All She Wants Is, Ch. 3-Inimitable-2 x 17 (Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .)
Title: Inimitable-2 x 17 (Tick, Tick, Tick . . . )
Rating: T
Summary: "He's not supposed to be at the precinct. It's too early, for one thing. But there's also the fact that she hasn't called, and they're not in the middle of anything. There's no reason at all for him to be there, and she's not a big fan of the lift it gives her to see him."
A/N: Insert for Tick, Tick, Tick . . . (2 x 17)
He's not supposed to be at the precinct. It's too early, for one thing. But there's also the fact that she hasn't called, and they're not in the middle of anything. There's no reason at all for him to be there, and she's not a big fan of the lift it gives her to see him. Not a fan of the realization that he's vibrating with excitement and his mouth is already going a mile a minute and it's definitely way too early. And, still, there's that little lift.
Ask me why I'm here.
She pushes back a little too hard.
I ask myself that question every day
Guessing would imply caring
A lot too hard. She can't quite suppress a wince, but he's too amped to notice. She's too abashedly grateful that he hasn't noticed to brace for what comes next. The bomb he drops.
Your book is being made into a movie?
And you are about to be immortalized on the silver screen.
And that takes care of the lift. It well and truly takes care of it.
It's a dumb thing. James McAvoy and Javier Bardem and whoever he thinks should play him. She doesn't ask. She very pointedly doesn't ask, and it's strange that he doesn't offer. That he doesn't have a short list at the ready. Most likely it's himself he envisions opposite the leading lady of his dreams.
He's welcome to her. Angelina or Kate whoever. That's what she tells herself, but the idea nags. It tugs her down and leaves her with the heavy feeling inside. A knot behind her sternum, and it shouldn't. It's just a stupid game, and none of it should be getting to her like this.
It's a coping mechanism, right? Lanie's instantaneous Halle Berry and smiles all around. The way he tries to drag her into the spirit of things and totally misses the fact that she's absolutely not into it. The fact that it bothers her.
She's grateful for it in a way. That fact that he misses it entirely, because it's harmless. Annoying at best, and there's no reason at all it should eat at her like this. It's the kind of thing they all do every day of the week to take the edge off the job, and if it's a little bit of overkill-if there's a little too much backslapping and eager back and forth-it's this damned case, right?
Phone calls and junior jumble bullets. The creep factor just keeps climbing, and it's not just her feeling the pressure. It's not just her wondering how long this might play out or how bad it might get. Of course they'd need to blow off steam, all of them.
It's just a silly game, but she's really not in the mood.
Something changes at the carousel. With the machinery squealing to a halt and the calliope sagging out a final, eerie note, she watches something come over him. He turns serious, and after almost a year, that still surprises her every time.
It's a one-two punch when she actually asks if he's ok. Almost asks, and the look on his face when he answers gives the knot that's been growing steadily inside her yet another vicious tug.
. . . if it weren't for the Nikki Heat of it.
I'm feeling a little bit responsible.
It's beyond surprising. It's jarring, that unguarded moment and all it reveals. How it's not just this. here. now. that troubles him, but an uneasy trail of breadcrumbs from Dick Coonan to this moment. From before that, really, because he's never been quite what he seems, and she hasn't been what she was for a while now, and damned if that doesn't have something to do with it. Why the game bothers her. Why his over-the-top casting is anything but flattering.
It's an inconvenient epiphany. It's not the time or place for this kind of thing, and she's gruff with him. Honest, but she doesn't much like herself for it.
If I hadn't created Nikki Heat . . .
He would still be killing. He'd just find another reason why.
He accepts it. A mechanical nod to show that part of him knows it's true.
She wants more than that, suddenly. However much this is the wrong time and place, she wants him to know that he has to chase thoughts like that away. That she's been there, and the job and the world and the way they walk in it are all hard enough without taking even more of the weight.
She wants more, but the world doesn't work like that. It moves on while she's struggling to keep her feet in this moment, it erupts into brusque, busy chaos emanating from a single point.
