Chapter 43: The scars of your love

Castle isn't in any state to think. All investigation of whether this was a good or bad idea flew out his brain the moment Kate kissed him (she kissed him!) and the only thought in his head is that he never, ever wants to let go of her. He brings a hand round to tangle in her hair and make sure she's as close in as he's wanted her to be for all those months (and years) and devotes himself solely to delivering potent, drugging, slow kisses and enjoying the same in return. He hadn't known anything, when he'd thought that the alleyway had been amazing. Nothing at all. And on that thought he leans further in and his kisses change to harder, more possessive, and she's soft and yielding and this doesn't seem an awful lot like Beckett but he thinks it might be an awful lot like Kate. But when he glides an insinuating hand down over her back and up again under the silky top, over smooth hot skin, she shudders and surfaces, pulling back. He reboots his speech centres.

"What's wrong, Kate?" That hadn't felt like the good kind of shudder. It almost felt like repulsion. A thin stiletto of unease slides into him. This isn't good. This isn't good at all.

She doesn't regret kissing him for an instant. This was emphatically not a mistake. But. But it's definitely too early and they absolutely have to talk (she spits, mentally) about their joint and several issues, preferably before everything gets completely out of hand. (like in around five more minutes, the way that was going) And all of those are good and valid reasons but they're not the whole truth. She's embarrassed by, ashamed of, her scars: the one that killed her and, just as much, the one that saved her; both still all-too-visible reminders of her trauma. And it was pretty obvious that her top wasn't going to last much longer.

She looks up, down and away, up again; the mood thoroughly broken, tries to slide off Castle's lap and finds herself prevented.

"Uh-uh. Stay here. 'S comfy, and I just wanna cuddle." He gazes down appealingly, big blue eyes still hazy, softening. "What's wrong?" he asks again.

"I...it's... this..." Her words stumble out, as faltering as a drunken panhandler. "I'm not... I thought I could..." she drops her head, mumbles into her hair against his shoulder. "I hate the scars."

Castle's shocked hard out of any remnants of desire. That wasn't what he'd expected to hear. On the other hand, despite a certain degree of... er... discomfort, it's good that one of them stopped. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. Not. This is not a good line of thought to be following, when Kate's still sitting in his lap. Well, slumped, and clearly miserable again. It had all been going so well, until two minutes ago. And it had all been her idea. And now she's upset by something that he couldn't care less about, and he doesn't understand why at all. Doesn't she know he doesn't care about the scars?

Think, Rick. How would she know that? He's never mentioned it. They've not been in a place where the subject might arise. Nothing new there, then. They've never been in a place where any serious subject might arise, till the last two weeks.

"I don't care about your scars," he murmurs, and runs his fingers along her ribs, over the top. She flinches away from his touch.

"You haven't seen them," she bites. "You don't want to."

He clamps his mouth shut on an immediate response of don't tell me what I do or don't want, and settles for a noise of general disagreement and a slight close of his arms. She's retreated into herself, all the openness of a few moments ago gone as if it had never been. He remembers that he doesn't have to do the same, doesn't have to let her run away. He's allowed to say what he thinks, or feels.

"I don't care about the scars," he says again, more forcefully. "They're not you. They don't matter." His words fall into the silence without rippling her stillness. Words, he understands, are not working. He hugs her closer, trying to show her that he means it, tries again.

"I came to see you all those days in ICU, even when you were unconscious, wired up to the monitors, tubes and IV lines everywhere. It didn't" – he revises the end of that sentence abruptly. Encouragement and kisses or not, stop me loving you is a little too much truth for either of them to bear right now, because although he knows she heard him, she knows his feelings then, he still has to be so very, very careful not to pressure her – "change what I thought – think – of you." He recalls her response to his flirting in the hospital, when he brought her nightwear. Hmm. This isn't simply a problem caused by the sudden uptick in their relationship. (He thinks that if she's kissing him then this can definitely be classed as a relationship.) She still doesn't look at him, and even though she's tucked in his lap, in his embrace, she might as well be back upstate for all the connection there currently is between them.

Kate's thinking unhappily that it's all going wrong, and it's all because of her. Again. She shouldn't have started this, if she was going to freeze up as soon as they passed first base. Part of her wants Castle to let her go, leave and let her deal with her misery alone, but it doesn't seem like that's going to happen in the immediate future and anyway that's just another way of running away without notice, which she's trying not to do any more. Hard on the heels of that thought, she recognises that she wants the comfort more. So she says nothing, does nothing, and especially doesn't pull away.

