Fic: We gotta make ends meet before we get much older (Castle + SGA)
Title: We gotta make ends meet before we get much older
Fandom: Castle + SGA crossover
Pairing(s): Elizabeth Weir/John Sheppard, Richard Castle/Kate Beckett, mostly USTish
Rating: PG - 13
Genre: introspection, romance, light angst
Spoilers: Castle season two, up to “Wrapped up in death”; and SGA season three, “Return part I”
Warnings: none, I think
Disclaimer: not mine, just borrowing, not earning money, simply having fun
Beta: the awesome tenacious_err who said it's okay ♥ !!!
A/N1: I’d say this fic requires knowing both TV shows involved.
A/N2: written for otl_fest, for the prompt “Elizabeth/John, Castle/Beckett, writing another book.” Set after Return part I, then going AU. I am pretending that the second season of Castle happened roughly at the same time, for which, I hope, you can forgive me. The title was borrowed from John Farnham and his song “You're the voice”. A huge thank you to tenacious_err, hihoplastic and southernred2 (aka the usual enablers) and for the hand holding, prodding, idea - bouncing and listening to my rants. You're the best!! ♥
A/N3. I adore "Castle" and this is my first try at writing Castle - fic. Which is why I'm super nervous about this! Also, my very first crossover! AND, my very favorite pairings are here. *flails and runs in circles* Comments are so very very welcome. I apologize in advance for possible typos.
*
Some day, Richard Castle will write a different kind of story.
There won’t be murder and dead bodies.
It will be ordinary. Normal. Perhaps even predictable, in a way ordinary life is, without being boring.
In the meantime Richard is trying to decide if Nikki Heat should go undercover or solve a murder of a famous movie star. Perhaps she could do both.
“Dad?”
“Huh?” he looks up at his daughter.
“Something wrong, dad?”
“Um. No,” he says. Alexis is eyeing him suspiciously, sensing that something is not quite right. He probably doesn’t know anyone in the way he knows Alexis, and yet, she reads him so well, and manages to surprise him anew.
“You sure? Because you have that face.”
“What face?”
“You know. That face. I’m - stuck, my - muse - has - left - me face.”
“I do not have that face. I was just -“
Alexis raises an eyebrow, something she had learned from Martha.
“Just what?” she insists, and yes, it's him who taught her this, not to drop an issue and pursue answers.
“Thinking,” he says. It's a honest response, he only wishes his thinking would lead him somewhere.
She doesn’t ask more questions but she keeps glancing at him from the other corner of the room, while she goes through her English homework. She probably knows he isn't feeling comfortable discussing it further.
If he had his old typewriter, he would grab the paper, fisting it in his hand and throw it toward the bin in the corner. Computers are fun but deleting a document doesn't match the fun of throwing the paper away. Then he speaks, picking a slightly different topic.
“Do you think I should write something different?”
Alexis looks up with a confused expression on her face.
“Like what?” she asks.
“Like drama.”
Alexis frowns.
“Why would you do that?” she asks.
Good point, he thinks. Why.
Richard closes his eyes and leans deeply into his writing chair, hating to admit that this is one of those times. In his head, Nikki feels tired, tired and bored. She hasn't reached the unmotivated phase yet, but Richard can see her slowly going there. She has solved all kinds of cases - in his head, not necessarily the books - and just like him, Nikki needs a challenge. He just doesn't know what kind of challenge.
Like any writer, Richard hates not having a story to tell.
*
Richard believes a writer should have a good reason to tell a story. There are plenty of good reasons to write crime mystery novels.
They’re fun. Exciting. People like them. They can make you famous, which means parties, cocktails and pretty girls. Money isn’t bad either.
Not to mention, you sometimes get to work with real cops.
But, in his heart of hearts, Richard knows (and never admits aloud) that writing gives you power, and a sense of control. In his books, death is explained, and cases are always successfully closed. World is a safer place, and there is one bad guy less, but on the last page his characters are back to square one. They don't really change.
His writing is just not profound.
That's why he thinks he should do something different.
“Why would you do that?” asks Ryan, smoothing down another ridiculously looking necktie.
“Yes, why would you do that?” Esposito echoes, as Beckett walks into the break room. She sets her coffee cup down and Richard gives her a wide smirk. Beckett frowns at the overheard conversation.
“Do what?” she asks, taking a sip of her own coffee.
“Big Rick is writing a romantic drama,” says Ryan.
