Don't get me wrong, Castle and Beckett were Meant 4 Each Othah. But…Colin was hot. And British.

Just saying.

Cartographical, you are ever my morning star. My pushy, foul-mouthed morning star. That is why I less than three you. *hugs*

Chapter 35: 4x20, The Limey

This guy is crazy about you. And despite your little act, you're crazy about
him. Oh what? Was that supposed to be some big secret?

When Kate walks into the bullpen dressed for the benefit, she sees Castle's immediate reaction. He's spent so much time ignoring her recently, but now his eyes rake over her like fire, burning her skin. And in this dress she loves but never gets to wear, she suddenly feels naked, all bare shoulders and exposed skin under his eager gaze. And for just a second, it's like it used to be, the energy between them. She hadn't realized how fiercely she missed this.

She takes Colin's arm and tries to convince herself she's excited about dressing up with an attractive guy in a tux.

She tries not to think about the last time it happened.

Well. That was…interesting.

She hands the cigarette case over to evidence for fingerprinting and heads up to homicide. She left her regular clothes in her desk drawer. She usually enjoys the adrenaline rush of working undercover. She did some work in Vice, and she's had more than her fair share of time playing eye candy for the sleaze of New York. But tonight was flat. Stressful. It felt off. She didn't gel with Colin. This dress has been hanging in the back of her closet for a while now, and it's looser than it used to be. She hated every second that she had to endure Nigel Wyndham's slimy hands on her while she got close enough to pick his pocket.

She's just glad it's over.

She hears footsteps and looks up to find Castle walking toward her, hands in his pockets, eyes skimming over her body. But when he finally meets her gaze, there's no sparkle in his eyes. No jokes. No Castle.

"Castle. Thought you'd gone home." She tries to keep her voice flat. He's been going home early lately. He never used to do that.

He doesn't make a single crack about slinky dresses and late-night action. He just shrugs. "Heard your new partner got you thrown out of the party."

The words new partner cut right through her chest. "Go easy on him, okay? We got what we needed." She was a little irritated with Colin, but it all ended up fine.

"No, I get it. Pity he can't keep you at the party once he gets you there, though."

"At least he's here," she hisses, her blood getting hot. She hates this. She hates the way they are now. She hates that she doesn't know why it's happening.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She's angry and tired. She forgets about her filter, or civility, or anything other than how much she hates this whole situation. "It means he doesn't waltz in and out of the precinct whenever he feels like it and drag any kind of trash to my crime scenes without regard for police procedure."

His face is dark, and the pain in her chest is getting worse, because this isn't Castle. This isn't her partner, this bitter, tight man who's angry with her but won't tell her why. Who openly stares at her body in a low-cut dress but then turns around and treats her like he doesn't want to see her.

"Well, if he's so perfect, I guess I'll just go," he snaps. "I would hate to tarnish your sterling police work with my personal brand of incompetence, Detective."

"Castle, stop it. Just stop – "

"Do not patronize me!"

"Then don't throw a tantrum for no reason!"

Castle grits his teeth, his fists clenched, and without another word, he turns. He walks away.

Kate watches, her body slumping as she sinks into her chair, and her hands are shaky and her heart is racing and he's walking away and it's all wrong.

"Castle, what's going on?" she chokes out. Her voice catches. She doesn't care. "Why are we fighting?"

She wants to take the words back the moment they're out, but it's too late. Castle stops. He turns back to her. His face is suddenly – it's different. Not angry. He looks weary. He looks tired.

There's a lump in her throat, but she makes herself swallow it. She's exhausted. She's sick of fighting. She hates this razor's edge they're walking on now because he won't talk to her and she doesn't know how to fix it.

"Castle, why are we like this now?"

Any other time she'd hate herself for openly pleading with him, but she's done tiptoeing. And he's listening. His eyes are still guarded, cautious. But he's looking at her, not through her.

"Don't toy with me, Beckett." The anger is drained out of his voice, leaving it rough and gravelly and hurt, and she has to swallow hard not to react. "Just don't."

"What are you talking about?" The pain in her chest is getting tight, a pointed, hot ache that squeezes her lungs and strangles her breath. She doesn't know what's going on, but she knows it's bad. Her fingers tighten on the arms of her chair. He's staring at her. She feels trapped.