But she still can't explain why she's crashed on the rocks of her scars, when in every other way she's been subtly (and this evening not so subtly) encouraging him. She knows why, though, it's just that it sounds vain and petty and pathetic even in her own head, just another indicator of how damaged she is, so how much worse will it sound if spoken? How does she say I feel ugly when I see them and I can't manage to believe you won't feel the same, without being incredibly, appallingly hurtful? She knows, intellectually, he isn't that shallow any more. She knows, through thinking about his actions, that he cares. And she also knows that he'll likely not argue, whatever he wants from her, (and she thinks she's beginning to suspect what that is, though it scares her, because she doesn't see how she can ever be enough for him) whatever she says, because he's still scared she'll push him away. It's not as if he doesn't have reason to. But she can't get past her feelings, can't think what to say. Words aren't her game, she's not good at them. Insecurity, inadequacy, claws at her, and she shivers, nestles in to seek warmth, and protection from her own demons. It's all going wrong, and she can't see how to fix it, because she doesn't have the words.

Castle doesn't presently see how to fix it either. He's hardly unaware of the pernicious poison of body-image issues – living all his life with women and theatrical types he could barely have missed them – but being a mere, if ruggedly handsome, (he preens, just a little) male, he has no idea how to help solve them. He's certainly never managed it before. Somehow he thinks that the direct approach of kissing Kate back into that oh-so-sexy, soft receptiveness and then simply ripping off that touch-me top and kissing the scars till she believes him, (or stops thinking about them, or just stops thinking) would be wholly wrong, on so many levels. Not to mention that she'd kill him with her bare hands and Esposito, Ryan and Lanie would cover it up for her.

Okay, so Plan B, then. Except there is no Plan B, yet. Plan B is limited to keep Kate in my arms and kiss her as often as possible. Which might be the best idea he's had in the last five minutes. He slips one hand up round her neck, the taut line of her jaw, and tips her face up to be in view, brings his own lips down on to hers. It's not, at first, the same flaring intensity of a few moments ago, of an alleyway far too long ago: it starts softly and slowly and has no pressure or demands or expectations, till gradually it starts to burn and Kate's back to being pressed in against him and responsive and open to him and she's mine and he is never going to let her hide from him again. More possessive thoughts, he realises. He's not like that. It's not his style. He's never been possessive, never wanted to assert his relationships, never, really, cared to, or needed to. But now he wants to, and he doesn't understand why it should be so very different, when Kate Beckett is the last woman on earth who actually needs that sort of reaction.

Very slowly Kate surfaces from the fog of sexual attraction and realises that for all the serious intent behind the kissing Castle hasn't tried to touch her anywhere near the scars, nor indeed under the top at all, since she'd frozen up. She shifts a little, thinking that it's time this make-out session came to an end: it's getting late and she has an appointment with Dr Burke in the morning. Much as she'd like Castle to stay longer, it's not a good plan. They have to start resolving some issues between themselves, soon, and drowning them in sex is not going to be a good start. Always assuming, she thinks acidly, that she could even get beyond pre-teen making out. At least, though, at least she stepped forward, took her chance. But now it's time to stop. She makes a definite move away and feels a little rill of pleasure when Castle makes a noise of considerable disappointment and takes rather more time than is strictly necessary to loosen his arms.

"It's late, Castle." She carefully doesn't use the term it's my bedtime, which would have unfortunate connotations. "It's time for you to go home." Castle makes an unhappy face and produces his best puppy eyes.

"Really, Kate? You're sending me home? You sure you don't want me to stay?" His voice insinuates all sorts of interesting ideas. But then he looks a little more carefully and stops playing that game. She looks tired, now, and anyway the effort of keeping away from flashpoints of all flavours is beginning to become a serious strain. She's right, though he doesn't have to like it. "Okay." He reluctantly lets go of her and finds his jacket, shrugging it on as he follows her to the door. Before she opens it, he stops her with a hand on her shoulder. He needs her to know something, before he leaves.

"Kate, I meant it. I really don't care about the scars. It's only you who does. I'll still be here, when you're ready." He pulls her in tight, drops kisses on the top of her head, lets her absorb that statement. When she looks up he can't read her face, but the set of her shoulders is looser. He thinks he's pitched it right: reassurance without pressure. This is progress, he reminds himself. Immense progress. She kissed him. He kisses her once more, gently, and removes himself before everything flares again and he does something profoundly stupid.


Kate hadn't slept particularly well, after Castle left, a toxic combination of insecurity about the scars, and whether it's fair to encourage if she can't go further, and the tension of frustration, of unsatisfied desire. She'd woken too early, gone out and run too far in an effort to clear her head and calm her body, and now she's on her way to Dr Burke and unhappily certain that she'll have to talk about a subject that she doesn't want to examine. Which would be almost any subject, right now, unless he wants to discuss the stunning fall colours in New Hampshire. She doesn't think she'll be that lucky. And after the latest piece of slow-motion car crash that constitutes her therapy sessions she remembers even more miserably that she needs to force herself to the range and try again. Maybe today she'll manage two whole clips, in an hour. Maybe she won't need Castle holding her steady, holding her through the terror, this time. Maybe there are fat pink pigs in a holding pattern over JFK, too. The day is not starting well.

