Hiraeth, Ch. 2-a Season 5 Caskett 4 Shot.
Title: Hiraeth, Ch. 2
Rating: T
Summary: "She means to go straight to the car. She glances at her watch and she's already pushing it. She's already likely to be in for one of her dad's heavy looks, but with the box tucked under her arm, her feet have a different idea. They pass the car by. They make a right and a left. They cross angle-wise, in the middle of the street, like they did every day of her life for years and years, and then she's looking up."
A/N: Second chapter of this 4-shot, set early S5.
She's supposed to bring dessert. She'd said she would, and after Castle had successfully derailed some not particularly serious plans to bake, She'd figured she'd pop around the corner to Bubby's and grab a couple of pieces of pie for take out. But she turns the other way out of her front door. She heads directly for the car, and she's behind the wheel before she's even thought about it.
It's stupid. She tells herself it's stupid as she snakes her way uptown. She hasn't been there in years. Thirteen to be exact, and it's the Upper West Side. The chances of the tiny little place with exactly nothing stylish or trendy about it still eking out an existence are slim to nil. But she works her way steadily toward it, sliding into an unbelievable parking spot that opens up just as she slows, trying to remember which awning, exactly, it ought to be.
Her feet carry her. Memory carries her, and she's sure, even when she's tugging the door open that it can't be right. She's sure, even when the well-remembered bell with its strange half clang rings out, that it can't be the place.
But it is, and it's like stepping back in time. The moment is crowded, almost overwhelming with the rush of sensation. The lingering, late-evening scent of things baked hours ago and the fresher tang of yeast wafting up from the huge metal bowls filled with dough proofing for tomorrow's offerings, sweet and savory alike. The well-worn booths, spotlessly clean, and the chip in the glass case just exactly the size of the tip of her pinky, just exactly where she remembers it.
"Help you, miss?"
She's startled by the young man's voice. More so when she recognizes him. That takes a few heady seconds as his face wavers between the deeply bored kid she remembers and the slightly too young version of his father he is now. He wipes his hands on a towel tucked in the side of his pants and pulls the pencil from behind his ear, gestures so uncannily familiar that her mouth opens and closes soundlessly on her first couple of tries.
"Macarons."
She manages to get that out eventually, and he does a double-take of his own. He must recognize her voice, though her face seems to have faded from memory. She looks down at the floor, agonizingly nervous all of a sudden.
He'd had a crush on her back in the day. One that manifested in strange, sullen comments blurted at the most inopportune times, and a host of unasked for extras whenever it turned out to be a dessert-mandatory night for the Beckett household and she'd run down here to pick up something. Her parents had teased her mercilessly.
And what bounty has the future Duchess of Desserts brought this evening?
"We have a few." The young man looks doubtful, but it's exaggerated. A little flirtatious, but in a general way, like he's dismissed whatever flash of recognition gave him pause a moment ago. It's salesmanship now, not an unwelcome trip down memory lane, and thank God for that. "I don't know if I can let you have them, though."
"What?" It's too loud. Too sharp. She smiles at him. Tries to recover, but her body feels strange, like she's been knocked out of time. "I mean . . ." Her shoulders sag. She gives up. "Why not?"
"Teasing!" he says quickly. "I mean, sort of. These are end of day now." He's sliding open the case from his side. Tugging trays toward him, one by one, and filling a neat little box, even though she hasn't asked for anything. He gives her an appraising look, then snags a chocolate with a square of wax paper and pushed it across the counter. "Still delicious"-he nods at the cookie, encouraging-"but you have to promise to come back for first thing in the morning sometime."
She nods, and that's strange, too. Far more emphatic than it needs to be. She shoves the macaron in her mouth, desperate for some kind of stage business, but that throws her for loop, too. It's the same as she remembers it. The melting sensation. The mellow, nutty sweetness of the cookie and just the right amount of dark, bitter chocolate in the filling. It's exactly the same and it's almost more than she can stand.
"I will." She swallows down the rest of the cookie and sweeps the box he's filled toward her, greedy and protective. She digs out cash and pushes it back across the counter, too impatient to wait even for the little bit of change coming to her. "I promise," she calls over her shoulder as the broken bell sounds again. "I'll come back."
