Limerence-A Season 1 Caskett One-Shot
Title: Limerence
Rating: K+
Summary: "There's something up with him. Not that she cares. She definitely, absolutely, world-without-end does not care, except it's messing with her day. He's messing with her day and her case and her life. Which is pretty much his mission statement, but this is different. There's something up."
A/N: Just a one-shot. A palate cleanser for anyone who read Through the Lookingglass, I hope, and just a little somethin'-somethin' for anyone who didn't. Right around the middle of Season 1 in the Hell Hath No Fury-ish timeframe.
There's something up with him. Not that she cares. She definitely, absolutely, world-without-end does not care, except it's messing with her day. He's messing with her day and her case and her life. Which is pretty much his mission statement, but this is different. There's something up.
She watches him watching her. Thinking he's getting away with it, when really he's So. Very. Bad. at anything of the kind. But it's weird that he's even trying to get away with it today. The last few days, when she thinks about it. There's a pattern with him lately, though it's hard to describe.
But this is part of it. Watching her "undetected" all of a sudden, when he's been staring outright for weeks. Ogling her, yes. Or at least playing it up as if that's what it is when she calls him out, but it's not as if she doesn't know the difference.
And it's not as if he's not . . . appreciative of her assets. But mostly when he watches, it's just about taking her in. Studying her movements. Jotting down gestures and phrases and what pushes her buttons without even bothering to pretend its anything else. It's work for him and the tiny corner of her that isn't driven completely up the wall by his very existence kind of respects that fact.
But his hands are still now. As still as they ever are, and she sees the outline of his notebook where it sits untouched in the inside pocket of his jacket. He hands fly to pat at it when their eyes do meet. When she catches him watching, his hands skitter and fumble for his pen, and he swings too far the other direction. Pulling it out and flipping to any old page. Scribbling furiously, but it's nonsense. Nothing like the neat, economical turns of phrase she's seen out of the corner of her eye. It's sudden theater, and whatever the hell is going on with him, she wishes he'd just get over it, because it's making him useless. Not that he isn't always useless.
Except he isn't always. Not really. It pains her to admit it, even to herself. It itches at the inside of her skull and makes her squirm, and she'd seriously consider turning in her badge or going into WitSec before admitting it out loud, but he's quite often not at all useless.
Stupid, she's told herself. He's definitely stupid and reckless and absolutely committed to his eternal teenager schtick. That's what she'd written it off to when he chased down Harrison Tisdale. And since then, he's been true to form. A charter member of the frequently clueless club. An interfering pain in the ass, and a complete, direct-from-factory, over-privileged playboy.
But he's not exactly useless.
There's a blunt kind of fearlessness about him, no matter who they're dealing with. Frank, disarming curiosity that tends to get Joe Average Citizen talking. Flattered that he's interested, and it takes the edge off all kinds of impertinent questions. It takes people off their guard and makes them easier to read. Less likely to clam up when they've let slip something potentially incriminating, and she ends up wasting a lot less time that way. Seeing right away that yes, it sounds bad, but it probably isn't usefully bad. Or it is. Either way, it opens the door for her in all kinds of ways that surprise her.
And somehow it comes off as friendly from him, never nosy or challenging. Never an intimidation tactic unless he wants it to be. Typically with Joe Not-So-Average Citizen. The way he can make it clear that he's well aware of every nicety-every thing that simply is or isn't done-in certain circles, and at the moment, he's utterly refusing to play the game.
That's useful too. Very useful, on occasion, when an interviewee is inclined to look at her badge like it's some kind of tacky knock-off from last season's line of accessories, and he keeps up a kind of patter at her side, meeting them cut for well-bred cut.
But he's off his game lately. Distracted a lot of the time. Flaring up and going way too far over run-of-the-mill slights. Nasty little digs about her breeding, her intelligence, her station in life and there's no reason at all it should even register with him, let alone drive him deep into insult territory.
But even that's occasionally been useful in another way. Riling up a certain kind of POI who's inclined to erupt, rather than retreat into How Dare You? But more often than not, his weird, unwelcome rushes to defend her have been cutting interviews short, and she wonders again what the hell is up with him lately, because he's smarter than that.
He can be smarter than that. Of course he knows it. He knows he's smart, and that's annoying. But it's saved her no end of legwork in the last few weeks. The way he can cite chapter and verse on people and places and things. Everyday stuff and things direct from lifestyles of the rich and famous alike.
And he knows she's smart. Whatever his faults-and they are many-there's none of the one-upmanship that shuts down the barest flicker of interest on the rare occasions she takes Lanie up on one of her standing offers to head out for drinks.
He likes that she's smart, and she doesn't hate that. She doesn't hate that when he does do his level best to make her blush with over-the-top, definitely-not-workplace-appropriate comments, it's never about the fit of her jeans or the dip of her neckline. Almost never, anyway. Instead, it's because she's just pulled some bit of knowledge from the ether, or tugged the snare tight on a suspect after a long, careful series of high-difficulty moves in the box.