Dr Burke is his usual formal, smooth self, inscrutably professional. He gives her a choice of topics, unusually.

"Kate, at the end of our last session I invited you to consider firstly why Mr Castle would interfere in your mother's case and secondly the difference between help and control. We can discuss those areas, or we can discuss some matters which are evident from your letters. Which would you prefer?"

Neither is not going to be an acceptable answer. But she's done her homework, she knows the answers to the first two areas. At least, she thinks she does.

"Last time's homework," she says, with a note of resignation that Dr Burke doesn't miss.

"Tell me your conclusions, Kate."

"Help I have a choice about. Control I don't." She's very clipped.

"What has that told you?" Detective Beckett's raw intelligence is not in question. She is an extremely intelligent woman. It is, therefore, a considerable disappointment that she has not applied it to her own life earlier. He watches Detective Beckett's face twist unpleasantly. It seems, he surmises, that she has realised something that she would very much rather not have known. He is not disappointed when she speaks.

"I had a choice, in the summer. No-one was forcing me to do anything. If I had said, they would have backed off. But I didn't say, I just went upstate without telling anyone, and everyone got hurt. It was my fault everyone got hurt." Dr Burke is pleased at her realisation, but preserves his countenance. Detective Beckett must not be allowed to think that he is amused by her evident upset. He is not. The destruction of her comforting illusion, so apparent from her letters, that she could depart upstate without causing her friends significant worry and hurt; indeed, that that action would relieve their worry over her, is unlikely to have been easy to deal with.

"Kate, why did you feel you had to go upstate and be alone?" Dr Burke believes that this may be the key question, based on his review of her letters, to force Detective Beckett to start to consider the roots of her issues.

Kate doesn't like that question at all. Not because she doesn't know the answer – she does – but because she's going to have to say it. And once she says it, it's real, and she can't ignore it when it suits her.

"I needed to do it on my own," she says, dragging the words out of her throat. "I couldn't trust that anyone else would help. I thought…" she remembers what she'd said to Esposito, "they'd all give up on me. Thought I'd hurt them less if I wasn't there." She draws a deep breath. "I thought they'd all stop worrying about me. I couldn't cope with them all watching and waiting and worrying and hoping and caring." The last word is close to a sob. Dr Burke waits, exuding empathetic silence. He observes in appalled amazement and not a little admiration, only just concealed, as Detective Beckett pulls every hint of emotion back inside her and removes all expression from her face, replacing it by a visage which he expects conforms to her professional demeanour. He now understands, in a way which had not previously been at all obvious, why Mr Castle had been, and possibly still is, so uncertain about Detective Beckett's feelings. This is clearly a learned response to trauma. Today's complication becomes evident. When she speaks again there is no intonation at all. Dr Burke becomes concerned.

"People who care about me get hurt. Or leave. Or both. It was easier" – Dr Burke notes the use of was – "to be alone. That way people don't get hurt."

"You said 'was', Kate?"

"People got hurt anyway." It's the same chill lack of tonality, perfectly repressed emotion. Until it breaks. "Espo told me. Lanie told me. Castle told me. Showed me." Dr Burke does not ask for elucidation of the last two, deeply pained, words. Those are perfectly clear to him from her letter, written immediately after meeting Mr Castle at a book signing; and Mr Castle's letter when he had discovered her return to New York. "I was wrong to go upstate without talking to everyone. They'd have given me space, if I'd asked. They wouldn't have thought less of me."

"I can't do that again." That has the sharp snap of a decision, or an order. Detective Beckett is fully inhabiting her professional persona. Hiding, in fact. "Espo showed me. Told me it went both ways."

"So, to be clear, Kate, you went upstate because you were unable to accept that your friends would support you. However, you have been told otherwise by Mr – Espo?"

"Detective Esposito. Part of my team." Ah. A person without an obvious agenda, and capable of expressing his thoughts to Detective Beckett in a language she would understand. Very helpful.

"So I went home and thought about what Espo said, along with what you said. So when I was upset yesterday I said I wanted space rather than just took it, and Castle gave me it, but I invited him round later and we were good." Dr Burke notices a slight undertone to that statement; a little mischievous, a little smug. Detective Beckett has shaken off her persona, and is once more revealing her thoughts. Dr Burke wonders how much the, evidently pleasant, thought of Mr Castle has to do with her change of attitude, and why. However, time is up for the day.

"Kate, before our next session please continue to consider Mr Castle's continued involvement in your life. I believe you should make an appointment for no more than three days from now. I would like you to have taken further steps, building on the significant progress you are making now, to resolve these areas before your re-evaluation."


Edited to correct typo - thank you to the guest who picked it up, apologies to all of you.

Thank you all for your response to last night's chapter. But you all know it wasn't going to be quite that easy. This was foreshadowed...

There will be no chapter tomorrow, sorry. Please review.