell him what had happened, she felt exhaustion hanging on her brow, and if she had to force the entire story out, if she had to see his reaction, then she surely wouldn't be able to sleep that night. Maybe she could tell him the next morning. That was, if she was still there the next morning.

"Fine," she said, removing her jacket a second time.

He took the leather coat from her, and reaching out to take her hand, he let their fingers intertwine. Pulling her toward his office, he lead her in to where the bathroom was, gave her two towels, one to dry off with and one to cover her front with after she'd dried off, and a pair of his sweatpants. After letting her into the bathroom, he'd claimed that he was going to try to sleep, and if she needed anything, he told her that she could wake him up. He'd left within a few seconds, had gone back into the bedroom and likely gotten ready for bed, but she was left longing, left wondering what it would've felt like to have his lips against her forehead before he'd gone. She wondered what his goodnight kisses felt of, and as she started to draw a bath rather than a shower, she wondered how he would've drawn the same bath. What if he were in the bath with her? Fantasies kept running through her head, and with every new imagining, she wished even more that she could leave the bathroom, go into his bedroom, and wake him up just to proclaim to him all of these feelings that she had for him.

Instead, she brought a pointed foot into the bathtub all alone, and instead, she slid into the tub by herself. There were no bubbles, no soft rinses, no candles and no advance copies of Nikki Heat books and no glasses of wine; this bath was one for relief, and as she sat in the bath, she felt herself hunch over out of pain. Slowly, she slipped down into the bath so that her back only floated in the water; using her hands against the edges of the tub, she held her torso in a hanging place, made sure that her spine never touched the ceramic bottom of the bath. The heat was kind on her back; however, she still had that picture of her leaning over Castle's chest while he used a warm washcloth against her bruises, and she longed to have him holding her up instead of having her own arms holding her up. With a bar of soap, she washed her hair, ran the bar along her body in hope of shedding the rainwater from her skin. As she brought herself out of the bath, as she dried off with the first towel he'd given her, she was forced to glance in a mirror across the room.

She could see herself, but somehow, she didn't recognize herself. With bloodshot eyes, a tired brow, and scared posture, she looked nothing of what she'd been only a few days beforehand; now, she was afraid, and she was a coward, and she wasn't someone who deserved his love. Instead, she deserved asylum, and she wasn't sure if Castle could give her such a thing. She was a fraction of Kate Beckett, and with every movement she made, she felt weaker and weaker to the point where she hardly wanted to move at all.

I love him, she thought, and she repeated the thought as she pulled on his sweats, as she wrapped the second towel over her front, as she walked past his bedroom and toward the living room. In bed he lay, and as she walked past, she forced herself to resist the powerful urge she had to lie down next to him, to curl up against his side, to kiss his cheek as he slept and maybe sleep a little bit as well. However, such actions were things that she couldn't do, so she held back and simply walked past his bed and headed toward the living room.

The storm brewed on outside; when she found herself at the couch, she could still heard loud claps of thunder. Lying down slowly, she lay on her stomach and over the second towel, bunched the towel up alongside her breasts in hope of covering her front. She held her body in place as she pulled a throw blanket over her legs and over the very base of her back, where the bruises weren't as large. Lying there, she forced herself to shut her eyes, tried her best to sleep, but she was wide awake with thoughts of him dancing through her mind. Did he know how much she thought of him? Did he realize that she'd spent the last year of her life wondering every night how it would feel to have him in her bed? Did he understand that she'd put her hair in a bun so many times during the year solely because he'd said that he'd liked it once? She was too much of a coward to share her feelings, but she still had her thoughts, still had her fantasies of being the woman on his arm at book signings, still had her ideas of what waking up next to him would be like. Though she couldn't understand all of her thoughts, she knew one thing for sure; she loved him, and no matter what would happen, she would always love him. Always.

But for now, she was in his loft, and she was hurt, and she hadn't said any of the things she'd wanted to say. However, she was in his loft, and that was a start. Though sleep was a distant thought, she'd made some progress; forcefully, she congratulated herself on such progress.

Maybe she could make even more progress in the morning.

A thousand silhouettes dancing on my chest,

No matter where I sleep,

You are haunting me,

But I'm already there,

I'm already there,

Wherever there is you,

I will be there too.