i got my scars right here


She remembers.

But she lied, she continues to lie.

There's no way around it. She lied in that hospital room, darting eyes and dry mouth uttering words that bare no semblance of truth. It was - is - for the best, she tries to tell herself, beats the mantra into her brain because she's not in the right mindset for this, for the terrifying declarations he's already made and for the ones she's still yet to. But his face - his fallen, pained face when she told him she doesn't remember is still burned into her retinas, his features etched into the backs of her eyelids like a signature, and she hates herself for it.

Every time she sees him in the precinct, his upbeat yet vacant expression as he passes her another cup of coffee, she wants to blurt it out. I heard you, she wants to say, wants to yell from the rooftops, but she doesn't. She can't get the words to come out, can't make them roll off of where they brand the tip of her tongue. With each passing day it gets harder, more difficult to even fathom letting the truth go, out from the safe cage of her body where it's lived for the past few months.

It eats at her every day and each night as she lies in bed, the conflicting emotions threatening to split her in two, rip her apart until there's nothing left but the truth. At least maybe then it'd be out in the open, her beating heart expressing everything her mouth has failed so miserably to.

She's not ready.

She wants to be ready, but she's not. He loves her. He jumped in front of a bullet for her - in front of his mother and daughter no less - and she wants to shake him, knock some sense into that thick skull of his because it was ridiculous and irresponsible and if he'd been hit... no, she's not going to be the reason his daughter is without a father, his mother no longer with a son.

He did it for her. To try and save her life, the same life she's been so willing to throw away if it meant solving her mother's case.

That bullet was meant for her, so it's right that she's the one who took it. Pleasant is the last word she'd use to describe the consequences, but it's better that it was her. She's trained for these kinds of things, she signed up for it, she knew the risks - he didn't, and he still doesn't seem to fully comprehend the gravity of what he's doing. If anything had happened to him because of her, there's no way she would've been able to forgive herself.

His words haunt her, echo in her brain late at night, suffocating her until she does something, anything to dull the ache, to stop the incessant voice.

He loves her.

Richard Castle loves her and she hates that she can't just tell him that she loves him too, because she does. God, she does. But she can't, not right now, not in the way she wants to or the way he needs her to.

She's gotten better at masking it each day, each week, so now the normalcy of the precinct life is practically second nature. She sees his face though, the tiny glimmer of hope that sparks in his eyes when he sits beside her on the off chance she may announce that she remembers, that maybe there's something new to tell him. But that moment never comes and the sparkle leaves, gets replaced with the casual playfulness that she's grown so fond of over the years.

That joy is a staple of him, something she knows she can rely on, and she does. But what she wants to see reflecting back at her is the love in his eyes, the same - albeit less fearful - unashamed love that swirled around his irises that day at the cemetery, tears clouding his vision and a lump in his throat as he told her he loved her. It's beautiful, hearing the man you love - she keeps wrestling with the fact that she does love him, has for longer than she's comfortable with - say those three words.

But he deserves more. More than her, more than what she can offer him right now.

He deserves someone who can give him what he wants, what he needs, without the baggage of a dark past and a broken spirit. She's damaged goods, a shell of who she wants to be, who she should be. She wants to be more - for him, for herself, for that nineteen year old girl who had her sights set on being the first female chief justice.

The wall inside her is still there, though he's been making quick work of knocking it down since the day he met her. It may be closer to a pile of bricks at this point but it's still steep, still another hurdle to jump over before she can properly let anyone in.

She lets out a sigh, a free hand coming up to cover her chest, fingers splayed across the scar that's caused so much damage already.

It's fitting, in an oddly sardonic way. She's had emotional scars for as long as she can remember, upwards on almost two decades, and now she has the physical ones to match. Or just one, really, but it's impact is that of dozens.

She sheds her button down, suddenly feeling more than claustrophobic in her clothes, the ones she's yet to change out of after her shift earlier. Her jeans are next, the need for comfort causing her to pull on something lighter, and she stands in nothing but a pair of leggings and her bra. The scar burns in her chest as she takes in her reflection, one arm curling protectively around her bare abdomen, the other hand once again returning to the cause of her problems.

If she hadn't been shot Castle never would've said what he did, she never would've been in the hospital, and she never would've had to lie to him.

She huffs to herself, ridiculing her line of thought, because even if he didn't declare his love for her as she was lying in that grass, bleeding out before his very eyes, she still would've known. She's known for a while - hell, the entire precinct's apparently known since the day he stepped into her life, annoying and insufferable and an ass.

A groan slips past her lips as she wonders if she'll ever be truly, one hundred percent ready. It's unlikely, but she's more than willing to try.

She wants to be able to say she's okay, that none of this is still weighing on her, pushing down on her shoulders and her chest to the point of pain.

She doesn't bother to put on a shirt before she pads into her kitchen, grabs a bottle of whiskey and a glass from her cabinet.

As she swallows the liquid, reveling in the welcomed burn as it glides down her throat, she winces, pinches her eyes shut in a wave of disgust. She can't do this, can't hide in the bottle and avoid her problems the same way her father did following the news of her mother.

She won't.

The whiskey is put away, the glass discarded in the sink - after one more, because she's not her father but she does need the buzz - and she digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, an attempt to rub away everything that's settled deep in her subconscious.

Kate, please.

His face is hovering above hers, panicked hands trembling as they grasp everywhere and anywhere, one finally landing on her ribs and the other behind her neck.

She squeezes her eyes shut harder and sinks deeper into the couch, the ridges in the cushions brushing against the bare skin of her back.

Stay with me, Kate. Don't leave me, please.

