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"Me. All me. I saw the same guy tailing me the day before last, but I mistook him for another detective. It was a stupid, careless mistake." Nearly a fatal one.
He takes my hand and tugs me over, shifting on the bed to make room for me. When I resist, he says, "If I have to tackle you, I'll be stuck in this bed even longer."
I sit. He keeps hold of my hand and my gaze.
"I'm okay," he says.
"No, you're not. You were shot, and that's my fault."
"Bullshit. It's the fault of the asshole who shot me."
"That's not--"
His hand goes to my mouth. "Stop. Shit happens. Doesn't matter what side of the law you're on."
"It's not related to my job. It's from ... before that."
"Something to do with all this?" His fingers touch a pucker on my forearm. Where bone once jutted through my skin.
He's seen the scars. The damage is impossible to cover without hiding under the sheets, and I don't hide. The first time we slept together, he didn't seem to notice the marks until afterward. He just touched one of the knife scars and said, "You okay?" and that was an invitation to explain, but when I only said I was fine, he dropped it.
I nod. "I got myself into some trouble back in college."
He tilts his head, and I know he's thinking my marks aren't like his own physical reminders of a youth lived hard and wild: the scars, the tats, the old needle tracks. Mine suggest a single incident. A single attack.
"You paid someone back?" he says. "For doing that to you?"
I try not to look surprised that he's hit so close to the bull's eye. "Something like that."
"And it was the kind of person who remembers, the kind who won't let you walk away and consider the score even."
"Something like that."
"I'm not looking for an answer, Casey. Not unless you've got one to give. I'm just figuring stuff out. Someone is on your ass. Someone dangerous enough to hire thugs. We're gonna need to do some serious thinking on how to fix this."
"I'll handle it."
"We'll handle it. I'm not in any shape to go after anyone right now, but I will be soon. If that's not enough, I know guys. Guys who owe me. We'll fix this. Until then, I know you don't like carrying your service weapon, but you need to. At all times."
He continues on, planning, working out how to keep me safe, and I can only stare at him. This man just took a bullet for me. He's lying in a hospital bed because I brought my crap to his doorstep. And all he's thinking about is how he can help me fix this. What he can do for me.
"You're really something else," I say as he finishes.
"A good something or a bad something?"
I lean over, my lips brushing his. "An amazing something."
"Nah, I'm just building up credits."
"No, you're amazing," I say. "Also? Shit at taking compliments."
He laughs, puts his hand on the back of my head, and pulls me down into a kiss.
As I walk up to my apartment, I'm thinking about the last few hours. A night of hell. A night of surprises, too, chief among them the shock of realizing I can still feel. And what I'm feeling right now? Pain and regret.
As soon as Kurt's back on his feet, I need to cut him loose. Even the thought makes me gasp. It hurts. Physically hurts. I want to be selfish and jump at his offer to help and tell myself it'll all be fine and I can have this, I can have him.
Tough shit, Duncan. You dug your grave twelve years ago, and if you give a damn about Kurt, you're not going to let him fall into that grave with you.
