Testament, Ch. 5-A Caskett AU set between seasons 3 and 4 (7 chapters)
Title: Testament, Ch. 5
Rating: T
Summary: "She sleeps. Deeply and immediately enough that he can't move five steps away without worrying whether or not she's still breathing. But he gets used to it. Used to how loud the outside world is in a way that's completely alien to him. Used to the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, and eventually, the rapid back and forth beneath her lids when she begins to dream."
A/N: This grew by a chapter and a short epilogue, so this is the second-to-last. I'll post the last and epilogue tomorrow, most likely. Set during the time gap in Rise (4 x 01)
She sleeps. Deeply and immediately enough that he can't move five steps away without worrying whether or not she's still breathing. But he gets used to it. Used to how loud the outside world is in a way that's completely alien to him. Used to the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, and eventually, the rapid back and forth beneath her lids when she begins to dream.
He settles on the couch, thinking he'll read or something. Figure out what he's doing here. What he means to do and how it will end. How it will be when he leaves her, because he has to, doesn't he? He can't stay, and surely she doesn't want him to. Surely leaning on him for the space of an hour doesn't change anything, and he'll have to go, with or without any kind of an answer. .
It's a cold, slithering realization, or it wants to be. Maybe it should be, but the truth is, he doesn't think about any of that. Not in any head-on way. It's all noise in the distance. Things swimming in his peripheral vision, as he watches her sleep. As he watches her breath come and go. Lines gather on her brow, then smooth away. She cries out softly, once or twice. Flinches hard, and her hand flies to her chest. To her side. Her fingers worry at what must still be the rough, raised topography of skin there. Scars she'll have as long as she lives.
But she smiles, too. Small twitches of her lips, and the pain is still there. Evident in the tight tug at the corners of her mouth and the stiff way she shifts in the chair. But she smiles, and sometimes it's turned out toward the world and sometimes it's looking in. Not quite secret, but turned inward.
She murmurs. When she's calmer and the lines smooth away. She looks young and she murmurs to herself. To others. One word at a time usually. No and Mine and, once, Prima facie and he almost laughs out loud, but he finds that's not exactly in working order for him. The bubble of amusement feels rough as it works its clumsy way up, and he can't remember quite how it should sound. Laughter.
And then she says his name.
Castle
He's on his feet, thinking she's calling for him. Needing something, but she's still deep in sleep, and he's part of something flitting past in a dream. He's part of her toes curling and her fingers flickering like she's tapping at the surface of water rushing merrily by. He's part of her shifting in the chair. Scowling and pawing at a cushion at her side until it moves a fraction of an inch. Until she turns herself a little, and he can almost see the tension leaving her. Ease slipping in to take its place, and it reminds him of the moment that came over her, sitting under the tree, her toes turning blue in the frigid water and her fingertips sinking into earth. Holding on.
Castle, she murmurs again, and then she's quiet. Still and at rest for a long, long time.
He falls asleep himself. A thing so unlikely that even while it's happening, everything in him insists it can't be. Almost everything. But the world gets heavier and heavier, and he folds his arms on the back of the couch. Propping himself up to keep watch, but his head sinks. It fits just so between the angle brackets of his elbows, and he sleeps.
He wakes twisted up. His arms feel dead most of the way down, and he's disoriented. Confused entirely by the slant of the light. By the thick, ugly, serviceable fabric an inch from his nose and the way his cheek bears the negative imprint of it.
Confused entirely by her.
The world rushes away all at once, leaving behind a terrifying lack of anything but her body there, half curled on its side in a chair, so absolutely still that he thinks he must be dead. That they both are, or might as well be. He thinks he's retreated so far and so entirely into his own mind that there's nothing but fear and emptiness and the shell of her for company.
But there's pain, then. Intense discomfort as spine and knees and hips and shoulders protest. As the pins and needles race all the way up from his fingers, and his stomach twists and makes an angry sound, and he realizes that's what woke him. That's what grounds him and turns the world the right way up.
He's hungry, and it's something to do. He levers himself upright and wonders what time it is. How long it's been since he stood hunched over his own kitchen counter, shoving disparate things in his mouth. He looks at his watch-his own watch-but it doesn't seem to apply here, any more than the way the sun has swept its lazy way to a different quarter of her window.
He moves slowly at first. As quietly as he can, but everything is unfamiliar. Old and unpredictable in the way of spaces lived in only every now and again. Cabinets don't quite close they way they should, and the slant of the floor sends things clattering out when he opens them.
The refrigerator is nearly bare. A loaf of bread. Some store brand with only a few slices gone. Which is why it's in the fridge, he suppose. To stave off mold and make it last. There's a jelly jar, mostly full, and eggs with only two gone from the dozen. The top shelf is cluttered few quart-sized jugs of milk, oddly enough, three of them sour and outdated.