Nikki Heat, I presume
The woman radiates competence. She gestures, keeping up the smalltalk effortlessly as she coordinates her team.
Cosmo.
Celebrity writer tagalong.
Kate knows it's not smalltalk at all. That the carefully chosen words and the casual self-introduction are a master class in taking someone's measure and she might admire the tactic under other circumstances.
But these aren't other circumstances. It's her measure Special Agent Jordan Shaw is taking, and he's too riveted to see it. Too pre-occupied with stumbling over the name-reciting chapter and verse on her accomplishments-to notice that Detective Kate Beckett has clearly come up wanting.
She won't let it be a low point. That dismissal in the parking garage and another one-two punch
I got way more people than you do
. . . you're no good to me
She ignores it. The edited version on endless replay. She drowns it out with her own recitation of the facts. The who and how and where of the story so far. She scours the file. Turns each sheet in the meager handful over and over. She comes to the end and goes back to the beginning.
She drives herself so relentlessly that she misses the creak of the stairwell door. So relentlessly that she only catches it in replay, along with the footsteps. Determined, then cautious, and she'd kick herself if she hadn't already lost precious seconds to an idiotic crisis of confidence.
But there's no time for that. No time for anything but slipping the gun soundlessly into her hand and throwing the door open wide and very nearly shooting him in the face.
He's not nearly as fazed as he should be. Not nearly as thrown by everything up to and including a near-death experience in her hallway as she'd like him to be, if for no other reason than she could use the company.
He seems to know it. It seems to be why he's there-company-but the fact of him there knocks her off her game more than anything. Further off her game, and when his mouth opens and the words Agent Shaw fall out, she can practically hear the sizzle of her own short fuse.
He calls her jealous. He's not really serious. It's more banter than anything, but his eyes go suddenly wide when he sees that he's hit his mark. She deflects. Hits back harder than she should, making that the theme of the last couple of days, but this time she's bracing at least.
She expects him to wind her up. To taunt her with, but he leans back. Calls her ridiculous, but it's almost absent. Almost an afterthought as he turns suddenly agreeable. Like Agent Shaw isn't the least bit interesting to him in light of this new information.
It's one plot twist too many for her. She's not lying when she says she's tired, and it shakes her again when he won't go. When they're back in the troubled moment by the carousel, and he's the ridiculous one.
I'm here to protect you.
There is a madman gunning for you because of me. I am not going to leave you alone.
Completely ridiculous, but fearless and loyal, too. There's a tug inside, but it loosens something this time. It's a kind of relief, and she's too tired to examine it-why on earth she's letting him stay when it's ridiculous. She accepts it instead. The fact that It's a low point, and whether she likes it or not, she could use the company.
She can't sleep. It's a surprise, and it's not. She's governed by habit-as much as the job allows it, anyway-and it serves her well. Usually serves her well, but here she is, flopping on to her belly all over again and the hands on the bedside clock have hardly moved.
She tells herself it's the case, and it's not a lie exactly. Details cycle through her mind. The bodies. The scenes. The war room and Jordan Shaw and all her cool toys. The theater of it all drives her to the black edge of sleep, but when she balances there, falling and not falling, it's not the case anymore. It's everything else. The hollow look behind his eyes. Her own gnawing sense that she's at the fringes of her own life.
She mashes her face into the pillow and counts backward, just off-kilter with the tick of the clock. It's a last-ditch maneuver, but it works sometimes. Filling her mind with a different kind of noise, but ultimately, it's the quiet that's getting to her tonight. The impossible combination of him and absolute silence that's been getting to her for the last thirty-seven minutes. Thirty-nine. Forty-three. Fifty-six.
She hears it then. The groan of the floorboard she's always meaning to fix, but it dies away. The absence of sound that follows is so complete-it stretches out so long-that she thinks she must have imagined it. Her mind thinks that, but her body has other ideas. Her instincts bring her feet soundlessly to the floor. They have her moving across it, and in her hand, the gun she doesn't remember scooping off the nightstand.
For the second time in as many hours, her instincts have her throwing up a door and very nearly shooting him in the face.
