All She Wants Is, Ch. 1-Bothersome (1 x 04)-Series of Caskett one-shots, ranging from seasons 1-3
Title: All She Wants Is: Bothersome-1 x 04 (Hell Hath No Fury)
Rating: T
Summary: "He's bothering her. Not him, exactly. For once, he's not actively bothering her. But something about him."
A/N: A one-shot (?) Post-ep for Hell Hath No Fury (1 x 04) at this point. See end notes for more.
He's bothering her.
Not him, exactly. For once, he's not actively bothering her. But something about him. Something about this case and the way he called the escort service without the slightest hesitation. Without so much as a second thought before swanning off for the night.
And worse than all that, she knows he's right. He will find the girl in the photo first. Tiffany. He'll find her, and it's an opportunity. A low-profile, lawyer-free meet that just might break the case. That should bother her. She doesn't want to feed his over-inflated sense of importance, and she sure as hell doesn't want to owe him anything. She doesn't want his fancy coffee machine or his poker buddy judges. She doesn't want him any more entangled in her life than he already is.
But that's not what's bothering her. None of it is, and it's Lanie who brings it all to light.
She's dangling her feet, perched on the edge of an autopsy table as her friend shrugs out of her white lab coat. Lanie doesn't bother to hide her head shake when she spies the button-up ruffle of Kate's deep purple blouse.
Don't be mean, Kate says, and on the surface, it's about something else entirely. It's their usual back-and-forth over her social life, or lack thereof. Over the fact that she's not just literally buttoned up, even on the verge of a girls night out.
But Lanie sees through it. Half-joking annoyance on the surface. She sees right through it and cuts to the heart of the matter.
You deserve it. Getting a drink with me after work instead of getting your freak on with writer-boy?
And that's all it takes. How what's really been bothering her works its way to the surface. What's bothering her right this second. It drifts up and tugs her stomach along with it. Oh-shit butterflies, because it's a problem.
Lanie sees it. Panic on her face or something else. Something worse than panic maybe, and she homes in. She's about to, anyway, when Kate's phone rings, and she's never been so grateful to see it's him calling. Never been so grateful to have him actively bothering her.
Guess who's got a date with a prostitute?
She throws her hands up, because he's that bad and worse. He's impossible. An infuriating, leering man-child. And none of that has a thing to do with what's bothering her.
She's not lying.
Detective Beckett, to what do I owe this very unexpected pleasure?
She squares off against him. Shoulders back and chin up. Absolutely still, because she's not shivering at the way he manages to drag that last word all up and down her body. Pleasure. Head to toe and back again.
I just figured if you're going to bother me at my work I should bother you at yours.
She's not shivering. It's not a lie, and still, she's racing away from it. Talking fast. Giving him grief. Steering sharply clear of anything personal. Any slack-jawed, hungry reaction at all to her showing up like this. Bare legs and some afterthought of a dress that's four or five seasons out of date. Not that he seems to mind. Not that he seems to notice anything but the sheer amount of skin on display. The glint of jewelry at her wrist and earrings whispering over her shoulders.
She's running even though it's what she wanted, isn't it? Even though this is what's been bothering her. Perversely. Exactly what's been bothering her: The fact that he hasn't looked at her like this once since the Tisdale case.
It's nonsense. Sheer stupidity that he might actually be doing research. He might actually be interested in her job and the fact that she's good at it. He might actually not be trying to get into her pants.
It's ridiculous, and she doesn't even know what she's saying any more. Why she's going after the stupid end to the stupid series like this when she can see it's really hitting him. She can see the flash of hurt before his eyes go hard and they're playing the game again. Skimming the surface.
She doesn't know what she's saying, and misery is setting in. His family approaches, but there's no salvation there. Not even the name. Nikki Heat. His mother realizes she's stirred the pot, and for once it's unintentional. She tugs Alexis away and leaves the two of them sparring.
She advances. He retreats. He hides behind the stupid cut-out of himself, and it's all just a bit too literal. Everything boils up to the surface and it's only by the grace of God and so many years on the job that isolating a person of interest is muscle memory by now.
"You haven't asked!" She blurts it, stabbing him in the center of the chest with one finger.
Her nail polish is chipped already. It's depressing. Something else all too literal: A reminder of what kind of woman she is and what kind of woman she isn't. She yanks her hand back, trying to hide it. Trying to hide, in general, but he's switched off, too. They're not playing any more.
"Asked what?" There's a stubborn jut to his chin. An annoyed tone that clips off the ends of his words.
"Asked me out." She can't believe the words make it out. She's shivering now. Quaking in her stilettos, though she's pretty sure he can't tell. Pretty sure that's an inside thing. "Don't you . . ." She clears her throat. Shakes out her hair and the brush of her earrings gives her an odd kind of confidence. Boldness. "Don't you want to know how slutty your detective . . ."
". . . Nikki," he interjects, squaring his own shoulders. Standing his ground, and even so, she wonders if he's as stark white with terror as she is.
She wonders, but it's too much. It's too stupid. All of it. Coming here. Letting it bother her. She turns from him. Sharply away on one ill-advised stiletto, but she doesn't make it far.
