Disclaimer: Just borrowing with every intention of returning...
A/N: For Becca. Because it's okay to feel sad but hopefully this will make you feel just a little better. If not, we can just be sad together.
Also spoilers for Kill Shot
She hates it. A deep burning hatred for something she has no control over. That's the problem - her lack of control. The way she feels. How it seeps into her muscles, digging down, twining around the bone until she's overtaken. No longer a whole human being but something fractured, broken, shattered. So many ways to describe it and yet none of them fit. She's terrified of her own apartment. Scared of windows and tall buildings. Lights reflecting off of things and cars backfiring send her into a heart racing, nerves scrambling fit. It throws her back to that day, the scar burning as if the bullet has just ripped through her skin, shredding at her, intent to end her life. She hates it.
She's a shell of a person. Cracked and oozing. Her insides leaking out. Secrets and thoughts, fears and dreams. Everything jumbles together, spilling out in a pool of tears as she huddles into the couch, hugs the pillow to her as if it's some sort of lifeline. Fingers crushing at the seams, gripping so tight they start to ache. She wants to be okay again. She wants to be different, be better. Stop hiding from her friends - from Castle.
She wipes at her face with a rough hand, angry at herself. Not even really caring that her arm is stinging, the bandage itchy and hot. Just another secret. More proof of how damaged she is. She doesn't understand why she's still here, why she isn't dead, why it haunts her. She wants it gone. She doesn't have time for this. To be feeling sorry for herself and unable to handle something as simple as a good nights sleep. She hates it. Every single bit of it.
The way she checks her locks repeatedly, how she sleeps with her hand inches from her gun, the way she fights against invisible demons that wake her, leave her stumbling around, searching for some kind of solace in the night. You'd think she'd be comfortable here, alone and in control of the environment but she's not. She feels safer at the precinct, surrounded by people, than she does in her own apartment with the deadbolt thrown and shrinking into her couch.
She's going to do this. She's going to get better but it seems so far away, almost an impossibility at this point. She'll try, put in the time, because there's part of her wanting to dive in. To tell him she remembers and that it's honestly one of the only reasons she's still going. Why her heart is still beating, why she fought against the gray abyss, why she's fighting against it now and trying to fix herself.
Sometimes she thinks she's okay, and then she has days like the last few and everything just reaffirms that she's lying to herself. To everyone. Always lying. Covering things up, pushing them down, choking them back. She needs to stop. She wants to. She doesn't want to be this ball on the couch that's bleeding into everyone else, affecting them in negative ways. Making them hurt too.
And when she starts to slip. To find herself feeling like she's got a target on her chest and someone is just waiting to strike. She closes her eyes, focuses on the sounds around her to pull her back. All she really hears are her sniffles, the occasional choked sob, and traffic. She can hear traffic. Horns honking, tires screeching, sirens. And then a soft tapping, close by.
Her heart starts racing, pounding out an unsteady rhythm as her eyes fly open, hand reaching for the gun just a few feet away. Too close. It's too close. She swipes her fingers over her eyes, forces herself to not panic. Deep breaths, a trembling hand releasing the gun as she hears it again, realizes what it is. A soft rapping against her door. Soft - as if the person on the other side knows how she reacts to loud right now.
She wants to take her gun. Wants that safe weight in her palm. So she does - even though she's pretty sure only one person would be bothering her at this hour, she needs this. A security blanket. And she lets herself have it, the weapon poised at her side as she makes her way to the door. Chest rising and falling with each slightly panicked breath. She knows, knows this is ridiculous. The fear. But she can't make it stop. It doesn't just go away.
Not even when she sees the man standing on the other side. It dissipates, becomes a nagging in the back of her mind but it's still there. Although she's not sure how she feels about him showing up like this, when she's a few tears shy of an emotional wreck, his presence is almost uplifting. Almost enough to have her feeling a little bit safer. She doesn't understand why.
But she's spent days pushing against him, and he's let her. He hasn't pushed back, hasn't made her open up and she's grateful because honestly, she just can't. Maybe that's why she lets him in or maybe it's the look on his face as he waves a bag of take out towards her. White. Blindingly white and all she can think of, is that this is him calling a truce. Waving the flag. He's right. She owes him so many coffees and yet, he's still bringing her things. More coffee. Food. His company and she doesn't deserve any of it. But she wants to.