"Castle!" She swings out, making a hallway check out of habit, but her arms are already dropping to her sides. The adrenaline rush is already gone. "What the hell?"
"Bathroom?" It's a feeble excuse. One he doesn't believe any more than he expects her to, but he's all in for some reason. Talking fast the way he does when he's running. When something cuts deeper than he'd like and he feels caught out. "I drank my wine and your wine and . . ."
"Castle." She's sliding down the wall as she cuts him off. She half wonders what she's doing. What this is. Her spine stiffens as the cold of the floorboards seeps through the thin fabric of her leggings and she wonders. "You were not taking your life in your hands looking for the bathroom."
"Not exactly taking my life in my hands. Your trigger discipline is excellent." It's too chipper. To bright and entirely at odds with the weight that carries him to the floor, his back slouched against the wall opposite her.
She shakes her head. Doesn't even say his name this time, but it's enough to shame him. To draw a murmured apology for waking her, though neither of them moves to go. It's strange and awkward and cold. It's ridiculous, but neither one of them moves
"Why?"
There's no retort. No Why what? though she has no more idea than he does what she's really asking. She drops her head back against the wall. Rolls her neck to look at him, but he's fixated on his own knees. On the tangle of his fingers, twisting atop them, never quite coming to rest.
"You're upset," he says, finally. He rushes in to clarify, though there's no retort from her either. "Not just this." He gestures to the gun resting on the floor within easy reach. To the front door and the city outside. Everything that feels far away from here. "Upset with me."
"I'm always upset with you." She shoots him a miserable grin. Something to show willing, though the knot inside feels huge and hard and indestructible.
"You're always annoyed with me." He nudges her toes with his own. "Totally different."
"Totally," she repeats.
She smiles down at the floor. She feels him watching her, the weight of things not said tugging at this fragile strand of connection. Snapping it in the end. He stirs himself. Draws the breath that will take him to his feet. Back to the couch or out the front door, maybe. It's ridiculous that he's here, after all.
"It's late." He extends a hand down toward her. Both hands, as though he's just noticed they're both exhausted. He jerks his head toward the darkness beyond the half open bedroom door. "You should rest at least."
He twitches his fingers and she gives in. Takes both his hands, and they're both surprised enough to spring apart as soon as she's on her feet. They're both standing at five paces, hands behind their backs like self-conscious kids at a junior high dance.
She stoops for the gun. A stupid bid to hide the blush he can't possibly see in the dim hallway light anyway. He takes it as his cue to go. Hits the creaking floorboard along the way and she sees the immediate future playing out. Staring up at the ceiling with this knot in her chest.
"I don't want . . ."
It starts out strong. Forceful enough to stop him. To pull him back around to face her. But it ends in silence, total, awkward, and strange. He waits, patient and serious enough that she feels foolish. Worse than foolish, but she blurts it out anyway.
"I don't want anyone playing me."
He frowns. He looks . . . not surprised, exactly. Not troubled, exactly, either. Not like at the carousel or even a few minutes ago. Regretful, maybe, and like he's wondering if she means as much by it as she thinks he suspects.
A look passes between them. An apology mutually accepted for something or other, and his face brightens suddenly.
"You could sue me," he says.
He sounds way too excited at the prospect, and tired as she is, she gives a half-hearted laugh. "Would that even work?"
"No." He deflates a little. Worries the creaky floorboard with his toe. "Might be fun, though?"
"Might be," she says. There's a tug inside and the knot loosens a little more. "Probably should catch this guy first, though."
"Probably," he agrees. He turns again like he's about to go. Back to the couch our out the front door. He stops, though, his back still to her. Hangs on to the corner of the wall. "Whoever they get, though-doesn't matter who-they won't pull it off."
"No?" She hates how small her voice sounds. The needy thread running through it.
"Not a chance." His voice is level. Serious and sincere. He looks at her over his shoulder, his gaze open and untroubled and she really hopes he can't see her blush in the dim hallway light. "Only one Kate Beckett."
