—–
"Should have… known better." His voice was dry and blank, as hollow as her insides. "Should have known better."
The cab hurtled through the morning. Hypnotic. Dull. Terrible. She felt sick; she'd drunk too much and thrown up in the street. She'd spent six hours in an airport trying to sober up with burnt coffee and espresso that no one could ever make right.
Correctly. Not that there was a way to make this right, not that coffee could do that. Just-
"You say that like…"
She turned her head slowly to see him staring down at his hands. His hands open on his lap, limp.
"You say that like it's a… burden." His shoulders loosened, slumped, his head tilting back. "It is a burden. It is. I know." With his eyes closed, he looked tired. Old.
"You don't have to wait," she said bitterly, turning her head away. "You're released."
"I didn't go anywhere," he said gravely. "I didn't go anywhere." Her eyes flashed open and she glared at him, but he sighed, rubbed his hand down his face. "I got my feelings hurt." His mouth turned down. "Deeply hurt. It wasn't that I couldn't wait, I have been waiting, it's that it… I'm good at making up stories in my own head, Kate. Too good. And maybe you're just a story I told myself. A story I wanted so badly to hear."
Her stomach flipped.
His head bowed forward, a hand covering his eyes. "God, I'm tired."
She swiped her fingers under her eyes and turned her face to the window. She'd done this too, then. She'd been too… complicated. It was too much, asking for things she had no right to expect, hoping something would buoy them long enough-
His hand came down on hers. Was dragged over against his thigh. Damp palm, crushing fingers. "Aren't you tired of this?" He clutched at her hand, as if he thought she'd take it back. "Aren't you sick to death of guessing?"
She glanced at him, clueless, wiped out. "I don't know what you mean."
He grimaced and stared at her. "Exactly." His jaw worked, and he shook his head. "I made choices - poor as they were - based on bad evidence. But it was the only evidence I had, Beckett. It was all I had."
"And that's my fault?"
"No. Stop. We're not doing this. I'm telling you what happened to - why Vegas and London and everything else." His hand was a vise; the grip drew her eyes up to his face. Stony. Hard. "It's not an excuse. And if you regret-" His jaw worked, his eyes glittering. "If you regret our partnership, then it is your fault. Because I won't let a little thing like a mistake, like miscommunication, get in the way."
"Miscommunication," she muttered.
"I'm in love with you, Beckett."
Her jaw dropped, fingers clutching in a spasm.
"Let that be clear," he said, glaring at her. "You don't have to love me back. You just gotta tell me you don't so I know. I'm done with guessing." His eyes dropped. "It hurts too much."
—–
