Portmanteau-A Season 8 Caskett One-Shot
TItle: Portmanteau
Rating: T
Summary: "She lives out of the bag. The only thing she brought with her from home. It's an empty gesture she can't stop herself from making, though it's hardly any kind of penance."
A/N: Set Halloween 2015; references to S2's "Vampire Weekend"
"There was a great deal of laughing and joking during the meal.
Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure to get the ring and,
though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow Eves,
Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring
or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes
sparkled with disappointed shyness" - James Joyce, "Clay"
She lives out of the bag. The only thing she brought with her from home. It's an empty gesture she can't stop herself from making, though it's hardly any kind of penance. Hardly, and it does nothing to make amends, any more than sleeping in her office does. Showering at the gym. None of it could ever make amends.
More than that, it's a problem. Living half-way like this, when the point is to keep him safe. To keep them all safe, and she thinks for the thousandth time that she should have run when Rita wanted her to. She should have been stronger and loved him enough to go. To really go instead of this. Or to leave it alone. Let someone else shoulder the burden. Maybe she should have been strong enough for that.
But she wasn't. She isn't, and this-this half-lived existence between everything and nothing-already feels like more than she can bear.
Talk does her in. The fact that people at the precinct notice. Everyone at the precinct seems to have noticed that she's an absolute fixture these days, and not a single one of them writes it off to the rigors of the new job. Not one, and they go from whispers to staring openly. To not quite asking her straight out, but lingering at the double doors to her office.
Wondering gives way to It'll pass before too long. Common wisdom that this is just act number whatever in the dramedy of them. Act number whatever in something that's been playing out in plain sight for years.
It's a problem. It'll pass. It gives her a sick kind of hope, and it shouldn't. She doesn't deserve hope, and more than that, it's dangerous. It's not the story she's trying to sell to the wider world. That this is just another bump in the road. That's not the story that'll keep him safe, and she can't risk anyone who's not already in this catching her pining away. Missing him every second.
She can't have it, so she goes on the offensive. She makes a point of overhearing. Rounding corners and materializing in hallways. Flicking open the blinds in her fishbowl office and watching them wither, one after the other under the force of her glare.
But it's not enough.
She sees money changing hands, and she knows too well what that's about. An envelope and tick marks and bills folded tight. She knows too well, so she finds a place. She pounds at the keyboard. Calls up the first twenty hits for extended-stay places and picks at random. She books online. To be done with it, she tells herself, but really because her throat is tight and there's no other option.
"The date?" She's tired. Practically blind with exhaustion, and she hates the part of herself that's actually looking forward to a real mattress. The part of herself that thinks she deserves any comfort at this point. Any real rest.
"You kidding?"
She looks up sharply from the paperwork, ready to rip into the slacker behind the desk, when her keen cop sense kicks in. He's wearing a wig. Cheap, stringy crepe hair poorly affixed to a bald cap. There's makeup, too. Uneven pancake white and half-hearted, multipurpose eyeliner shading in bags and wrinkles.
"Riff Raff," she says out loud. Too loud.
"Costumes mandatory." He jerks the paperwork out from under the heel of her hand to scrawl in the date himself.
"Halloween."
He either doesn't hear her or doesn't care. "Open-ended?"
"Sorry?"
She blinks at him, actually sorry, though he's testy with her in response.
"Your stay." He's already writing though. Bored and ready to be done, he's writing in stark black capitals.
INDEFINITE.
"Open-ended." Her throat is thick again and she hates this feeling. She hates this. Half living without him, but there's no other option. "Yeah. Yes. Open-ended."
It's not actually a Best Traveler hotel, but it hardly matters. The familiar, deadly sameness has her thinking of him. Missing him, and even though that's a constant, this is sharper. More immediate when she remembers how tightly he held her, whispering thank you, over and over again. Not believing her when she swore she had nothing at all to do with Alexis coming home.
She stares down at the blur of the logo on her plastic key card. Registers the name of the place and forgets it before the next second ends. The memory crowds it out. Crowds everything else out. Him dropping off to sleep like a little boy, exhausted on Christmas Day. His lips moving even as his heavy lids closed at last.
