All She Wants Is, Ch. 5-Incongruous-1 x 07 (Home is Where the Heart Stops)
Title: All She Wants Is-Incongruous-1 x 07 (Home is Where the Heart Stops)
Rating: T
Summary: "Lanie is delighted-comprehensively delighted-by the whole thing. The gesture itself, and the way it makes Kate squirm. The fact that her best friend won't be showing up in the Ledger's 'Crimes of Fashion' section come morning."
A/N: Insert/Tag for Home Is Where the Heart Stops (1 x 07)
The outrage is for show, mostly. Who her audience is supposed to be is another question entirely.
Lanie is delighted-comprehensively delighted-by the whole thing. The gesture itself, and the way it makes Kate squirm. The fact that her best friend won't be showing up in the Ledger's "Crimes of Fashion" section come morning. The hours of enjoyment that she'll get-that Ryan and Esposito and the whole damned precinct will get-out of never, ever letting Beckett forget about the time she played Cinderella to Richard Castle's fairy godmother.
Bibbity-bobbity-boo
She's alone in it. Outrage for an audience of one. She sinks both hands into the sea of tissue paper and reminds herself that she's pissed at him. For backing her into this. For that fucking smirk.
Oh, it's a black tie event. That's not a problem, is it?
She's pissed and she doesn't want to do this and she hates him for knowing damned well that black tie up is a problem. She hates him for the gall of it. For presuming to try to dress her. She hates him right up until she lifts the dress free of the box. Right up until the light plays over the color and the silky fabric whispers over her skin.
Then the outrage is just for show, and she's playing to an empty house.
She regrets sending him off for drinks almost as soon as he's gone.
Vodka. Lots of vodka. But I'm on duty. So water.
She definitely regrets that last part-her commitment to the job-when "Ruthie" and her sparkly, one-size-too-small halter dress sidle up for a little shop talk. She's annoyed by the distraction, first and foremost. Aware of how out of her element she is when she stumbles over introductions.
Um, Beck... I'm Kate. Nice to meet you.
The last part is a lie. Nothing about this is nice. The job gives her glimpses of pretty much every slice of life in Manhattan, but this . . . she really had no idea and trying to go this alone-sending him off for drinks-was a spectacularly bad plan.
She can hardly see Castle for the couple pressing in around him. Rachel, her brain supplies belatedly. The something of donor something. She shakes herself. Tries to remember that she's working. That Castle is working, or thinks he is anyway, and that's why he needs watching. That's why it's unsettling to have him out of sight.
Do you work for the charity?
She tosses the question over her shoulder, her eyes still glued to the bar at the far end of the room. It's half work, half desperation. Ruthie doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and she doesn't want to look desperate. She doesn't want to feel desperate, but the whole vibe of this place makes her skin crawl. Ruthie's answer as she tips back her white wine and scans the crowd for a viable target doesn't help matters.
No, but I'm on the circuit . . . you know what the best one is? uh, that project . . . what do you call it? The one with the lips?
She tunes most of it out. It's simple enough. Ruthie fits in here. She's not particularly interested in hearing anyone but herself talk, leaving Kate free to make the right noises and do some crowd-scanning of her own till something in Ruthie's tone snags her ear. Grudging respect and the faintest hint of challenge. A warning that's not exactly good natured.
Settle in, Katie. I hear he's a fighter.
It jars her right back into the moment. Into the tight-laced dress and the air heavy with perfume and insincerity.
Um... Sorry, Castle?
It's an idiotic thing to say. Of course Castle. Of course every single person who's laid eyes on the two of them all night assumes she's somehow gotten her middle-class hooks into him. Or that she's just the most recent amusement. She's how the recently divorced playboy's been passing the time lately.
It's the whole damned plan. To let everyone assume it's an old familiar dance they're doing, all the while flying below radar to catch a break in the case. It's the plan, but she fucking hates it.
There's something off about him when he drags her on to the dance floor. Something off about them both, but she's inclined to blame him. His hand splays wide over her back, skin meeting skin through the lattice-work of the corset-back dress. She flushes, undone by the realization that he's leading.
Something dark worms its way into her mind. Alarm. An abrupt, unshakable suspicion that she's the only one working here. That he might be working on something else entirely. The tickets. The dress. The dance. he might have been working on her this whole time.
It makes her jagged. Sharp-edged and suddenly stiff in his arms. It brushes off the fact that her read on things doesn't exactly jibe with the fact that he's been spilling information in her ear the whole time. It doesn't jibe with the reality that he's definitely unnerved. Unhappy at best, and downright angry at worst, but this dark thing will have none of it.
