Drabble Tree Drabbles
Doing drabbles off of phrases in other people's drabbles, so fun.
Castle stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. "Focus, Rick, focus," he muttered to himself. Wouldn't do at all to go stumbling into the loft ill-prepared for the inevitable questions from his womenfolk about where he'd been, what had he been doing, and why on earth was he looking like he'd seen a ghost, Richard, for heaven's sake.
And not like he could tell them, oh no. Especially not Kate, not after Rita has so explicitly warned them off of contact, seemingly forever. But her change of expression during one part of their oh-so-brief conversation and he just knew that Jackson must be nearby. So he sent out the super-secret text alert and got to see his father, maybe for one last time. Sure, unsatisfying--most un-Dad-like father ever, even still. But he'd had to do it. And he just didn't think the women in his life would understand.
But now he was home. And as he opened the door and heard the laughter inside, he breathed a sigh of relief.
---------
She poured herself another drink and carefully set the bottle down on the table.
His eyebrows quirked in an angle of concern, but his expression was mild. "What's up?" he asked, his tone studiously light. "You're really pouring it down tonight, huh?"
She tried to smile, but could feel her nervousness tightening her lips. She took a deep breath and looked at him ruefully.
Now he was starting to look scared--oh, no, this wasn't good. Better talk, quick, Holly girl, she admonished herself, before this went totally off the rails.
"It's nothing bad," she said quickly, then took a swig to gather her wits. "It's just that...I've been trying to say...oh glory, what's wrong with me." She set the glass down on the table, leaned across and grabbed his hand. "What I'm trying to say is...Russ Agnew, I think I love you." And as the look of shock on his face turned into a shit-eating grin, she knew she'd done the right thing.
-----
They'd both agreed that this was the only way.
And it was no big deal, right? I mean, they'd get over it. It was probably nothing, anyway. Nothing real. Just a dumbass drunkish sloppy flirtation, going nowhere. Probably they'd both been thinking of someone else anyway, any port in a storm, well, no, not port, don't even think like that. Just forget about it. Easy enough to do, just get back to business. Dead bodies and clues and witnesses and murder weapons, that'll clear the brain. Right. Because there was no way this could go anywhere, not with them as partners and anyway, dude was so annoying, how could he even think of being attracted to him?
Rubbing the back of his neck, Russ stole a look at Milt, driving calmly and slowly as usual. Just at that moment Milt's eyes flicked over and they held each others' gaze, then looked away. Oh, f*ck, Russ thought with a groan. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought.
--
Lestrade watched the back of Mycroft's slightly-less-than impeccable figure, walking a bit unevenly toward the bar, with Sherlock pacing next to him. Unusual, that, all the way around.
He picked up his pint and turned to John with a quizzical look. "Is it my imagination, or is Mycroft getting a bit tipsy?" he asked, feeling ridiculous for even wondering. "And what's with Sherlock dogging his steps? Usually he can't wait to get shot of big brother. Not that having a pub night with this foursome is usual in any way." He shrugged as he took a gulp of bitters.
John burst out with a hearty laugh, and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. "Not usual, but could become so, eh, if Mycroft could have his way? And speaking of him having his way, likely he's realizing for once he can't have everything his way, sure enough." He gestured with his glass toward the bar, where Mycroft was seemingly attempting to order another whiskey, with Sherlock gesticulating for reasons unknown.
Lestrade looked confused. "What's that mean, anyway? You're saying Mycroft is getting piss-drunk because he's not getting...what?"
“He’s pissed because he’s in love with you.” John laughed again. “How is it that you don’t see it?” He grinned at his tablemate in genuine amusement as Lestrade stared with a look mixed of shock and dawning realization.
--
"Did you sleep? I SAID, DID YOU SLEEP?"
Joan turned over toward the shouting and blinked her eyes. With a groan, she glared at the figure of Sherlock, poised over her bed like a gargoyle. "What? Did I sleep? Why yes, I WAS asleep until just now. Why do you ask?" She sat up and pulled the sheets around her. "And anyway, judging from your quite insane expression, I'm guessing that I should ask you the same question."
Sherlock waved his hands and started scampering back toward the door. "Irrelevant, but since you ask, yes, I did cat nap, in between making several significant discoveries in aid of THE CASE we are supposed to be working on, not drowsing until all hours like sybarites." He paused at the door to blink at her dramatically.
"Sybarites? For trying to get a reasonable amount of -- oh forget it." With a disgruntled air, Joan surrendered to the inevitable and got out of bed, reaching for her robe and still glaring at her partner, who had meanwhile begun to regale her with the results of his all-night research which did, she grudgingly had to admit, sound like it could be the turning point in their case, sure enough, which only added to her irritation.
