Mended-A Torn Sequel, Ch. 3-5-Shot set post-Boom! (2 x 18)
Title: Mended-A Torn Sequel, Ch. 3
Summary: "His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely."
A/N: Oh, FFS. I was having POV trouble with the final chapter. I started writing Castle's POV, which is what I wanted it to be, and THIS came out. It is NOT, you will notice, the final chapter. So it's a four-shot. AGGGGHHH. Sorry. Sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18).
He's impatient with the day. With how long it takes to get everywhere. With the weasel-y Bruno.
"Isn't she a cop?" the man asks testily when Castle insists on trying the keys for himself the third time.
"Yes, and you should see her kick in doors." He gives Bruno a blank, over-the-shoulder smile. "But I imagine it'll make work for you if she has to kick in this one every night. So let's just make sure they work, shall we?"
He's impatient with himself, because he can't decide on three simple things. Bread. Salt. Wine. It's simple, or it should be, but he dithers over every choice. He winds up racing in and out of five different stores and doubling back a few times until he's satisfied. Close enough to satisfied and out of time, anyway.
He's impatient with his mother, and it's really not fair. Really not. He spies her through the restaurant window, having an animated conversation with a confused-looking server. Flirting probably, even though the kid can't be more than seventeen.
Sympathy propels him through the doors, and sure enough, the kid gives Castle a grateful look when his mother breaks off in the middle of whatever was making his cheeks burn to call out, "Richard! My only son. Happy . . ."
". . . don't say it." He cuts her off as he scrubs lipstick from one cheek, then the other. It's a ritual honored, and it does its work like always.
They squabble their way through the meal-Dim Sum she's talked the place into doing, even though it's a Wednesday afternoon. They talk about Chet and his annoying habits, but his endearing qualities, too.
"And it's really nothing, darling. Just a costume piece I've had for ages, but he saw I was heartbroken and took it on himself to have it fixed."
Her cheeks pink as she tells the story. A white rose and breakfast in bed. A cheap bracelet on a bed of velvet in an upscale jeweler's box. Years fall away from her face. From her sharp, ready gaze, and he sees Alexis in her. He thinks about love and family and Kate, though he's trying hard to put her out of his mind right now. His heart bangs painfully against his ribs, yearning and afraid. Terribly afraid.
She sees it. His mother sees it, and he tries brace himself. Tries to shake himself back to neutral. Indifferent, but the moment passes. For once she lets it pass.
"And what's next in our grand adventure."
His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely.
"I'm supposed to pick," he says absently, not feeling up to it at all. Not feeling up to anything other than ticking off seconds and minutes and hours until likely. Or even possible. He'd settle for that.
"You are supposed to pick. It's traditional." She unlinks their elbows, swinging around to face him. "However"-she reaches out to tap the bag swinging from his free hand-bread, salt, wine, though she hasn't asked- "as you have other things on your mind, I will let you off the hook, just this once." She raises an index finger. "And so, we shop."
It's just right, strangely enough. The noise and confusion of Canal blends with his mother's running commentary on the quality of the knock-off handbags. He weighs in, now and then. Shaking his head and grimacing when she holds up something awful. Giving a non-committal nod less often when it's not too bad.
He accumulates strange, terrible candy to torture Alexis with. Hard, prune-flavored disks like sour slate on his tongue. Something sweet and milky wrapped in an odd, supposedly edible paper that glues the inside of his cheek to his teeth when it melts. Tiny gelatinous ears of corn that are too weird not to try, though he regrets it immediately. They both regret it.
They sip coffee on a bench, trying to banish the taste. They argue about where to get someone to snap a photo of the two of them. Another ritual, the photo and the argument, both.
"But, darling, the arch is right here"-she makes a vague gesture in the direction of the statue of Lin Zexu-"and this gentleman will do quite as well as Confucius."
"Yes, nineteenth century bureaucrat, timeless philosopher," he grumbles, but she's pulling him to his feet. "I bet they get mistaken for each other all the time."
