A Case of You-Ferret Calm, Ferret Bright Epilogue, Sequel to A Taste of Honey
Title: A Case of You
WC: ~2100
Rating: T
Summary: "It's another gift. Stories she's letting herself tell for the first time, and he's grateful she wants to tell him. He's grateful that after too much time and all their wrong turns, she gives her words willingly."
A/N: This is a bit confusing, and I apologize. It's both the second part of Chapter 13, "A Taste of Honey," and the Epilogue to "Ferret Calm, Ferret Bright" (which begins here), a Christmas 2013 story that's a kind of sequel to last year's "Silent Night, Ferret Night" (which begins here), and "A Business of Ferrets." And, of course, to keep things even more complicated, the epilogue to "Silent Night, Ferret Night" was the prologue to Material Witness in the first place, at BerkieLynn's behest. The final complication? This is really the second part of Material Witness, Chapter 13-A Taste of Honey.
In any case, all done now. Thanks for reading.
You're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling
Still I'd be on my feet.
- Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You"
He drives. He's been keeping watch tonight, and there's none of the usual wrangling. She's relieved enough to slide in and rest her head a moment before she has the energy to fasten her belt.
"Home, Jeeves," she says with a tired, imperious smile as he pulls away from the curb. She tips the seat back and turns her face away to stare out the window as the city goes by.
It's busy. It's not quite Christmas, and the streets are more frantic than usual. They move forward in fits and starts. Angry car horns here and strings of happy, bright people dashing into the street there. All of it slows them down. They should be home by now. He wishes for her sake they were.
She doesn't mind. Or maybe she minds less than usual. Less than he does tonight. She smiles and doesn't smile. Doesn't boss him on what route to take and tells him stories now and again to pass the time when everything comes to a full and complete stop. She talks about lumpy ceramic ornaments her mom hung proudly every year.
"Colored lights," she says after a longer silence than usual. "She insisted. But Dad likes white lights. No discussion. They're classic, Johanna." She deepens her voice in a terrible imitation. She doesn't seem to notice the present tense. Her head lolls his way and he sees a real smile gathering at the corners of her eyes. Good memories, and he's glad it's not all worse. Not all of it. "Every year, mom would insist on something brighter. More obnoxious. Chaser lights. God, Dad hated those."
"She was stirring him up," he says with his own quiet smile.
"He needs it." She looks out the window again. Turns back to him right away. "Your mom gets that."
It surprises him. It's true, he realizes, but it surprises him that she thinks about it. All the good things that come from the two of them together.
"Stirring up is Mother's default mode."
"You be nice to her," she scolds. He ducks his head in answer.
He likes this, he realizes. Knowing her by knowing her mother. Finding threads in her that didn't come by way of her father. Not at all. A certain kind of stubbornness. One face of it, anyway, though he knows well enough that Jim Beckett is not a man inclined to be moved once he makes up his mind. Wickedness and fun, too, though. Black humor where Jim's is wry.
It's another gift. Stories she's letting herself tell for the first time, and he's grateful she wants to tell him. He's grateful that after too much time and all their wrong turns, she gives her words willingly.
Silence creeps in a while. He glances over and her eyes are closed. He wishes traffic would move faster. That he could have her home. She's content enough. Probably as content as she can be right now, but he wants to tuck her in.
He's thinking about it. Settling her and smoothing sheets. Sliding in next to her and whispering a story into her shoulder the way she sometimes lets him. The year he solved Santa, maybe. Gathered his clues and confronted his mother with a mountain of evidence. The way she improvised a noir villainess confession worthy of Barbara Stanwyck.
He's thinking about it when her eyes flick open. When she catches him. His tongue stumbles against his teeth. An apology for fussing, even in his imagination, but he stops short of it.
Her eyes are bright and her mouth is a painful twist. She speaks. She tries and doesn't quite make it the first time. She looks out the window and back. Her voice is stronger the second time.
"She would have liked it," she says. "The way your mom makes my dad blush and that ridiculous, outsized tree. Your silly train."
He smiles. Eyes front against the warm happy knot and the ache high in his chest.
She leans her head away from him. She stares out the window and watches the city go by.
"She'd have liked this."
She pours herself on to the bed, clothes and all. It's alcohol and effort catching up with her. Letting herself miss her mom and how the brand new toll it takes. It's everything.
He moves around the room quietly. Sheds his jacket and untucks his shirt. He tries to let her be, but only makes it so long.
He sits by her feet. Slides a heavy hand down her calf and slips a finger under the top of her boot.
"Take these off?" he asks gently.
She nods. Eyes closed and fingers resting carelessly across her forehead.
Her knee bends willingly under his hands. One, then the other, unresisting. He gathers up the boots and pushes himself from the bed. It's enough for now, and he's too prone to too much. He makes an errand out of it. Tidying. Taking the boots the closet and settling them in place. A separate trip to hang his jacket.
He wonders if he should try to work a while. If he should volunteer to be elsewhere and not make her ask for space. If she needs time to be alone with the tears she won't allow herself.
He's working on it. Trying to hear in his head how a casual offer of it would sound when he just wants to hold her. He just wants to fix things so it's not worse for her.