He dumps those and runs a thin stream of water around the bottom of the sink to banish the smell. He turns back to the still-open fridge and finds a few butcher-paper squares slid away in a stubborn drawer. They're small and thin. Just a few slices each of whatever, with dates neatly written across the still-sealed tape.
He catches the rhythm of it. Sees another lonely pattern come together and assumes it must be Jim. That he must arrange for this. Week by week or something along those lines, he must have someone brings things in.
Her part in it is all too easy to imagine. The way she must grit her teeth and bear it. A stranger on the doorstep, or maybe not. Whatever town's nearby, it's not likely to be big enough for strangers, and that has to be worse for her. Small talk to be endured. Assurances that she's better and a brave face for when the news of the week makes it back to her dad.
She throws most of it away. He sees that, too, in the one-of-almost-everything in the fridge and army of things she has assembled more easily at hand. A jar of peanut butter sitting out on the counter. Pop-top cans of soup and a single, dented aluminum pan, clean and at the ready on the stove top. Its walls are thin, making it light, as if it's from a camp set meant to be carried. A knife and single spoon on the drainboard where the mug lives, as though she doesn't bother with a bowl.
He has an army of his own assembled before he even realizes it. Torn-open butcher paper with salami in one packet and a few strips of bacon in the other. Eggs standing by, and he hopes they're fresh enough. There's cheese. Something orange and mild he wouldn't have chosen.
He hauls out a cast-iron pan from underneath the stove top. There's a basket down there, too. A few sprouting onions and potatoes that have seen better days, but he can work with them. He finds a couple of real knives and pares away the bad parts. He gives himself over to it. Improvising. He lets his hands move and the story of her life these last few weeks write itself.
He's wrapped up in it. Absorbed body and mind until her voice rouses him. Startles him so the metal spatula clatters in the pan and grease hisses and pops, lighting up a trail across the back of his hand. He rushes to her, worried all over again. Guilty that he's lost sight of her-what she needs here and now-in time that's gone. Days and days they can't reclaim.
"Beckett?" He crouches next to her. "You're awake?" It's stupid the way he makes it into a question. The way he imposes his own, clumsy return to consciousness on her, but her face is screwed up so strangely and she's blinking at him. "Are you . . . Beckett, are you ok?"
"Hungry." She opens her eyes wide. It's an effort. Sleep still has a firm grip on her. The medication, maybe.
"Ok," he says slowly. "There's food. I just threw some things together." He's embarrassed. Suddenly sees it how she might. Him rifling through her things. Through her dad's things. An intrusion, not just something to do.
He moves to push himself up, but she reaches for him again. A repeat of an earlier scene, but she's waking now. Coming back into the world.
"No." She frowns. "Hungry," she says again. "I just haven't been hungry in . . ." She looks up at him, fleeting. Embarrassed in turn. "Not since . . . "
He nods. Loosens her fingers, then slips his own through them, just for a second. "Better bring you a plate, then."
She comes to the counter instead. Insists on it, and gives away more than she'd like in the process. The sleep has done her good, but she's in pain again. Slower than she was even in the morning.
She makes her way up on to the stool, then looks at the fork like it's something malevolent. Like there's no possible way she has energy to even lift it, but hunger wins out. She picks up the fork with a shaking hand, and the food travels a slow but steady path from plate to mouth.
He remembers that he's hungry, too. That this part started with him being hungry. He's afraid at first. Dishes himself out the smallest of portions in case she wants more. In case she wants all of it and then there's not enough.
It's ridiculous, though. Of course it is, because she's hardly been eating anything all this time, and she's full almost as soon as she starts. The bites she takes get smaller and smaller until he can tell she's down to just the taste of things. Until she's down to dragging the tines through the eggs. Piling the potatoes and onions into a curving bulwark against them.
"That bad?" It's a weak joke. Worse than weak. But there's something so melancholy and lost in the movement of her hands that he can't help falling back into bad habits. "I can make you a sandwich. Or something from a can. That should be safe."
He moves away. Tries to, but she snags the rolled-up cuff as his sleeve as he goes by. It pulls him up short. Almost topples her, unsteady as she is on the flat, narrow stool with its uneven legs. He reaches out to right her, and she grabs at him with her other hand, winding up with a fistful of shirt somewhere near his waist. They stare at each other, tangled in an arm's length, approximation of embrace.
"No. It was good." She presses her fingers her to the skin just at the crease of elbow. Holds tight to his belt loop and for a moment, it's like they're dancing again. "Really good." Her cheeks go pink, and he wonders if she can feel his pulse pounding. "Thank you," she says with enough feeling behind-a look so earnest-that he's about to ask what she means by it. What she really means.
He's just about to when her phone rings.