It's her job to know about you.
It's a dismissal. A sharp lash of accusation underneath that makes him blink. It tugs him right out of whatever's going on with him. Unease. Anger. He draws back and blinks at her, confused. And . . . hurt?
The sag of his shoulders almost undoes whatever this is. The loosening of his arms around her. She wants to apologize. She almost does, though she doesn't really know for what. She's just about to, when out of nowhere he bends her backward.
She's disoriented. The too loud, too close room suddenly turns upside down and the dark thing comes out on top. She's rigid with fury. With confusion and the white hot desire to be out of this entire situation. She braces. She's less than a second from dropping him flat in the middle of the dance floor when her mind finally registers the single word he's hissing between his teeth.
Powell
She goes limp in the instant between tides. Fury giving way to shame. Powell with Anne Greene on his arm. She staggers after him, embarrassed. Miserably grateful that at least one of them is working.
She doesn't need to do this. She reminds herself of that almost every step of the way. She pats the inside pocket of her jacket obsessively. Looks around at the sketchy array of subway denizens and tells herself it's downright stupid to do this.
But her palm still tingles with the memory of Susan Delgado's locket trickling from her own hand into Joanne's. She owes that to him. Whatever small solace she was able to bring to the woman's daughter-whatever tiny part of her own heart that's healed by the act-she owes him.
And she's sorry, too. Cringingly sorry for that moment on the dance floor, even though he doesn't really know. He can't really know the formless, ugly thing that crept into her mind, but she's sorry anyway, so she does it.
She tries to take it in stride when the doorman nods her right by the desk. Tries not to calculate the magic number of comings and goings that must have put her on some list, literal or figurative. She tries not to wonder who else might be on that list. How many, and how much more right they have to be there than she does. She tries, and by the time she knocks on the door-by the time she's trading air kisses and Martha's ushering her right to the heart of their little family circle-she's not wondering at all.
"I don't know how I'm going to work today." She presses a hand to her midsection as he walks her to the door. She's full and warm and weak with laughter. Fuzzy around the edges from a contented hour sipping coffee and telling tales.
"I didn't think you were supposed to work today, Detective." He nudges her shoulder with his own.
"I'm not!" she shoots back, embarrassed that he's mother-henning her. Flustered when she realizes that he's followed her barefoot from the loft all the way to the elevator. She stabs at the down button. It's more that she needs something than any burning desire to go. "Not really working. I'm just . . . there's just a few . . ."
"I know." He jumps in quickly like he's worried he's offended her. Or maybe it's just the light gliding quickly up the numbers over the elevator. Maybe he's not eager to have her go. "But there's always just a few. And you work too hard."
His mouth twists hard. His cheeks darken and the soft ding of the elevator arriving should be a relief to them both. It isn't though. She twists around as she steps through the doors. Her hand shoots out to hold the door, nearly landing on top of his. They share a laugh, only a little awkward, and the silence it gives way to is more comfortable that it should be.
"I'm sorry," she says. It's impulsive and comes out a little too loud. A little too forceful, but she lurches on. "For not bidding on you."
"Oh, really?"
Her eyes go wide. She didn't mean to say it that. Not at all and she can't even blame him for the smirk that spreads across his face. Shed like to hit him for it, but she can't exactly blame him.
"Not for me." She scowls at him. Only just manages to resist the urge to stick her tongue out. "For you." She closes her eyes and tries to remember what it's like not to sound like an idiot.
"You should be sorry." He plays it up. Takes a mock wounded tone that lets her off the hook. "Do you have any idea what one of those auction dates is like?"
"No?" she says, because how would she.
He looks at her for a long beat before he answer quietly. "Me neither."
He does know. He has his suspicions, anyway, about the dark thing that crept in on the dance floor. Shame wells up in her again, but she pushes it away. She takes a step past it.
"I'll make it up to you," she says, not letting herself think about it. Pressing on in the face of his blank surprise. "When it's over, I'll listen to all the gory details."
"You will?" He frowns like he's turning the words over. Waiting for her to pull the football away at the last second. Flummoxed when she doesn't. "Really?"
"Really." She says it firmly, spending the last little bit of bravery that brought her here this morning. She gives him a little shove. Knocks his shoulder and her own clear of the doors they've been holding open the whole time. "Least I can do."
"Can we have ice cream?" He leans sideways, his face in a frame that's narrowing by the second. "And paint each other's toenails? That's what girls do, right?"
"Like I would know, Castle." She rolls her eyes as the doors bump closed. Whispers it to herself as his laughter follows her down. "Like I would know."