“I am not,” says Richard with indignation, but he can feel suspicious warmth creeping up his face as Ryan and Esposito go on with the wink - wink - nudge - nudge routine, aiming to clue Beckett in. Beckett smiles and gives him one of those narrowed looks that sends him into hurried explaining. “I am not! I said family focused drama -“
“With romantic undertones,” adds Ryan.
Beckett is staring at him, her expression unreadable and it’s not helping. That’s the look that usually makes him say whatever she wants to know.
“Focused on family dynamics, interpersonal issues, everyday struggles, real life things -,“ three of them break into giggles. “Things like your necktie,” he says and three of them laugh. “There is romance in normal, everyday life!” he protests.
“Middle aged writing crisis?” asks Esposito. “And there is nothing normal about that necktie!”
“That’s it. No more advance copies for you!”
“Ouch,” says Ryan and cracks up. Then, Beckett’s phone rings and they're called for another case. The teasing stops and the action begins, and Richard forgets about his writing woes.
Beckett doesn’t comment on the issue until later, during the ride in her new car. She stops at red lights and glances at him.
“Really, Castle. Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. He knows what she is asking.
“I could use a change?”
She grins.
“That’s not the reason,” she says and looks at him, and that tone and look usually get through to him.
“I could use a challenge?” he offers less defensively.
“I don’t think that’s the real reason either,” she answers. It's not, he thinks, but doesn't want to tell her. He thinks of Derrick Storm, comparing him mentally to Nikki and decides he likes Nikki a helluva lot more to give her a Derrick kind of send off. He doesn’t want to even hint at it, so he just keeps looking at her hands on the steering wheel, contemplating familiarity.
When the day comes, he will just send her to retirement. But not yet. Familiarity feels good, and he needs a reason to stick around.
That's why he has to find another story.
Richard grumbles and leans back in his seat. Beckett is grinning, like she knows something he doesn’t, and that doesn’t make him very content, but experience tells him he just has to live with it. Muses come and go. They're whimsy like that.
They reach the crime scene and she glances at him before they go out to face the real world.
“Don’t let it bother you too much. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says.
*
Days go. The case is solved, and another. It still bothers him.
What Richard needs is a mystery to solve.
It bothers him for weeks, until the fundraiser for Metropolitan Opera.
He takes Beckett with him, and she looks amazing in the long emerald dress. He contemplates how well she finds her way into his world, and seamlessly fits in when he sees her; someone he didn't expect to see.
She is wearing a long red dress. For a moment Richard is stunned when he recognizes the wavy hair and slim figure, her bony, bare shoulders and the laugh. He’d recognize her anywhere.
Elizabeth. Elizabeth Weir. That freckled faced girl he knows since he was fifteen, who could always verbally kick his ass. She looks too thin, she always has, and her hair is longer and her skin paler than he remembers. He used to have a crush on her. Richard tries to remember when was the last time he saw her and can’t. She is talking and holding a glass, and then, when she sees him she stops talking and her face breaks into a smile.
“Elizabeth Weir,” he says, smiling as she looks up at him.
“Richard,” her smile is a little too happy, but the affection when she hugs him is genuine. In rush he tries to take in everything he sees and catches bits and small things, how tired she looks under her smile, the dark rings under her eyes carefully hidden under make up. He remembers studying with her, bringing her coffee and discussing politics, remembers her throwing pillows at him. He remembers asking her out, until she got tired of it and caved in. They spent the night talking. They didn’t kiss.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking for words and still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this really is her, that she showed up just as suddenly and unexpectedly as she had disappeared.
“Doing a favor to a friend,” she says and looks around and Richard is too overwhelmed with the fact that she is here again, after all these years. He forgets to ask her where she was for the last three, or maybe four years, when he wanted to invite her to book signings, when Martha wanted her to see the plays, but no one could find her. Richard still remembers wondering what happened to her, or was it a classified diplomatic assignment that got her captured and killed. “She is around here somewhere,” she says and her sounds just like four years ago, like it was yesterday.
“Is she as hot as you?” he asks, and that gets him an eyebrow and a smile. He breathes through his own relief, feeling overwhelmed just as questions he wants to ask her feel, but he can't even begin.
“She’s married,” says Elizabeth with an easy, practiced smile.
“And you are, hopefully, single?” he asks, and doesn’t miss the shadow that quickly disappears from her face. “Elizabeth?” he asks, all those concerns and questions locked in that single word.