She can see his eyes still, remembers vividly how she watched them through her own hazy ones, her vision fading in and out, just blurs of colors one second and slightly clearer pictures the next.

Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate.

Her breath hitches, his voice as clear in her mind as it was that day, breathy and laced with emotion, breaking around her name like fine china smashed against a hardwood floor.

I hear that you tried to save me.

I don't remember much of anything.

The heel of her hand applies more pressure, urging the images to stop, the voices to just stop, but they don't, and the more she tries to forget them the more she remembers, the more moments replay like choppy motion pictures on the backs of her eyelids.

It's too much and her breathing quickens, frustration seeping from every pore in her body. She's frustrated with herself, with the sniper, with her stupid issues that are making this more difficult than it has to be. She should be fine, should be perfectly capable of having a healthy, sustainable relationship with someone who loves her and who she loves back but she can't even do that.

Her scar is a sign of life, a sign that she's still here after all that she's been through, but sometimes it feels more like a burden than a blessing.

She should just call him, tell him she heard him and let the chips fall as they may. Get the weight off of her shoulders, get the words she's been longing to say since that day out of her system, off of her tongue where they threaten to spill at any moment.

The scar pulls, tugs against her skin, sends an aching pain that shocks every nerve ending.

She moves to retreat back into her room where it's warm and there are blankets she can crawl under, shut her eyes and try to ignore the thoughts going miles a minute around in her brain, but then a knock sounds from the entryway, once, twice, three times.

Her eyes trail back to the door and she stares at it for a few seconds before finally grabbing a sweater to tug on. She takes her gun from the bedside table and hides it behind her back because she can't be too careful, not now, not when she's barely recovered from this bullet wound that tore through her body.

The knocking continues once or twice but then it stops, and she thinks maybe whoever it is left. One look out the peep hole debunks that theory and the door swings open, her brows knitted together at the sight before her - a slightly disheveled and curious looking Richard Castle.

"Castle?"

His head tilts up then, his eyes locking with hers. "Beckett, good, you're up," he says, walking past her without much of an invitation.

She manages a small laugh. "It's only ten?" Her voice comes out as a question and she watches him continue into her apartment before she turns, closes and locks the door behind them. "What are you doing here?"

He's acting strange - stranger than usual, even for him, which is all too disconcerting - and the bounce in his step she's become so acquainted with is gone. She realizes that he's been somewhat withdrawn for the past week, but she's been too busy dealing with her own thoughts to even ask about it, decided to just chock it up to exhaustion or a stressful conversation with Paula. She should have asked, should have made sure he was okay. That's what he would have done for her.

She almost scoffs. She should have done a lot of things.

Dread creeps into her bones, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach appearing too similar to the one she had that summer he left the precinct, arms wrapped around his ex-wife.

"I'm, uh," he starts, his eyes unfocused, looking right through her. "I'm heading to the Hamptons for a while."

If she wasn't so shocked she would've gasped, but she her body isn't doing anything.

"Need to get away," he gives a small, self-assuring nod. "Do some thinking, some writing."

She finally finds her voice, amazed she can even hear herself think over the pounding of her heart. "How long are you going for?" she asks, a quiet whisper because that's all she can manage.

He just shrugs, now looking anywhere but at her and it makes her nauseous. "A few weeks maybe. I'm leaving now, but I uh... thought I'd tell you in person, I didn't want to just leave."

At least that's something, she thinks. He could have just up and left, but he didn't.

But then she's shaking her head, thoughts jumbled, unable to soak in everything he's telling her. Because he's going to the Hamptons. He's leaving - for a few weeks, maybe, and who's to say he'll even come back.

It's not something.

"Why?"

His eyes finally come back to hers but they're dull, lack the light they normally possess. And there's something else there, or maybe something else missing; she can't put her finger on it but she doesn't like it.

"Beckett..." His voice is soft but there's a hint of exasperation there, a hint of sadness, and-

Oh.

Oh, no.

She gets it now. It's because of her. He's leaving because of her, because being around her is too much. Seeing her every day and knowing he's confessed his love for her and thinking she doesn't remember is too much and he needs to get away, do some thinking.

Some thinking about her, probably about how loving her is useless because she's not ready.

Her heart hammers in her chest, thrashes against her rib cage for release and she can hear her pulse thumping in her ears. Panic sets in because no, she can't let him leave thinking he needs to stop loving her, can't let him rethink her, their partnership, them.

She still doesn't say anything, words caught on her tongue, tattooing the tip of it with a burning heat but nothing comes out. And then he's moving past her again, towards the door and towards the Hamptons, and her hand reaches out, catches his forearm before he can make it too far. He stops, turns slowly towards her with furrowed brows and questions in his eyes, and her breath catches.

She's damaged and she has some more healing to do but right now, seeing the look on his face, she finds herself not caring anymore. She loves him and can't bare watching him like this anymore, dejected and acting like everything but himself.

He deserves the truth, at the very least.

"Beckett, what-"

"I heard you," she rushes out, cursing herself for the lack of tact in her confession. It's not how she wanted to tell him, it's not when she wanted to tell him, but letting him walk away from her again isn't an option.

His mouth falls open, eyes wide as emotions flicker on and off, burning within them like a wicker candle. The skin of his arm is scorching her palm, branding it the longer she keeps it there, keeps him there.

But then he pulls away, his tongue wetting his lips and a hand running through his hair as he turns away from her without another word.

The door closes behind him, leaving her alone in her living room once again, nothing keeping her emotions from finally ripping her apart.


Based off a prompt I was given: Beckett struggles with the fact that she lied and Castle decides he has to get away for a while

This is a two-shot and it's already written, so I'll probably update the second part tomorrow!