She means to go straight to the car. She glances at her watch and she's already pushing it. She's already likely to be in for one of her dad's heavy looks, but with the box tucked under her arm, her feet have a different idea. They pass the car by. They make a right and a left. They cross angle-wise, in the middle of the street, like they did every day of her life for years and years, and then she's looking up.
Then there's no air in her lungs, because it hasn't been quite thirteen years, but it's close. Nothing is different and everything is. There's an old, gnarled beech tree gone and a new, fiery Japanese maple that looks out of place. Two doors down, there's a sober black fence that used to be painted orange or purple or any of a number of garish shades. A neat, pocket-square yard that used to be filled with decorations for holidays-real and made up-all year long.
And here, there's art glass framing the door to the entry way, trying hard to look original, though it's easily a decade or two older than the building is. She peers through it. Presses her nose and sees that the wall of steel mailboxes is gone, replaced by a front of dark polished wood just distressed enough to look as though it's old, but well cared for. It's divided into six equal columns, each with a smart-looking dial lock
It makes her laugh. It all makes her laugh as she backs away to look up. To pick out a certain window and raise up on her toes, craning sideways to find a certain series of convenient footholds rising from the lawn around the side to the eave just underneath. It all makes her laugh until she sees the sign in the window.
For Rent
She goes then. Turns immediately and goes with dragging steps. She crosses at the corner, not looking either way. Looking down. The spell is broken and she doesn't know how to feel.
She's distracted as she slips behind the wheel. As she wends her way East toward her dad's on not-particularly-good autopilot. She takes one wrong turn and another and she's more than a little late by the time she finds somewhere plausible to park overnight. She's in for more than a heavy look.
She should be, and that's how the moment starts out. Her dad pulls open the door, annoyance thick enough around him she can practically see it in the air. Worry, if she's being fair to him. But he sees something in her and it dissolves instantly.
"Katie?"
It's a quiet, open question. Careful, but inviting and she doesn't know how to answer it any more than she knows how to feel. She holds out the box.
"Dessert," she says, surprised to find even that much so hard.
"Ah." He recognizes the box instantly. He's startled, as well he might be. Knocked out of time, too, and suddenly playful. Light and teasing. "And on what delicacies from the Marquise de Macaron shall we feast this evening?"
A/N: Thanks for reading. Mmmm. I want macarons now.
Rating: T
Summary: "She means to go straight to the car. She glances at her watch and she's already pushing it. She's already likely to be in for one of her dad's heavy looks, but with the box tucked under her arm, her feet have a different idea. They pass the car by. They make a right and a left. They cross angle-wise, in the middle of the street, like they did every day of her life for years and years, and then she's looking up."
A/N: Second chapter of this 4-shot, set early S5.
She's supposed to bring dessert. She'd said she would, and after Castle had successfully derailed some not particularly serious plans to bake, She'd figured she'd pop around the corner to Bubby's and grab a couple of pieces of pie for take out. But she turns the other way out of her front door. She heads directly for the car, and she's behind the wheel before she's even thought about it.
It's stupid. She tells herself it's stupid as she snakes her way uptown. She hasn't been there in years. Thirteen to be exact, and it's the Upper West Side. The chances of the tiny little place with exactly nothing stylish or trendy about it still eking out an existence are slim to nil. But she works her way steadily toward it, sliding into an unbelievable parking spot that opens up just as she slows, trying to remember which awning, exactly, it ought to be.
Her feet carry her. Memory carries her, and she's sure, even when she's tugging the door open that it can't be right. She's sure, even when the well-remembered bell with its strange half clang rings out, that it can't be the place.
But it is, and it's like stepping back in time. The moment is crowded, almost overwhelming with the rush of sensation. The lingering, late-evening scent of things baked hours ago and the fresher tang of yeast wafting up from the huge metal bowls filled with dough proofing for tomorrow's offerings, sweet and savory alike. The well-worn booths, spotlessly clean, and the chip in the glass case just exactly the size of the tip of her pinky, just exactly where she remembers it.
"Help you, miss?"
She's startled by the young man's voice. More so when she recognizes him. That takes a few heady seconds as his face wavers between the deeply bored kid she remembers and the slightly too young version of his father he is now. He wipes his hands on a towel tucked in the side of his pants and pulls the pencil from behind his ear, gestures so uncannily familiar that her mouth opens and closes soundlessly on her first couple of tries.
"Macarons."