“Still single and still off limits. You, on the other hand -“
She indicates with her head in Beckett's direction.
“She’s a -“ Richard turns around and nods toward Beckett, raising his glass. Beckett is smirking in a knowing way, expecting that he is chatting up a pretty woman, but this is not what she thinks it is. “A friend. Working partner,” Richard swallows slightly at the raised eyebrow. “She is! She's a cop. I work with her, so I could write credible crime novels.”
“I remain happily divorced,” he adds.
“I see,” says Elizabeth and Richard nods. She keeps smiling.
“So. How long are you staying in town, Elizabeth?”
*
It turns out that Elizabeth lives here.
Richard finds that odd.
New York was never on top of Elizabeth’s favorites list. Not that she disliked it, it just wasn’t her kind of place. Richard can't put his finger on it and find a reason behind his odd feeling, but it seems like a too perfect alibi, and those always turned out false. Well, at least in all the stories he wrote that was the case.
However, Elizabeth Weir teaching in a public school in Brooklyn is a tad bit out of her character. Really, not right for her.
So, in a surge of protectiveness he has no right to feel, Richard tells Beckett about Elizabeth, and he tells her it’s not wrong, per se, meeting the stare of his partner, one she uses in the box. Then he realizes he’s being an easy mark again as tells her about Elizabeth he remembers - smart, strong, goal driven and idealistic. She had gone all the way, with two doctorates and dozen of peace treaties under her belt and things simply don’t make sense. It’s not that he thinks teaching is demeaning, or anything along those lines. You just don’t send the best detective to hand out speeding tickets.
Beckett just looks at him, waiting for him to ask the question.
And he does, while he walks next to her through the precinct.
“Can you look into her?”
“Absolutely not, Castle,” she says, exasperated.
“But!”
She stops in front of him, raises her finger and enters his private space.
“No,” she is determinant. “It would be out of the line and wrong.”
“Oh, come on. Are you going to tell me that a woman with two Ph.Ds, who mediated peace treaties God - knows - where, worked for the UN, who was AWOL for nearly four years, suddenly teaching in a poor public school doesn’t sound odd to you?”
“Castle.” She sighs and they do one of their stare - competitions, complete with Ryan and Esposito in the background wishing for some popcorn. She turns away, goes to her desk and sits, “We have a new case to deal with. Unless your friend is a suspect, I won’t be looking into her.”
*
However, Ryan and Esposito are nothing but too willing helpers.
Of course, Richard knows a guy who knows a guy and even after they do everything by the book, soon enough they hit a wall, as solid as a security clearance and confidential information. It isn't surprising, but it's still disappointing, and it makes him frustrated.
There’s a call from Important Somebody and Montgomery is quite pissed about it, pissed at Ryan and Esposito, and of course that is how Beckett finds out and gives Richard an earful, even though the guys defend him wholeheartedly.
At the end it’s even odder. Beckett admits as much after they solve another case, and asks Richard to tell her more about Elizabeth.
He does.
Catherine Weir, Elizabeth’s mother, loves theater. Richard supposes that’s how she met his own mother. He had known Elizabeth since he was a teenager. He remembers pigtails, books and her monologues about civil rights, environmental issues, elephants, all sorts of activism. He remembers teasing her about it. He remembers that she had enough wisdom and willpower to convince majority of the world into reason. She wanted to join Greenpeace and Doctors Without Borders and become a President. At seventeen Richard believed she could do all that, but in between he used to remind her she should have a walk, or a coffee, or simply a laugh. Sometimes she had to be reminded of that.
She also loved to stare over the wide expanse of the sea. Richard remembers that he never got to kiss her. He doesn't say that bit out loud.
“Sounds like you had a crush on her,” teases Beckett while eating a burger and messing up his car. Richard doesn’t mind. He just wants to brush off that small bit of salad from Beckett's cheek.
“Everyone had a crush on her,” he says.
*
A true writer investigates.
Not that he is going to write a book about Elizabeth Weir. She is a secret, that much he's aware of, and he isn’t sure he could ever solve that mystery. She got too good at not answering the questions, no matter how much time they spend talking. Even after the walks, and few dinners at his place he still doesn’t know where she’s been, and what she’s been doing. His rational mind understands things like confidentiality, but his heart feels like he had lost something important.