She ignores him, intent on flagging down some unsuspecting passerby. A woman stops. It's surprising enough, given their bickering and the fact that seconds ago, she'd been working the head-down, don't-bother-me gait of the busy New Yorker. But now she's smiling. Directing them and moving around to get different views in the background.
"Thanks. Thanks very much."
He smiles back, trying not to snatch as he reaches for his phone. Startling when the woman's fingers close around his wrist and she steps close. His mother rescues him.
"Points to you for effort, dear," she says, not unkindly, as she plucks the phone from between the two of them and stands fast until the woman's hand drops. "But he's quite hopeless at the moment. Head over heels for the most unlikely girl in the world."
It's awkward. It's as awkward as it's possible for a moment to be.
They're silent after that. Distant in a way he's vaguely sorry about. This is their day. Something they've set aside for years and years, honoring it even when things were strained between them, and it's as if he's kicking at it. Denting the thing that he always heaves a sigh about, like it's something to endure, but it's important to both of them and he is sorry, but he's worried too. Worried what will happen if he's the one to break the silence. Worried what will come out of his mouth.
So they move on. She steers them toward Confucius anyway. She takes a picture of him alone. A conciliatory gesture and they laugh over it. A new ritual, maybe, and he's glad about that. Proud, as ever, that their relationship, whatever else it might be, is resilient. Tough.
He has a strange urge to thank her for it. He thinks of Kate and the last year. All the times already that he might have walked away. Chosen something easier or settled for less than what he wants. What he's wanted from practically the beginning, though he's called it other things along the way and tried to explain his way out of it, but here he is. Here they are, or at least might be, and something makes him want to thank his mother for it.
But she's moved on. The moment's already evaporated and she has her nose in a stall. A two-wheeled cart, really, with doors that open up. His mother is deep in conversation with the old Chinese woman who's only just set up there. As deep as a conversation can be when it consists of grunted numbers and sharp gestures punctuated with sullen monosyllables contributed by a very bored twelve-year-old.
Castle wanders nearer, pulled in by the scene in spite of himself. In spite of his mind being a mile or more across town. The kid-he must be the woman's grandson-has an anywhere-but-here look about him, his worn Chuck Taylors and sagging jeans an amusing contrast to the woman's stiff, traditional dress. His accent is pure New York.
"Good luck or something." He rolls his eyes. "I don't know." He lapses into rapid-fire Cantonese, pointing. "The trunk and the"-he gropes for the word-"tusk thingies. When they point up. She says it's good luck."
"Richard, look! Aren't they adorable?"
His mother's hand runs along a lower shelf that runs to creamy white with gold and carnelian rugs draped over their backs. They're showy, bleeding into gaudy in one or two cases, and not at all what draws his eye. He drifts instead to the far side of things. To a high-up shelf with just a few that have a forgotten look about them.
"More expensive." He looks down, surprised to find the kid tagging along. "Jade. One piece. She says no one wants them."
"I do," he says quickly. "This one."
He reaches without hesitation for the one he knows is right. Jade. It's surprising. Not the milky, translucent color he usually associates with the word. This is dark and mottled with gorgeous mossy veins that give the illusion of movement to the delicate fan of each ear and impart a sturdiness-power and a solid kind of grace-to the blocky outline of the elephant's body. The trunk is curled high, the end coming to rest between wide-set eyes, curiously expressive, though they're nothing more than a pair of curved, intersecting lines.
"Perfect." He feels his mother's hand, sudden on his shoulder. Her her cheek almost brushing his. "Oh, Richard. That one's just perfect for her."
He expects her to pry after that. After the woman slips the elephant into a fiery satin bag and he sets it carefully alongside the things he already with him. Bread, salt, and wine, and now this companion, odd and perfect at once.
But she fills the walk with nothing chatter. She talks about Alexis and chides him for keeping too close an eye on this and ignoring that. She steers so well clear of everything she must be dying to grill him about that things come out the other side.
