Chaos-A Season 3 Caskett one-shot
Title: Chaos
Rating: T
Summary: "It's hard for her to have him here. Harder even than the last time, because she has the flowers he brought hanging upside down to dry, their stems wrapped tight in the sash from one of her robes, the fragrant blossoms faded to hardier, more lasting colors."
A/N: Post-Ep for Lucky Stiff (3 x 14). Reference to Heat Wave.
The task of art today is to bring chaos into order.
Theodor Adorno
He brushes past her. Right through the front door
I know what you'd do if you won the lottery.
It's a strange moment. A difficult one, for all that they both fall back on old habits.
By all means, please come in.
He's brash and pushy. She's snappish and all boundaries. It's how things usually go, but this is stiff. It's manufactured usually, and they're both playing at it.
It's hard for him to be here. Just the second time in months and months. Just the second time ever, and she still doesn't know how he even knew her address when he showed up a few weeks back. She as no idea who he might have wheedled it from and how.
It's hard for her to have him here. Harder even than the last time, because she has the flowers he brought hanging upside down to dry, their stems wrapped tight in the sash from one of her robes, the fragrant blossoms faded to hardier, more lasting colors.
Because he kissed her between this time and the last. They kissed, and it's suddenly all she can think about. She's still and silent and consumed with the memory. The shocking warmth of his hands. His mouth. She's silent and still.
He notices. In a sea of things to notice, his gaze falls on the flowers. He sneaks a look at her. She sees the memory take him, too. She sees him consumed by last time and this time and what happened in between. He's surprised and pleased and hopeful and God, it's hard to have him here.
He heads for the flat expanse of the dining room table. He's playing and not playing by then. He's shored up by the fact that she hasn't kicked him out. By the fact she's kept his flowers so carefully.
She's playing and not playing, too. She makes him suffer a few ticks of the clock. Punishes him a little for showing up like this, all enthusiasm and certainty, but the slow burn of a quiet smile takes her.
You just can't stay out of my personal life, can you?
Thank you. It's really sweet.
She means it. He knows, and that shores him up, too. He strips off his coat. He brandishes the rolled up guest list like a spyglass before he helps himself to a chair and unfurls it.
Their hands brush and their elbows jostle as they each smooth down the curled corners and tug the pen back and forth. It's new territory, literally and figuratively. It's more and less intimate than last time, and she thinks she's grateful for it. Grateful not to be facing him across the same open expanse of floor with a question and a kiss remembered hanging in the air between them.
Then why do you keep coming back, Rick?
But new territory or not, they start out as usual. She rolls her eyes and ribs him for thinking even half of his first ten choices would deign to come. He hints broadly that he has enough markers outstanding to prove her wrong.
It's more of the same, then it isn't.
"More bigwigs who owe you, Castle?"
She nudges his knee with hers and drops a heavy finger on to an unfamiliar name. She needles him, because that's how things usually go, but his hands fall away. He draws into himself a little, and all of a sudden usually isn't serving either of them particularly well.
"No. They're . . ." One hand darts up to drop the heavy fountain pen smack in the middle of the page. It rolls back and forth a few times, landing with the nib pointing directly down at the name in question. "I did a little research . . ." He breaks off again. Shakes his head. "This . . . it's your party, Beckett, so whoever . . ."
"Lasky," she cuts in as memory takes her. An over-her-head, dinner-table conversation that wasn't quite. "Joel Lasky. He was one of my mom's first . . ."
He nods, still not quite looking at her. "She got him exonerated. Turned his life around, and now he owns . . ."
"That huge shipping and logistics company!" She turns the paper toward her as the first and last letters of the name resolves into the familiar logo. "I never realized." She looks at him sharply. "How did you?"
A shadow passes over his features. Surprise and something like sadness as he studies her, and she doesn't understand. Not right away, when he speaks and it seems like a non sequitur.
"He tells the story every chance he gets. Every interview. He talks about her like she's a superhero." He lifts a tentative palm and lets it drop. He splays his fingers wide over the heart of the list. Over so many of the names he's come up with somehow. "They all do."
It catches in her throat. The realization that he's had a couple of hours, at best, to learn this. That it's well past late, and she can hardly believe he was able to get the Dean of anything on the phone, so it must be out there for anyone to see. A few keystrokes and story after story with her mother's name attached to someone else's happy ending.
"I never thought . . ."
