A/N: I CAN'T TAKE IT WITH THESE TWO. Good Lord! And since they won't JUST TALK on the show, I made them talk myself.

It's not very good though, but I hope you'll like it. Because I am DYING. These two are just killing me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Castle, even though I really want to push them both into a supply closet and let them scream at each other (this will hopefully end in angry sex and a lot of love) Any and all mistakes are mine. It's 2am, so I'm expecting a lot. I write more when I'm tired. Frustrating. :(

I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My, my, my, my, my, my
Right in this moment
This order's tall

The pain eats her from the inside out. Her scar is pulled taut across her chest as she gulps in as much air as she can, her chest undulating with the action, her hand unmoving from the coin-sized blemish that mars her chest.

There's so much she has to tell him, so much he has to know.

But she – she can't tell him. She doesn't know how.

The words don't come. The words don't flow. They stick in her throat and she chokes pitifully on them. She can't even look him in the eyes anymore – not when the striking blue of his irises regard her with such iciness and dread as he glares back at her. Not when he looks at her like she's the last thing on earth he ever wants to see.

She sucks in a sharp breath as the scar is pulled even tighter, gasping at the phantom pain that shoots across her abdomen, hand gripping the area where the surgery had ripped her open. Her heart is beating too fast – too fast – she feels it hammering against her ribcage, drumming endlessly in her ears. She suspects that he hears every thud of its movement in her body.

She can see him studying her movements, eyes following her actions intensely. Surely, he must know how much she feels for him – for them. But his eyes shoot back to her face, glancing behind her, into the dim hallway; behind him, into the soft, warm light spilling from the lamp in his living room. He avoids her gaze as much as he can.

"You stopped waiting," she gasps, the words sticking painfully to her throat, scraping it raw as she forces them out.

"You lied."

"I didn't –"

"You said you didn't remember."

She's stunned by the venom in his voice, the anger and pure, agonizing hurt lacing his words as he spits each syllable into the air between them. She hisses slightly as the pieces fall into place – why he's been so cold and distant. She didn't want to believe, after she'd seen the coffee on her desk and the writer gone from the precinct. But she doesn't have a choice now. Stupid, she scolds herself. Of course he would've been there.

The words make her want to surge forward, to connect their lips, to show him how much she regrets her decisions.

But no, she's not ready. She's not ready. He's supposed to know that – he's supposed to understand.

He's – he's supposed to understand how much she wants this – them – and how much she can't because she's sure to ruin whatever they have if they jump into something she's not ready for. She wants to crunch in again, the animalistic action of protecting one's heart. Because it's in her nature to run as far and fast as she can.

But she's standing outside his door, defeated, as his body shields his loft from her view, his face schooled of emotion.

She's standing there. It's a step in the right direction at least.

"You were supposed to understand."

"Understand?" he gives a dry laugh that scrapes her body raw, rough like sandpaper. "Beckett, I understand completely. You don't have to explain it to me. Let me just spare you any more embarrassment – I'll stop trying, okay? I'll stop trying to win you over, stop trying to love. Clearly that's what you want."

"God, you idiot!" she hisses. The words paint stories, truths, her guilt as they flow down her cheeks in the saline that leaks from the corners of her eyes. She swipes at them with a loose sleeve, wanting to punch something for her sudden reduction into a watery mess. The clear surprise on his face quickly turns to anger – she watches it happen, and she feels her insides twist and snap.

"Rick," she chokes out quickly, before he can reply, speechless for a moment as she stares into his eyes – as she witnesses the immense anger and hurt they hold. She did this. She did this to him.

"You said it to me while I was dying. What did you expect from me? I mean, you never said it to me again, after. How was I supposed to know that you didn't say it just because I was bleeding to death, just because I had a goddamn bullet in my chest?"

He opens his mouth to reply, his posture defensive, his brows curled in a frown, his eyes blazing. She holds up a hand – she has to finish; she needs to get it out before the words stick again. She needs to not hurt anymore and she needs him by her side to get there. Because, god, she can't lose him.

It scares her, how much she's come to rely on him being there by her side, spurring her on, wanting to be better for him, and for herself. Her own words echo in her ears, I want to be more than who I am.

"I spent three months in my dad's cabin, crying myself to sleep every night because I kept remembering. I kept dreaming about it, feeling the bullet going through my chest, over and over and over again."

The tears flow steadily down her cheeks as the memories flood through her mind in tidal waves, sharp and turbulent as they smash directly into her emotions. Her heart is rubble, while the wall around it, ten-feet-tall. She directs her gaze to the floor, to his bare feet sinking into the carpet; to her own boots making faint imprints onto the floor.

"I wanted to forget and I wanted to give up. The pain was sometimes a little too overwhelming. But your words – they pulled me back – every time I thought of giving up. You pulled me back."

She glances back into his eyes, sees a flurry of emotion racing through his mind – hurt, confusion, despair at the fact that his confession had caused her such grief and – his body stone still and his mouth clamped shut. He is silent, waiting.

Then she smiles at him, her cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

"I was going to tell you – it was easy to ignore it you know? I wasn't ready, and I thought you knew that."

"The swings," he voices, voice cracking. She nods. "I thought, maybe, I was only hearing only what I wanted to hear."

"Castle, I'm... complicated and I'm not fun–"

"Don't – I was being stupid about that. I want complicated – I love complicated, Kate. It means I get to discover more of you, something new, every day. It means you're real. "

She smiles at that, a ghost of a smile stretching her lips imperceptibly as his gaze softens, warms her like a blanket. She whispers, "I'm far from ready. But you know what, Rick? I love you too."

She's pulled into his embrace, though his arms are hesitant, gentle. It hurts her more than it probably should to realize that he doesn't quite believe her. The desperation in his grip seeps into her limbs as they curl around him tighter and she buries her face into his neck.

"I'm sorry,"she whispers, loud enough for him and only him."I'm sorry for being such a coward."

"I'm sorry too," he says, and she can feel his grin against her the top of her head. "I was being such an ass."

She snorts as she tightens her arms around his waist. "Yeah, you kinda were."

He huffs a laugh that tickles her hair, the sound of his amusement washing over her, soft and beautiful and calming. Oh, how she's missed that sound. Though she's missed his smile, the one that stretches across his entire face and reaches the lines around his eyes, the most.

"Is this enough?" she says, after a moment of peaceful silence envelops them both.

"No," he says, and her heart clenches in anticipation, already recognizing the familiar dialogue. "But it's enough for now. I'll wait for you, Kate. As long as you need."

When he touches his lips to hers, she melts against him, weightless, boneless.. It's soft and gentle and it's perfect, and she can't quite control her grin when he whispers, "Always."

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. :)