Did you mean it?
A/N: This is a season 4 AU where Beckett really doesn't remember her shooting. No specific references, but it fits mid season. My first fanfic, so be gentle. Part one of two.
Beckett jerked out of bed with a start, already struggling to untangle her legs from the sweaty sheets before she was fully awake. Her skin was cold and clammy and her hands shook with the rush of adrenaline as they weakly pulled at the sheets. Trembling and stumbling, she only just managed to make it to the bathroom before she vomited.
After emptying her stomach, and dry heaving after that, she slid down to the bathroom floor, closed her eyes and wearily pressed her cheek to the cool tile. Groaning, she wrapped her arms around her belly and pulled her knees up as far as she could. She laid there shaking and twitching until the nausea passed; maybe five minutes, maybe forty-five. Time contracted and stilled around her until she could feel it pressing down on her skin, until she had to open her eyes to see if she could see it there upon her.
She couldn't, of course. Only the blue light of the city night creeping in through the open bathroom door until it blended into the darkness. Only reality was encasing her where she lay fetal, so with a sigh she let her eyes slide shut again. But in doing so she could see the haloed images of her nightmare glowing against her eyelids, so she opened them again. She stared into the darkness and counted the seconds between her ragged breaths.
It felt so real. Even now when she was fully awake, growing cold on the floor of the bathroom. It felt real even when she could hear the omnipresent city traffic and smell the faint traces of orange scented cleaner she'd used earlier that day mixing with the smell of the Chinese food she'd had for supper. Chinese food she probably wouldn't be having again for some time. Ugh.
Nightmares were supposed to recede upon waking, that's how you live with them. When you could see and feel the tack and tang of the real world around you the imperfections and anachronisms and convenient vagueness of dreams remind you that they aren't real. Beckett couldn't remember one sticking so violently with her before.
Once she was sure that her stomach had settled, Beckett sat up and rested her forehead against the wall, reaching blindly overhead for the light switch, and briefly closed her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them again, she stood and looked questioningly at her reflection in the mirror, and pressed both of her hands to the center of her chest, feeling the slight ridge of her scar.
It didn't feel like a dream. The heat of the day, the faces of the people shifting uncomfortably in their folding chairs, the sound of a shot and then the incomprehensible burn in her sternum. The sound of her own breath being punched out of her body, similar to the sound a pillow makes when it's punched. More confusion as she was knocked to the side and then the dizzying blue sky filling her entire field of vision. At least until it was Castle filling her field of vision, kneeling over her as the edges began to go black.
It didn't feel like a dream, but she couldn't be sure. There were gaps, still, and a reeling sense of bewilderment that she couldn't make be still long enough to be sure. She had to be sure, because if it was real...
Well, one step at a time. In a cascade of realization, she knew what this step had to be. She threw her hair up in a messy ponytail and splashed some cold water on her face, scrubbing harder than necessary in a futile attempt to bring some clarity to her situation. She threw on some jeans over her pajama shorts and slipped into her running shoes as she called for a cab. It didn't seem wise to drive while she was still shaking.
In the cab she sat forward, her body tight, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. Her mind was dragged back and forth between the metronomic glow of passing street lamps in the dark cab and the dream (vision, or memory?) of Castle hovering over her. The fear in his face and the feel of his hands at her shoulders and cradling her head.
She arrived at his building too soon and not soon enough. Beckett was still on edge, twitching and fidgeting while she waited for the elevator and drawing a curious look from the night watchman. When the doors opened at his floor, she stood frozen, unable to exit. Absently, she held a hand out to prevent the door from closing, and stilled completely except for the jump of the pulse at her throat.
She swallowed, and imagined that someone standing at the end of the hall could have heard it. Slowly, she stepped into the hall, and let the silver doors close behind her. What was she going to say? Maybe, if she was casual, she could bring it up gently. See if her memory had come back without actually asking him about it. Maybe ask for a beer to calm her nerves. The man was always trying to get her to have a drink with him.
By the time she made it to his door she had almost convinced herself that this would work. That everything would be fine. Until she knocked too loudly, her shaking hand rattling off more than a dozen raps before she could pull the offending thing back. Suddenly her pulse was filling her throat and her mouth felt dry. She yanked her pony tail down because it felt like it was tugging too sharply at her scalp.
Utterly distressed, she raked her hands through her hair and gaped at the still closed door. Maybe he hadn't heard her knock. Maybe she could just creep back down the hallway and ask Lanie if her version of that horrible day fit with reality. Jesus, why hadn't she thought of that before? Beckett backed away from the door and spun toward the elevator and her potential escape. She was jogging when she heard his sleep-laden voice calling after her.
"Beckett? Is everything ok? What's going on?"
Oh God. Oh no. This was a disaster. Katherine Beckett does not just show up at Richard Castle's door in the middle of the night and smoothly bring up the most traumatic thing that had happened to the both of them.
Beckett turned slowly back to Castle, taking in his plaid pajama bottoms and the fitted black v-neck he was wearing. His hair was standing up at adorable angles, and his eyes were heavy with sleep that he was rubbing away as he took a step or two toward her.
"Beckett? Are you hurt?"
She breathed in a noisily through her nose, the metallic taste of panic on her tongue, and her hastily crafted plan went out the window. "Castle," she said in a rush, "Did you tell me that you loved me?"