"We're having dinner." He practically shouts it, cutting in the middle of whatever she was on about. Shoes or something.
"Dinner," she says, giving him a mock-grim look. "No wonder you're terrified."
"I am not terrified." The lie is thick in his mouth. "Why would I be terrified?"
"Hmmm. Where shall I start?" She makes a fist with one hand, raising a single finger on the other, as though she's about to start ticking off points.
"Don't. Don't start." He slaps at her hand. "Please."
"As you wish." She purses her lips and lifts her chin, the picture of silent compliance.
He makes it five steps. "Unlikely? What's unlikely about it? She's smart and she's hot and . . ."
". . . and challenging and not nearly as charmed by you as you like women to be." She stops. She tugs him by the sleeve out of the flow of foot traffic. "Richard, it was an observation, not an insult."
"But it is unlikely." He knocks his head back against brick. "We're unlikely."
"Unlikely is not impossible, kiddo." She tugs his chin down to make him look at her. "You care about her. And she cares about you. Enough to make fools out of both of you. And if the two of you have one thing in common, it's that you hate more than anything to feel like a fool. Of course you're terrified."
"Thanks, Mother," he deadpans. "Great pep talk."
"Hey, you want someone to blow smoke up your skirt, you go to Alexis." He laughs, a little miserably, and she pats his cheek. "And ask yourself this: How has likely worked out for you anyway?"
He turns, ducking away. He thinks about Gina. Meredith. Both of them likely in such different ways. He thinks about the kind of women he stumbles across-stumbles past very nearly-in the one part of his life he's left this to for years. Likely candidates for a limited time, and she's nothing like any of them. Nothing at all like any of them.
"You know you're not making any sense, right?" He slings an arm around her shoulders and sets them walking again. "Like no sense whatsoever."
"Then who better to advise you on matters of the heart?" she asks as she falls in step beside him. " 'Cause if there's anything in this world that makes less sense than love, I've yet to come across it."
He looks at his watch. It's hours still until even possible, and he knows she has a point.
A/N: Aggggh. Seriously. Final chapter soon. Promise.
Summary: "His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely."
A/N: Oh, FFS. I was having POV trouble with the final chapter. I started writing Castle's POV, which is what I wanted it to be, and THIS came out. It is NOT, you will notice, the final chapter. So it's a four-shot. AGGGGHHH. Sorry. Sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18).
He's impatient with the day. With how long it takes to get everywhere. With the weasel-y Bruno.
"Isn't she a cop?" the man asks testily when Castle insists on trying the keys for himself the third time.
"Yes, and you should see her kick in doors." He gives Bruno a blank, over-the-shoulder smile. "But I imagine it'll make work for you if she has to kick in this one every night. So let's just make sure they work, shall we?"
He's impatient with himself, because he can't decide on three simple things. Bread. Salt. Wine. It's simple, or it should be, but he dithers over every choice. He winds up racing in and out of five different stores and doubling back a few times until he's satisfied. Close enough to satisfied and out of time, anyway.
He's impatient with his mother, and it's really not fair. Really not. He spies her through the restaurant window, having an animated conversation with a confused-looking server. Flirting probably, even though the kid can't be more than seventeen.
Sympathy propels him through the doors, and sure enough, the kid gives Castle a grateful look when his mother breaks off in the middle of whatever was making his cheeks burn to call out, "Richard! My only son. Happy . . ."
". . . don't say it." He cuts her off as he scrubs lipstick from one cheek, then the other. It's a ritual honored, and it does its work like always.
They squabble their way through the meal-Dim Sum she's talked the place into doing, even though it's a Wednesday afternoon. They talk about Chet and his annoying habits, but his endearing qualities, too.
"And it's really nothing, darling. Just a costume piece I've had for ages, but he saw I was heartbroken and took it on himself to have it fixed."
