[ millific ] down on our own shield
title: down on our own shield
author: sardonicynic
rating: r
character(s): kate beckett (castle), bill pardy (slither)
pairing(s): beckett/bill; bill/kate warner, beckett/kate and bill/beckett/kate implied.
spoiler(s): through season one of castle.
summary: whatever it is now, it's right up to our waist.
word count: 756
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine; the words are. a metric ton of props to adam_bat and austen for being so damn awesome, giving these characters such incredible shape and weight and life. (and for letting me play with them in this AU-a-thon, natch.)
a/n: a sequel of sorts; takes place at some nebulous point a few weeks after leave the pieces.
a/n 2.0: written for bat and carly, with most of the blame falling on the delicious shoulders of jakob dylan -- title and summary taken from "down on our own shield" from his latest album, women and country. unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own; point and laugh at will.
warnings: makeout bandits. angst. idk guys this is what happens when a line becomes a triangle what.
Beckett backtracks two steps, the line of light leaking beneath the door giving her pause. She knocks softly, and blinks when the door cracks open a moment later.
"Bill, hey."
He adjusts a pair of wire-rimmed glasses Beckett hasn't seen before on the bridge of his nose and offers a small, guarded smile.
"Evenin', detective."
He's tired, that much is obvious; his hair is disheveled, like he's been running a hand through it repeatedly, and his button-down is rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He holds a legal pad covered with notes and figures in one hand, a battered No. 2 pencil threaded through his fingers.
"You wanna come in?" He steps back, opening the door wider.
Beckett hesitates, then crosses the threshold into the suite. A lamp burns on the desk across the room, and stacks of paperwork are spread across the mahogany surface, open manila folders lining its length.
Her eyes move back to Bill.
"Am I interrupting? I can -- "
He shakes his head.
"But if you're lookin' for Kate, she ain't here," he says, and there's no defensiveness in his tone.
"Oh." Beckett hopes her disappointment isn't as apparent as it feels. "I saw the light on; I just thought ... "
Bill checks the date on his watch.
"She's probably still in London. The new CFO was startin' this week, so." He waves a hand toward the desk. "S'just me an' this mess of paperwork."
Beckett winces in empathy.
"Not enough hours in the day?"
"Not when I'm gettin' everything in order for this audit an' half the damn department's out with stomach flu."
"Have you been sick?"
"Nah." He offers a wry smile, lifting the legal pad. "I'm one of the lucky ones."
One corner of her mouth quirks.
"Congratulations."
He gives her another quick half-smile.
"You want anything to drink? 'Cause you're welcome to take a seat an' stay awhile, but I don't know how good my company'll be."
- - - - -
"Kate ain't much for this stuff," he says as he hands Beckett a second beer, his fingers brushing hers.
"She's not really much of a drinker."
"Nah." Bill shakes his head; he glances at the desk, then back to Beckett. "First night we ever went out, just as friends, I brought her to Wheelsy so she could get outta the bar, 'cause she'd been Bound for weeks. Took her to the lodge an' ordered a beer, so she did, too, told Mary she'd have the same."
His barely-there smile is shaded with something -- something Beckett can't neatly label like evidence from a crime scene.
"She never made a face or anything, but ... " His huff of a laugh is jagged at its edges. "She didn't even drink half of it. Kate, she -- she's not a beer kinda girl, y'know?"
Beckett's hand tightens on the amber bottle as she studies him.
Bill's eyes are on his own bottle, Adam's apple bobbing with hesitation.
"She likes wine. S'a lot finer."
"Bill -- "
He's frowning, now.
"Don't know how I ever thought I could hold on to somebody like her."
His voice is so soft and rough that Beckett's not certain she's heard him right, but the look on his face tells her more than words ever could. Surprise and sadness war for top billing behind her ribs while she watches him lift his beer.
"She isn't going anywhere, Bill. She loves you."
He takes a slow pull from his bottle, not meeting Beckett's eyes across the coffee table after he swallows.
"Sometimes, I think that's the worst part."
- - - - -
Beckett doesn't remember how they got here, only that they are. She's on Bill's lap, knees hugging his hips; one of his hands is splayed across her lower back beneath her shirt, and his fingers are in her hair, tightening when she dips her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
His arousal is obvious through the layers that separate them, and she breathes something between a sigh and an oh when she shifts her weight.
Bill's muffled groan hitches and his eyes open, the blue clouded with want and something darker.
"You pretendin' I'm him?"
Beckett's very still, but her expression doesn't change.
"No." Her thumb strokes his cheekbone, her eyes never leaving his. "There's only two of us here."
Bill turns his cheek into her palm, and Beckett swears he ages five years in the space between one second and the next.