"I did ask." There's still that stubborn set to his chin. He's indignant, but his voice is soft enough that no one but her would hear even if she hadn't managed to back him all the way to some far corner of the bookstore. "You turned me down."
There's humor enough in it that it swings her back around. Self-deprecation and a shy, nervous light in his eyes that's more devastating than his full-on assault could ever be.
"Yeah. That's when I thought I was rid of you."
She's shocked to hear herself saying anything at all. Shocked at the note of timid fondness that creeps into her voice. More than shocked when he takes a step toward her.
"But you're not rid of me." He's turning the words over in his mouth. In the air between them like it's new information. Like he didn't know that she's stuck with him and it's not just literal. She's not rid of him and he definitely didn't know that before this very moment. "Would your answer be different now?"
"Answer." It's a dumbstruck echo.
"Answer," he says again, smiling at her. Teasing a little. "If I asked you to have a drink with me." He shakes his head. More to himself than to her, as if he knows that's a bridge too far. He knows it's not the right question. "If I asked to see you to your door tonight . . ."
He lets it hang there. He's not touching her-not even looking her up and down-but he might as well be, and the friction of it is dangerous. The calculated innocence of words he's chosen so precisely.
If I asked to see you to your door tonight . . .
The way it slides past the fact that he's very pointedly not looking at her. It hangs there between them. What he's asked and what he hasn't, and it's satisfying and a problem and the oh shit butterflies are having a field day. It hangs there between them.
"Not a chance," she says finally, but she's grinning at him.
He's grinning, too, pleased and strangely innocent. It makes her think of her back against a cold brick wall. Fumbling kisses from her first boyfriend and not wanting to tear herself away even with the light from her family's apartment flicking on high above. Even with her dad's footsteps on the stairs. It makes her feel like she hasn't in a long, long time.
But she does tear herself away. She turns on a heel and makes it a dozen steps away this time.
"What if I changed the name?" He calls out.
"Would you?" Her head swivels back around, though she's not sure she wanted it to. She's not sure she wanted to ask.
He thinks about it. Gives her a searching look that has nothing to do with bare skin and fuck-me heels. Not much to do with it, anyway.
"No," he says, and it's more thoughtful than stubborn. More careful than anything and she turns away for the third tim, butterflies rising as she feels his gaze on her all the way to the door. All the way out into the chill spring air and far beyond.
A/N: I'm not sure what this is, if anything. At the moment, it might be a couple of loosely linked chapters set early in the series. It's modeled on things others have done, most notably Cora Clavia's "Kiss Me, Castle." If it goes anywhere, I'll post additional chapters in that same fashion.
Rating: T
Summary: "He's bothering her. Not him, exactly. For once, he's not actively bothering her. But something about him."
A/N: A one-shot (?) Post-ep for Hell Hath No Fury (1 x 04) at this point. See end notes for more.
He's bothering her.
Not him, exactly. For once, he's not actively bothering her. But something about him. Something about this case and the way he called the escort service without the slightest hesitation. Without so much as a second thought before swanning off for the night.
And worse than all that, she knows he's right. He will find the girl in the photo first. Tiffany. He'll find her, and it's an opportunity. A low-profile, lawyer-free meet that just might break the case. That should bother her. She doesn't want to feed his over-inflated sense of importance, and she sure as hell doesn't want to owe him anything. She doesn't want his fancy coffee machine or his poker buddy judges. She doesn't want him any more entangled in her life than he already is.
But that's not what's bothering her. None of it is, and it's Lanie who brings it all to light.
She's dangling her feet, perched on the edge of an autopsy table as her friend shrugs out of her white lab coat. Lanie doesn't bother to hide her head shake when she spies the button-up ruffle of Kate's deep purple blouse.
Don't be mean, Kate says, and on the surface, it's about something else entirely. It's their usual back-and-forth over her social life, or lack thereof. Over the fact that she's not just literally buttoned up, even on the verge of a girls night out.
But Lanie sees through it. Half-joking annoyance on the surface. She sees right through it and cuts to the heart of the matter.
You deserve it. Getting a drink with me after work instead of getting your freak on with writer-boy?
And that's all it takes. How what's really been bothering her works its way to the surface. What's bothering her right this second. It drifts up and tugs her stomach along with it. Oh-shit butterflies, because it's a problem.
Lanie sees it. Panic on her face or something else. Something worse than panic maybe, and she homes in. She's about to, anyway, when Kate's phone rings, and she's never been so grateful to see it's him calling. Never been so grateful to have him actively bothering her.
Guess who's got a date with a prostitute?
She throws her hands up, because he's that bad and worse. He's impossible. An infuriating, leering man-child. And none of that has a thing to do with what's bothering her.
She's not lying.
Detective Beckett, to what do I owe this very unexpected pleasure?
She squares off against him. Shoulders back and chin up. Absolutely still, because she's not shivering at the way he manages to drag that last word all up and down her body. Pleasure. Head to toe and back again.
I just figured if you're going to bother me at my work I should bother you at yours.