Home. Everyone is home.
She sits on the bed for a long while. Spine straight and her coat still buttoned, like she might run yet. Like the inoffensive artwork and the unpleasant sheen of the comforter in the light of the snap-on table lamp might be the end of her.
But she hears something. The slick clatter of plastic in the electronic lock. Again, again, again, and she's on her feet. She's pressed to the wall just around the corner from the door with her gun in hand. She's switching it off. Fear. Loneliness. Sorrow and indecision.
She's reaching for the door handle, ready and not ready to face what's on the other side when a peal of laughter has her nearly hitting the ceiling. A crystalline trill and a low chuckle, both bubbling with desire underneath. Footsteps crossing the far side of the hall.
"Evens," she hears the deeper voice say. "Evens on this side. Odds over there."
The murmurs fade into intimacy. Into nothing as the solid sound of a door closing brings the incident to a definite end. Adrenaline bleeds away. Leaves her to picture bodies colliding, desire winding tight around the two of them. The urgency of the moment bleeds away. It leaves her aching.
She has no real idea what's in the bag. Packing was a mechanical thing. The right drawers, probably, and her limbs moving like they belonged to someone else. And she hasn't had occasion to empty it. Hasn't had the will to take that step, any more than she's had the will to do any of the needful things other than going. Leaving him. Leaving home.
But this is will. This is what needs to be done, so she yanks the zipper, opening the long, gaping gash with one motion. She shoves at the serrated edges, pushing its mouth open wide. The awful, traitorous bag. She reaches in with heavy, clumsy hands, and if it were any less awful-if it hurt one whit less-she might laugh at the motley assemblage. What's there and what's not.
There's the expected on top. The sensible, work-a-day socks and underwear. Running tights and sports bras. For real clothes-work clothes-she's been playing the dry cleaner angle. Creative swapping of pieces in and out, the lot of it hanging in her locker. Not here. Not part of everything she has to face here and now, so she digs deeper.
There's a sliver of soap wrapped in a dry washcloth. It's his, expensive and imported from God knows where. The scent overwhelms her. She sets it with shaking fingers on the night table and goes on, the already dark interior of the bag dimming and blurring with tears she doesn't bother to swallow down. A single pillow case comes next. Crisp and clean. Keenly, cuttingly familiar under her palm, and something twists inside her. A sharp, stupid pang at the thought she's taken it from its mate.
She goes faster then, gritting her teeth against the mug and a spare toothbrush still in its plastic. Earbuds with wire on one frayed so the sound pops in and out. Aspirin and an odd collection from the medicine cabinet. The sweep of her hand along a shelf, though she doesn't remember that. Hand cream and travel-sized mouthwash, because he's never gotten out of the habit of taking all the toiletries when he's on tour.
Every little bit hurts more than the last. She's at the point of dumping it all out on the bed. Falling forward with the disjointed remains of her life scattered around her. She's just nearly there when her fingers meet something broad and smooth and heavy. A book, and she doesn't remember that. She doesn't remember that at all.
She flattens her palm against, afraid it's Nikki or worse. Afraid it's the chard Derrick Storm he signed for her a million years ago, but it's too big to be either. Far too tall and broad. Curiosity gets the better of her. Breaks through the misery long enough that she lifts it free of the bag, struggling to keep a hold of the cover, black with bronze framing it, top and bottom.
She lifts it out and remembers. Dubliners. She whispers the title to herself. She whispers the memory. Halloween.
Martha. Of course Martha'd had a hand in it.
Darling, you'll grow old waiting for the powder room at one of Richard's parties.
She'd taken Kate by the hand. By shoulder and hip, nudging at first, then outright shoving her through the door to his bedroom.
Through there, dear. He really won't mind.
And with a cheeky wave and more than a little English on the really, she'd gone, leaving Kate to hurry before someone-not just him, but anyone-saw her in Richard Castle's bedroom. And she had hurried. She'd thrown herself this way and that trying to hurry. Trying not to leave a single thing out of place. Trying not to leave evidence.
