Not All Who Wander, Ch. 3-A Season 2 Caskett 3-shot
Title: Not All Who Wander, Ch. 3
Rating: T
Summary: "It must have been evidence, and he hates the way his fingers twitch at the plot point. As he wonders how she got it back. How she'd get it back now, or if she'd even be able to in this mess. His mind runs with the story. With a dozen worst-case scenarios that have her desperately calling in favors. Breaking the rules when that doesn't work, and he can't let it slip through his fingers. He can't."
A/N: Three-shot AU insert for The Third Man (2 x 14). Final chapter.
It's closing in on dawn by the time they find it. She's worked hard. They both have, but it's no more than he deserves, and he's grateful. She's pulled out her notebook and ushered him to the tape line and back again once nobody's looking. She's kept him in the game and pawed through bin after bin by his side, rapping out questions every once in a while. About what she's like. What it's like in homicide. If anyone gives her shit. If anyone even dares.
He answers, guarded at first. Strangely protective of her privacy and a little jealous, too. Maybe a little jealous, though there's an odd kind of relief tucked inside a few weary hours, and finds himself telling her what it's like to watch from the sidelines.
He finds himself working it out as she listens-rapt-to his side of the story. How they respect her. Esposito and Ryan and every uniform he can think of. Montgomery, of course. They respect her, and even the people who live to make her life miserable don't usually dare to give her shit.
He enjoys telling it like this. To someone who admires her so openly. Idolizes her and wants to be her when she grows up. It makes his heart hurt a little to see it written all over the young woman's face, and still, it's an odd kind of relief.
"Mr. Castle."
"Rick," he tells her for the tenth time. He starts to but it dies away when he sees the careful rise of her hands from the depths of the bin.
"That's it," he says. It's pointless. Obvious, and still he can't quite believe it. She takes a step closer to him so their bodies and the van door shield it from view. His palm comes down hard on the grey edge closest to him. He nearly up ends the bin, weak with relief.
It's short lived, though. McVey's face darkens as she lets the bag unroll. As the purse sways between them.
"Evidence. Evening bag," she reads off the front. Her voice sounds mechanical. Like she's sounding out words in some unfamiliar language. She looks up at him in something like horror. "It's sealed. Evidence."
His stomach drops, twisting along the way. It's not evidence, except it is. Worse, still, it was. Something he's never thought of until now, and he hates the memory of his own voice and hers.
A robbery?
No. She still had her money and purse and jewelry.
It must have been evidence, and he hates the way his fingers twitch at the plot point. As he wonders how she got it back. How she'd get it back now, or if she'd even be able to in this mess. His mind runs with the story. With a dozen worst-case scenarios that have her desperately calling in favors. Breaking the rules when that doesn't work, and he can't let it slip through his fingers. He can't.
"The purse is evidence." His voice is smoother than it's been in hours. Calmer as he flips the switch again, and it works this time. He draws his finger down the empty boxes beneath the neat block caps. "Evening bag." He gives McVey a sly grin. Hates himself a little more, but he can live with that. He's not leaving empty handed. "They haven't opened it. And there's no reason anyone would miss it."
Her jaw twitches. She's hardening. Remembering what she is for the first time in hours. A cop, not his partner in crime, even if he does ride along with Beckett.
"Please." He drops the act entirely. Has to, because he lost her mother's ring. "Officer . . . Therese." He feels another pang of self-loathing. Pushes right through it. "I can't tell you what this means to her."
It's truth. Terrible, literal truth, because he won't tell her. Because nothing-not even the fact that she wants to be Kate Beckett when she grows up-could make him tell. It must be all over his face, though. The gist of it anyway, because she's sliding a careful finger under the seal. She's gathering up a fold of plastic to snap open the clasp. She's fishing it out, endless links of gold and-an eternity later-the tiny stone glinting in the streetlight.
"For Detective Beckett," she says, pushing it into his hand like it burns her. It's gruff, the words and gesture both. She's all business, sealing the bag again and replacing everything in the bin, exactly as it was.
His mouth opens and shuts. He wants to offer her something. To make some promise that might mean something. But with the weight in his fist-the almost nonexistent weight of the ring and the coiled chain-he can't imagine what that might be.
He can't imagine.
He's at the twelfth before he's really decided to be there. The duty sergeant's buzzing him through the bullet-proof glass door, and he's waving mechanically before he actually realizes that he's there.