She trails off, but it might as well be a full stop. She's never thought. She never thinks to look for anything much after that day in January, because it's too hard. The phone calls that still ramp up every year just when she's least able to cope. When her dad switches off the phone entirely, and nothing ever comes of it but puff pieces. Warmed over outrage or, worse, concern and comma splices from reporters who ought to know the difference between sympathy and empathy.
It's too hard.
But not all of it is. Not all of it has to be, and here he's filled a page with all the reasons she should've thought. All the reasons she ought to think of the ways her mother lives on.
"Beckett?" He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know what to do with himself, and she wonders how long they've been sitting in silence.
"Wait," she says, brightening. Coming alive as she pushes up from the table and rushes for the bedroom closet. "Wait right here."
It's harder than she thought. Figurative and literal collide again as she goes on tiptoe. There's no light in this particular corner of this particular closet. That's not an accident, but she regrets the racket she's making as she manhandles the box down. She regrets the time it's taking and the upheaval in the middle of her bed when she finally has what she's looking for.
She turns her back on the mess and tries not to lose her nerve. She strides from her room with the two leather-bound books tucked against her side. She moves quickly. So quickly she nearly runs into him. Because of course he's not where she left him. Of course he can't wait right anywhere.
"Castle!" She pulls up short, flustered when he turns and they're unexpectedly close. She takes a step back. She tries to, but somehow she hits the wall behind her instead. "Ow."
"Careful." He leans toward her. Reaches for her, or so she thinks, and her breath goes missing. And then he reaches right past her. He steadies the huge, heavy canvas she's knocked off kilter. "This looks . . ."
He doesn't finish his thought. She steps clear of him. Of the whole, awkward moment, as he busies himself with setting the painting to rights. He has to stretch his arms out to grab both edges of the frame. He eases the picture wire along the mounting by feel. He's careful enough that she thinks he might be stalling.
"Good," she says, trying to break up the weight that's suddenly settled over the whole place. Over him. "Castle, that's . . . it's good like that."
"Good," he echoes with his back still to her. It's . . . not exactly absent. It's far off, though. He's studying the painting. His head tips back, then he tucks his chin, moving top to bottom and side to side.
She's suddenly self-conscious about it. Writhing. It's extravagant. She's known that from the moment the impulse took her, and not even the heart-stopping price tag could make her think twice. It's dramatic and too telling and she wants to throw something over it. She wants to snap off the stupid lights she'd splurged on, too, and make him unsee it.
"You hate it," she blurts, surprised by how mournful it sounds.
He's surprised, too. He swings around abruptly, studying her now. "I don't," he says. He frowns to himself. It's not exactly true. "I don't like it." He gives her an uneasy smile as his gaze shifts from her to the canvas and back again. "Am I supposed to?"
She half turns her body toward it, though she doesn't need to. The riot of images stays with her. The figure's porcelain skin, hard and fragile. A searchlight and the snuffed-out sun. Wind real enough that she might blame it for the color in her cheeks and get away with it.
"Like." It's not the right word for how it makes her feel. Why it speaks to her. "I guess not."
He nods, trying to shake off the moment for his own sake or hers. She really can't tell.
"What's this?" He fans his fingers at the books.
"My mom." She's clutching them to her like a shield, the leather warming against her body. "More of her."
"More." He brightens, and she doesn't know if that's for her sake or his own, either. If the two are mutually exclusive or one and the same these days. She doesn't know. "Let's see."
They settle on the couch. In the shadow of the painting, and it's something like mutual agreement. She spreads open the leather-bound books on the low table, and he comes to tentative rest at her side. They pore over them-a bulging, old-fashioned address book and a photo album. She trails her fingertips over names and faces she hasn't seen in a decade.
He asks, she answers, and the page fills up. Her handwriting and his, not quite alternating until he pushes it aside and she puts down the pen. Until it's not about the guest list anymore. It's her settled back with her feet tucked up and him leaning forward with his fist pressed to his lips, listening and listening and listening.
"That must have been . . ." She tips her head back like the year might be written on the ceiling. She sinks into the mass of pillows behind her and she's overcome by an enormous yawn.
"Whoa!"
The low exclamation jerks her upright. She's beyond embarrassed. Shocked to find herself just at the edge of sleep. She's ready to play it off-to fall back on old habits-but he's not teasing her. He's looking from his watch to the window, every bit as shocked as she is at how much time has passed.
"It's late," he says softly. His hand ventures toward her ankle. She only notices when he stops short, though there's little enough distance to close. He curls his fingers and plants a fist on the cushion. "It was late when I got here."
"It was," she agrees.