Elizabeth talks to Martha, and Alexis, and the girl instantly adores Elizabeth. But no amount of conversation gets him anywhere. Richard is left with pieces, lines on her face she didn't have four years ago, that make her look too old, like someone who aged too soon; someone who had seen too many frightening things. He counts the flecks on the thin skin of her hands and studies her profile when she is lost in thought, when she doesn't know she's being watched. Richard has seen people before, men and women marked by something bigger than them. That is how she looks, and the notion leaves him restless when he tries imagining things she’d seen.
Sometimes she reacts in ways he can't explain differently than people, or places reminding her of something else - certain buildings, certain people; it seems like she is pulled back under the water. A tall man with dreadlocks passes them on the street and she turns, eyes momentarily frozen on his back. Richard asks if she knows him and she just shakes her head.
“Reminds me of someone I used to know,” she murmurs and that's as far as he will get.
It seems like a shroud of silence is engulfing her, at all times, and nobody and nothing can pull her out. He sees glimpses of old Elizabeth, vibrant and strong, colorful with her passion and her intensity, hidden somewhere in there, but he can't pull her out.
But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t even try - which is why Beckett’ follows him through the halls of Boys and Girls High School on Fulton Street. Richard doesn’t feel as comfortable as he does in crime scenes, because unlike with crime scenes he doesn’t know what to expect right now. Beckett walks with confidence until they find the classroom number twenty - four and Richard can hear a familiar voice.
He can hear her voice, the rhythmic pace of her telling, and when he nears the door, he can see her through the glass. It’s an unknown sight, and he finds himself with a bittersweet feeling in his chest. The door isn’t shut closed and Richard hears the patient tone with sharp edges underneath as he pries the door slightly open, and Beckett rolls her eyes at him. Richard can feel his face spread into a grin, watching her with a piece of white chalk in her hand, glasses halfway down her nose, while she is writing down things on the board. It’s not grammar. Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway, narration, stream of consciousness. She looks so much like that girl he used to know, the one who read tons of books, that cute girl with freckles on her face, with intelligence and knowledge and passion. A room full of teenagers is quiet as they listen.
That’s the Elizabeth he knows.
It couldn’t be better, he thinks, but watching Elizabeth teaching about writing.
When she asks for homework, a kid tries to weasel out, but she will have none of it, and she reminds him he didn’t have his homework done the last time either.
And then the kid stands up - in his teens he is taller and bigger than her - and he stares down at her, calls her a ‘stupid teacher with stupid books’ and Richard wants to walk inside and mightily step in between them.
Then something happens. Something that will keep him thinking, something he doesn’t expect, but later, when he drives in his car and thinks about it, it’s not really that strange. Elizabeth only looks fragile. She never really needed someone to step in for her, she was always capable of handling herself, or any trouble.
Richard later marvels the steel determination in her eyes as she told the kid to sit down, the tone of her voice he hasn't heard yet, tempting him closer.
The kid doesn’t do obey her at first, and keeps staring at her, but there’s something in there - something - not quite whole and not quite broken, and the unruly teenager backs down in front of that force, and falls into his chair, grumbling.
Richard shares a look with Beckett.
“I think he's in trouble,” he says. Beckett just grins.
*
There was a queen once, Richard writes. The warriors bent to her will and she ruled many lands.
His fingers pause and he stares at the words blinking back at him from the laptop screen. He can’t believe what he just had written.
“Dad,” Alexis leans forward over his shoulder. “That is so clichéd,” she says.
“Really?”
“Like, incredibly clichéd.”
“You don’t like it?” he asks.
Alexis hops onto his desk and dangles her feet through the air. He smiles internally at her long braids, her pink - orange pajamas and rabbit - slippers, thinking of the little girl she was just yesterday and the young woman she isn’t quite yet.
“I do. Don't cliches rule the world of telling?” she asks, smiling.
“Admittedly, they do,” says Richard practically. “It's very hard coming up with something original these days. What matters is how you tell the story.”
“A - ha,” Alexis lifts one finger grinning at him. “Don't you always say that? That you should tell the story you would like to read yourself? One you want to tell? Don't care about the reviews too much and have fun and all that?”
“Hum, yeah,” he agrees.
“There you go, dad,” she smiles at him.
“You have a point, kiddo.”
“I have my moments,” she says, dangling her feet. There is a moment of silence, and he just looks at Alexis, trying to capture the moment in his mind and save it somewhere. “Tell me about her?”
“About whom, sweetie?”
“The queen,” she says.