"That ain't altogether true." His voice is low and hoarse. "There's always three."
author: sardonicynic
rating: r
character(s): kate beckett (castle), bill pardy (slither)
pairing(s): beckett/bill; bill/kate warner, beckett/kate and bill/beckett/kate implied.
spoiler(s): through season one of castle.
summary: whatever it is now, it's right up to our waist.
word count: 756
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine; the words are. a metric ton of props to adam_bat and austen for being so damn awesome, giving these characters such incredible shape and weight and life. (and for letting me play with them in this AU-a-thon, natch.)
a/n: a sequel of sorts; takes place at some nebulous point a few weeks after leave the pieces.
a/n 2.0: written for bat and carly, with most of the blame falling on the delicious shoulders of jakob dylan -- title and summary taken from "down on our own shield" from his latest album, women and country. unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own; point and laugh at will.
warnings: makeout bandits. angst. idk guys this is what happens when a line becomes a triangle what.
Beckett backtracks two steps, the line of light leaking beneath the door giving her pause. She knocks softly, and blinks when the door cracks open a moment later.
"Bill, hey."
He adjusts a pair of wire-rimmed glasses Beckett hasn't seen before on the bridge of his nose and offers a small, guarded smile.
"Evenin', detective."
He's tired, that much is obvious; his hair is disheveled, like he's been running a hand through it repeatedly, and his button-down is rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He holds a legal pad covered with notes and figures in one hand, a battered No. 2 pencil threaded through his fingers.
"You wanna come in?" He steps back, opening the door wider.
Beckett hesitates, then crosses the threshold into the suite. A lamp burns on the desk across the room, and stacks of paperwork are spread across the mahogany surface, open manila folders lining its length.
Her eyes move back to Bill.
"Am I interrupting? I can -- "
He shakes his head.
"But if you're lookin' for Kate, she ain't here," he says, and there's no defensiveness in his tone.
"Oh." Beckett hopes her disappointment isn't as apparent as it feels. "I saw the light on; I just thought ... "
Bill checks the date on his watch.
"She's probably still in London. The new CFO was startin' this week, so." He waves a hand toward the desk. "S'just me an' this mess of paperwork."
Beckett winces in empathy.
"Not enough hours in the day?"
"Not when I'm gettin' everything in order for this audit an' half the damn department's out with stomach flu."
"Have you been sick?"
"Nah." He offers a wry smile, lifting the legal pad. "I'm one of the lucky ones."
One corner of her mouth quirks.
"Congratulations."
He gives her another quick half-smile.
"You want anything to drink? 'Cause you're welcome to take a seat an' stay awhile, but I don't know how good my company'll be."
- - - - -
"Kate ain't much for this stuff," he says as he hands Beckett a second beer, his fingers brushing hers.
"She's not really much of a drinker."
"Nah." Bill shakes his head; he glances at the desk, then back to Beckett. "First night we ever went out, just as friends, I brought her to Wheelsy so she could get outta the bar, 'cause she'd been Bound for weeks. Took her to the lodge an' ordered a beer, so she did, too, told Mary she'd have the same."
His barely-there smile is shaded with something -- something Beckett can't neatly label like evidence from a crime scene.
"She never made a face or anything, but ... " His huff of a laugh is jagged at its edges. "She didn't even drink half of it. Kate, she -- she's not a beer kinda girl, y'know?"
Beckett's hand tightens on the amber bottle as she studies him.
Bill's eyes are on his own bottle, Adam's apple bobbing with hesitation.
"She likes wine. S'a lot finer."
"Bill -- "
He's frowning, now.
"Don't know how I ever thought I could hold on to somebody like her."
His voice is so soft and rough that Beckett's not certain she's heard him right, but the look on his face tells her more than words ever could. Surprise and sadness war for top billing behind her ribs while she watches him lift his beer.
"She isn't going anywhere, Bill. She loves you."
He takes a slow pull from his bottle, not meeting Beckett's eyes across the coffee table after he swallows.
"Sometimes, I think that's the worst part."
- - - - -
Beckett doesn't remember how they got here, only that they are. She's on Bill's lap, knees hugging his hips; one of his hands is splayed across her lower back beneath her shirt, and his fingers are in her hair, tightening when she dips her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
His arousal is obvious through the layers that separate them, and she breathes something between a sigh and an oh when she shifts her weight.
Bill's muffled groan hitches and his eyes open, the blue clouded with want and something darker.
"You pretendin' I'm him?"
Beckett's very still, but her expression doesn't change.
"No." Her thumb strokes his cheekbone, her eyes never leaving his. "There's only two of us here."
Bill turns his cheek into her palm, and Beckett swears he ages five years in the space between one second and the next.
"That ain't altogether true." His voice is low and hoarse. "There's always three."