He gives her a guilty look, but she doesn't mean it as a jab. She softens it with a smile as her eyes fall to the list and the pen and the leather-bound books spread open on the table. She's not looking for an apology. She's not sure what she is looking for as he rises and she follows suit. She's not sure at all.
He looks past her. Frowns at the painting again as he raises his palms to face each other like a frame. "Is it still . . .?" He trails off, tipping his head to one side. "Do you have a level?"
She laughs. "My level went to bed two hours ago, Castle."
She cranes to look over her shoulder, though, and it strikes her in a new way. The violent, roiling skies and the golden rain of ginkgo leaves.
"I think it's just . . ." Her head swivels back toward him. He's frowning at it. Scowling, actually. "You really don't like it."
"It's not . . ." His eyes drop right past her, all the way to the floor. "I just can't believe I got it so wrong."
"Wrong?" She knows even as the word leaves her mouth. Carnation, Lily, Lily Rose. She pictures it. Little girls in white dresses carrying through the world. She turns again to the canvas. Sees the way the light falls on new places, and understands the trouble, suddenly and completely.
"She loves it, though," she says, even though her toes curl. Even though she feels ridiculous and this is what happens when he pushes right past her and all of a sudden they're staying up late together. "Nikki loves that print."
He steals a quick look at her, surprised and pleased and hopeful, but like he's afraid he might be hearing things, too.
"She did leave it up. Even when she was mad at him."
He says it a little too heartily. It unwinds the moment, and she can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. He moves back toward the dining room for his coat. He's going, and she can't decide about that, either.
"Even when she was mad." She finds herself echoing the words, not really knowing what she means by it, but they're in the hallway. They're at the door, and he's going. "She loves it," she says again. "You got it right."
"Right." He hovers, halfway out the door. Halfway in. He rolls the guest list in his hands, tight and loose. He's nervous. Instantly, wildly nervous as he turns back. "The thing is . . ." He abandons ship. He shakes his head and he's going again. He's going, then he's not. He leans toward her, stooping so close his breath fans over her ear. "The thing is, I don't care what Nikki loves."
She feels a tendril of electricity where his lips just barely brush her cheek and then he's going. He's gone.
A/N: No reason. Just thinking about Beckett's painting and how different it is from the one Rook gives Nikki in Heat Wave.
Rating: T
Summary: "It's hard for her to have him here. Harder even than the last time, because she has the flowers he brought hanging upside down to dry, their stems wrapped tight in the sash from one of her robes, the fragrant blossoms faded to hardier, more lasting colors."
A/N: Post-Ep for Lucky Stiff (3 x 14). Reference to Heat Wave.
The task of art today is to bring chaos into order.
Theodor Adorno
He brushes past her. Right through the front door
I know what you'd do if you won the lottery.
It's a strange moment. A difficult one, for all that they both fall back on old habits.
By all means, please come in.
He's brash and pushy. She's snappish and all boundaries. It's how things usually go, but this is stiff. It's manufactured usually, and they're both playing at it.
It's hard for him to be here. Just the second time in months and months. Just the second time ever, and she still doesn't know how he even knew her address when he showed up a few weeks back. She as no idea who he might have wheedled it from and how.
It's hard for her to have him here. Harder even than the last time, because she has the flowers he brought hanging upside down to dry, their stems wrapped tight in the sash from one of her robes, the fragrant blossoms faded to hardier, more lasting colors.
Because he kissed her between this time and the last. They kissed, and it's suddenly all she can think about. She's still and silent and consumed with the memory. The shocking warmth of his hands. His mouth. She's silent and still.
He notices. In a sea of things to notice, his gaze falls on the flowers. He sneaks a look at her. She sees the memory take him, too. She sees him consumed by last time and this time and what happened in between. He's surprised and pleased and hopeful and God, it's hard to have him here.
He heads for the flat expanse of the dining room table. He's playing and not playing by then. He's shored up by the fact that she hasn't kicked him out. By the fact she's kept his flowers so carefully.
She's playing and not playing, too. She makes him suffer a few ticks of the clock. Punishes him a little for showing up like this, all enthusiasm and certainty, but the slow burn of a quiet smile takes her.
You just can't stay out of my personal life, can you?
Thank you. It's really sweet.
She means it. He knows, and that shores him up, too. He strips off his coat. He brandishes the rolled up guest list like a spyglass before he helps himself to a chair and unfurls it.