That's his turn on, and it's exhilarating the way they spark off one another when a case is finally coming together. Or when they're nowhere on a case and she throws something out and he catches it, giving it an odd spin, and there they are. Or even when they're stuck in traffic and debating the merits of Kubrick versus Kurosawa, jazz versus blues, or whatever, it's gratifying that he's smart and she's smart and neither of them feels the need to play any games with that. And it's far from useless a lot of the time.
But there's a lot less of that lately. He's quiet. Quieter, and she's a little embarrassed for him. Mostly annoyed, but she blushes when Ryan and Esposito deflate, looking at him like a particularly disappointing new toy when they're all spit-balling-when the three of them turn to him with an expectant look-and he comes up empty.
Sorry. What?
There's been a lot of that lately. A lot of it today, and it's not as if he's doing anything else. He's not tweeting or deep into the trash-talking prelude for a poker game. He's not finishing off the last few clues of the Friday crossword in the back of his head or playing Angry Birds. He doesn't seem to be doing anything other than watching her, and it's getting on her last nerve.
"Castle!"
"What?"
He jumps. Literally sails up into the air, the chair clattering down with him where it catches his hip hard. She expects him to pout. To needle her for yelling or to retaliate, but he apologizes.
"Sorry," he mutters guiltily. He's been doodling. Her pen and the big legal pad she keeps out on the desk for particularly long, boring phone conversations. The one he knows damned well it's her exclusive doodling territory. "Sorry," he says again, setting the pen down and carefully aligning the pad exactly at the corner of the blotter where he found it. Folding his hands in his lap like a chastened schoolboy.
"Castle." She sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. "Why don't you just go?"
His face falls. She feels an instant twinge that aggravates her to no end as he clambers dejectedly to his feet.
"Yeah. Ok. Nothing really going on anyway, is there?"
He straightens his shoulders. Casual swagger he's not really pulling off, and she wants to shout at him. She wants to know what the hell is going on, and why he can't just go back to the kind of annoying she's already used to.
But she grits her teeth. "Not really. I'll probably call it a night myself."
He sweeps his eyes over the mostly empty murder board one last time. It's more stalling than interest. More about drawing out her torment a few more minutes, and that itches, too. There's something off about it-about everything-and it itches.
"They're all minidiscs," he says, absently touching one of the few photos they have. A sleeve filled with tiny silver rounds they found in the inside pocket of their John Doe's battered thrift store jacket.
"We know they're minidiscs." She doesn't really mean to snap, but it's been a long day of nothing, and it's left her feeling as off her game as he apparently is. "Tech's still trying to dig up something to read it. Hopefully whatever's on them will give us an ID on our vic."
"What's on them." He sounds dubious. He shoots her a sheepish look like he already knows it's the dead end she's afraid it will be. Like he's afraid she'll shoot the messenger. "But the discs themselves . . . "
"What about them?" She steps up next to him. Studying him out of the corner of her eye as he slips off the way he sometimes does.
"We know it's unlikely that our vic is from anywhere near the crime scene." He taps one part of the image after the other as he goes on. "Weathered skin. Way too extensive for his age, and even though his clothes are neat and well cared for, they've got that ground-in look that says he probably spends a lot of time on the street."
"So why not these streets." She nods toward the Upper East Side address where they found the body.
"Cameras here. Above and beyond what the city's put up, and they're more likely to work." He points out a high-end jewelry store, then shifts to the next storefront. "Bespoke menswear shoppe with extended hours," he notes, some how managing to articulate the snooty, old-fashioned spelling. "Not gonna be crazy about someone with greasy knees hanging around. High likelihood of nuisance calls, and with the video, something the beat cops would have to act on." He shakes his head and she knows-just knows-he's about to put words to a sinking feeling she's had all day. "Canvasing around here. It's a waste of time. No one's going to recognize him."
"It's what we've got, Castle." She sinks back against her desk, annoyed with him. Grateful for the fact that it feels like, whatever's going on with him, they're finally inching toward normal-for-them. "We've got the picture out to the media and we can't canvas all of Manhattan."
"I know," he says, low enough that it's almost gentle. Almost like he's being careful not to come off like a know-it-all, and they're back to weird again. "But the discs." He pulls the photo from the magnetic clip, even though he knows she hates it when he does that. When he touches her things, and the murder board is definitely hers. "It's a practically obsolete format."
"Great." She swipes the photo back from him and pins it up again, slamming the magnet home with far more force than necessary. "So no one will have anything to say about those either."
"Not no one." He's excited now. Talking fast, and all she can think is it's about damned time. "A very select group of someones might have a lot to say about them."
He clams up and gives her a sidelong look, altogether too pleased with himself, and making her wait for it. Making her ask, and it's disturbing how right the urge to pinch him hard feels.
"Like who?" she asks finally, because she can't help herself.
"Like many cultural phenomena that got overtaken by a juggernaut competitor-betamax loses to VHS, the Dvorak keyboard to QWERTY, Go-Bots to Transformers . . . "
"Castle!"
