A/N: I'm kind of intimidated by the number of amazing writers this fandom has. But anyway, someone once told me this was the place to dump all your bad writing and fruits of procrastination. Plus, pieces like this won't serve their purpose rotting in my hard drive, so without further ado, my first Castle fic. A very long drabble-ish.
More than a year after her shooting - a year and five months, to be exact - Kate Beckett stands in front of her full-length mirror, clad only in sweat pants and a lacy black bra. Her face is tired and sallow, eyeliner a little smudged and her hair is properly dishelved, gathered in one messy bun that can't contain the mass of dark locks.
She looks down to her chest, and right there, smack in the valley between her breasts, lifts two fingers to feel the patch of flesh, feeling an almost (if not twistedly) nostalgic sense of deja vu.
The first time she examined her bullet wound intently was when that sniper terrorized the city. Things were different then.
This isn't something she does often. It didn't evolve into a habit or a ritual. She acknowledges the existence of her scars, but she does that by not acknowledging them in the first place - something that Castle never understood (Even if he claims to). There's no emotional attachment whatsoever, no monumental value in them.
Which is why she usually avoids them.
Plunging necklines are a thing of the past. She cleared her wardrobe the minute she got back from her dad's cabin. In the shower, she's careful to dodge coming into contact with these puckered up landmines. Not only do they plunge her into an irrational swirl of insecurity, but they also stir up a little maelstrom in her brain.
Because almost instantly, they give her unwelcome recollections.
But in instances like these when she's forced to look at the whole picture, there's no escaping her scars, physical or otherwise. This is the blueprint of Katherine Beckett. She stands at the juncture of many possible futures. Screwing up is not an option. She wants to make sure of that. Maybe it was a cop thing, or simply a Beckett thing that always forced her into believing that for every field of flowers lies a hidden dead corpse. Always the calm before the storm, never a season of peace. Pessimistic? No. Realistic. At least, in her mind.
She sometimes walks around carrying her dead mother's ring on her neck, for heaven's sake. If that isn't an assurance that things could take a tragic turn at any moment, then what is?
That death has driven her cause for life. To live without looking over her shoulder was unfathomable, and not to mention unfair for anyone who would willingly chose to put up with her. (She has a nagging feeling Castle's the only one dumb enough to, but she doesn't mind one bit).
Sure, she works for a noble cause. She brings justice to those robbed of their voices. She's a lighthouse to the victim's families. It's all very heroic and book worthy. Quick, someone call the Nobel Peace Price Committee.
Bull.
In an alternate reality where her mother arrives safe and sound on their family dinner fourteen years ago, would she even give a damn about catching cold-blooded killers? Yes, she muses. It's the right thing to say, isn't it?
Hypocrite.
Would she be as strong as an advocate if her mother never died?
The fact that she didn't know how to answer her own stupid question was enough to make her feel like a raging hypocrite.
That's why she keeps wondering why he lifts her up on a high pedestal. She's constantly perplexed by those reverent looks he steals when he thinks she's not looking—like she's some sort of statue carved using the finest tools, the most expensive marble, and made by the most skillful artisans of the land. She's dwarfed by his devotion, and that was the truth, no matter how tall he thinks she is. Is there a blind spot to him? Can he not see the gaping imperfections laid out in bold, neon letters?
She splays her entire palm over the scar to cover it, remembering his face when he saw it for the first time. She expected pity, modesty, even. But she didn't expect that look of utter devotion - fear and awe mashed together. It was almost as painful to watch him, like he was reliving everything all over again. For the first time in a long while, Richard Castle was speechless. But it didn't matter at that time, because the next thing she knew, they were kissing soundly.
Surely, the image of the woman staring right at her now is what he sees. A beautiful, broken monument just a few chips and cracks away from being an effigy.
She wanted to be more than that. She wanted a life free of emotional baggage. But that was next to impossible. Although she'll never admit it out loud, she thinks this new normal with him was more than enough for now.
Suddenly, blinking lights at the corner of her eye distract her from her musings, so in one fluid motion, she turns around, cat-like and shuts the laptop on the table rather harshly, effectively sending papers flying to the ground. Feeling oddly displaced after the sudden movement, she catches her breath, but glances back to the mirror. She was having some sort of epiphany before that laptop intervened.
"If you break that, a month's worth of writing will go to waste," she sees the reflection of him standing by her bedroom door and smiles. An obligatory eye-roll follows.
"Says the man who attacks my lack of decent back-up."
He scrunches his face briefly, obviously still veiled in remnants of sleep. She could almost hear the gears in his head churning, rusty from slumber.
"That's a really bad pun," He shoots back in a gruff voice and glances at his watch. "But since it's only 3 AM, I forgive you."
"Wasn't asking for an apology."
He doesn't move. Neither does she. But seeing him in her bathrobe, calling from her bedroom door does things to her. He's the one to break the silence first.
"Come back to bed. Beauty sleep can't be delayed."
"I'm good."
"Wasn't talking about you."
She cracks a smile at that, and thinks that she could get used to this.
"Be there in a second."
Scars be damned.