She's not shivering. It's not a lie, and still, she's racing away from it. Talking fast. Giving him grief. Steering sharply clear of anything personal. Any slack-jawed, hungry reaction at all to her showing up like this. Bare legs and some afterthought of a dress that's four or five seasons out of date. Not that he seems to mind. Not that he seems to notice anything but the sheer amount of skin on display. The glint of jewelry at her wrist and earrings whispering over her shoulders.
She's running even though it's what she wanted, isn't it? Even though this is what's been bothering her. Perversely. Exactly what's been bothering her: The fact that he hasn't looked at her like this once since the Tisdale case.
It's nonsense. Sheer stupidity that he might actually be doing research. He might actually be interested in her job and the fact that she's good at it. He might actually not be trying to get into her pants.
It's ridiculous, and she doesn't even know what she's saying any more. Why she's going after the stupid end to the stupid series like this when she can see it's really hitting him. She can see the flash of hurt before his eyes go hard and they're playing the game again. Skimming the surface.
She doesn't know what she's saying, and misery is setting in. His family approaches, but there's no salvation there. Not even the name. Nikki Heat. His mother realizes she's stirred the pot, and for once it's unintentional. She tugs Alexis away and leaves the two of them sparring.
She advances. He retreats. He hides behind the stupid cut-out of himself, and it's all just a bit too literal. Everything boils up to the surface and it's only by the grace of God and so many years on the job that isolating a person of interest is muscle memory by now.
"You haven't asked!" She blurts it, stabbing him in the center of the chest with one finger.
Her nail polish is chipped already. It's depressing. Something else all too literal: A reminder of what kind of woman she is and what kind of woman she isn't. She yanks her hand back, trying to hide it. Trying to hide, in general, but he's switched off, too. They're not playing any more.
"Asked what?" There's a stubborn jut to his chin. An annoyed tone that clips off the ends of his words.
"Asked me out." She can't believe the words make it out. She's shivering now. Quaking in her stilettos, though she's pretty sure he can't tell. Pretty sure that's an inside thing. "Don't you . . ." She clears her throat. Shakes out her hair and the brush of her earrings gives her an odd kind of confidence. Boldness. "Don't you want to know how slutty your detective . . ."
". . . Nikki," he interjects, squaring his own shoulders. Standing his ground, and even so, she wonders if he's as stark white with terror as she is.
She wonders, but it's too much. It's too stupid. All of it. Coming here. Letting it bother her. She turns from him. Sharply away on one ill-advised stiletto, but she doesn't make it far.
"I did ask." There's still that stubborn set to his chin. He's indignant, but his voice is soft enough that no one but her would hear even if she hadn't managed to back him all the way to some far corner of the bookstore. "You turned me down."
There's humor enough in it that it swings her back around. Self-deprecation and a shy, nervous light in his eyes that's more devastating than his full-on assault could ever be.
"Yeah. That's when I thought I was rid of you."
She's shocked to hear herself saying anything at all. Shocked at the note of timid fondness that creeps into her voice. More than shocked when he takes a step toward her.
"But you're not rid of me." He's turning the words over in his mouth. In the air between them like it's new information. Like he didn't know that she's stuck with him and it's not just literal. She's not rid of him and he definitely didn't know that before this very moment. "Would your answer be different now?"
"Answer." It's a dumbstruck echo.
"Answer," he says again, smiling at her. Teasing a little. "If I asked you to have a drink with me." He shakes his head. More to himself than to her, as if he knows that's a bridge too far. He knows it's not the right question. "If I asked to see you to your door tonight . . ."
He lets it hang there. He's not touching her-not even looking her up and down-but he might as well be, and the friction of it is dangerous. The calculated innocence of words he's chosen so precisely.
If I asked to see you to your door tonight . . .
The way it slides past the fact that he's very pointedly not looking at her. It hangs there between them. What he's asked and what he hasn't, and it's satisfying and a problem and the oh shit butterflies are having a field day. It hangs there between them.
"Not a chance," she says finally, but she's grinning at him.
He's grinning, too, pleased and strangely innocent. It makes her think of her back against a cold brick wall. Fumbling kisses from her first boyfriend and not wanting to tear herself away even with the light from her family's apartment flicking on high above. Even with her dad's footsteps on the stairs. It makes her feel like she hasn't in a long, long time.
But she does tear herself away. She turns on a heel and makes it a dozen steps away this time.
"What if I changed the name?" He calls out.
"Would you?" Her head swivels back around, though she's not sure she wanted it to. She's not sure she wanted to ask.
He thinks about it. Gives her a searching look that has nothing to do with bare skin and fuck-me heels. Not much to do with it, anyway.
"No," he says, and it's more thoughtful than stubborn. More careful than anything and she turns away for the third tim, butterflies rising as she feels his gaze on her all the way to the door. All the way out into the chill spring air and far beyond.
A/N: I'm not sure what this is, if anything. At the moment, it might be a couple of loosely linked chapters set early in the series. It's modeled on things others have done, most notably Cora Clavia's "Kiss Me, Castle." If it goes anywhere, I'll post additional chapters in that same fashion.