He doesn't say anything about the gun in her hand but his eyes follow it as she lays it to rest on the coffee table. And then she hears his breath catch, eyes gluing to her wrist and she silently berates herself for not thinking about it. Not making sure it was hidden. She's in her own home, already in her pajamas, she wasn't thinking.
But now she is because he's staring, frozen, not even sitting down or dropping the food to the table. Just staring. Honest blue eyes locked, making her rub over her arm, wincing just a bit when it stings.
"Are we going to eat or just stand around?" She's tries to break the uncomfortable ice that just formed. It doesn't work but he finally moves, putting the bag of food down with a careful calculated motion that startles her more than his staring.
She can see that he's holding himself back, trying to still be a good friend, a good partner. The one that gives her space but right now, she's not sure she wants the space. Maybe she just wants him to pry - only a little. Not much because she can't handle it but enough to show he'll be here. Even if she's damaged goods. She's afraid.
"Beckett, what -"
"I'm fine." She's not. It's lies. All lies. This isn't what she means by him prying. She doesn't want him asking what happened. Because she can't tell him. She can't explain how she's suffering, having flashbacks, nightmares. He doesn't need to know. Not until she's better. Not until she's no longer this broken thing. Not even a person. Just a thing. A mess.
"Kate," She catches his gaze, offers a brush off of a smile because he's using her name and as good as it sounds, it just reminds her of his confession. The one she's keeping from him. The one he thinks she can't remember. Just another lie. I'm fine. I don't remember.
"Chinese? Smells good -"
"What happened?" She wishes she could tell him. Wants so badly to just open her mouth and let it pour out but she's not that kind. She isn't that person so she pretends it's okay, flops down on the couch, clutching at the pillow again and just waiting for him to sit. He doesn't. He keeps watching her, gaze raking over her, probably checking for more injuries. He isn't going to calm down until she says something, so she gives a sigh, tries to hide away the truth.
"Nothing important."
"You're sure?" And this is why...this is why she hides because the look on his face, his eyes so open with her and not even concealing his feelings - she can't deal with it. Not yet. Not now. Not when everything is spinning out of control. But at least he's finally sitting down next to her.
"Come on Castle, let's eat." Because she isn't ready but she's not pushing him away either. She let him through the door, knowing how he feels and she'll do this. Have dinner. Laugh when he says something funny. Offer him a glass of wine to go with her own.
"N-no one hurt you?"
"No. I just had a clumsy moment." He doesn't need to know that it was alcohol and PTSD induced. That she's barely slept in the last few days or how it felt when she came around enough to realize that glass was embedded in her skin.
"Can I see-" He reaches for her arm but she pulls it back, flinching away from him as if he's the bad guy. As if he's the one who has turned her into this. She watches the hurt flash across his features and turn into something cold. Something she doesn't like. It doesn't fit him. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea. I should go."
He hasn't even been here more than five minutes. And maybe he's right. Maybe it's not a good idea because she's stumbling around, trying to balance as her world shakes around her but damn it, she doesn't want him to leave. She might not want to talk but she doesn't want him gone. Because the panic she feels - the tightening in her chest - lessens when he's around. It doesn't go away but it becomes a bearable thing. A knot she can hold onto, keep from unraveling.
And she misses him. Feels like it's been days because she's been suffering through on her own. Painting on the brave face. She wants him to stay. She doesn't know how to fix this. He's already off the couch and she's still just sitting, staring off into space as she tries to think of something. Anything. She's a mess and he's what she wants but she can't have him. Not like this and it hurts. It aches. But she needs company right now. She doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want to go back to crying on her couch and letting her own mind play tricks on her.
The door is opening, she hears it, cuts her eyes over to it and there's a brief second. One tiny moment that can change things, she can take a step in the right direction or she can let him leave, continue self destructing. One split second and she's opening her mouth, letting the plea tumble out. Not even ashamed that she sounds a little lost. She is lost.
"Wait..." And he does, pausing and turning to look at her expectantly - he waits. But doesn't he always?
a/n: There's a second part to this.