"I know." He gives her a wicked grin. "That one really hurts."
"Castle!" She reaches behind her for something-anything-to throw at him or swat him with.
"I'm getting there," he promises, holding up his hands. She can practically see him mentally fast forwarding. "Like all of these, minidisc technology has a small, almost fanatic community that still swears by it. I used it for a while when I was trying to get a feel for the room tone in a place like this. Bullpens and war rooms and things like that. How much conversation you can actually make out, that kind of thing."
He lets his voice drop. Lets the dull roar of a dozen conversations and the erratic ringing of phones here and there overtake them both and she finds herself pulled that way. Curious about his work. Impressed all over again that it is work, no matter how much she likes to needle him. But he goes on and she has to shake herself. Has to pull herself back to the task at hand.
"I remember a couple of online forums and they're pretty active. Or the were a year or two ago. Mostly audiophiles, a certain generation of reporter. And there aren't that many places that still sell or service the equipment."
"But online," she says slowly. Reaching out carefully, because there it is. Him lobbing something not quite useless her way, though she can't quite see what to do with it yet. "A tech-heavy forum like that. They're not exactly swapping selfies. No one's likely to recognize a picture . . ."
"But they might recognize his gear. He had those high-end headphones and those forums run on you-show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine. Plus the disc sleeve is brand new," he points out. "And the two in the cargo pocket of his pants were in jewel cases in perfect condition. None of that's easy to find at this late date."
"And that means he might have been posting a lot recently, looking for sources." She tosses a whiteboard marker in the tray and turns back toward her desk.
" . . . and then suddenly, not so much," he finishes, following her a little closer than she'd like and he knows it.
"That's . . . good, Castle," she says. Grudging, but she has to work at that. Another thing she doesn't quite like. About herself and him and whatever's going on, even though she doesn't care. She definitely doesn't care. "Something to work with."
"Yeah?" he perks up, eager. "Tonight?" It's positively shy. Tentative and strange and all of a sudden half a dozen alarm bells are ringing.
"No," she says quickly. "Long day already. But I'll put Ryan on it first thing. Have him coordinate with tech and trawl some forums."
He nods, disappointed, and she is, too. Enough that her hand hovers over the mouse for just a second. But the day's just been too weird, and she has a sudden, stubborn desire for it to end it like this. On something like normal-for-them, so she reaches for the legal pad to dash off a note.
She smooths down the top sheet and shoots him a frown. Admonishment for the upper right corner he's left crowded with spirals and shaded, three-dimensional solids and those barns you make without lifting the pen. A word she doesn't know drawn out in his neat, slanting caps.
Limerence
She almost says it out loud. Almost asks what it means. She only just catches herself in time, and it's mostly because of him. Mostly because he's blushing furiously all of a sudden, looking like he'd gladly snatch up the paper and swallow it whole, and she's had more than enough of that today. More than enough of whatever's up with him. So she gathers up her things and rolls her eyes when he insists on holding the elevator door and ushering her through with an exaggerated bow.
They almost make it. They're just at the point of their usual see-you-tomorrow leer on his part and the don't-remind-me shake of the head on hers when something stops her. The whole day stops her after all, and she wants to ask him what's going on. Why he's being weird.
"What?" He senses it. Her hesitation. He swallows hard, and she can't tell if he wants her to ask or he doesn't.
"Nothing," she says and it's neither. She's not asking, but she's not not asking, and the word is on her mind. Limerence. She shakes herself. "Just. That was a good idea. About the discs. The forums and all that."
"Yeah?" It's eager again. Not all smug like she's come to expect, and even when the moment makes them both itch a little-even when he turns it on and plays the part-there's just a little too much warmth to it. Another little alarm bell ringing. "Well, I am just full of great ideas, Detective."
She feels the corners of her mouth turn up. A wide, spreading smile she fights, because that's how they do this. How they retreat to their corners.
"Full of something, Castle." She tosses it over her shoulder as she goes. Relieved that the day ends like this. Normal for them.
Except it doesn't end that way. It catches her unawares as she strips off her holster. As she tucks away her dad's watch and her mom's ring. It's there the whole time. A word tugging at the corners of her mind without her even knowing it until she's pulling it down from the shelf. Her mother's old, enormous edition of the OED. The one she'd insisted on schlepping all the way to the Pacific and back. The one she's packed and unpacked half a dozen times in the last ten years.
She pulls it down and lets her finger riffle along the diagonal of indentations until she finds it-L. She heaves open the heavy covers and flips pages, her nail skimming down one column and up the next and there it is.
limerence - lim·er·ence - /ˈlimərəns/
The state of being romantically infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily
and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings.
Her palm falls over it. Covering. Hiding, but it's like the ink burns. Sears itself into her skin and she ends the day with it soft on her tongue. Heady and a little frightening.
Limerence
A/N: What can I say? I'm a sucker for words. Thanks for reading.