Richard smiles and starts the story with 'once upon a time', just like he used to do when Alexis was a little girl. It feels good to tell a story just for the sake of telling.
*
Then, nearly two months later, something happens.
It's almost too cold to sit in the park, but Elizabeth likes it. She tells him about her students and he tells her about the cases and amusing little things that happen. They spend a lot of time together. If she were someone else Richard would ask her on a date. When people ask questions about them, he dismisses them in a way that stops further questioning, and Richard himself feels that she is committed to someone - something. He feels it's bigger than her and much bigger than him, and he would just like to help her get out of there, wherever 'there' might be. But, if he is honest, he has no idea what he's doing, just that she seems to enjoy his company. Sometimes Beckett joins them, sometimes it's a poker game at his place and Ryan and Esposito compete over making her laugh. But those are just moments, and her laughs are just glimpses.
Richard tells her about that time he thought he was cursed. He tells her about the elevator and the dog and his torn jeans ('right on my butt' - she laughs), when it happens. Richard notices she isn't listening to him, but staring in front of them instead, her cup of coffee in her slightly shaking hand. He follows her gaze, fixed at the man standing not too far away.
It doesn't last long. Less than a minute, perhaps, but at the same time it seems much, much longer. She stares and the man stares back - the man in a long black coat, with dark, unruly hair and unusually expressive face. The silence is thick, a bird's cry distant and frozen in November air. The man's gaze is calling out to her, loudly. It's a look that any writer could describe in detail, going on for pages, detailing the history, the things done and words unsaid. It doesn't take much imagination, when she stands up, and the man comes closer, one hand slightly outstretched toward her. Richard doesn't need a leap of imagination to realize that they shared something and each other.
The man is looking at Elizabeth like she were the last breath of sun he would ever see, and part of Richard wants to leave, and leave them alone.
“Elizabeth,” the man's voice is raw and low, and her name feels familiar, dripping from his lips. She straightens her expression, smoothing out everything until the mask she's wearing is impeccable. At the same time she is wringing her fingers. Richard knows that gesture.
She shakes her head.
“John,” is all she says, before she looks at Richard. It's one of those looks that ask ‘let’s go somewhere else’. He isn't there to question. Elizabeth is his friend, all he wants is to help. He offers his hand.
It's Richard who turns around. The man stares after them, and the man’s eyes darken, a look of hurt slipping from under his control.
She keeps wringing his fingers as they walk.
*
“What if the queen was in love?” Richard suddenly asks.
Alexis looks up from the jigsaw puzzle they're putting together.
“Dad?”
“The queen? You know the queen? Cliches?” he prods and it takes some time, but Alexis figures out what he’s talking about.
“Oh, the queen!”
“Yes, that queen.”
“She was in love?” asks Alexis.
“I think she was.”
“Like Guinevere and Lancelot?”
“Not quite,” Richard gaze turns thoughtful. “She isn't married. Never was. I don't think there was another man between them,” One part fact, one part fiction, he thinks and continues. “But perhaps there is another reason she can't have the man she loves?”
Alexis grins. “Men from all over the country court her, but nobody is truly worthy of her hand?” she asks theatrically. Richard smiles at her suggestion but deep down he knows the reason is deeper and sadder.
“Or, perhaps, her duties to her people prevent her from giving in to desires of her heart,” he puts another piece to the puzzle. A two thousand piece picture of Taj Mahal is far from being done. It's raining outside. The bad weather is dull and constant. There are only weeks until the Christmas, but Richard doesn't feel the holiday cheer yet. He feels like he's been locked inside his head for too long, with only pieces of the story, but nothing to connect it.
“That sounds incredibly classic,” Martha walks into the room with a glass of wine and sits on the sofa. “I'd say, just ask her who's the mystery man and what did he do,” she takes a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass.
“There's an actual mystery man?” Alexis perks up.
“Yup. Tall, dark and handsome.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Yes. John - something.”
“Elizabeth and John,” says Martha thoughtfully and smiles. “Very classical names.”
“Sir John and Lady Elizabeth,” adds Alexis playfully. “Sounds like a movie I'd watch.”
“They seemed more like star crossed lovers. Should have seen the looks,” Richard winks.
“Sparks flying?”
“High voltage,” Richard grins and after few moments of silence he says, “I wonder what happened to her. To them. She'll never tell me, though,” he concludes. It's more than writer's curiosity or a challenge to crack. It seems like there is no way to help her. “It's like one of those cases that never get solved.”