She calls out, then. She saves him. Saves them both, probably. Again. Her voice is small and quiet as it rises up from the bed and travels to him.
"Can I have a present?"
He sticks his head out of the closet, blank with surprise. It's the last thing he would have expected.
She's curled on her side now. Her hair is wild on the pillow and her make up is smudged like she's been restless. Ill at ease on the bed, as if she can't get comfortable in her skin. There's a hole in the toe of her striped green socks. Her chin is high and her jaw is set, but there's a wobble to it all. There's need she hates in herself. Uncertainty.
"Not Christmas," she says, though. "One of mine."
He nods. He turns back to the closet and tells himself he's drawing a blank. That he can't think of the right thing. Something silly to lighten the mood. That's what he should get, and there are plenty. Christmas things, and lots of them. He's always wanted this. He's always wanted this time of year with her and he has a dozen things he's held back.
But he's reaching already and not for any one of them. Not for something silly or seasonal. He's moving to the back of the closet, and it's a lot of work. It's buried deep, and he's not sure he ever thought he'd give this to her. However he believed back before there was a them, this one . . . this one.
It hurts in a way the others don't. Everything he's never given her has a story. Why the thing moved him in the first place. Why it put him in mind of her and he had to have it for her. But the story of some wrong turn they took, too. Some fear or failing. His or hers or theirs together, piling up over too many years.
But she's his now. He's hers. That and time heal the wounds. They're funny stories even when they're sad ones. Giving her these things is always bittersweet. But none of them so far has hurt like this one.
He stands a while with it in his hands. It's a mistake, he thinks. It's wrong for too many reasons. Pushing when she's already raw. When she already misses her mom. But the bag won't leave his hands. His fingers won't stop smoothing the spray of silver paper or curling through the ribbon. He stares up at the gap on the closet shelf and he can't make himself go back.
He turns to the bedroom. He lets resolution carry him to her, even though part of him is screaming this is a bad idea. He clambers right on to the bed. No preamble, just a heavy, clumsy body that wants to be near her. He stretches out face to face with her and sets the bag upright between them.
She doesn't reach for it. Not right away.
She studies it. The name and address of the shop stamped on brown paper. She frowns. Looks up at him with a question.
"Long gone," he says. It is. The shop didn't make it. Overpriced and too cute by half for Soho. It's been a few things since then, but the space is shuttered now. Not far from the loft, and he knows she knows the spot. "It's an old one."
She nods. Tips the bag on its side with one cautious hand and pulls the bottle free. The wedding-bell paper gets him a sharp look. Another question he's on the hook for, but not now. She's gathering evidence. Building a case, so not right now.
It makes him grin. Weak and watery, but the terror bleeds back a little. The conviction that it's a mistake recedes. He can practically hear the wheels turning as she runs her hands over the bottle. As she turns it and turns it and tries to fix it in time.
She tugs at the ribbon and the words float out of him, unfurling with it and tangling in her fingers. Short, inelegant phrases as it all wells up in him. How badly he wanted her then and the moment the world turned. That moment, so early on, when he wanted all of her. When he knew that it wasn't about conquest or the story or anything but wanting all of her.
She peels back the paper. A strip torn down the center and the pale moon appears. She nudges the gap wider and the low bedroom light falls on the word. Desire.
She smiles at that. Unwilling and sharp. He's on the hook again, but she smiles. She doesn't say anything. She sweeps the paper away. Twirls the bottle between her palms and looks up at him. Waits.
"A wedding present," he says. A spark of who he was then drawn from edge of who she is now. Right now. She's more like herself. She's lying on her side with a straighter spine and the sadness at bay, just for a second. "It was a wedding present."
She still doesn't say anything. She waits.
"You told me about your mom." He covers the label with his palm as the next words make their way up. "Your dad."
He burns. Flares hot with the memory of the fool he'd felt then. Cold with what comes next. The first fall. The first time he lost her. "I knew . . ."
He breaks off. Looks at her, but she's wordless. Patient and sad, but listening.
"I knew I could never fix it. But I wanted to try." He takes her hand. Presses it to the word-Desire-and lays his own on top. "I wanted to spend my life trying."
He's finished. Tired, suddenly and he doesn't really know where they go from here. His eyes fall closed and he can't even see the next step. If he'll leave her with this. A gift that's too much and this new grief of hers.
She pulls her hand from his and he thinks he will. He thinks he'll go for now. He lingers in dark space for a breath before her palm comes to rest on his cheek. Before cool fingers trace his the lines around his eyes.
"A wedding present," she says. There's not exactly a smile there, but the words are soft and full. She remembers, and maybe some day she'll tell him. Why that moment. Why she told him then. Why she trusted him when he didn't deserve it.
Maybe some day she'll tell him, but for now she's reaching across the years. That moment to this. "She would have loved you, Castle."
His eyes flick open. She's watching him. Waiting for him to listen. She nods a second later. Sharp, like she's satisfied and then she's rushing toward him. She's tossing silver paper and ribbon over her shoulder and setting the bottle aside for tomorrow or the next day or the next. For any given moment, because it's hers now and the gift will keep. She's burrowing into him. Pressing her hands and lips and cheeks against whatever's near. Murmuring to him, again and again.
"She would have loved Christmas with you."