She'd managed it, too. Tugged the toilet paper roll out to leave just exactly so much dangling. Wiped the counters and dried out the sink. Straightened the hand towel and bit back the urge to linger. To peek in the shower stall and run her finger along the shelves of the medicine cabinet. She'd hurried and covered her tracks perfectly, only to have his office catch her.
The books. His books. Display copies at eye level for show, of course. Of course. His books, but his books, too. That's what had caught her. Crowded shelves lower down close at hand from one arm chair or the other. From the desk chair when she'd leaned back and run her finger along the spines and known the ragged row for what it was: His favorites. Insomniac stand-bys and proof against drear winter days. The things he'd find comfort in. Inspiration.
She hadn't meant to sit. Hadn't meant to linger at all, but the lettering had struck her. The title alone familiar and nothing more. She'd thought of her own version. A slim, worn thing in a dull grey hard cover. She'd bought it second hand and always loved the unlikely name sketched neatly in pencil on the fly leaf: Fanny Flood.
It had drawn her in. The contrast had made her smile as she'd found herself cross-legged on the floor, pulling the monstrous thing into her lap. She'd run her hands over it and liked it somehow. The vertical crease in the spine. The worn edges of the pages, dark with handling. She'd liked that it was broken in. That the lyrical power of these stories had drawn him in. Again and again, from the look of it. She'd liked that.
She likes it still. She would if she were allowed to. But she's not. Still, she pulls her palms away from front cover and back to let them both fall. To let the book open where she knows it will. She's not allowed any of this, and still the pages spread wide and the syllable fills her mouth. Chokes her as she rests a palm over the title.
Clay, she says softly, then louder. To no one. Clay.
She's en route before every reason it's a terrible idea can come crashing down on her. On foot with nothing but the unwieldy book and a single key clutched so tight in her fist that it cuts deep into the skin. Enough for a faithful impression, she thinks. Enough that some miscreant could make a duplicate. A sick kind of giddy rolls through her stomach.
He won't be home. Not on Halloween. He won't. She says it to herself over and over, and it's not even an excuse. Not a rationale or fear or hope or anything other than toneless incidental music. A counterpoint to the percussion of heels on pavement and her heart slamming against her ribs.
He won't be home.
She tells herself again, but he's standing there as the door swings open. He's saying her name. He moves toward her. She moves toward him. Apparition meeting apparition, and then they're tangled awkwardly in each other's arms, the book huge and clumsy between them.
She rests. Just for one breath and another. She rests, even though she can't. Even though she doesn't deserve to. That's what has her pushing away. Stepping back with the book held out like shield.
"I brought this," she blurts."I brought it back."
He can't tear his eyes away from her at first. He can't stop drinking in the sight of her. It's terrible. How hungry he is for even that little. How hungry she is. It's awful.
A strangled, miserable sound escapes her. Enough to put him in motion, though he's just coming for the book. Just taking it from her, and she suddenly knows why it wound up in the bag in the first place. Why that, of all things, registered as necessary.
"Clay," he says, smiling softly at his own hand sweeping over the cover. "I also dreamt, which pleased me most/That you loved me still the same."
She hadn't known what made her say it. What had made her call out just loudly enough that he'd hear. Except she does know, here and now. This Halloween. And she'd known then. She'd known full well, whatever she might have told herself.
Your office, Castle. Might as well come in.
He'd been sheepish about it. Lurking just on the far side of the bookshelves in the first place. Getting caught. He'd been embarrassed. Quieter than she'd expected. Gentler and more serious.
Sorry. Just . . . I guess you're not having a great time.
He'd gestured vaguely to the rest of the loft. To the party, bubbling and burning bright all around them and a world away.
I am. She'd said it immediately, surprised and not surprised to find it true. Out there, I mean. That had left her blushing down at the page, her hair falling forward to hide it. She'd hoped so, anyway.
And in here. He'd come around closer to her as he spoke. Leaned his hips back to half sit on a shelf as he scratched at the clear gum holding on his ridiculous wig.
And in here, she'd said, tapping the book.
Joyce? He'd peered down. Frowning at it. Not exactly seasonal.
It is though.