___
Lanie gazed over the body on the table at the two of them, arms crossed. "Yes, I called you here; no, I don't have any news on our vic here." She nodded shortly, but still respectfully, at the table between them. "Let's call it a ruse to get you two in front of me to give you a piece of my mind." The two looked suddenly wary, defensively so in Beckett's case, and comically in Castle's.
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO THINKING!?!" Lanie belted out. "After all you've been through together, and all you have, such a beautiful love, that you can SCREW IT UP BY BEING IDIOTS?" She began waving her finger in front of their faces. "If you two don't work it out STAT, you can forget calling me your friend. I don't care what your stupid reasons are. Work it out and get back together, or we're through." With a "hmmmph" she crossed her arms and glared.
The two went from looking startled, to exchanging a glance, to looking abashed, to heaving mutual, enormous sighs of relief. "Oh thank god, she's forcing us to tell her," said Beckett, as Castle nodded maniacally. "Tell me....what?" Lanie asked with suspicion dawning. "We'll tell you the details later, but we're not apart, we're together, don't tell anyone but woo hoo, we don't have to hide it from you anymore!" blurted Beckett, as Castle opened his arms and drew her into a big hug, which became tighter, and included nuzzling and....more.
After a few minutes of staring, Lanie interjected. "Guys? I believe you, okay? There's no need to keep kissing. Seriously, you can stop now. I get it, you're together. ...Please stop." Lanie poised, hand on hip, but the two paid her no mind. With a dismissive gesture, she turned on her heel and marched out to get a cup of coffee. Anyone who could kiss so madly in a morgue deserved some damn alone time.
_______
"It's easy. He’s jealous.”
Castle's words rang in Ryan's ears the next day as he stared at his partner, sitting at his desk making phone calls trying to track down a lead on the undocumented worker's murder case. Espo was talking avidly, waving his hand around, punctuating the staccato of his Spanish. Always did love to hear Javy's Spanish, so badass and somehow sexy. No wonder the women fell at his feet. Which is what made this whole "jealous" thing make no sense whatsoever. Javy had no call to be jealous of him, Ryan, who had no game with the ladies.
As Ryan continued to muse and idly stare at his partner, Espo caught his eye, and then Kevin saw it. That expression of surprised tenderness. Their eyes locked for a moment, then, with a shake of shoulders, Javy turned away and went back to his phone call. Suddenly Kevin started to feel warm, then warmer, like he wasn't in Antarctica any more.
Castle stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. "Focus, Rick, focus," he muttered to himself. Wouldn't do at all to go stumbling into the loft ill-prepared for the inevitable questions from his womenfolk about where he'd been, what had he been doing, and why on earth was he looking like he'd seen a ghost, Richard, for heaven's sake.
And not like he could tell them, oh no. Especially not Kate, not after Rita has so explicitly warned them off of contact, seemingly forever. But her change of expression during one part of their oh-so-brief conversation and he just knew that Jackson must be nearby. So he sent out the super-secret text alert and got to see his father, maybe for one last time. Sure, unsatisfying--most un-Dad-like father ever, even still. But he'd had to do it. And he just didn't think the women in his life would understand.
But now he was home. And as he opened the door and heard the laughter inside, he breathed a sigh of relief.
---------
She poured herself another drink and carefully set the bottle down on the table.
His eyebrows quirked in an angle of concern, but his expression was mild. "What's up?" he asked, his tone studiously light. "You're really pouring it down tonight, huh?"
She tried to smile, but could feel her nervousness tightening her lips. She took a deep breath and looked at him ruefully.
Now he was starting to look scared--oh, no, this wasn't good. Better talk, quick, Holly girl, she admonished herself, before this went totally off the rails.
"It's nothing bad," she said quickly, then took a swig to gather her wits. "It's just that...I've been trying to say...oh glory, what's wrong with me." She set the glass down on the table, leaned across and grabbed his hand. "What I'm trying to say is...Russ Agnew, I think I love you." And as the look of shock on his face turned into a shit-eating grin, she knew she'd done the right thing.
-----
They'd both agreed that this was the only way.
And it was no big deal, right? I mean, they'd get over it. It was probably nothing, anyway. Nothing real. Just a dumbass drunkish sloppy flirtation, going nowhere. Probably they'd both been thinking of someone else anyway, any port in a storm, well, no, not port, don't even think like that. Just forget about it. Easy enough to do, just get back to business. Dead bodies and clues and witnesses and murder weapons, that'll clear the brain. Right. Because there was no way this could go anywhere, not with them as partners and anyway, dude was so annoying, how could he even think of being attracted to him?
Rubbing the back of his neck, Russ stole a look at Milt, driving calmly and slowly as usual. Just at that moment Milt's eyes flicked over and they held each others' gaze, then looked away. Oh, f*ck, Russ thought with a groan. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought.