A/N: I assume that these will stop falling out of my head at some point. In the meantime, I'm sorry, and thanks for reading/supporting.
Rating: T
Summary: "Lanie is delighted-comprehensively delighted-by the whole thing. The gesture itself, and the way it makes Kate squirm. The fact that her best friend won't be showing up in the Ledger's 'Crimes of Fashion' section come morning."
A/N: Insert/Tag for Home Is Where the Heart Stops (1 x 07)
The outrage is for show, mostly. Who her audience is supposed to be is another question entirely.
Lanie is delighted-comprehensively delighted-by the whole thing. The gesture itself, and the way it makes Kate squirm. The fact that her best friend won't be showing up in the Ledger's "Crimes of Fashion" section come morning. The hours of enjoyment that she'll get-that Ryan and Esposito and the whole damned precinct will get-out of never, ever letting Beckett forget about the time she played Cinderella to Richard Castle's fairy godmother.
Bibbity-bobbity-boo
She's alone in it. Outrage for an audience of one. She sinks both hands into the sea of tissue paper and reminds herself that she's pissed at him. For backing her into this. For that fucking smirk.
Oh, it's a black tie event. That's not a problem, is it?
She's pissed and she doesn't want to do this and she hates him for knowing damned well that black tie up is a problem. She hates him for the gall of it. For presuming to try to dress her. She hates him right up until she lifts the dress free of the box. Right up until the light plays over the color and the silky fabric whispers over her skin.
Then the outrage is just for show, and she's playing to an empty house.
She regrets sending him off for drinks almost as soon as he's gone.
Vodka. Lots of vodka. But I'm on duty. So water.
She definitely regrets that last part-her commitment to the job-when "Ruthie" and her sparkly, one-size-too-small halter dress sidle up for a little shop talk. She's annoyed by the distraction, first and foremost. Aware of how out of her element she is when she stumbles over introductions.
Um, Beck... I'm Kate. Nice to meet you.
The last part is a lie. Nothing about this is nice. The job gives her glimpses of pretty much every slice of life in Manhattan, but this . . . she really had no idea and trying to go this alone-sending him off for drinks-was a spectacularly bad plan.
She can hardly see Castle for the couple pressing in around him. Rachel, her brain supplies belatedly. The something of donor something. She shakes herself. Tries to remember that she's working. That Castle is working, or thinks he is anyway, and that's why he needs watching. That's why it's unsettling to have him out of sight.
Do you work for the charity?
She tosses the question over her shoulder, her eyes still glued to the bar at the far end of the room. It's half work, half desperation. Ruthie doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and she doesn't want to look desperate. She doesn't want to feel desperate, but the whole vibe of this place makes her skin crawl. Ruthie's answer as she tips back her white wine and scans the crowd for a viable target doesn't help matters.
No, but I'm on the circuit . . . you know what the best one is? uh, that project . . . what do you call it? The one with the lips?
She tunes most of it out. It's simple enough. Ruthie fits in here. She's not particularly interested in hearing anyone but herself talk, leaving Kate free to make the right noises and do some crowd-scanning of her own till something in Ruthie's tone snags her ear. Grudging respect and the faintest hint of challenge. A warning that's not exactly good natured.
Settle in, Katie. I hear he's a fighter.
It jars her right back into the moment. Into the tight-laced dress and the air heavy with perfume and insincerity.
Um... Sorry, Castle?
It's an idiotic thing to say. Of course Castle. Of course every single person who's laid eyes on the two of them all night assumes she's somehow gotten her middle-class hooks into him. Or that she's just the most recent amusement. She's how the recently divorced playboy's been passing the time lately.
It's the whole damned plan. To let everyone assume it's an old familiar dance they're doing, all the while flying below radar to catch a break in the case. It's the plan, but she fucking hates it.
There's something off about him when he drags her on to the dance floor. Something off about them both, but she's inclined to blame him. His hand splays wide over her back, skin meeting skin through the lattice-work of the corset-back dress. She flushes, undone by the realization that he's leading.
Something dark worms its way into her mind. Alarm. An abrupt, unshakable suspicion that she's the only one working here. That he might be working on something else entirely. The tickets. The dress. The dance. he might have been working on her this whole time.
It makes her jagged. Sharp-edged and suddenly stiff in his arms. It brushes off the fact that her read on things doesn't exactly jibe with the fact that he's been spilling information in her ear the whole time. It doesn't jibe with the reality that he's definitely unnerved. Unhappy at best, and downright angry at worst, but this dark thing will have none of it.
It's her job to know about you.