Martha folds her fingers around her glass neatly.
“Maybe you need a different approach here, son.”
“What do you mean, mother?”
“What you usually do is figure out what kills people, and who does it and why. What you need to do now, kiddo, is figure out what makes them kick and scream and hope. Not to say you're not doing that, or incapable of doing it. But your focus is usually elsewhere. Your friend here didn't lose her life, she had lost her hope. It sounds like that, at least. Sometimes that's scarier than anything else that could happen to you.”
*
“Maybe he disappointed her,” says Beckett thoughtfully. Ryan and Esposito nod in agreement. At this point they're all sucked into the mystery Richard is trying to solve, and they're debating it, much like they're debating their cases and suspects; writing out possible scenarios over a bowl of french fries at Remy’s. “She doesn't seem like a person who could walk over something like that.”
Richard shakes his head slowly.
“She isn't, but it didn't look like that,” he says, staring at the food in front of them, and puts his burger down.
“Then how did it look? All they did -,” Esposito waves his hand between them, “was an exchange of names?”
“And gazes,” Richard lifts his finger, followed by a wooing sound by Ryan and Beckett. “And in a span of moment, eternity had passed.”
“That's it, bro,” Esposito laughs. “You're so done. Hey, Beckett, why do we even keep him here? He turned into a romance novelist,” Esposito jokes and Richard pretends to get angry.
“Because I am smart and help you figure out things more quickly than you would do without me?”
The three detectives keep laughing. Richard realizes that no amount of pouting or fake threats will help him out this time.
*
“I need to pick a lock.”
Ryan drops the pencil that was stuck between his lips and lowers the report he's reading.
“Castle, telling a police officer that you're possibly about to commit a crime isn't the best idea,” says Esposito.
“I am not telling you I'm about to commit crime. Just that I need to pick a lock.”
“It can be a bet,” says Ryan. Esposito suppresses a laugh. “You know, who’s quicker in lock picking.”
“See? A bet,” accepts Richard quickly, gesturing with his hand. Esposito’s face stretches into a mischievous grin.
“Okay. We don't want our buddy to lose a bet,” Esposito agrees, setting his coffee - mug on the desk. “Just don’t get yourself in trouble.”
*
Richard was never fond of white knights. He dislikes easy solutions in telling. Besides, a true hero should have a flaw.
Perhaps John - what's - his - name is a flawed hero, not a stalker. He does persistently seek Elizabeth, and Richard keeps running into him, or finds them talking, or perhaps trying not to talk. It looks uncomfortable, they look uncomfortable, like a wire under too much strain. He sees the little things, the look in John's eyes and how close they stand to each other, how painfully hard it is for Elizabeth to move away from him each time. Richard sees him leave and one day he follows John, finds out where he lives, then tricks the doorman into telling him the number of apartment.
Sheppard, he reads on the door as he's fiddling with the lock. Symbolical last name to go with a classic name. His mother would probably like the combination. The process goes slower than his lessons with Esposito and Ryan. Finally the lock gives in and the door slides open. Richard walks in slowly, quietly, not intending to disturb anything. He is just investigating. Just trying to help a friend, he tells himself, although chills run up his spine. All he wants is to understand, which isn’t wrong per se, but intruding is. He never had a problem with it, but in his time as Beckett’s partner he had few bitter lessons about intruding, and almost lost her. He just prays he won’t get caught again.
The place is smaller than he expected. John Sheppard seems to be a neat man, his possessions are few. He has two shelves full of books and there Richard finds a strange selection of titles. no Nikki Heat or Derrick Storm, in fact, his collection seems outdated. A worn copy of War and Peace catches his eye and he pulls it out. A book says a lot about the owner. Richard opens it to find leaves worn, read and used, carrying a scent of something far away and out of reach. A photograph slips out from somewhere in the middle and Richard isn't entirely surprised to see Elizabeth among women and men. She is smiling and it's this John she's standing very close to. That doesn’t surprise him either.
For a moment Richard just stares. She looks content and calm, and even though her smile isn't as big as he remembers, he realizes that she looks happy. She looks like Elizabeth he knows.
It takes a moment of hesitation. Richard hushes the voice of his conscience and slips the photograph into the inner pocket of his jacket, telling himself that he will need it. It’s a proof that she’s still there, somewhere, that he isn’t imagining it.
