Fic: "The After Part"
Title: "The After Part"
Author: theaquamarine
Word Count: 1,070
Prompt: written for evraealtana for Castleland's birthday week! :)
Spoilers: None/AU
Rating: T
Characters: Ryan, Esposito, Beckett, Castle
Summary: "The funny thing about getting shot is the after part."
Author's Note: Written in second person through Ryan, because I'm kind of obsessed with that perspective right now.
The funny thing about getting shot is the after part. The part after the hospital tosses you out on your ass with a few extra gauze pads and a recommendation for physical therapy; after the precinct tosses you out on your ass because of a mandated sick leave period you must observe; after your team tosses you out on your ass because they still can’t look at you without seeing the blood flowing from your shoulder and “shouldn’t you be taking advantage of the good drugs anyway?”
Eventually, you have to go home.
You fumble with the keys, dropping them once and cursing as you bend down to grab them up again. You didn’t think that bending down would involve arm movement, but apparently it does, and your shoulder promptly reminds you with a stab of pain that rockets inward from your fingertips.
Yep, being shot sucks.
You manage to get the key in the lock and the door pushed open left-handed, before stepping in and snapping on the lights. You’re home; for the first time since The Incident.
(Which is what everyone, including the team, has been calling it; apparently getting outnumbered and cornered by mobsters in the middle of the night and bravely downing least three before taking a hit just outside your vest is now just something to be marked down in paperwork as a side note.)
Pain makes you bitter, you realize.
It’s odd, coming home now. After all the chaos, all the turmoil in your life; to see your living room just as you left it that one morning, not knowing that you wouldn’t be coming back. To see the newspaper, open where you left it on the couch half a week ago. To see your coffee mug still on the corner table where you left it to dash out to the call. To see the book you were reading, still open to the last page, and think, Wow, I got shot.
The normalcy of it all is almost unbearable.
The back of your mind wonders whether this is the post-traumatic shock setting in. Something the psychiatrist will help you through while using it behind your back as a reason to keep you away from the job.
A knock on the door stirs you out of your increasingly depressive thoughts. You jump slightly, wondering when you became this twitchy, and grab your service piece before throwing the door open unannounced.
It’s your partner. You relax.
“Hey, bro,” Esposito mumbles, holding up a six-pack. “How bad does alcohol mess with your pain meds?”
“Pretty bad,” you say gravely, with a one-shouldered shrug.
“I guess that means there’s more for me,” he says and invites himself in, plopping down on the couch. He pops the first bottle and puts his legs up on the table.
Maybe you aren’t as alone as you thought.
You close the door and join him on the couch, sitting in silence for a few moments. But it’s enough, because you don’t want to talk about it right now and you’re pretty sure Esposito doesn’t either, so you just sit. Together. For a while.
There’s another knock on the door.
You send a confused glance at your partner, before getting up to open the door again.
This time, it’s Beckett.
“Hey,” she begins awkwardly, “I just was stopping by in case you needed anything and-“ she trails off, seeing Esposito already sitting on the couch. She almost smiles.
“And I’m just going to forget whatever excuse I was using and invite myself in. I brought Chinese.”
She brushes past you and, dropping her coat and bag of takeout on the back of the couch, finds her way to the kitchen, grabbing some paper plates. You close the door and find yourself almost smiling, too.
Maybe saying your team tossed you out on your ass was a little harsh.
Half an hour later you have eaten more Chinese food than you thought you could stomach, but Beckett keeps producing more takeout boxes from her paper bag. Somehow, they all seem to end up in your hands.
None of you have said anything yet. Beckett’s already helped herself to one of Esposito’s beers, and she seems perfectly content to tender her lo mein all evening in silence. Esposito’s munching on egg rolls, into his second beer, just staring out the window.
But it’s enough that you’re together. And you like the quiet.
Well, you liked the quiet.
Because there’s another knock on the door, and when you open it, you find Castle already stepping over the threshold, juggling what appears to be fifty DVD cases, as loud and boisterous as ever.
“I think I rented every version of Madden ever created, plus all the Halos and the World of Warcrafts too. The manager at Blockbuster said that by the time you beat all of these you should be either back on the job or an old, old man.”
He stops, noticing Beckett and Esposito, and all the packages fall out of his hands onto the floor.
“Aw, you guys were having a party and didn’t invite me?” he whined, pouting.
And suddenly the silence breaks, and chaotic activity fills its void. Beckett laughs outright and starts making a plate of food for Castle, while Esposito dives for the fallen games.
“Dude, is this the original Madden? You serious?”
“As a shark attack.”
“Yo, Beckett, I might have to take off work next week on account of.. um, being sick.” Esposito gave a loud, fake cough.
“You probably should Esposito, you have been looking kind of pasty and infectious lately,” Beckett deadpanned.
“Not to mention the sight of your face always makes me nauseous,” Castle chimed in, earning a cuff in the shoulder from Esposito.
“Oh, very funny guys. Now watch while I make you cry,” he said, loading up the game disc.
Castle took a seat next to Beckett and scoffed. “Bring it,” he said, taking the proffered plate of food.
From the doorway, you survey your living room. Esposito had tossed the paper from three days ago aside to make room for his feet. Your coffee cup had been filled with some kind of super-healing-broth from Beckett. Castle is perusing your book lazily, flipping it from your page to the first and speed-reading through the beginning.
You shut the door and smile to yourself.