He opens his mouth, but just as he's about to speak, a cluster of uniforms walks past, chattering noisily. Her nerves are already fraying, so she pushes herself out of her chair. This is better done in private. "Come on."

He follows her into the empty conference room, hands in his pockets. She shuts the door, leans back against it for a moment, steeling herself. She remembers Royce saying a perp is most dangerous when you corner him, kid. Gotta be careful what corners you back people into.

Castle's standing in front of the window across the room, his eyes fixed outside. She's got him cornered. Didn't even mean to.

"Castle. Please. Just tell me." Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this constant sniping, laced through with passive-aggressive jabs she can't translate beyond a desire to hurt her.

He doesn't turn around, just stares stubbornly out the window. She waits. Finally, his shoulders slump.

"You remember. The day you got shot. You remember everything."

It takes her a second to put it together.

The day she got –

Oh.

That was the day he said –

And she told him she didn't remember.

He knows she heard him say –

Oh.

"Castle – " Her heart is pounding in her chest. Her hands are shaking. "How did you – " But her voice trails off because there is no good way to ask How did you find out I've been lying to you for months now?

"The bombing case." His voice is flat. Cold. Not him. "You said it in interrogation. I was behind the window."

The memory floods her mind. Vivid. Angry. The frustration. The panic. Her hesitant suspect. And then finally blurting out I remember every second. She thought no one was listening.

"You – you heard me tell him." She takes a deep breath.

He finally turns around. His face is tense with anger. She can't say it's not justified. "You should have just told me to go."

To go? What? No, no, he can't mean – "What are you talking about?"

"You lied. You lied to my face." His eyes are dark, blazing with more than anger. It's pain. He's still hurting. "And then you ran away and ignored me for three months. I can take a hint, Beckett."

"A – hint?"

His jaw twitches, and he lets out a frustrated breath. "Look. I can work with someone who doesn't feel – the same way. But I can't work with someone who lies to me about it. I can't do it."

He's walking towards her, but she knows it's not to be close to her. It's because she's still in front of the door. He wants to leave. He's going to walk out and not come back.

She can't let him.

She tries to figure out what to say, her mind rapidly searching for words that will stop him, soften him, at least persuade him not to walk out of her life. Her chest is burning, the phantom ache so pointed and visceral she can't –

That's it.

The other thing she's hiding. The one thing he still needs to understand. Words aren't working for her. She needs to show him.

She presses her fingers into her skin, rubbing away the makeup on her chest. It wasn't easy to cover. She almost gave up and wore a different dress before she finally got her skin to look undamaged. The caked foundation comes off now, gritty, staining her fingertips. The scar tissue is tougher under her fingers, a dull lump inside her skin. At least she's used to it. Once the bandages came off, it took nearly a week before she could touch it without shuddering.

Castle's eyes are wide. "Kate – what – "

"It's okay." She tugs the neckline of the dress down an inch, making sure the scar is visible. "You can look."

Castle stops, his face frozen, as he sees her scar for the first time. It's not the only scar. There are surgical scars on her side. But this is the one he needs to see. This is the one that ripped them apart.

"Kate – " It comes out as little more than a whisper. He draws in a long, shuddering breath, unconsciously stepping closer, his eyes locked on the little pink blotch between her breasts. His eyes are wide, a mix of awe and terror and grief mingled in his expression. It's odd, she thinks. He's known this scar existed, but from the look in his eyes, he must never have realized it was real, visible. Tangible. Lasting.

(It's still so vivid in her mind. She remembers the expression on his face. Remembers it above her, against the stark blue sky – I love you, Kate – as her body burned and screamed with agony and betrayed her and everything finally went black.)

"Are you – are you okay?" He's looking at her like she's fragile, like he's suddenly afraid she might break because of this little puckered blotch, and she can't bear the guilt in his eyes because this is her fault.

"Castle, it's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore." It's mostly true. It still gets sore sometimes. But it doesn't hurt to breathe anymore. It doesn't hurt to think.

"Oh, Kate." He sighs, scrubs his hands over his face. "I'm sorry."