She'd sent a grin his way. A challenge that had left him screwing up his face.
Oh . . . that one. With the saucers.
She'd nodded eagerly and they'd talked. Fallen into conversation, easy and intimate, about books and Halloween. Costumes and movies and life. They'd talked with the party weaving a spell around them. Granting permission to do this. Given into this till some kind of cry had gone up from the kitchen, stirring him. Calling him back to his duties as host, leaving them both sorry about it.
Sorry to have it end.
"I should have kissed you." It startles her. The way he drops from the sweet, simple melody into words, soft with the keen edge of regret underneath. "That Halloween. I should have."
She wants to agree. She wants to tell him she should have kissed him. She wants for a blessed moment to dwell on who she might have been if she'd kissed him all those Halloweens ago. She turns to go instead.
"You don't have to . . ." His voice stops her. The softness of it. The patience in it, even though he's hurt. Even though she's hurt him terribly. He holds the book out to her.
"I do." She won't let him finish. Can't let him. "I'm living out of. . . I shouldn't have taken it."
"I'm glad you did." He sets it down. Reaches for her with both hands and she doesn't fight him as he pulls her close. "I'm glad you wanted something . . . "
"I do." The words rise up out of her on a sob. "I want . . . I'll always want . . ."
It's lost in a kiss. Whatever she meant to say. It's lost in warmth and comfort. Desire and patience and hurt, too. Anger and terrible hurt, and that might be what keeps her there. The sharp sting, though it's nothing like penance.
"I can't," she hears herself say. Barely hears herself. "Right now, I can't be . . .You can't be kissing me right now."
"I'm not," he murmurs., his lips never parting from her skin. "I'm kissing you then."
"Castle . . ."
She's pleading, but so is he.
"Kiss me back, Kate." He hardly has to ask as her palm curves at the back of his neck and her mouth fits perfectly with his. Still, he's pleading. "Kiss me then."
A/N: Well. This is an awful disservice to everything. If you're interested, all of Dubliners is available on Project Gutenberg. I didn't (consciously) remember when I started writing that "Clay" is set on Halloween, even though it was the story I had in mind.
Rating: T
Summary: "She lives out of the bag. The only thing she brought with her from home. It's an empty gesture she can't stop herself from making, though it's hardly any kind of penance."
A/N: Set Halloween 2015; references to S2's "Vampire Weekend"
"There was a great deal of laughing and joking during the meal.
Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure to get the ring and,
though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow Eves,
Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring
or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes
sparkled with disappointed shyness" - James Joyce, "Clay"
She lives out of the bag. The only thing she brought with her from home. It's an empty gesture she can't stop herself from making, though it's hardly any kind of penance. Hardly, and it does nothing to make amends, any more than sleeping in her office does. Showering at the gym. None of it could ever make amends.
More than that, it's a problem. Living half-way like this, when the point is to keep him safe. To keep them all safe, and she thinks for the thousandth time that she should have run when Rita wanted her to. She should have been stronger and loved him enough to go. To really go instead of this. Or to leave it alone. Let someone else shoulder the burden. Maybe she should have been strong enough for that.
But she wasn't. She isn't, and this-this half-lived existence between everything and nothing-already feels like more than she can bear.
Talk does her in. The fact that people at the precinct notice. Everyone at the precinct seems to have noticed that she's an absolute fixture these days, and not a single one of them writes it off to the rigors of the new job. Not one, and they go from whispers to staring openly. To not quite asking her straight out, but lingering at the double doors to her office.
Wondering gives way to It'll pass before too long. Common wisdom that this is just act number whatever in the dramedy of them. Act number whatever in something that's been playing out in plain sight for years.
It's a problem. It'll pass. It gives her a sick kind of hope, and it shouldn't. She doesn't deserve hope, and more than that, it's dangerous. It's not the story she's trying to sell to the wider world. That this is just another bump in the road. That's not the story that'll keep him safe, and she can't risk anyone who's not already in this catching her pining away. Missing him every second.
She can't have it, so she goes on the offensive. She makes a point of overhearing. Rounding corners and materializing in hallways. Flicking open the blinds in her fishbowl office and watching them wither, one after the other under the force of her glare.