Her cheeks pink as she tells the story. A white rose and breakfast in bed. A cheap bracelet on a bed of velvet in an upscale jeweler's box. Years fall away from her face. From her sharp, ready gaze, and he sees Alexis in her. He thinks about love and family and Kate, though he's trying hard to put her out of his mind right now. His heart bangs painfully against his ribs, yearning and afraid. Terribly afraid.
She sees it. His mother sees it, and he tries brace himself. Tries to shake himself back to neutral. Indifferent, but the moment passes. For once she lets it pass.
"And what's next in our grand adventure."
His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely.
"I'm supposed to pick," he says absently, not feeling up to it at all. Not feeling up to anything other than ticking off seconds and minutes and hours until likely. Or even possible. He'd settle for that.
"You are supposed to pick. It's traditional." She unlinks their elbows, swinging around to face him. "However"-she reaches out to tap the bag swinging from his free hand-bread, salt, wine, though she hasn't asked- "as you have other things on your mind, I will let you off the hook, just this once." She raises an index finger. "And so, we shop."
It's just right, strangely enough. The noise and confusion of Canal blends with his mother's running commentary on the quality of the knock-off handbags. He weighs in, now and then. Shaking his head and grimacing when she holds up something awful. Giving a non-committal nod less often when it's not too bad.
He accumulates strange, terrible candy to torture Alexis with. Hard, prune-flavored disks like sour slate on his tongue. Something sweet and milky wrapped in an odd, supposedly edible paper that glues the inside of his cheek to his teeth when it melts. Tiny gelatinous ears of corn that are too weird not to try, though he regrets it immediately. They both regret it.
They sip coffee on a bench, trying to banish the taste. They argue about where to get someone to snap a photo of the two of them. Another ritual, the photo and the argument, both.
"But, darling, the arch is right here"-she makes a vague gesture in the direction of the statue of Lin Zexu-"and this gentleman will do quite as well as Confucius."
"Yes, nineteenth century bureaucrat, timeless philosopher," he grumbles, but she's pulling him to his feet. "I bet they get mistaken for each other all the time."
She ignores him, intent on flagging down some unsuspecting passerby. A woman stops. It's surprising enough, given their bickering and the fact that seconds ago, she'd been working the head-down, don't-bother-me gait of the busy New Yorker. But now she's smiling. Directing them and moving around to get different views in the background.
"Thanks. Thanks very much."
He smiles back, trying not to snatch as he reaches for his phone. Startling when the woman's fingers close around his wrist and she steps close. His mother rescues him.
"Points to you for effort, dear," she says, not unkindly, as she plucks the phone from between the two of them and stands fast until the woman's hand drops. "But he's quite hopeless at the moment. Head over heels for the most unlikely girl in the world."
It's awkward. It's as awkward as it's possible for a moment to be.
They're silent after that. Distant in a way he's vaguely sorry about. This is their day. Something they've set aside for years and years, honoring it even when things were strained between them, and it's as if he's kicking at it. Denting the thing that he always heaves a sigh about, like it's something to endure, but it's important to both of them and he is sorry, but he's worried too. Worried what will happen if he's the one to break the silence. Worried what will come out of his mouth.
So they move on. She steers them toward Confucius anyway. She takes a picture of him alone. A conciliatory gesture and they laugh over it. A new ritual, maybe, and he's glad about that. Proud, as ever, that their relationship, whatever else it might be, is resilient. Tough.
He has a strange urge to thank her for it. He thinks of Kate and the last year. All the times already that he might have walked away. Chosen something easier or settled for less than what he wants. What he's wanted from practically the beginning, though he's called it other things along the way and tried to explain his way out of it, but here he is. Here they are, or at least might be, and something makes him want to thank his mother for it.
But she's moved on. The moment's already evaporated and she has her nose in a stall. A two-wheeled cart, really, with doors that open up. His mother is deep in conversation with the old Chinese woman who's only just set up there. As deep as a conversation can be when it consists of grunted numbers and sharp gestures punctuated with sullen monosyllables contributed by a very bored twelve-year-old.
