Overdue-A one-shot Caskett sequel to "Smitten"
Title: Overdue
WC: ~2300
Rating: T
Summary: "He saw her safe home. She knows and he knows. But they've never talked about it. He's never told her. She's never asked."
A/N: This is a sequel to Smitten, which took place between "Undead Again" and "Always." This has no particular setting beyond post-Always. It's probably about mid-season 5, though. If you don't want to read Smitten, all you really need to know is that Beckett called Castle during that timeframe with the intention of buying him a drink. She overindulged in liquid courage and he ended up walking drunk!Beckett home.
break the skin
medicine
fill this fever dream with hope
steel the blood
make it good
keep a reason clear to cope
it is long overdue
it is long overdue
-Steve Dawson
He's never told her.
She's never asked.
Not outright. She's hinted. Subtle at first. Nudge and retreat, because that's how they were in the beginning. Ridiculously tentative. With their clothes on, at least. When it came to asking and telling and saying they were like two awkward kids when they started out.
She wonders sometimes if there's too much they know that they had to learn naked. If it's still a weakness in them. Too many steps forward they can only seem to take in the dark, panting and slick with his skin hot against hers.
But most of the time, she's content. She's used to this. Their strange angle of approach.
But she wants to know about this. She's wanted to know forever. It's how they began, isn't it? How they would have begun if it weren't for betrayal and conspiracy and near-death experiences. His and hers. Hers and his.
Of course she wants to know, and honestly, she can't believe he hasn't told her.
Once upon a time, Beckett . . .
He loves to tell their story. Sweet things he remembers and outrageous lies that she calls him on.
But he hasn't told her this. She hasn't asked, either.
It could be awful. Whatever she said that night. Whatever she did. It could be terrible enough that he wants to forget. Terrible enough that she should just be glad that she's forgotten it.
Except she hasn't. Not entirely. It's not as simple as that, and it nags at her. The fact that he has a part of their story that he's kept to himself all this time.
She called him. She remembers that. She was going to call him, anyway.
She remembers agonizing about the place. Somewhere new. Not familiar to him or her or them. New.
Quiet, but not too quiet. Dark, but not too dark. In between his place and hers, but not exactly in the middle. Because she hadn't wanted to look like she was overthinking it.
God. She rolls her eyes at herself. She burns at the memory. Pacing her apartment, phone in hand. How much time she'd wasted. That night alone, she'd wasted hours agonizing, and all of a sudden it was late.
She remembers finding it, though. Just the right place. One with the scotch she knows he used to treat himself to when he was starting out. Expensive, but not too expensive. In her price range. Because she was going to buy him a drink.
That was the plan. A drink. The two of them and a chance to talk. No zombies. No fucking flight attendants or psycho loner cops or Ryan and Esposito chirping Hey guys the very second his mouth opened and the words I've been thinking spilled out.
She remembers thinking it was long past time she asked him out.
It ends there, though. She doesn't remember dialing. Not hitting send, anyway. She remembers a drink landing on the table. A gesture at the waiter and another. The bottom slamming down and nothing in the glass.
She doesn't remember him showing up, but he did.
She has flashes sometimes. Something about dinosaurs.
Parasaurolophous.
Her head feels tight when she thinks it. Her tongue feels furry, and the very word has her unsteady on her feet. But she smells his cologne, too. She feels the warm buzz of anticipation. The solid knock of her shoulder against his, and there's something about . . . shoes? Him smiling about shoes. Yelling about shoes.
He brought her home that night.
That's not memory. There's nothing but flashes between making the decision and knowing-knowing-that he'd been the one to bring her home.
She knows from the button. She'd woken up clutching it hard enough to see the imprint in her palm once the world stopped spinning. And he hadn't replaced it. He still hasn't replaced it. He wears the jacket every once in a while, and there it is. The empty space she made that night. It must be. It must have been like that.
He hasn't replaced it. He saw her safe home. She knows and he knows.
But they've never talked about it. He's never told her. She's never asked.
She doesn't think it's awful. Whatever happened, she doesn't think it could have been.