But it's not enough.
She sees money changing hands, and she knows too well what that's about. An envelope and tick marks and bills folded tight. She knows too well, so she finds a place. She pounds at the keyboard. Calls up the first twenty hits for extended-stay places and picks at random. She books online. To be done with it, she tells herself, but really because her throat is tight and there's no other option.
"The date?" She's tired. Practically blind with exhaustion, and she hates the part of herself that's actually looking forward to a real mattress. The part of herself that thinks she deserves any comfort at this point. Any real rest.
"You kidding?"
She looks up sharply from the paperwork, ready to rip into the slacker behind the desk, when her keen cop sense kicks in. He's wearing a wig. Cheap, stringy crepe hair poorly affixed to a bald cap. There's makeup, too. Uneven pancake white and half-hearted, multipurpose eyeliner shading in bags and wrinkles.
"Riff Raff," she says out loud. Too loud.
"Costumes mandatory." He jerks the paperwork out from under the heel of her hand to scrawl in the date himself.
"Halloween."
He either doesn't hear her or doesn't care. "Open-ended?"
"Sorry?"
She blinks at him, actually sorry, though he's testy with her in response.
"Your stay." He's already writing though. Bored and ready to be done, he's writing in stark black capitals.
INDEFINITE.
"Open-ended." Her throat is thick again and she hates this feeling. She hates this. Half living without him, but there's no other option. "Yeah. Yes. Open-ended."
It's not actually a Best Traveler hotel, but it hardly matters. The familiar, deadly sameness has her thinking of him. Missing him, and even though that's a constant, this is sharper. More immediate when she remembers how tightly he held her, whispering thank you, over and over again. Not believing her when she swore she had nothing at all to do with Alexis coming home.
She stares down at the blur of the logo on her plastic key card. Registers the name of the place and forgets it before the next second ends. The memory crowds it out. Crowds everything else out. Him dropping off to sleep like a little boy, exhausted on Christmas Day. His lips moving even as his heavy lids closed at last.
Home. Everyone is home.
She sits on the bed for a long while. Spine straight and her coat still buttoned, like she might run yet. Like the inoffensive artwork and the unpleasant sheen of the comforter in the light of the snap-on table lamp might be the end of her.
But she hears something. The slick clatter of plastic in the electronic lock. Again, again, again, and she's on her feet. She's pressed to the wall just around the corner from the door with her gun in hand. She's switching it off. Fear. Loneliness. Sorrow and indecision.
She's reaching for the door handle, ready and not ready to face what's on the other side when a peal of laughter has her nearly hitting the ceiling. A crystalline trill and a low chuckle, both bubbling with desire underneath. Footsteps crossing the far side of the hall.
"Evens," she hears the deeper voice say. "Evens on this side. Odds over there."
The murmurs fade into intimacy. Into nothing as the solid sound of a door closing brings the incident to a definite end. Adrenaline bleeds away. Leaves her to picture bodies colliding, desire winding tight around the two of them. The urgency of the moment bleeds away. It leaves her aching.
She has no real idea what's in the bag. Packing was a mechanical thing. The right drawers, probably, and her limbs moving like they belonged to someone else. And she hasn't had occasion to empty it. Hasn't had the will to take that step, any more than she's had the will to do any of the needful things other than going. Leaving him. Leaving home.
But this is will. This is what needs to be done, so she yanks the zipper, opening the long, gaping gash with one motion. She shoves at the serrated edges, pushing its mouth open wide. The awful, traitorous bag. She reaches in with heavy, clumsy hands, and if it were any less awful-if it hurt one whit less-she might laugh at the motley assemblage. What's there and what's not.
There's the expected on top. The sensible, work-a-day socks and underwear. Running tights and sports bras. For real clothes-work clothes-she's been playing the dry cleaner angle. Creative swapping of pieces in and out, the lot of it hanging in her locker. Not here. Not part of everything she has to face here and now, so she digs deeper.