Their hands brush and their elbows jostle as they each smooth down the curled corners and tug the pen back and forth. It's new territory, literally and figuratively. It's more and less intimate than last time, and she thinks she's grateful for it. Grateful not to be facing him across the same open expanse of floor with a question and a kiss remembered hanging in the air between them.
Then why do you keep coming back, Rick?
But new territory or not, they start out as usual. She rolls her eyes and ribs him for thinking even half of his first ten choices would deign to come. He hints broadly that he has enough markers outstanding to prove her wrong.
It's more of the same, then it isn't.
"More bigwigs who owe you, Castle?"
She nudges his knee with hers and drops a heavy finger on to an unfamiliar name. She needles him, because that's how things usually go, but his hands fall away. He draws into himself a little, and all of a sudden usually isn't serving either of them particularly well.
"No. They're . . ." One hand darts up to drop the heavy fountain pen smack in the middle of the page. It rolls back and forth a few times, landing with the nib pointing directly down at the name in question. "I did a little research . . ." He breaks off again. Shakes his head. "This . . . it's your party, Beckett, so whoever . . ."
"Lasky," she cuts in as memory takes her. An over-her-head, dinner-table conversation that wasn't quite. "Joel Lasky. He was one of my mom's first . . ."
He nods, still not quite looking at her. "She got him exonerated. Turned his life around, and now he owns . . ."
"That huge shipping and logistics company!" She turns the paper toward her as the first and last letters of the name resolves into the familiar logo. "I never realized." She looks at him sharply. "How did you?"
A shadow passes over his features. Surprise and something like sadness as he studies her, and she doesn't understand. Not right away, when he speaks and it seems like a non sequitur.
"He tells the story every chance he gets. Every interview. He talks about her like she's a superhero." He lifts a tentative palm and lets it drop. He splays his fingers wide over the heart of the list. Over so many of the names he's come up with somehow. "They all do."
It catches in her throat. The realization that he's had a couple of hours, at best, to learn this. That it's well past late, and she can hardly believe he was able to get the Dean of anything on the phone, so it must be out there for anyone to see. A few keystrokes and story after story with her mother's name attached to someone else's happy ending.
"I never thought . . ."
She trails off, but it might as well be a full stop. She's never thought. She never thinks to look for anything much after that day in January, because it's too hard. The phone calls that still ramp up every year just when she's least able to cope. When her dad switches off the phone entirely, and nothing ever comes of it but puff pieces. Warmed over outrage or, worse, concern and comma splices from reporters who ought to know the difference between sympathy and empathy.
It's too hard.
But not all of it is. Not all of it has to be, and here he's filled a page with all the reasons she should've thought. All the reasons she ought to think of the ways her mother lives on.
"Beckett?" He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know what to do with himself, and she wonders how long they've been sitting in silence.
"Wait," she says, brightening. Coming alive as she pushes up from the table and rushes for the bedroom closet. "Wait right here."
It's harder than she thought. Figurative and literal collide again as she goes on tiptoe. There's no light in this particular corner of this particular closet. That's not an accident, but she regrets the racket she's making as she manhandles the box down. She regrets the time it's taking and the upheaval in the middle of her bed when she finally has what she's looking for.
She turns her back on the mess and tries not to lose her nerve. She strides from her room with the two leather-bound books tucked against her side. She moves quickly. So quickly she nearly runs into him. Because of course he's not where she left him. Of course he can't wait right anywhere.
"Castle!" She pulls up short, flustered when he turns and they're unexpectedly close. She takes a step back. She tries to, but somehow she hits the wall behind her instead. "Ow."
"Careful." He leans toward her. Reaches for her, or so she thinks, and her breath goes missing. And then he reaches right past her. He steadies the huge, heavy canvas she's knocked off kilter. "This looks . . ."
He doesn't finish his thought. She steps clear of him. Of the whole, awkward moment, as he busies himself with setting the painting to rights. He has to stretch his arms out to grab both edges of the frame. He eases the picture wire along the mounting by feel. He's careful enough that she thinks he might be stalling.
"Good," she says, trying to break up the weight that's suddenly settled over the whole place. Over him. "Castle, that's . . . it's good like that."
"Good," he echoes with his back still to her. It's . . . not exactly absent. It's far off, though. He's studying the painting. His head tips back, then he tucks his chin, moving top to bottom and side to side.
She's suddenly self-conscious about it. Writhing. It's extravagant. She's known that from the moment the impulse took her, and not even the heart-stopping price tag could make her think twice. It's dramatic and too telling and she wants to throw something over it. She wants to snap off the stupid lights she'd splurged on, too, and make him unsee it.