A/N: This is meh, but Brain Poneh kept on keeping on. Thanks for reading.
Rating: T
Summary: "He's not supposed to be at the precinct. It's too early, for one thing. But there's also the fact that she hasn't called, and they're not in the middle of anything. There's no reason at all for him to be there, and she's not a big fan of the lift it gives her to see him."
A/N: Insert for Tick, Tick, Tick . . . (2 x 17)
He's not supposed to be at the precinct. It's too early, for one thing. But there's also the fact that she hasn't called, and they're not in the middle of anything. There's no reason at all for him to be there, and she's not a big fan of the lift it gives her to see him. Not a fan of the realization that he's vibrating with excitement and his mouth is already going a mile a minute and it's definitely way too early. And, still, there's that little lift.
Ask me why I'm here.
She pushes back a little too hard.
I ask myself that question every day
Guessing would imply caring
A lot too hard. She can't quite suppress a wince, but he's too amped to notice. She's too abashedly grateful that he hasn't noticed to brace for what comes next. The bomb he drops.
Your book is being made into a movie?
And you are about to be immortalized on the silver screen.
And that takes care of the lift. It well and truly takes care of it.
It's a dumb thing. James McAvoy and Javier Bardem and whoever he thinks should play him. She doesn't ask. She very pointedly doesn't ask, and it's strange that he doesn't offer. That he doesn't have a short list at the ready. Most likely it's himself he envisions opposite the leading lady of his dreams.
He's welcome to her. Angelina or Kate whoever. That's what she tells herself, but the idea nags. It tugs her down and leaves her with the heavy feeling inside. A knot behind her sternum, and it shouldn't. It's just a stupid game, and none of it should be getting to her like this.
It's a coping mechanism, right? Lanie's instantaneous Halle Berry and smiles all around. The way he tries to drag her into the spirit of things and totally misses the fact that she's absolutely not into it. The fact that it bothers her.
She's grateful for it in a way. That fact that he misses it entirely, because it's harmless. Annoying at best, and there's no reason at all it should eat at her like this. It's the kind of thing they all do every day of the week to take the edge off the job, and if it's a little bit of overkill-if there's a little too much backslapping and eager back and forth-it's this damned case, right?
Phone calls and junior jumble bullets. The creep factor just keeps climbing, and it's not just her feeling the pressure. It's not just her wondering how long this might play out or how bad it might get. Of course they'd need to blow off steam, all of them.
It's just a silly game, but she's really not in the mood.
Something changes at the carousel. With the machinery squealing to a halt and the calliope sagging out a final, eerie note, she watches something come over him. He turns serious, and after almost a year, that still surprises her every time.
It's a one-two punch when she actually asks if he's ok. Almost asks, and the look on his face when he answers gives the knot that's been growing steadily inside her yet another vicious tug.
. . . if it weren't for the Nikki Heat of it.
I'm feeling a little bit responsible.
It's beyond surprising. It's jarring, that unguarded moment and all it reveals. How it's not just this. here. now. that troubles him, but an uneasy trail of breadcrumbs from Dick Coonan to this moment. From before that, really, because he's never been quite what he seems, and she hasn't been what she was for a while now, and damned if that doesn't have something to do with it. Why the game bothers her. Why his over-the-top casting is anything but flattering.
It's an inconvenient epiphany. It's not the time or place for this kind of thing, and she's gruff with him. Honest, but she doesn't much like herself for it.
If I hadn't created Nikki Heat . . .
He would still be killing. He'd just find another reason why.
He accepts it. A mechanical nod to show that part of him knows it's true.
She wants more than that, suddenly. However much this is the wrong time and place, she wants him to know that he has to chase thoughts like that away. That she's been there, and the job and the world and the way they walk in it are all hard enough without taking even more of the weight.
She wants more, but the world doesn't work like that. It moves on while she's struggling to keep her feet in this moment, it erupts into brusque, busy chaos emanating from a single point.
Nikki Heat, I presume
The woman radiates competence. She gestures, keeping up the smalltalk effortlessly as she coordinates her team.