There's a sliver of soap wrapped in a dry washcloth. It's his, expensive and imported from God knows where. The scent overwhelms her. She sets it with shaking fingers on the night table and goes on, the already dark interior of the bag dimming and blurring with tears she doesn't bother to swallow down. A single pillow case comes next. Crisp and clean. Keenly, cuttingly familiar under her palm, and something twists inside her. A sharp, stupid pang at the thought she's taken it from its mate.
She goes faster then, gritting her teeth against the mug and a spare toothbrush still in its plastic. Earbuds with wire on one frayed so the sound pops in and out. Aspirin and an odd collection from the medicine cabinet. The sweep of her hand along a shelf, though she doesn't remember that. Hand cream and travel-sized mouthwash, because he's never gotten out of the habit of taking all the toiletries when he's on tour.
Every little bit hurts more than the last. She's at the point of dumping it all out on the bed. Falling forward with the disjointed remains of her life scattered around her. She's just nearly there when her fingers meet something broad and smooth and heavy. A book, and she doesn't remember that. She doesn't remember that at all.
She flattens her palm against, afraid it's Nikki or worse. Afraid it's the chard Derrick Storm he signed for her a million years ago, but it's too big to be either. Far too tall and broad. Curiosity gets the better of her. Breaks through the misery long enough that she lifts it free of the bag, struggling to keep a hold of the cover, black with bronze framing it, top and bottom.
She lifts it out and remembers. Dubliners. She whispers the title to herself. She whispers the memory. Halloween.
Martha. Of course Martha'd had a hand in it.
Darling, you'll grow old waiting for the powder room at one of Richard's parties.
She'd taken Kate by the hand. By shoulder and hip, nudging at first, then outright shoving her through the door to his bedroom.
Through there, dear. He really won't mind.
And with a cheeky wave and more than a little English on the really, she'd gone, leaving Kate to hurry before someone-not just him, but anyone-saw her in Richard Castle's bedroom. And she had hurried. She'd thrown herself this way and that trying to hurry. Trying not to leave a single thing out of place. Trying not to leave evidence.
She'd managed it, too. Tugged the toilet paper roll out to leave just exactly so much dangling. Wiped the counters and dried out the sink. Straightened the hand towel and bit back the urge to linger. To peek in the shower stall and run her finger along the shelves of the medicine cabinet. She'd hurried and covered her tracks perfectly, only to have his office catch her.
The books. His books. Display copies at eye level for show, of course. Of course. His books, but his books, too. That's what had caught her. Crowded shelves lower down close at hand from one arm chair or the other. From the desk chair when she'd leaned back and run her finger along the spines and known the ragged row for what it was: His favorites. Insomniac stand-bys and proof against drear winter days. The things he'd find comfort in. Inspiration.
She hadn't meant to sit. Hadn't meant to linger at all, but the lettering had struck her. The title alone familiar and nothing more. She'd thought of her own version. A slim, worn thing in a dull grey hard cover. She'd bought it second hand and always loved the unlikely name sketched neatly in pencil on the fly leaf: Fanny Flood.
It had drawn her in. The contrast had made her smile as she'd found herself cross-legged on the floor, pulling the monstrous thing into her lap. She'd run her hands over it and liked it somehow. The vertical crease in the spine. The worn edges of the pages, dark with handling. She'd liked that it was broken in. That the lyrical power of these stories had drawn him in. Again and again, from the look of it. She'd liked that.
She likes it still. She would if she were allowed to. But she's not. Still, she pulls her palms away from front cover and back to let them both fall. To let the book open where she knows it will. She's not allowed any of this, and still the pages spread wide and the syllable fills her mouth. Chokes her as she rests a palm over the title.
Clay, she says softly, then louder. To no one. Clay.
She's en route before every reason it's a terrible idea can come crashing down on her. On foot with nothing but the unwieldy book and a single key clutched so tight in her fist that it cuts deep into the skin. Enough for a faithful impression, she thinks. Enough that some miscreant could make a duplicate. A sick kind of giddy rolls through her stomach.
He won't be home. Not on Halloween. He won't. She says it to herself over and over, and it's not even an excuse. Not a rationale or fear or hope or anything other than toneless incidental music. A counterpoint to the percussion of heels on pavement and her heart slamming against her ribs.