She manages to get that out eventually, and he does a double-take of his own. He must recognize her voice, though her face seems to have faded from memory. She looks down at the floor, agonizingly nervous all of a sudden.
He'd had a crush on her back in the day. One that manifested in strange, sullen comments blurted at the most inopportune times, and a host of unasked for extras whenever it turned out to be a dessert-mandatory night for the Beckett household and she'd run down here to pick up something. Her parents had teased her mercilessly.
And what bounty has the future Duchess of Desserts brought this evening?
"We have a few." The young man looks doubtful, but it's exaggerated. A little flirtatious, but in a general way, like he's dismissed whatever flash of recognition gave him pause a moment ago. It's salesmanship now, not an unwelcome trip down memory lane, and thank God for that. "I don't know if I can let you have them, though."
"What?" It's too loud. Too sharp. She smiles at him. Tries to recover, but her body feels strange, like she's been knocked out of time. "I mean . . ." Her shoulders sag. She gives up. "Why not?"
"Teasing!" he says quickly. "I mean, sort of. These are end of day now." He's sliding open the case from his side. Tugging trays toward him, one by one, and filling a neat little box, even though she hasn't asked for anything. He gives her an appraising look, then snags a chocolate with a square of wax paper and pushed it across the counter. "Still delicious"-he nods at the cookie, encouraging-"but you have to promise to come back for first thing in the morning sometime."
She nods, and that's strange, too. Far more emphatic than it needs to be. She shoves the macaron in her mouth, desperate for some kind of stage business, but that throws her for loop, too. It's the same as she remembers it. The melting sensation. The mellow, nutty sweetness of the cookie and just the right amount of dark, bitter chocolate in the filling. It's exactly the same and it's almost more than she can stand.
"I will." She swallows down the rest of the cookie and sweeps the box he's filled toward her, greedy and protective. She digs out cash and pushes it back across the counter, too impatient to wait even for the little bit of change coming to her. "I promise," she calls over her shoulder as the broken bell sounds again. "I'll come back."
She means to go straight to the car. She glances at her watch and she's already pushing it. She's already likely to be in for one of her dad's heavy looks, but with the box tucked under her arm, her feet have a different idea. They pass the car by. They make a right and a left. They cross angle-wise, in the middle of the street, like they did every day of her life for years and years, and then she's looking up.
Then there's no air in her lungs, because it hasn't been quite thirteen years, but it's close. Nothing is different and everything is. There's an old, gnarled beech tree gone and a new, fiery Japanese maple that looks out of place. Two doors down, there's a sober black fence that used to be painted orange or purple or any of a number of garish shades. A neat, pocket-square yard that used to be filled with decorations for holidays-real and made up-all year long.
And here, there's art glass framing the door to the entry way, trying hard to look original, though it's easily a decade or two older than the building is. She peers through it. Presses her nose and sees that the wall of steel mailboxes is gone, replaced by a front of dark polished wood just distressed enough to look as though it's old, but well cared for. It's divided into six equal columns, each with a smart-looking dial lock
It makes her laugh. It all makes her laugh as she backs away to look up. To pick out a certain window and raise up on her toes, craning sideways to find a certain series of convenient footholds rising from the lawn around the side to the eave just underneath. It all makes her laugh until she sees the sign in the window.
For Rent
She goes then. Turns immediately and goes with dragging steps. She crosses at the corner, not looking either way. Looking down. The spell is broken and she doesn't know how to feel.
She's distracted as she slips behind the wheel. As she wends her way East toward her dad's on not-particularly-good autopilot. She takes one wrong turn and another and she's more than a little late by the time she finds somewhere plausible to park overnight. She's in for more than a heavy look.
She should be, and that's how the moment starts out. Her dad pulls open the door, annoyance thick enough around him she can practically see it in the air. Worry, if she's being fair to him. But he sees something in her and it dissolves instantly.
"Katie?"
It's a quiet, open question. Careful, but inviting and she doesn't know how to answer it any more than she knows how to feel. She holds out the box.
"Dessert," she says, surprised to find even that much so hard.
"Ah." He recognizes the box instantly. He's startled, as well he might be. Knocked out of time, too, and suddenly playful. Light and teasing. "And on what delicacies from the Marquise de Macaron shall we feast this evening?"
A/N: Thanks for reading. Mmmm. I want macarons now.