Blame & Gravity-A Castle four-shot set shortly after After the Storm (5 x 01).
Title: Blame and Gravity
Rating: T
WC: ~2000, this chapter.
Summary: "It's not much. No explanation. A promise she'll be back and between the lines the fact that she didn't want him to wonder." A two-shot, set very shortly after the events of After the Storm.
A/N: Strange, strange idea of Brain's that popped in while writing Chapter 5 of Seven Kisses.
Chapter 2 probably up Sunday. No later than Monday.
You can't blame gravity for falling in love
- Albert Einstein
She's gone when he wakes up. It's not like the first time, when she sauntered in a dress shirt of his she must have gone looking for. When every step was a performance, and every flash of endless leg was calculated. And still she was shy, hiding behind a pair of coffee mugs.
It's not like the second time, either, when she left him behind. Left him to startle awake to emptiness. Left him gasping in the too-new light of her bedroom, knowing in the first moment that she'd gone. Left him again to go into battle alone.
It's his room this time. His bed, and she's long gone. The sheets are cold and neatly pulled up. The comforter is turned back with the smoothed pillow tucked over top.
She's gone. It's the third time in not many more days, but it's different. He's not sure how he knows, but he pushes himself up the headboard. He lays a hand over where she should be and knows it's different.
There's a note. Half under his phone on the nightstand and his pulse picks up. A few words and a coffee stain in the corner. Like she thought about leaving it there first. In the kitchen. But she knows now. Just a few days, and she where to leave a note so he'll see it first thing.
It's not much. No explanation. A promise she'll be back and between the lines the fact that she didn't want him to wonder. Her initials. The K a little narrower than it ought to be. Like the B alone was her first instinct and she squeezed it in. It was. She did. He thinks so, anyway, and he doesn't mind.
She left a note. She'll be back.
It's just past midday when she knocks on the door. The sun pours bright through every window. It's warm for May. He knows from the hum of news in the background, though he hasn't really been listening.
He hasn't been doing much. I'll be back. Her note hadn't said any more than that and he'd wanted to wait. Wanted every possibility open to them when she made good.
He opens the door to her knock. They face each other across the threshold, a charge between them. Energy still there, days on. He feels it. Sees that she does, too. There's heat behind her eyes and a fraction of a smile. An upturned instant of her mouth that's conspiratorial. A little smug. But she stays where she is. Outside looking in.
"Hey." Something keeps his voice quiet, even though his heart speeds up and his blood rushes faster, like always.
"Hey." She responds in kind, but something is off. Like she's surprised. Startled to hear him speak.
He almost asks if she's ok, but he knows she's not. He can see that she's not, and he knows just in time that she doesn't want him to ask. That she's not ready to talk about whatever it is. He knows, just in time.
"Glad you're back," he says instead.
He turns. A slight twist of hips and shoulders. Inviting her in and not sure if she'll accept. Not sure if she's staying. Not sure of much but the fact that she's not ok.
She looks past him, though. To the kitchen and the couch and the midday sun falling on new familiar places. She wants to come in, but she's not sure she should.
He is. He reaches across the threshold to tug her wrist. To turn her by the shoulders and kiss her cheek. To draw her inside and say again, "Glad you're back."
He's trying not to offer things. Trying not to hover or anticipate. He's not great at this. He's not great at the quiet way she works from the inside, aching all the while.
He's not great at not knowing. Where she went or why she's dressed like this. Sober grey and black. Too warm and more than just the season catching her unawares.
It's her shoes that strike him most. She steps out of them in the hallway. She presses his shoulder to steady herself. Almost lets her head come to rest on his chest a second. Almost, but not quite.
They're lined up next to the door now. Sensible and low heeled. Well made, but remarkable in how unremarkable they are. How not her, and he can't help but wonder. He can't help but notice the way the wide cuffs of her pants sweep the floor. That they're dirty already. Like they're meant for her usual heels, tall and striking. He can't help but wonder.
She slips on to a stool. It's a relief. A script he knows. He goes to the far side of the counter. For the coffee pot, automatically, but she stops him.
"Do you have . . . a beer?"
He turns to her, the surprise he knows is on his own face mirrored in hers. She didn't really expect to ask.
"Sure," he says. "Yeah . . . or . . ."
He gestures to the wine fridge. To the bar cart by the couch.
She stops him, though. A gesture and words, each a little curt. "A beer. A beer's good."
He nods. He opens the fridge and reaches for one. Reaches for another on second thought. He doesn't really want one. He's running on coffee and not much else. He was waiting for her, but it seems wrong to let her drink alone.
She looks relieved as one bottle, then the other, comes down on the counter. He twists the tops off and she looks grateful. Glad not to be drinking alone, but that's as far as it goes for the moment.
She's quiet. Not ok and not ready for him to ask about it. He's glad enough for the beer. Glad enough for something to do until she is. If she will be.