He wanders through living room, finding newspaper, a four years old golf magazine, an odd looking ceramic pot.
A small object catches his eye, looking carelessly discarded on a dining table. Richard lifts the chain with his fingers, looking at two small plates of metal, unmistakably knowing what those are. And just before he can start to wonder, before his mind is sent reeling - because Elizabeth was always, always about stopping and preventing military action - he hears the door open and a shout behind his back and he knows he's busted.
“What the hell are you doing here?!!”
Richard turns around slowly, trying to give his brain time to come up with a response. He feels like an idiot, like a fucking idiot, because of course this had been a bad idea. It was a horrible idea.
“Nothing in particular,” is what he comes up with, and that man, John Sheppard, is looking at him with dangerous determination.
“Get out of here,” the voice is low, clearly threatening, but Richard has to try, against his better judgment.
“I am Elizabeth's friend,” he says hurriedly. “My name is Richard Castle. I want to help her.”
“I said get out,” Sheppard repeats, and it doesn't look like Richard's words have reached him at all.
“Tell me how can I help her,” he presses, but his request is starting to lose the point. What on earth was he thinking?
“I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. I’d get out of here really, really fast,” says John and in three fast strides he walks up to Richard, and skillfully grabs him by the arm. Just before he kicks him out Richard manages to say one more thing.
“Call me. If you need help, if you -”
The door slams closed.
“That went well,” he mutters to himself.
*
It feels like a hole in his chest.
“She never liked military,” he says quietly. Beckett's eyes are thoughtful as she looks at him, then looks back at the photograph lying on the desk in front of her. He is poking the chain of dogtags with his finger, not really wanting to touch it. The photograph is next to the chain and Beckett is studying people on the picture. She doesn’t lecture him about it, it seems that she finds his remorse satisfactory. He doesn’t really think about what he found out, because one answer brought dragged ten questions along. Maybe some secrets are better left alone.
Beckett's voice is soft when she speaks. “People change, Castle.”
“But not like that. She was always...,” he looks up at her, feeling a little overwhelmed, confused and worried. “I can't imagine what she's been through. What could change her so much? It was a matter of principle. It’s like Gandhi carrying a gun,” he is thinking aloud and Beckett is regarding him quietly. “She's so different, Kate,” he uses her name, a thing he does when whatever they were discussing is just too important, and their little game of hot and cold ceases.
And then they are both silent, Richard with his eyes on the small piece of metal and Beckett's eyes on him, until she gently clasps his hand.
“Then there's not much help, Castle,” he looks up at Beckett, her face serious and sad and wonders where she finds her patience for him. She knows what she is saying, things she's talking about. “Sometimes people can't be changed back. All you can do is being their friend.”
*
John Sheppard doesn't look as grim as Richard remembers. He doesn't seem very pleased as he sits down across from Richard.
“What do you want?” he asks. Richard holds back his curiosity; it’s not the time to investigate.
“I want to apologize,” says Richard solemnly, placing the chain with dog tags in between them. John gives him a grave look and keeps looking at him when Richard puts the picture on the table. “They were, um, in my hand,” he explains as Sheppard narrows his eyes at him. “I was out of line.”
“That you were,” Sheppard takes his possessions and keeps his hard look on Richard.
“I know, I had no right to do what I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sheppard gives him an impatient look. “Are we done with this?”
“Yes,” Richard says, realizes that this is that one mystery he has to let go of, that he has no right prying like this.
That it’s not his place or right, saving her.
“I'm really sorry. I have... unfortunate methods of helping,” Richard shifts under Sheppard’s uncomfortable gaze. “No, that's a lie. I have a hard time accepting that I can't help.”
“Fair enough,” says Sheppard, and the tight set of his jaw loosens.
“I meant what I said, though.” They stare at each other for a moment more. “About Elizabeth. About being her friend. Remember that.”
“I will,” Sheppard says, and his face looks the same, and his eyes still carry that grave, dark expression. “I know her for a long time now,” Richard keeps talking, looking back into Sheppard’s eyes. “She disappeared four years ago. I never heard anything, didn’t know if her job got her killed. You see, she was in dangerous places. But she was never… like this,” he says quietly. For a moment, Sheppard lowers her gaze. “You worked with her,” says Richard, letting his writer’s mind tap as far as he can go. Sheppard gives a small nod. “Then you know -,” Richard doesn’t finish his thought and Sheppard just swallows. “I’m sorry. I’m pushing it again.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Well, you’re not making it easier.”