He stabs the up button by the elevator for lack of anything better to do. Because the duty sergeant's looking at him a little strangely and he might as well.
The bullpen is all but empty. The sky is only just lightening, and everything is neat and strange in that in-between way that signals a blessedly quiet few hours.
He makes his way to her desk. Hovers there, even more at a loss than he was down in the lobby. He can't just leave it here. Has no intention whatsoever of letting go anywhere but directly into her hands, but it'll be hours before she's in. Hours, and he feels sick wondering how she's passed the time.
He doesn't hear the elevator ding. Not consciously, any more than he registers the sound of her comparatively sensible shoes ringing out on the tile.
"Castle."
She doesn't seem surprised to find him there. She doesn't seem angry or much of anything other than exhausted. Completely wrung out and less than she should be. It scares him. The pale canvas of her face in all its effortless neutrality. It reminds him of coming back not that long ago.
You don't have to explain yourself.
I don't?
No. See, I don't care anymore.
It makes him reckless. His hands shoot out to take hold of hers, both in one. He holds them there, speechless, and she's no help on that front. Her eyes go wide. She's too shocked to even pull away. To even say his name.
"I'll replace it. The purse and everything. The cash and your cards and the lipstick and whatever weird tin of mints you had in there." Some kind of damn bursts. He's babbling. Desperate to fill what might be the last silence between them with as many words as he can, but he stumbles when it comes down to the ring. He chokes, literally and figuratively. "I got this, though. I'm sorry. Beckett, I'm really sorry. But I got it back."
She doesn't say anything. His hands fall away and her fist closes around it so quickly she can't even have seen it. She doesn't say anything, and there's nothing left for him to do but go. He does, somehow.
Maybe it's penance. Maybe it's that lingering need to suffer that carries him toward the elevator. Pushes the button and carries him to the back corner. Whatever it is, he goes. He's going, but her fist shoots between the doors a quarter second before they close. She knocks them aside and leans into the rubber bumper, ignoring the alarm when buzzes angrily. They both ignore it.
"It's a knock off." She's trying for casual. Trying to play it off like the last few hours haven't been hell. It might pass with anyone else, but he sees the way her lips are pressed hard together. He sees the up and down of her throat as she swallows hard. "The purse. I didn't have anything that . . . little and stupid. Had to run down to Canal on my way to the restaurant."
"Rookie move, Beckett." It's a little bit of a croak. He swallows hard himself, playing it off, too, though he's not sure either of them should be. "Could've shaken me down for the real thing."
"Could have," she agrees, laughing a little. "But this'll do." She says it quietly. Raises her hand and lets it drop again.
"Hope so," he says simply.
The buzzer falls abruptly silent. He looks up, half expecting her to be gone. More than half expecting the doors to close on just a glimpse of her walking away. But she's leaning back into the opposite corner of the elevator. The bottom drops out of the world. One floor, then two, and he wonders what they're doing. It's three floors and the lobby. They're walking out together and the duty sergeant gives them both an absent wave.
They hit the sidewalk. They slow, then stop, in step with each other. It's a relief. Enough of one that he risks a side-long look at her. She's standing in the sunlight with her head tipped forward. She's looking down at the fist pressed hard to her own midsection, the ring still clutched tight in it.
He wants to take it back from her. He wants to turn her gently by the shoulders and clasp it safe around her neck. He wants to lift her hair free of the chain and whisper There against her ear as her fingers rise to settle the ring against her skin.
He does nothing of the sort. Of course he doesn't. He gives her the story instead. A start on it, anyway.
"It was evidence," he says. Another confession he doesn't really want to make. He's sorry for his part in it. For the weight another piece of history must add to the burden, but he owes her the story at least.
"Figured." She risks a side-long look of her own. A half smile, and he knows suddenly that she spent the hours between then and now waiting for the sun to come up. Waiting for it to be late enough to call anyone and everyone trying to hunt it down. "Do I event want to know what you did?"
Corrupted a cop. It's the first thing that rises to his lips, and it's not exactly a joke. He thinks of McVey-this kid who idolizes her-and bites it back. He picks up the thread of the story.
"Met a fan," he says, and suddenly they're walking.
"A fan." She stops for the light at the corner and turns to him. Gives him a full on eye roll. "Yours or Nikki's?"
"Yours, actually, Detective." The light changes. He nudges her elbow with his own. "All yours."