--
Lestrade watched the back of Mycroft's slightly-less-than impeccable figure, walking a bit unevenly toward the bar, with Sherlock pacing next to him. Unusual, that, all the way around.
He picked up his pint and turned to John with a quizzical look. "Is it my imagination, or is Mycroft getting a bit tipsy?" he asked, feeling ridiculous for even wondering. "And what's with Sherlock dogging his steps? Usually he can't wait to get shot of big brother. Not that having a pub night with this foursome is usual in any way." He shrugged as he took a gulp of bitters.
John burst out with a hearty laugh, and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. "Not usual, but could become so, eh, if Mycroft could have his way? And speaking of him having his way, likely he's realizing for once he can't have everything his way, sure enough." He gestured with his glass toward the bar, where Mycroft was seemingly attempting to order another whiskey, with Sherlock gesticulating for reasons unknown.
Lestrade looked confused. "What's that mean, anyway? You're saying Mycroft is getting piss-drunk because he's not getting...what?"
“He’s pissed because he’s in love with you.” John laughed again. “How is it that you don’t see it?” He grinned at his tablemate in genuine amusement as Lestrade stared with a look mixed of shock and dawning realization.
--
"Did you sleep? I SAID, DID YOU SLEEP?"
Joan turned over toward the shouting and blinked her eyes. With a groan, she glared at the figure of Sherlock, poised over her bed like a gargoyle. "What? Did I sleep? Why yes, I WAS asleep until just now. Why do you ask?" She sat up and pulled the sheets around her. "And anyway, judging from your quite insane expression, I'm guessing that I should ask you the same question."
Sherlock waved his hands and started scampering back toward the door. "Irrelevant, but since you ask, yes, I did cat nap, in between making several significant discoveries in aid of THE CASE we are supposed to be working on, not drowsing until all hours like sybarites." He paused at the door to blink at her dramatically.
"Sybarites? For trying to get a reasonable amount of -- oh forget it." With a disgruntled air, Joan surrendered to the inevitable and got out of bed, reaching for her robe and still glaring at her partner, who had meanwhile begun to regale her with the results of his all-night research which did, she grudgingly had to admit, sound like it could be the turning point in their case, sure enough, which only added to her irritation.
___
Lanie gazed over the body on the table at the two of them, arms crossed. "Yes, I called you here; no, I don't have any news on our vic here." She nodded shortly, but still respectfully, at the table between them. "Let's call it a ruse to get you two in front of me to give you a piece of my mind." The two looked suddenly wary, defensively so in Beckett's case, and comically in Castle's.
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO THINKING!?!" Lanie belted out. "After all you've been through together, and all you have, such a beautiful love, that you can SCREW IT UP BY BEING IDIOTS?" She began waving her finger in front of their faces. "If you two don't work it out STAT, you can forget calling me your friend. I don't care what your stupid reasons are. Work it out and get back together, or we're through." With a "hmmmph" she crossed her arms and glared.
The two went from looking startled, to exchanging a glance, to looking abashed, to heaving mutual, enormous sighs of relief. "Oh thank god, she's forcing us to tell her," said Beckett, as Castle nodded maniacally. "Tell me....what?" Lanie asked with suspicion dawning. "We'll tell you the details later, but we're not apart, we're together, don't tell anyone but woo hoo, we don't have to hide it from you anymore!" blurted Beckett, as Castle opened his arms and drew her into a big hug, which became tighter, and included nuzzling and....more.
After a few minutes of staring, Lanie interjected. "Guys? I believe you, okay? There's no need to keep kissing. Seriously, you can stop now. I get it, you're together. ...Please stop." Lanie poised, hand on hip, but the two paid her no mind. With a dismissive gesture, she turned on her heel and marched out to get a cup of coffee. Anyone who could kiss so madly in a morgue deserved some damn alone time.
_______
"It's easy. He’s jealous.”
Castle's words rang in Ryan's ears the next day as he stared at his partner, sitting at his desk making phone calls trying to track down a lead on the undocumented worker's murder case. Espo was talking avidly, waving his hand around, punctuating the staccato of his Spanish. Always did love to hear Javy's Spanish, so badass and somehow sexy. No wonder the women fell at his feet. Which is what made this whole "jealous" thing make no sense whatsoever. Javy had no call to be jealous of him, Ryan, who had no game with the ladies.
As Ryan continued to muse and idly stare at his partner, Espo caught his eye, and then Kevin saw it. That expression of surprised tenderness. Their eyes locked for a moment, then, with a shake of shoulders, Javy turned away and went back to his phone call. Suddenly Kevin started to feel warm, then warmer, like he wasn't in Antarctica any more.