It's a dismissal. A sharp lash of accusation underneath that makes him blink. It tugs him right out of whatever's going on with him. Unease. Anger. He draws back and blinks at her, confused. And . . . hurt?
The sag of his shoulders almost undoes whatever this is. The loosening of his arms around her. She wants to apologize. She almost does, though she doesn't really know for what. She's just about to, when out of nowhere he bends her backward.
She's disoriented. The too loud, too close room suddenly turns upside down and the dark thing comes out on top. She's rigid with fury. With confusion and the white hot desire to be out of this entire situation. She braces. She's less than a second from dropping him flat in the middle of the dance floor when her mind finally registers the single word he's hissing between his teeth.
Powell
She goes limp in the instant between tides. Fury giving way to shame. Powell with Anne Greene on his arm. She staggers after him, embarrassed. Miserably grateful that at least one of them is working.
She doesn't need to do this. She reminds herself of that almost every step of the way. She pats the inside pocket of her jacket obsessively. Looks around at the sketchy array of subway denizens and tells herself it's downright stupid to do this.
But her palm still tingles with the memory of Susan Delgado's locket trickling from her own hand into Joanne's. She owes that to him. Whatever small solace she was able to bring to the woman's daughter-whatever tiny part of her own heart that's healed by the act-she owes him.
And she's sorry, too. Cringingly sorry for that moment on the dance floor, even though he doesn't really know. He can't really know the formless, ugly thing that crept into her mind, but she's sorry anyway, so she does it.
She tries to take it in stride when the doorman nods her right by the desk. Tries not to calculate the magic number of comings and goings that must have put her on some list, literal or figurative. She tries not to wonder who else might be on that list. How many, and how much more right they have to be there than she does. She tries, and by the time she knocks on the door-by the time she's trading air kisses and Martha's ushering her right to the heart of their little family circle-she's not wondering at all.
"I don't know how I'm going to work today." She presses a hand to her midsection as he walks her to the door. She's full and warm and weak with laughter. Fuzzy around the edges from a contented hour sipping coffee and telling tales.
"I didn't think you were supposed to work today, Detective." He nudges her shoulder with his own.
"I'm not!" she shoots back, embarrassed that he's mother-henning her. Flustered when she realizes that he's followed her barefoot from the loft all the way to the elevator. She stabs at the down button. It's more that she needs something than any burning desire to go. "Not really working. I'm just . . . there's just a few . . ."
"I know." He jumps in quickly like he's worried he's offended her. Or maybe it's just the light gliding quickly up the numbers over the elevator. Maybe he's not eager to have her go. "But there's always just a few. And you work too hard."
His mouth twists hard. His cheeks darken and the soft ding of the elevator arriving should be a relief to them both. It isn't though. She twists around as she steps through the doors. Her hand shoots out to hold the door, nearly landing on top of his. They share a laugh, only a little awkward, and the silence it gives way to is more comfortable that it should be.
"I'm sorry," she says. It's impulsive and comes out a little too loud. A little too forceful, but she lurches on. "For not bidding on you."
"Oh, really?"
Her eyes go wide. She didn't mean to say it that. Not at all and she can't even blame him for the smirk that spreads across his face. Shed like to hit him for it, but she can't exactly blame him.
"Not for me." She scowls at him. Only just manages to resist the urge to stick her tongue out. "For you." She closes her eyes and tries to remember what it's like not to sound like an idiot.
"You should be sorry." He plays it up. Takes a mock wounded tone that lets her off the hook. "Do you have any idea what one of those auction dates is like?"
"No?" she says, because how would she.
He looks at her for a long beat before he answer quietly. "Me neither."
He does know. He has his suspicions, anyway, about the dark thing that crept in on the dance floor. Shame wells up in her again, but she pushes it away. She takes a step past it.
"I'll make it up to you," she says, not letting herself think about it. Pressing on in the face of his blank surprise. "When it's over, I'll listen to all the gory details."
"You will?" He frowns like he's turning the words over. Waiting for her to pull the football away at the last second. Flummoxed when she doesn't. "Really?"
"Really." She says it firmly, spending the last little bit of bravery that brought her here this morning. She gives him a little shove. Knocks his shoulder and her own clear of the doors they've been holding open the whole time. "Least I can do."
"Can we have ice cream?" He leans sideways, his face in a frame that's narrowing by the second. "And paint each other's toenails? That's what girls do, right?"
"Like I would know, Castle." She rolls her eyes as the doors bump closed. Whispers it to herself as his laughter follows her down. "Like I would know."
A/N: I assume that these will stop falling out of my head at some point. In the meantime, I'm sorry, and thanks for reading/supporting.