A/N: Wrote the ending. Then rewrote it half a dozen times. Thanks for reading.
Rating: T
Summary: "It must have been evidence, and he hates the way his fingers twitch at the plot point. As he wonders how she got it back. How she'd get it back now, or if she'd even be able to in this mess. His mind runs with the story. With a dozen worst-case scenarios that have her desperately calling in favors. Breaking the rules when that doesn't work, and he can't let it slip through his fingers. He can't."
A/N: Three-shot AU insert for The Third Man (2 x 14). Final chapter.
It's closing in on dawn by the time they find it. She's worked hard. They both have, but it's no more than he deserves, and he's grateful. She's pulled out her notebook and ushered him to the tape line and back again once nobody's looking. She's kept him in the game and pawed through bin after bin by his side, rapping out questions every once in a while. About what she's like. What it's like in homicide. If anyone gives her shit. If anyone even dares.
He answers, guarded at first. Strangely protective of her privacy and a little jealous, too. Maybe a little jealous, though there's an odd kind of relief tucked inside a few weary hours, and finds himself telling her what it's like to watch from the sidelines.
He finds himself working it out as she listens-rapt-to his side of the story. How they respect her. Esposito and Ryan and every uniform he can think of. Montgomery, of course. They respect her, and even the people who live to make her life miserable don't usually dare to give her shit.
He enjoys telling it like this. To someone who admires her so openly. Idolizes her and wants to be her when she grows up. It makes his heart hurt a little to see it written all over the young woman's face, and still, it's an odd kind of relief.
"Mr. Castle."
"Rick," he tells her for the tenth time. He starts to but it dies away when he sees the careful rise of her hands from the depths of the bin.
"That's it," he says. It's pointless. Obvious, and still he can't quite believe it. She takes a step closer to him so their bodies and the van door shield it from view. His palm comes down hard on the grey edge closest to him. He nearly up ends the bin, weak with relief.
It's short lived, though. McVey's face darkens as she lets the bag unroll. As the purse sways between them.
"Evidence. Evening bag," she reads off the front. Her voice sounds mechanical. Like she's sounding out words in some unfamiliar language. She looks up at him in something like horror. "It's sealed. Evidence."
His stomach drops, twisting along the way. It's not evidence, except it is. Worse, still, it was. Something he's never thought of until now, and he hates the memory of his own voice and hers.
A robbery?
No. She still had her money and purse and jewelry.
It must have been evidence, and he hates the way his fingers twitch at the plot point. As he wonders how she got it back. How she'd get it back now, or if she'd even be able to in this mess. His mind runs with the story. With a dozen worst-case scenarios that have her desperately calling in favors. Breaking the rules when that doesn't work, and he can't let it slip through his fingers. He can't.
"The purse is evidence." His voice is smoother than it's been in hours. Calmer as he flips the switch again, and it works this time. He draws his finger down the empty boxes beneath the neat block caps. "Evening bag." He gives McVey a sly grin. Hates himself a little more, but he can live with that. He's not leaving empty handed. "They haven't opened it. And there's no reason anyone would miss it."
Her jaw twitches. She's hardening. Remembering what she is for the first time in hours. A cop, not his partner in crime, even if he does ride along with Beckett.
"Please." He drops the act entirely. Has to, because he lost her mother's ring. "Officer . . . Therese." He feels another pang of self-loathing. Pushes right through it. "I can't tell you what this means to her."
It's truth. Terrible, literal truth, because he won't tell her. Because nothing-not even the fact that she wants to be Kate Beckett when she grows up-could make him tell. It must be all over his face, though. The gist of it anyway, because she's sliding a careful finger under the seal. She's gathering up a fold of plastic to snap open the clasp. She's fishing it out, endless links of gold and-an eternity later-the tiny stone glinting in the streetlight.
"For Detective Beckett," she says, pushing it into his hand like it burns her. It's gruff, the words and gesture both. She's all business, sealing the bag again and replacing everything in the bin, exactly as it was.
His mouth opens and shuts. He wants to offer her something. To make some promise that might mean something. But with the weight in his fist-the almost nonexistent weight of the ring and the coiled chain-he can't imagine what that might be.
He can't imagine.
He's at the twelfth before he's really decided to be there. The duty sergeant's buzzing him through the bullet-proof glass door, and he's waving mechanically before he actually realizes that he's there.
He stabs the up button by the elevator for lack of anything better to do. Because the duty sergeant's looking at him a little strangely and he might as well.