Cosmo.
Celebrity writer tagalong.
Kate knows it's not smalltalk at all. That the carefully chosen words and the casual self-introduction are a master class in taking someone's measure and she might admire the tactic under other circumstances.
But these aren't other circumstances. It's her measure Special Agent Jordan Shaw is taking, and he's too riveted to see it. Too pre-occupied with stumbling over the name-reciting chapter and verse on her accomplishments-to notice that Detective Kate Beckett has clearly come up wanting.
She won't let it be a low point. That dismissal in the parking garage and another one-two punch
I got way more people than you do
. . . you're no good to me
She ignores it. The edited version on endless replay. She drowns it out with her own recitation of the facts. The who and how and where of the story so far. She scours the file. Turns each sheet in the meager handful over and over. She comes to the end and goes back to the beginning.
She drives herself so relentlessly that she misses the creak of the stairwell door. So relentlessly that she only catches it in replay, along with the footsteps. Determined, then cautious, and she'd kick herself if she hadn't already lost precious seconds to an idiotic crisis of confidence.
But there's no time for that. No time for anything but slipping the gun soundlessly into her hand and throwing the door open wide and very nearly shooting him in the face.
He's not nearly as fazed as he should be. Not nearly as thrown by everything up to and including a near-death experience in her hallway as she'd like him to be, if for no other reason than she could use the company.
He seems to know it. It seems to be why he's there-company-but the fact of him there knocks her off her game more than anything. Further off her game, and when his mouth opens and the words Agent Shaw fall out, she can practically hear the sizzle of her own short fuse.
He calls her jealous. He's not really serious. It's more banter than anything, but his eyes go suddenly wide when he sees that he's hit his mark. She deflects. Hits back harder than she should, making that the theme of the last couple of days, but this time she's bracing at least.
She expects him to wind her up. To taunt her with, but he leans back. Calls her ridiculous, but it's almost absent. Almost an afterthought as he turns suddenly agreeable. Like Agent Shaw isn't the least bit interesting to him in light of this new information.
It's one plot twist too many for her. She's not lying when she says she's tired, and it shakes her again when he won't go. When they're back in the troubled moment by the carousel, and he's the ridiculous one.
I'm here to protect you.
There is a madman gunning for you because of me. I am not going to leave you alone.
Completely ridiculous, but fearless and loyal, too. There's a tug inside, but it loosens something this time. It's a kind of relief, and she's too tired to examine it-why on earth she's letting him stay when it's ridiculous. She accepts it instead. The fact that It's a low point, and whether she likes it or not, she could use the company.
She can't sleep. It's a surprise, and it's not. She's governed by habit-as much as the job allows it, anyway-and it serves her well. Usually serves her well, but here she is, flopping on to her belly all over again and the hands on the bedside clock have hardly moved.
She tells herself it's the case, and it's not a lie exactly. Details cycle through her mind. The bodies. The scenes. The war room and Jordan Shaw and all her cool toys. The theater of it all drives her to the black edge of sleep, but when she balances there, falling and not falling, it's not the case anymore. It's everything else. The hollow look behind his eyes. Her own gnawing sense that she's at the fringes of her own life.
She mashes her face into the pillow and counts backward, just off-kilter with the tick of the clock. It's a last-ditch maneuver, but it works sometimes. Filling her mind with a different kind of noise, but ultimately, it's the quiet that's getting to her tonight. The impossible combination of him and absolute silence that's been getting to her for the last thirty-seven minutes. Thirty-nine. Forty-three. Fifty-six.
She hears it then. The groan of the floorboard she's always meaning to fix, but it dies away. The absence of sound that follows is so complete-it stretches out so long-that she thinks she must have imagined it. Her mind thinks that, but her body has other ideas. Her instincts bring her feet soundlessly to the floor. They have her moving across it, and in her hand, the gun she doesn't remember scooping off the nightstand.
For the second time in as many hours, her instincts have her throwing up a door and very nearly shooting him in the face.