Castle wanders nearer, pulled in by the scene in spite of himself. In spite of his mind being a mile or more across town. The kid-he must be the woman's grandson-has an anywhere-but-here look about him, his worn Chuck Taylors and sagging jeans an amusing contrast to the woman's stiff, traditional dress. His accent is pure New York.
"Good luck or something." He rolls his eyes. "I don't know." He lapses into rapid-fire Cantonese, pointing. "The trunk and the"-he gropes for the word-"tusk thingies. When they point up. She says it's good luck."
"Richard, look! Aren't they adorable?"
His mother's hand runs along a lower shelf that runs to creamy white with gold and carnelian rugs draped over their backs. They're showy, bleeding into gaudy in one or two cases, and not at all what draws his eye. He drifts instead to the far side of things. To a high-up shelf with just a few that have a forgotten look about them.
"More expensive." He looks down, surprised to find the kid tagging along. "Jade. One piece. She says no one wants them."
"I do," he says quickly. "This one."
He reaches without hesitation for the one he knows is right. Jade. It's surprising. Not the milky, translucent color he usually associates with the word. This is dark and mottled with gorgeous mossy veins that give the illusion of movement to the delicate fan of each ear and impart a sturdiness-power and a solid kind of grace-to the blocky outline of the elephant's body. The trunk is curled high, the end coming to rest between wide-set eyes, curiously expressive, though they're nothing more than a pair of curved, intersecting lines.
"Perfect." He feels his mother's hand, sudden on his shoulder. Her her cheek almost brushing his. "Oh, Richard. That one's just perfect for her."
He expects her to pry after that. After the woman slips the elephant into a fiery satin bag and he sets it carefully alongside the things he already with him. Bread, salt, and wine, and now this companion, odd and perfect at once.
But she fills the walk with nothing chatter. She talks about Alexis and chides him for keeping too close an eye on this and ignoring that. She steers so well clear of everything she must be dying to grill him about that things come out the other side.
"We're having dinner." He practically shouts it, cutting in the middle of whatever she was on about. Shoes or something.
"Dinner," she says, giving him a mock-grim look. "No wonder you're terrified."
"I am not terrified." The lie is thick in his mouth. "Why would I be terrified?"
"Hmmm. Where shall I start?" She makes a fist with one hand, raising a single finger on the other, as though she's about to start ticking off points.
"Don't. Don't start." He slaps at her hand. "Please."
"As you wish." She purses her lips and lifts her chin, the picture of silent compliance.
He makes it five steps. "Unlikely? What's unlikely about it? She's smart and she's hot and . . ."
". . . and challenging and not nearly as charmed by you as you like women to be." She stops. She tugs him by the sleeve out of the flow of foot traffic. "Richard, it was an observation, not an insult."
"But it is unlikely." He knocks his head back against brick. "We're unlikely."
"Unlikely is not impossible, kiddo." She tugs his chin down to make him look at her. "You care about her. And she cares about you. Enough to make fools out of both of you. And if the two of you have one thing in common, it's that you hate more than anything to feel like a fool. Of course you're terrified."
"Thanks, Mother," he deadpans. "Great pep talk."
"Hey, you want someone to blow smoke up your skirt, you go to Alexis." He laughs, a little miserably, and she pats his cheek. "And ask yourself this: How has likely worked out for you anyway?"
He turns, ducking away. He thinks about Gina. Meredith. Both of them likely in such different ways. He thinks about the kind of women he stumbles across-stumbles past very nearly-in the one part of his life he's left this to for years. Likely candidates for a limited time, and she's nothing like any of them. Nothing at all like any of them.
"You know you're not making any sense, right?" He slings an arm around her shoulders and sets them walking again. "Like no sense whatsoever."
"Then who better to advise you on matters of the heart?" she asks as she falls in step beside him. " 'Cause if there's anything in this world that makes less sense than love, I've yet to come across it."
He looks at his watch. It's hours still until even possible, and he knows she has a point.
A/N: Aggggh. Seriously. Final chapter soon. Promise.