"No, Castle. I'm sorry." Her back is against the wall, her fingers curling nervously. She's cornered herself. "I – you have to know. Yes. I remembered. And I pretended I didn't. But it wasn't – that I didn't want to hear it. Or that – that I didn't feel that way about you." She shuts her eyes because it's too much to look at him right now. "But it was all too much. I couldn't trust anything. I couldn't even trust my own body. Everything hurt, all the time, and every time it was quiet I just kept hearing the shot, reliving it. I had so many panic attacks. That's why I didn't talk to anyone over the summer. I couldn't let anyone see me like that."

"Kate – "

"I'm not saying I was right, Castle. I wasn't." She draws in a long breath. "But I was a mess. I was falling apart. I was so terrified I would drag you down with me."

"Kate – I didn't – I'm not trying to push you – "

"It's not – not that, Castle." She has to tell him the truth. "I'm seeing a therapist. But it's helping. It really is."

He nods. "That sniper case – the loud bang, when you dove for cover – "

"It was bad." She swallows. "It was – it was bad."

"I was so worried about you," he chokes out. "I wanted to help you. I just – all those months of silence. I thought you were embarrassed because you didn't want to hear it."

Kate flicks a glance up at him. "It wasn't that. But – Castle, it – " she runs her fingers over her scar almost without thinking – "there was a bullet in my chest. It was all too much. And I wanted to tell you the truth. But I was never strong enough. I was dealing with PTSD. I shouldn't have lied to you. But I didn't know how to stop." She grits her teeth. "And you shut me out."

He looks down. "I know."

"I wanted to tell you. Every day." She blinks away the sudden sting in her eyes. "Every morning you handed me coffee. And I wanted to just say it."

"Kate – "

"I didn't think I was good enough for you."

"Kate – no, Kate – "

She presses her fingers to his lips to stop him, watching his eyes widen at the sudden contact. "No, Castle. I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you the way I did. I'm so sorry."

He's silent, his blue eyes full of hope. Castle's always been the one chasing her. Four years he's been her faithful partner, spending his days doing everything he can to stay beside her. But she's spent the past year holding him carefully at arm's length. She's the one who has to break the stalemate. Because she started it.

Her pulse hammering in her chest, she reaches out, touches his cheek gently. His eyes flutter shut. She can feel the shaky breath he draws in, the warmth as he turns into her touch. It's the affirmation she needs to slowly lean in and press her lips to his.

The kiss is brief, shy, just a breath. But she feels the tremor that runs through his body, and when she pulls back, he's watching her with a gaze so heated she can't resist the temptation to tug him closer and kiss him again.

She's confident now, running her hands through his hair, molding her body into his larger frame. He traces his tongue over the line of her mouth and she opens to him, hot and wet and willing as he swallows the soft moan that escapes her. His arm curls possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, lips lingering on her skin. "I was willing to wait for you. I can be patient."

"You, patient?" she scoffs. His face breaks into a smile, his eyes crinkling with mischief. That's Castle.

"When I'm waiting for something I care about this much? Yeah. I'm patient."

He's smiling, but the seriousness laced in his words, in his touch, makes her shiver. He thinks she's precious. He's not hiding it right now. He makes her feel so utterly loved that she can hardly bear it.

"Castle, I'm still broken," she whispers, relishing the warmth of his arms, the solid, broad press of his chest.

"You're beautiful, Kate."

She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, the door suddenly opens beside them. Esposito leans in.

She flushes hotly, hastily pulls away from Castle's embrace, but Esposito just reaches in and tugs the shades closed, leaving the room completely private, blocked off from the bullpen. He gives them a crooked grin. "As you were." Behind him, Ryan is peering in, giving them an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

The door shuts again, and she lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Oh." The windows. She should have thought of that. Of course, she didn't drag him in here thinking she was going to kiss him.

Castle grins. "Safe to say the boys are okay with it."

"Yeah." She laces her fingers through his. "They don't like it when Mom and Dad fight."

That makes him laugh, warm and full and easy. "I don't like it when we fight either."

She bites her lip, presses one last soft kiss to his warm mouth, and opens the door, tugging his arm. "Come on. We have to get back to the case."

He stays, holds her back for a second. "Kate. We're okay, right?"

"Yeah." She runs her thumb over his knuckles. "I want my real partner back."