"Castle!" She swings out, making a hallway check out of habit, but her arms are already dropping to her sides. The adrenaline rush is already gone. "What the hell?"
"Bathroom?" It's a feeble excuse. One he doesn't believe any more than he expects her to, but he's all in for some reason. Talking fast the way he does when he's running. When something cuts deeper than he'd like and he feels caught out. "I drank my wine and your wine and . . ."
"Castle." She's sliding down the wall as she cuts him off. She half wonders what she's doing. What this is. Her spine stiffens as the cold of the floorboards seeps through the thin fabric of her leggings and she wonders. "You were not taking your life in your hands looking for the bathroom."
"Not exactly taking my life in my hands. Your trigger discipline is excellent." It's too chipper. To bright and entirely at odds with the weight that carries him to the floor, his back slouched against the wall opposite her.
She shakes her head. Doesn't even say his name this time, but it's enough to shame him. To draw a murmured apology for waking her, though neither of them moves to go. It's strange and awkward and cold. It's ridiculous, but neither one of them moves
"Why?"
There's no retort. No Why what? though she has no more idea than he does what she's really asking. She drops her head back against the wall. Rolls her neck to look at him, but he's fixated on his own knees. On the tangle of his fingers, twisting atop them, never quite coming to rest.
"You're upset," he says, finally. He rushes in to clarify, though there's no retort from her either. "Not just this." He gestures to the gun resting on the floor within easy reach. To the front door and the city outside. Everything that feels far away from here. "Upset with me."
"I'm always upset with you." She shoots him a miserable grin. Something to show willing, though the knot inside feels huge and hard and indestructible.
"You're always annoyed with me." He nudges her toes with his own. "Totally different."
"Totally," she repeats.
She smiles down at the floor. She feels him watching her, the weight of things not said tugging at this fragile strand of connection. Snapping it in the end. He stirs himself. Draws the breath that will take him to his feet. Back to the couch or out the front door, maybe. It's ridiculous that he's here, after all.
"It's late." He extends a hand down toward her. Both hands, as though he's just noticed they're both exhausted. He jerks his head toward the darkness beyond the half open bedroom door. "You should rest at least."
He twitches his fingers and she gives in. Takes both his hands, and they're both surprised enough to spring apart as soon as she's on her feet. They're both standing at five paces, hands behind their backs like self-conscious kids at a junior high dance.
She stoops for the gun. A stupid bid to hide the blush he can't possibly see in the dim hallway light anyway. He takes it as his cue to go. Hits the creaking floorboard along the way and she sees the immediate future playing out. Staring up at the ceiling with this knot in her chest.
"I don't want . . ."
It starts out strong. Forceful enough to stop him. To pull him back around to face her. But it ends in silence, total, awkward, and strange. He waits, patient and serious enough that she feels foolish. Worse than foolish, but she blurts it out anyway.
"I don't want anyone playing me."
He frowns. He looks . . . not surprised, exactly. Not troubled, exactly, either. Not like at the carousel or even a few minutes ago. Regretful, maybe, and like he's wondering if she means as much by it as she thinks he suspects.
A look passes between them. An apology mutually accepted for something or other, and his face brightens suddenly.
"You could sue me," he says.
He sounds way too excited at the prospect, and tired as she is, she gives a half-hearted laugh. "Would that even work?"
"No." He deflates a little. Worries the creaky floorboard with his toe. "Might be fun, though?"
"Might be," she says. There's a tug inside and the knot loosens a little more. "Probably should catch this guy first, though."
"Probably," he agrees. He turns again like he's about to go. Back to the couch our out the front door. He stops, though, his back still to her. Hangs on to the corner of the wall. "Whoever they get, though-doesn't matter who-they won't pull it off."
"No?" She hates how small her voice sounds. The needy thread running through it.
"Not a chance." His voice is level. Serious and sincere. He looks at her over his shoulder, his gaze open and untroubled and she really hopes he can't see her blush in the dim hallway light. "Only one Kate Beckett."
A/N: This is meh, but Brain Poneh kept on keeping on. Thanks for reading.