A/N: Thanks again for the support. Sorry not to have finished with the number of chapters I thought I would.
Rating: T
Summary: "She sleeps. Deeply and immediately enough that he can't move five steps away without worrying whether or not she's still breathing. But he gets used to it. Used to how loud the outside world is in a way that's completely alien to him. Used to the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, and eventually, the rapid back and forth beneath her lids when she begins to dream."
A/N: This grew by a chapter and a short epilogue, so this is the second-to-last. I'll post the last and epilogue tomorrow, most likely. Set during the time gap in Rise (4 x 01)
She sleeps. Deeply and immediately enough that he can't move five steps away without worrying whether or not she's still breathing. But he gets used to it. Used to how loud the outside world is in a way that's completely alien to him. Used to the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, and eventually, the rapid back and forth beneath her lids when she begins to dream.
He settles on the couch, thinking he'll read or something. Figure out what he's doing here. What he means to do and how it will end. How it will be when he leaves her, because he has to, doesn't he? He can't stay, and surely she doesn't want him to. Surely leaning on him for the space of an hour doesn't change anything, and he'll have to go, with or without any kind of an answer. .
It's a cold, slithering realization, or it wants to be. Maybe it should be, but the truth is, he doesn't think about any of that. Not in any head-on way. It's all noise in the distance. Things swimming in his peripheral vision, as he watches her sleep. As he watches her breath come and go. Lines gather on her brow, then smooth away. She cries out softly, once or twice. Flinches hard, and her hand flies to her chest. To her side. Her fingers worry at what must still be the rough, raised topography of skin there. Scars she'll have as long as she lives.
But she smiles, too. Small twitches of her lips, and the pain is still there. Evident in the tight tug at the corners of her mouth and the stiff way she shifts in the chair. But she smiles, and sometimes it's turned out toward the world and sometimes it's looking in. Not quite secret, but turned inward.
She murmurs. When she's calmer and the lines smooth away. She looks young and she murmurs to herself. To others. One word at a time usually. No and Mine and, once, Prima facie and he almost laughs out loud, but he finds that's not exactly in working order for him. The bubble of amusement feels rough as it works its clumsy way up, and he can't remember quite how it should sound. Laughter.
And then she says his name.
Castle
He's on his feet, thinking she's calling for him. Needing something, but she's still deep in sleep, and he's part of something flitting past in a dream. He's part of her toes curling and her fingers flickering like she's tapping at the surface of water rushing merrily by. He's part of her shifting in the chair. Scowling and pawing at a cushion at her side until it moves a fraction of an inch. Until she turns herself a little, and he can almost see the tension leaving her. Ease slipping in to take its place, and it reminds him of the moment that came over her, sitting under the tree, her toes turning blue in the frigid water and her fingertips sinking into earth. Holding on.
Castle, she murmurs again, and then she's quiet. Still and at rest for a long, long time.
He falls asleep himself. A thing so unlikely that even while it's happening, everything in him insists it can't be. Almost everything. But the world gets heavier and heavier, and he folds his arms on the back of the couch. Propping himself up to keep watch, but his head sinks. It fits just so between the angle brackets of his elbows, and he sleeps.
He wakes twisted up. His arms feel dead most of the way down, and he's disoriented. Confused entirely by the slant of the light. By the thick, ugly, serviceable fabric an inch from his nose and the way his cheek bears the negative imprint of it.
Confused entirely by her.
The world rushes away all at once, leaving behind a terrifying lack of anything but her body there, half curled on its side in a chair, so absolutely still that he thinks he must be dead. That they both are, or might as well be. He thinks he's retreated so far and so entirely into his own mind that there's nothing but fear and emptiness and the shell of her for company.
But there's pain, then. Intense discomfort as spine and knees and hips and shoulders protest. As the pins and needles race all the way up from his fingers, and his stomach twists and makes an angry sound, and he realizes that's what woke him. That's what grounds him and turns the world the right way up.
He's hungry, and it's something to do. He levers himself upright and wonders what time it is. How long it's been since he stood hunched over his own kitchen counter, shoving disparate things in his mouth. He looks at his watch-his own watch-but it doesn't seem to apply here, any more than the way the sun has swept its lazy way to a different quarter of her window.
He moves slowly at first. As quietly as he can, but everything is unfamiliar. Old and unpredictable in the way of spaces lived in only every now and again. Cabinets don't quite close they way they should, and the slant of the floor sends things clattering out when he opens them.
The refrigerator is nearly bare. A loaf of bread. Some store brand with only a few slices gone. Which is why it's in the fridge, he suppose. To stave off mold and make it last. There's a jelly jar, mostly full, and eggs with only two gone from the dozen. The top shelf is cluttered few quart-sized jugs of milk, oddly enough, three of them sour and outdated.