The bullpen is all but empty. The sky is only just lightening, and everything is neat and strange in that in-between way that signals a blessedly quiet few hours.
He makes his way to her desk. Hovers there, even more at a loss than he was down in the lobby. He can't just leave it here. Has no intention whatsoever of letting go anywhere but directly into her hands, but it'll be hours before she's in. Hours, and he feels sick wondering how she's passed the time.
He doesn't hear the elevator ding. Not consciously, any more than he registers the sound of her comparatively sensible shoes ringing out on the tile.
"Castle."
She doesn't seem surprised to find him there. She doesn't seem angry or much of anything other than exhausted. Completely wrung out and less than she should be. It scares him. The pale canvas of her face in all its effortless neutrality. It reminds him of coming back not that long ago.
You don't have to explain yourself.
I don't?
No. See, I don't care anymore.
It makes him reckless. His hands shoot out to take hold of hers, both in one. He holds them there, speechless, and she's no help on that front. Her eyes go wide. She's too shocked to even pull away. To even say his name.
"I'll replace it. The purse and everything. The cash and your cards and the lipstick and whatever weird tin of mints you had in there." Some kind of damn bursts. He's babbling. Desperate to fill what might be the last silence between them with as many words as he can, but he stumbles when it comes down to the ring. He chokes, literally and figuratively. "I got this, though. I'm sorry. Beckett, I'm really sorry. But I got it back."
She doesn't say anything. His hands fall away and her fist closes around it so quickly she can't even have seen it. She doesn't say anything, and there's nothing left for him to do but go. He does, somehow.
Maybe it's penance. Maybe it's that lingering need to suffer that carries him toward the elevator. Pushes the button and carries him to the back corner. Whatever it is, he goes. He's going, but her fist shoots between the doors a quarter second before they close. She knocks them aside and leans into the rubber bumper, ignoring the alarm when buzzes angrily. They both ignore it.
"It's a knock off." She's trying for casual. Trying to play it off like the last few hours haven't been hell. It might pass with anyone else, but he sees the way her lips are pressed hard together. He sees the up and down of her throat as she swallows hard. "The purse. I didn't have anything that . . . little and stupid. Had to run down to Canal on my way to the restaurant."
"Rookie move, Beckett." It's a little bit of a croak. He swallows hard himself, playing it off, too, though he's not sure either of them should be. "Could've shaken me down for the real thing."
"Could have," she agrees, laughing a little. "But this'll do." She says it quietly. Raises her hand and lets it drop again.
"Hope so," he says simply.
The buzzer falls abruptly silent. He looks up, half expecting her to be gone. More than half expecting the doors to close on just a glimpse of her walking away. But she's leaning back into the opposite corner of the elevator. The bottom drops out of the world. One floor, then two, and he wonders what they're doing. It's three floors and the lobby. They're walking out together and the duty sergeant gives them both an absent wave.
They hit the sidewalk. They slow, then stop, in step with each other. It's a relief. Enough of one that he risks a side-long look at her. She's standing in the sunlight with her head tipped forward. She's looking down at the fist pressed hard to her own midsection, the ring still clutched tight in it.
He wants to take it back from her. He wants to turn her gently by the shoulders and clasp it safe around her neck. He wants to lift her hair free of the chain and whisper There against her ear as her fingers rise to settle the ring against her skin.
He does nothing of the sort. Of course he doesn't. He gives her the story instead. A start on it, anyway.
"It was evidence," he says. Another confession he doesn't really want to make. He's sorry for his part in it. For the weight another piece of history must add to the burden, but he owes her the story at least.
"Figured." She risks a side-long look of her own. A half smile, and he knows suddenly that she spent the hours between then and now waiting for the sun to come up. Waiting for it to be late enough to call anyone and everyone trying to hunt it down. "Do I event want to know what you did?"
Corrupted a cop. It's the first thing that rises to his lips, and it's not exactly a joke. He thinks of McVey-this kid who idolizes her-and bites it back. He picks up the thread of the story.
"Met a fan," he says, and suddenly they're walking.
"A fan." She stops for the light at the corner and turns to him. Gives him a full on eye roll. "Yours or Nikki's?"
"Yours, actually, Detective." The light changes. He nudges her elbow with his own. "All yours."
A/N: Wrote the ending. Then rewrote it half a dozen times. Thanks for reading.