She's most of the way through her beer before she says anything. When she does, it's about the weather. About how hot it is and bright. It's not idle conversation. There's something pained underneath and his heart sinks.
He thinks about her cuffs dragging over the floor. Sensible shoes and dark streaks on the neat material. Part of the story comes together, but not nearly enough.
He looks up from his beer. She's just finishing hers and the question tumbles out before he can stop himself.
"Are you ok?"
She doesn't answer at first. She tips the bottle toward her and rolls the edge back and forth. The glass rings along the marble of the countertop, its music not nearly filling the silence.
She looks up at him, though, before too long.
"Not really," she says.
She asks for clothes. Pushes the bottle away from her and slips to the floor. One thudding foot, then they other, like it's sudden. The need to be out of them. Sober grey and black. Too warm even in the blast of the loft air conditioning. Too warm warm with the midday sun pouring through the windows.
She doesn't have anything here. Not a thing but what she's wearing. It's only been a few days and with everything-with Bracken and Maddox and Smith-they've been back and forth. Her place and here. He wishes there were something for her. Anything of hers, but it's just been a few days.
She must have gone home first. Before wherever she went. She must have gone home for this. Sober grey and black and shoes he'd never have guessed were hers.
She went home before, but not after. She came here instead. Right after, he thinks.
I'll be back.
And here she is, even though she's not really ok.
Clothes. He jerks himself back to the moment. To what she needs. Clothes. Clothes, he can do.
"Clothes. Of course. Sweats ok?" He starts toward the bedroom then stops. He gestures to the stairs. "Or girls clothes. Women's . . ."
She laughs. It's a little grim. It's more than a little hollow, and her eyes are on the floor as she crosses to him. As she rushes into him, sudden and head down. She crashes against his chest and rests her cheek this time, just for a handful of seconds. "Sweats are good."
She's comfortable. At home already as she opens and closes drawers. He's the one who hovers. He's the one clinging to the doorframe while she moves easily around the room, stripping down as she goes in and out of the closet.
She finds pajama pants that will do. A tight drawstring and a rolled waist to help with the length. She stoops for a t-shirt on the floor, half under the bed. He blushes. He feels caught out even though she's the one who tossed it there.
She raises her arms high. The faded black falls over her ribs and he breathes a sigh of relief. She looks better like this. More like herself in his clothes than what she's been wearing.
She tosses those on the armchair. A messy heap at first, as though she'd like to be done with them. But it's not in her nature to leave it. She sighs. Her shoulders slump as she scans the floor. Like the five steps from here to there stretch on forever.
He moves then. He's by her side. Brushing past with a glancing kiss.
"I've got it," he says low in her ear. "Let me."
She nods. Her hair falls forward and hides her face, but she grabs his wrist. She holds on a second, crowding her body into his. She comes to rest again. Another handful of seconds ending with a kiss on his jaw. Fingers curling to hold him a moment after and he's glad he hasn't shaved. She's glad.
"Thanks." She roughs her cheek against his. "Thanks."
He takes a second. He burns a little. Feels himself go red to his scalp. Feels a fool, but he takes a reverent second as he slides his own shirts aside and slips in the hanger with her clothes.
He steps back. Watches, pleased, as the sober grey and black swing home. He takes another second. Breathes, because it's not the time for this. For it to feel satisfying and right for her clothes and his to be here, side by side. It's not the time when it's only been a few days and she's not ok.
She's not ok.
He steps out of the closet and she's there in the same spot. There where he left her, halfway between the chair and the bed. She looks lost.
Her head snaps up when she hears him. A little slow, like her mind is on other things. She tries to smile, but it falls. Over before it starts and she looks around. Lost.
"What time is it?" she asks. "I don't even know what time it is."
"Noon?" He shrugs. His phone is . . . somewhere. Hers is probably in the closet now. Probably the heavy thing tugging at one corner of her jacket. "A little after maybe."
"Noon," she says. Flat, like she's shocked and expected it all at once.
It's bright in the room. Soft, anyway. Lots of light slanting in to tell him it's early yet. Sort of early, anyway.
"Do you want to go back to bed?"
She's tired. She looks tired. That's all he's really thinking, but her eyebrow shoots up. She tries out a grin and makes it this time. Brief, but knowing. Conspiratorial and a little smug.
He crosses to her. Slides one arm around her waist and tugs her ear. "To sleep." He stoops. Mouths a kiss against her neck, then pulls back to look at her. "To sleep."
"In the middle of the day?" Her eyes are narrow. She's laughing underneath, but longing, too. Cautiously hopeful like she's never thought of such a thing and wants it.
"In the middle of the day," he mimics. "It's been done."
She looks up at him. Weary, longing, and not ok. She tugs at his shirt. His hip and his shoulder and the back of his neck, all of a sudden. She pulls his mouth to hers, careless and clumsy.
"Come with me," she says. "Come back to bed with me."