Uphill, maybe, but what isn't with them? For all the unexpected ways they work-for every odd bit of her that a perfect fit for something in him-it's never been easy. It's no surprise to find the taste of sadness in the memory. Frustration and hopelessness that wanted badly to be anger.
His, not hers.
She was all light. One drink after another had left her with nothing but hope. Giddy excitement. She knows that much, and she can't believe it was entirely awful. Here they are, after all, and even without epiphanies high over Manhattan, they were on their way after that night. After she called and he brought her home.
There was something sweet in those few days. Something tentative and filled with hope. Normal enough to be strange against the backdrop of their story.
You like John Woo?
Delight in his eyes as he asked. A trace of unsteadiness in his voice. Satisfaction that no one in the world but her would hear it. The rise and fall of his Adam's apple. A hard swallow and disbelief at his own words. That he'd worked up this kind of courage and here they were, grinning at each other in an alley.
You wouldn't want to join me, would you?
Actually, I'd love to.
She'd turned before he could see it. Blood pounding and pink climbing in her cheeks. She'd strode away. Far enough to hide a little. Long enough to tone it down, that wide, brilliant whole-body smile.
No good, though. She'd turned back and there he was, stunned and hopeful. Hers from head to toe and it was no good at all. Nothing she could have hidden from him then.
It can't have been awful.
She's done with subtle. She knows that the minute Gina slides back into the cab and slams the door on Kate's thank you. She knows the minute it's safe to drop the painfully polite smile that the symmetry is too perfect. She's just going to ask.
She waits for morning. Until he's done sweating and pressing his face to the cool tile of the bathroom wall. She thinks of the button in its place of honor on her desk at home and knows. She tucks him back in bed and brings him a cool cloth. She bides her time, but she is definitely going to ask.
It's well past noon before he can sit up on his own without a blow by blow description of the amusement park ride he's on. Before boredom outweighs the sharp pain of light on his eyelids and he can hold the coffee cup more or less level while he moans in one of the oversized office chairs. He does that for a long while.
"It helps," he says faintly. "Moaning. Don't you think it helps?"
"I think water . . ."
"Don't . . ." He holds up a hand. It's unfortunately the one with the mug in it. Coffee sloshes over the rim, but he hardly seems to notice. "Water is . . . the taste . . . the smell. Please don't talk about water, Beckett."
"Doesn't make any sense, Castle." She slides on to the arm of the chair, though. "How can the thought of water make you sick."
"Classical conditioning," he murmurs. He sighs as her fingers trail through his hair. "When you have thrown up all the mediocre red wine in the world and then all the water in the world, a powerful negative . . . Beckett . . ." He pales. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. ". . . You have to stop talking about water."
He falls asleep for a while after that. She eases the mug from his hand and drapes a throw from the other chair over his body. She stays close, though. Eager now. Waiting. She wants to know.
She reads a little. Inspiration strikes and she rifles through the DVDs. There's no organization apparent to anyone who isn't him, but she finds what she's looking for eventually. She lays them aside for later.
"You mad?" She turns to find him peering over the top of artfully arranged throw. He must've been awake for a while.
"Not mad." It's true. It's mostly true. "Not really mad."
"Then I'm not really sorry." He smiles. He whisks the blanket to the side and pats the chair.
She gives him a sharp look, but drops in next to him.
"I'm a little sorry, though," he says quietly as he settles against her. His eyes pop open the next second though. "Oh, God. Gina." He clutches at her. "I am really, really sorry."
She gives him a level stare. She makes him suffer a little, but just a little. "It was . . . well, it's fine now. She got you home."
"I wanted . . ." He frowns. Rubs at the furrow over the bridge of his nose. "I kept asking for you. Trying to call you, I think."
"That probably didn't thrill her." She hides a smile against his shoulder. It's petty. There's something mean and silvery and sharp in it. He wanted her.
"Probably not."
He smiles, too. He has her number completely, and he'll be smug before too long if she lets it go on. She thinks that's where he's headed. That he'll crow a little over the fact that Gina's very existence gets to her sometimes.