He won't be home.
She tells herself again, but he's standing there as the door swings open. He's saying her name. He moves toward her. She moves toward him. Apparition meeting apparition, and then they're tangled awkwardly in each other's arms, the book huge and clumsy between them.
She rests. Just for one breath and another. She rests, even though she can't. Even though she doesn't deserve to. That's what has her pushing away. Stepping back with the book held out like shield.
"I brought this," she blurts."I brought it back."
He can't tear his eyes away from her at first. He can't stop drinking in the sight of her. It's terrible. How hungry he is for even that little. How hungry she is. It's awful.
A strangled, miserable sound escapes her. Enough to put him in motion, though he's just coming for the book. Just taking it from her, and she suddenly knows why it wound up in the bag in the first place. Why that, of all things, registered as necessary.
"Clay," he says, smiling softly at his own hand sweeping over the cover. "I also dreamt, which pleased me most/That you loved me still the same."
She hadn't known what made her say it. What had made her call out just loudly enough that he'd hear. Except she does know, here and now. This Halloween. And she'd known then. She'd known full well, whatever she might have told herself.
Your office, Castle. Might as well come in.
He'd been sheepish about it. Lurking just on the far side of the bookshelves in the first place. Getting caught. He'd been embarrassed. Quieter than she'd expected. Gentler and more serious.
Sorry. Just . . . I guess you're not having a great time.
He'd gestured vaguely to the rest of the loft. To the party, bubbling and burning bright all around them and a world away.
I am. She'd said it immediately, surprised and not surprised to find it true. Out there, I mean. That had left her blushing down at the page, her hair falling forward to hide it. She'd hoped so, anyway.
And in here. He'd come around closer to her as he spoke. Leaned his hips back to half sit on a shelf as he scratched at the clear gum holding on his ridiculous wig.
And in here, she'd said, tapping the book.
Joyce? He'd peered down. Frowning at it. Not exactly seasonal.
It is though.
She'd sent a grin his way. A challenge that had left him screwing up his face.
Oh . . . that one. With the saucers.
She'd nodded eagerly and they'd talked. Fallen into conversation, easy and intimate, about books and Halloween. Costumes and movies and life. They'd talked with the party weaving a spell around them. Granting permission to do this. Given into this till some kind of cry had gone up from the kitchen, stirring him. Calling him back to his duties as host, leaving them both sorry about it.
Sorry to have it end.
"I should have kissed you." It startles her. The way he drops from the sweet, simple melody into words, soft with the keen edge of regret underneath. "That Halloween. I should have."
She wants to agree. She wants to tell him she should have kissed him. She wants for a blessed moment to dwell on who she might have been if she'd kissed him all those Halloweens ago. She turns to go instead.
"You don't have to . . ." His voice stops her. The softness of it. The patience in it, even though he's hurt. Even though she's hurt him terribly. He holds the book out to her.
"I do." She won't let him finish. Can't let him. "I'm living out of. . . I shouldn't have taken it."
"I'm glad you did." He sets it down. Reaches for her with both hands and she doesn't fight him as he pulls her close. "I'm glad you wanted something . . . "
"I do." The words rise up out of her on a sob. "I want . . . I'll always want . . ."
It's lost in a kiss. Whatever she meant to say. It's lost in warmth and comfort. Desire and patience and hurt, too. Anger and terrible hurt, and that might be what keeps her there. The sharp sting, though it's nothing like penance.
"I can't," she hears herself say. Barely hears herself. "Right now, I can't be . . .You can't be kissing me right now."
"I'm not," he murmurs., his lips never parting from her skin. "I'm kissing you then."
"Castle . . ."
She's pleading, but so is he.
"Kiss me back, Kate." He hardly has to ask as her palm curves at the back of his neck and her mouth fits perfectly with his. Still, he's pleading. "Kiss me then."
A/N: Well. This is an awful disservice to everything. If you're interested, all of Dubliners is available on Project Gutenberg. I didn't (consciously) remember when I started writing that "Clay" is set on Halloween, even though it was the story I had in mind.