"You hate it," she blurts, surprised by how mournful it sounds.
He's surprised, too. He swings around abruptly, studying her now. "I don't," he says. He frowns to himself. It's not exactly true. "I don't like it." He gives her an uneasy smile as his gaze shifts from her to the canvas and back again. "Am I supposed to?"
She half turns her body toward it, though she doesn't need to. The riot of images stays with her. The figure's porcelain skin, hard and fragile. A searchlight and the snuffed-out sun. Wind real enough that she might blame it for the color in her cheeks and get away with it.
"Like." It's not the right word for how it makes her feel. Why it speaks to her. "I guess not."
He nods, trying to shake off the moment for his own sake or hers. She really can't tell.
"What's this?" He fans his fingers at the books.
"My mom." She's clutching them to her like a shield, the leather warming against her body. "More of her."
"More." He brightens, and she doesn't know if that's for her sake or his own, either. If the two are mutually exclusive or one and the same these days. She doesn't know. "Let's see."
They settle on the couch. In the shadow of the painting, and it's something like mutual agreement. She spreads open the leather-bound books on the low table, and he comes to tentative rest at her side. They pore over them-a bulging, old-fashioned address book and a photo album. She trails her fingertips over names and faces she hasn't seen in a decade.
He asks, she answers, and the page fills up. Her handwriting and his, not quite alternating until he pushes it aside and she puts down the pen. Until it's not about the guest list anymore. It's her settled back with her feet tucked up and him leaning forward with his fist pressed to his lips, listening and listening and listening.
"That must have been . . ." She tips her head back like the year might be written on the ceiling. She sinks into the mass of pillows behind her and she's overcome by an enormous yawn.
"Whoa!"
The low exclamation jerks her upright. She's beyond embarrassed. Shocked to find herself just at the edge of sleep. She's ready to play it off-to fall back on old habits-but he's not teasing her. He's looking from his watch to the window, every bit as shocked as she is at how much time has passed.
"It's late," he says softly. His hand ventures toward her ankle. She only notices when he stops short, though there's little enough distance to close. He curls his fingers and plants a fist on the cushion. "It was late when I got here."
"It was," she agrees.
He gives her a guilty look, but she doesn't mean it as a jab. She softens it with a smile as her eyes fall to the list and the pen and the leather-bound books spread open on the table. She's not looking for an apology. She's not sure what she is looking for as he rises and she follows suit. She's not sure at all.
He looks past her. Frowns at the painting again as he raises his palms to face each other like a frame. "Is it still . . .?" He trails off, tipping his head to one side. "Do you have a level?"
She laughs. "My level went to bed two hours ago, Castle."
She cranes to look over her shoulder, though, and it strikes her in a new way. The violent, roiling skies and the golden rain of ginkgo leaves.
"I think it's just . . ." Her head swivels back toward him. He's frowning at it. Scowling, actually. "You really don't like it."
"It's not . . ." His eyes drop right past her, all the way to the floor. "I just can't believe I got it so wrong."
"Wrong?" She knows even as the word leaves her mouth. Carnation, Lily, Lily Rose. She pictures it. Little girls in white dresses carrying through the world. She turns again to the canvas. Sees the way the light falls on new places, and understands the trouble, suddenly and completely.
"She loves it, though," she says, even though her toes curl. Even though she feels ridiculous and this is what happens when he pushes right past her and all of a sudden they're staying up late together. "Nikki loves that print."
He steals a quick look at her, surprised and pleased and hopeful, but like he's afraid he might be hearing things, too.
"She did leave it up. Even when she was mad at him."
He says it a little too heartily. It unwinds the moment, and she can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. He moves back toward the dining room for his coat. He's going, and she can't decide about that, either.
"Even when she was mad." She finds herself echoing the words, not really knowing what she means by it, but they're in the hallway. They're at the door, and he's going. "She loves it," she says again. "You got it right."
"Right." He hovers, halfway out the door. Halfway in. He rolls the guest list in his hands, tight and loose. He's nervous. Instantly, wildly nervous as he turns back. "The thing is . . ." He abandons ship. He shakes his head and he's going again. He's going, then he's not. He leans toward her, stooping so close his breath fans over her ear. "The thing is, I don't care what Nikki loves."
She feels a tendril of electricity where his lips just barely brush her cheek and then he's going. He's gone.
A/N: No reason. Just thinking about Beckett's painting and how different it is from the one Rook gives Nikki in Heat Wave.