He surprises her though. He lowers his mouth to her shoulder.
"Sorry," he whispers, and he is. He's subdued with more than the hangover. He's contrite. "And thank you. I don't even remember . . . you shouldn't have to deal with that."
"It's not like . . ." She falters. She's skittish about it suddenly. But she wants to know. "Not like you've never done it for me."
He stills against her. She feels his breath stop and start. His fingers find hers, but he's quiet.
"What happened?" She asks.
"Nothing. It was just . . . boring and there was nothing worth eating. Gina was dragging me around and I kept putting mostly empty glasses down and people kept handing me full ones . . ." He trails off. He tips his head up to look at her. "That's not the 'what' you're talking about, is it?"
"No." She studies him. "You don't have to tell me . . . just . . . was it awful?" The last words rush out, unbidden. "Was I awful?"
"No. No." His brow furrows. His nose wrinkles. He looks offended by the very idea. "You weren't. It wasn't."
"Ok." She's relieved. She's so relieved. "Ok, good."
He falls quiet. She thinks that's the end of it. She's making her peace with that when he makes another start.
"You were . . ." One corner of his mouth quirks up. A smile he's fighting for some reason. "You were kind of adorable."
"I was not . . ." She gasps. Actually gasps, but she can't help it. He has to be lying. Winding her up. "I'm not . . . When I was drunk?"
"Adorable. You were." He closes his eyes. Tips his forehead against her cheek like he's imaging it. "You definitely were."
"You yelled, though." She pokes his thigh. He winces and she's sorry, but this is annoying. She wants him to to tell her or not tell her. "You yelled at me about . . . shoes? And dinosaurs."
"Just shoes." He laughs. Smacks a kiss on her cheek and winces at that, too. His head must still hurt. "I can't actually remember why dinosaurs came up. You were adorable, but not great at walking. And you kept wanting to take your shoes off."
"I didn't, did I?" She's retroactively appalled. "God, tell me I wasn't wandering New York in bare feet."
"No. But only because I yelled." He looks sheepish. "A little. I only yelled a little. And then you were sad. And that was kind of awful."
"Not . . . cathartic?" She looks away. Down at the arm of the chair where her nails are busily picking at the leather. She snatches her hands back. Tucks them under her thighs. She takes a breath and meets his eyes again. She wants to know. "You kind of . . . it was a bad time. And you were different. After. You were . . . braver with me."
"Braver." He savors the word. He smiles like the taste is pleasant on his tongue. "I guess I was."
"So?" She slips her fingers free again to tug at his shirt. "Why? What happened?"
"You said . . ." The smile falters. He recovers. It's back in place right away, but different. Less honest. "You said you weren't in love with me. Had to call you on that, Beckett. So, Braver."
"Castle . . ." She stops. She's not even sure what she means. What she might say next. What she could say. She waves him off when he tries to make her look at him. "It's ok."
It is, isn't it? It's enough, anyway. Awful enough, and she has her story.
"Kate." She starts to push up from the chair, but he pulls her back. "It's . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you . . ."
"I asked." She tips her head back against the squat leather back. She hunkers down. "I'm sorry it was awful."
"But it wasn't." He shifts in the seat. He leans into the corner and pulls her closer. Into his lap so they're sprawled together, filling the chair. "I was frustrated. When you called, I wanted . . ." He looks down at her. She nods. She knows. They both know. He goes on, all the same. "It was . . . it made me sad. You said you weren't allowed . . . that you weren't good at it, and I just . . . it made me stubborn. And sad. But mostly stubborn."
"Stubborn." She says the word against his lips. She grins into it. Kisses him. "And brave. You asked me on a date."
"I did." His face lights up. Warm, and every line smoothes away. Happy and hopeful. "You said yes."
"I did." She smiles up at him. Hope answering hope. "So . . . you like John Woo?"
She slides from his arms. She dances back when he reaches for her, slapping at him with one hand. With the other, she reaches behind her. She holds up two cases. He smiles wide.
"The bloodier the better."