Maybe this won’t suck quite as much as you thought.
Author: theaquamarine
Word Count: 1,070
Prompt: written for evraealtana for Castleland's birthday week! :)
Spoilers: None/AU
Rating: T
Characters: Ryan, Esposito, Beckett, Castle
Summary: "The funny thing about getting shot is the after part."
Author's Note: Written in second person through Ryan, because I'm kind of obsessed with that perspective right now.
The funny thing about getting shot is the after part. The part after the hospital tosses you out on your ass with a few extra gauze pads and a recommendation for physical therapy; after the precinct tosses you out on your ass because of a mandated sick leave period you must observe; after your team tosses you out on your ass because they still can’t look at you without seeing the blood flowing from your shoulder and “shouldn’t you be taking advantage of the good drugs anyway?”
Eventually, you have to go home.
You fumble with the keys, dropping them once and cursing as you bend down to grab them up again. You didn’t think that bending down would involve arm movement, but apparently it does, and your shoulder promptly reminds you with a stab of pain that rockets inward from your fingertips.
Yep, being shot sucks.
You manage to get the key in the lock and the door pushed open left-handed, before stepping in and snapping on the lights. You’re home; for the first time since The Incident.
(Which is what everyone, including the team, has been calling it; apparently getting outnumbered and cornered by mobsters in the middle of the night and bravely downing least three before taking a hit just outside your vest is now just something to be marked down in paperwork as a side note.)
Pain makes you bitter, you realize.
It’s odd, coming home now. After all the chaos, all the turmoil in your life; to see your living room just as you left it that one morning, not knowing that you wouldn’t be coming back. To see the newspaper, open where you left it on the couch half a week ago. To see your coffee mug still on the corner table where you left it to dash out to the call. To see the book you were reading, still open to the last page, and think, Wow, I got shot.
The normalcy of it all is almost unbearable.
The back of your mind wonders whether this is the post-traumatic shock setting in. Something the psychiatrist will help you through while using it behind your back as a reason to keep you away from the job.
A knock on the door stirs you out of your increasingly depressive thoughts. You jump slightly, wondering when you became this twitchy, and grab your service piece before throwing the door open unannounced.
It’s your partner. You relax.
“Hey, bro,” Esposito mumbles, holding up a six-pack. “How bad does alcohol mess with your pain meds?”
“Pretty bad,” you say gravely, with a one-shouldered shrug.
“I guess that means there’s more for me,” he says and invites himself in, plopping down on the couch. He pops the first bottle and puts his legs up on the table.
Maybe you aren’t as alone as you thought.
You close the door and join him on the couch, sitting in silence for a few moments. But it’s enough, because you don’t want to talk about it right now and you’re pretty sure Esposito doesn’t either, so you just sit. Together. For a while.
There’s another knock on the door.
You send a confused glance at your partner, before getting up to open the door again.
This time, it’s Beckett.
“Hey,” she begins awkwardly, “I just was stopping by in case you needed anything and-“ she trails off, seeing Esposito already sitting on the couch. She almost smiles.
“And I’m just going to forget whatever excuse I was using and invite myself in. I brought Chinese.”
She brushes past you and, dropping her coat and bag of takeout on the back of the couch, finds her way to the kitchen, grabbing some paper plates. You close the door and find yourself almost smiling, too.
Maybe saying your team tossed you out on your ass was a little harsh.
Half an hour later you have eaten more Chinese food than you thought you could stomach, but Beckett keeps producing more takeout boxes from her paper bag. Somehow, they all seem to end up in your hands.
None of you have said anything yet. Beckett’s already helped herself to one of Esposito’s beers, and she seems perfectly content to tender her lo mein all evening in silence. Esposito’s munching on egg rolls, into his second beer, just staring out the window.
But it’s enough that you’re together. And you like the quiet.
Well, you liked the quiet.
Because there’s another knock on the door, and when you open it, you find Castle already stepping over the threshold, juggling what appears to be fifty DVD cases, as loud and boisterous as ever.
“I think I rented every version of Madden ever created, plus all the Halos and the World of Warcrafts too. The manager at Blockbuster said that by the time you beat all of these you should be either back on the job or an old, old man.”
He stops, noticing Beckett and Esposito, and all the packages fall out of his hands onto the floor.
“Aw, you guys were having a party and didn’t invite me?” he whined, pouting.
And suddenly the silence breaks, and chaotic activity fills its void. Beckett laughs outright and starts making a plate of food for Castle, while Esposito dives for the fallen games.
“Dude, is this the original Madden? You serious?”
“As a shark attack.”
“Yo, Beckett, I might have to take off work next week on account of.. um, being sick.” Esposito gave a loud, fake cough.
“You probably should Esposito, you have been looking kind of pasty and infectious lately,” Beckett deadpanned.
“Not to mention the sight of your face always makes me nauseous,” Castle chimed in, earning a cuff in the shoulder from Esposito.
“Oh, very funny guys. Now watch while I make you cry,” he said, loading up the game disc.
Castle took a seat next to Beckett and scoffed. “Bring it,” he said, taking the proffered plate of food.
From the doorway, you survey your living room. Esposito had tossed the paper from three days ago aside to make room for his feet. Your coffee cup had been filled with some kind of super-healing-broth from Beckett. Castle is perusing your book lazily, flipping it from your page to the first and speed-reading through the beginning.
You shut the door and smile to yourself.
Maybe this won’t suck quite as much as you thought.