He dumps those and runs a thin stream of water around the bottom of the sink to banish the smell. He turns back to the still-open fridge and finds a few butcher-paper squares slid away in a stubborn drawer. They're small and thin. Just a few slices each of whatever, with dates neatly written across the still-sealed tape.
He catches the rhythm of it. Sees another lonely pattern come together and assumes it must be Jim. That he must arrange for this. Week by week or something along those lines, he must have someone brings things in.
Her part in it is all too easy to imagine. The way she must grit her teeth and bear it. A stranger on the doorstep, or maybe not. Whatever town's nearby, it's not likely to be big enough for strangers, and that has to be worse for her. Small talk to be endured. Assurances that she's better and a brave face for when the news of the week makes it back to her dad.
She throws most of it away. He sees that, too, in the one-of-almost-everything in the fridge and army of things she has assembled more easily at hand. A jar of peanut butter sitting out on the counter. Pop-top cans of soup and a single, dented aluminum pan, clean and at the ready on the stove top. Its walls are thin, making it light, as if it's from a camp set meant to be carried. A knife and single spoon on the drainboard where the mug lives, as though she doesn't bother with a bowl.
He has an army of his own assembled before he even realizes it. Torn-open butcher paper with salami in one packet and a few strips of bacon in the other. Eggs standing by, and he hopes they're fresh enough. There's cheese. Something orange and mild he wouldn't have chosen.
He hauls out a cast-iron pan from underneath the stove top. There's a basket down there, too. A few sprouting onions and potatoes that have seen better days, but he can work with them. He finds a couple of real knives and pares away the bad parts. He gives himself over to it. Improvising. He lets his hands move and the story of her life these last few weeks write itself.
He's wrapped up in it. Absorbed body and mind until her voice rouses him. Startles him so the metal spatula clatters in the pan and grease hisses and pops, lighting up a trail across the back of his hand. He rushes to her, worried all over again. Guilty that he's lost sight of her-what she needs here and now-in time that's gone. Days and days they can't reclaim.
"Beckett?" He crouches next to her. "You're awake?" It's stupid the way he makes it into a question. The way he imposes his own, clumsy return to consciousness on her, but her face is screwed up so strangely and she's blinking at him. "Are you . . . Beckett, are you ok?"
"Hungry." She opens her eyes wide. It's an effort. Sleep still has a firm grip on her. The medication, maybe.
"Ok," he says slowly. "There's food. I just threw some things together." He's embarrassed. Suddenly sees it how she might. Him rifling through her things. Through her dad's things. An intrusion, not just something to do.
He moves to push himself up, but she reaches for him again. A repeat of an earlier scene, but she's waking now. Coming back into the world.
"No." She frowns. "Hungry," she says again. "I just haven't been hungry in . . ." She looks up at him, fleeting. Embarrassed in turn. "Not since . . . "
He nods. Loosens her fingers, then slips his own through them, just for a second. "Better bring you a plate, then."
She comes to the counter instead. Insists on it, and gives away more than she'd like in the process. The sleep has done her good, but she's in pain again. Slower than she was even in the morning.
She makes her way up on to the stool, then looks at the fork like it's something malevolent. Like there's no possible way she has energy to even lift it, but hunger wins out. She picks up the fork with a shaking hand, and the food travels a slow but steady path from plate to mouth.
He remembers that he's hungry, too. That this part started with him being hungry. He's afraid at first. Dishes himself out the smallest of portions in case she wants more. In case she wants all of it and then there's not enough.
It's ridiculous, though. Of course it is, because she's hardly been eating anything all this time, and she's full almost as soon as she starts. The bites she takes get smaller and smaller until he can tell she's down to just the taste of things. Until she's down to dragging the tines through the eggs. Piling the potatoes and onions into a curving bulwark against them.
"That bad?" It's a weak joke. Worse than weak. But there's something so melancholy and lost in the movement of her hands that he can't help falling back into bad habits. "I can make you a sandwich. Or something from a can. That should be safe."
He moves away. Tries to, but she snags the rolled-up cuff as his sleeve as he goes by. It pulls him up short. Almost topples her, unsteady as she is on the flat, narrow stool with its uneven legs. He reaches out to right her, and she grabs at him with her other hand, winding up with a fistful of shirt somewhere near his waist. They stare at each other, tangled in an arm's length, approximation of embrace.
"No. It was good." She presses her fingers her to the skin just at the crease of elbow. Holds tight to his belt loop and for a moment, it's like they're dancing again. "Really good." Her cheeks go pink, and he wonders if she can feel his pulse pounding. "Thank you," she says with enough feeling behind-a look so earnest-that he's about to ask what she means by it. What she really means.
He's just about to when her phone rings.
A/N: Thanks again for the support. Sorry not to have finished with the number of chapters I thought I would.