“Elizabeth can take care of herself,” retorts Sheppard.
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Good,” echoes Richard. “She also needs reminding she should eat.”
Sheppard lowers his head again, lips pressed to prevent a sad smile.
“I - my intentions weren’t bad,” he says. Sheppard looks at him without malice. Perhaps he even believes him, at least a little, because it seems they’re on the same page, two failed white knights. Richard would like to tell him more - ask him more - tell him how much it hurts him to see Elizabeth like this, not broken and not whole, but this man here probably knows it all, perhaps even how to fix whatever needs fixing. It hurts to think of it, think of Elizabeth, the way she was, and the way she is now, and realize that there's a part of her life he wasn't a part of, and never could be, for some inexplicable reason that's towering over them all.
But, above all, Richard knows she wouldn't like him, doing this. He has forgotten that she is a friend, and not a case to solve, forgotten where to draw a line, and that is why this man across the table has every right to be pissed.
That, thankfully, can be fixed before it’s too late. He hopes it’s not too late.
“Have you told her?” asks Richard, and unexpectedly Sheppard smiles. It's a small smile, barely there, and faint under the sadness he is trying to hold form spilling out.
“No,” he says.
“Thanks.”
Richard shakes John's hand as they walk out of the diner and thinks of Beckett's words. People can't be changed back.
*
It helps.
Richard starts writing again. There is a deadline looming just around the corner, and not having his mind wrapped around something he can't solve does help. He doesn't think of whys and he sure doesn't think of critic, he just writes (he has to), and sends Nikki on another adventure, a wild chase where she's running against the clock and her own better judgment. He's not sure is it good, but it makes him feel good.
He can be happy when Elizabeth is smiling, just for the sake of a smile. That, too, makes him feel good, even if the underlying problem is still there. He accepts his place and respects the line he shouldn’t cross.
He teases Beckett and she teases him back. The days fly by. There’s snow. There are Christmas carols on the radio. It’s cold. Ryan has another crazy looking tie. There is a case they solve pretty quickly. There is another case, and he is spending his days and nights at precinct and texting Elizabeth at least twice a day. He buys Christmas presents and confuses the hell out of Alexis' new boyfriend, when he comes to pick her up for a party. His daughter only rolls eyes at him.
He runs into John several times more and they greet each other. Richard can't be certain, but he seems calmer and Elizabeth seems happier and he crosses his fingers for them.
Perhaps they can be sufficiently fixed. Sometimes that’s enough, you take your crutch and limp, but you’re still moving.
Three days before Christmas he offers Elizabeth to take her to the airport. It's snowing. He meets Elizabeth in front of her apartment building and puts her single suitcase into his trunk. Her breath freezes in December morning as she talks about her mom and her dog. A family visit should do her good. Richard drives slowly because of the snow and the traffic and all the while they're chatting. There's music in the background and people on the streets.
There are lights, and sounds and snow, and the world seems to slow down, but it’s still moving too fast.
Richard barely sees the other car, not until it’s too late, and does everything he can to avoid the impact, but his car shakes and slips out of control, but it's the driver's side that takes the blow - a though of that crosses his mind even as two cars crash into each other, and he thinks, that's better, safer, that's where the car is, should be built stronger. He thinks how it’s a cheap plot device. How he wouldn’t have written it like this - he realizes they could die, and the thought of his daughter growing up without him flashes in his mind. There is a sound of glass breaking. It feels like something incredibly heavy falling from the sky, shattering against him, all in one second that lasts and lasts, and lasts. His head is thrown back, he sees Elizabeth jerking backwards and then forward, her face colliding with the airbag; and the world around him goes silent and black.
For a moment.
And then it's hard to move, and Elizabeth is there, but it's like she's miles apart, and he can't help her, now when he should. He sees blood and broken glass and the car around him feels squished and twisted. He barely registers the commotion around him, as the fingers of his right hand reach for his cell phone. His left arm is pinned between him and the door, and he can distantly feel the cold from the outside, seeping in.
He calls Beckett. He dials by memory because his vision is blurry. He doesn't really remember what he tells her - but there is a sound of her steady voice in his mind, saying she will be there. He knows she will. He knows. He feels like falling down. He doesn't remember the medics or telling them to take care of Elizabeth first.
*
Richard sees the ceiling. It's dull and the color is faded and he realizes he's in a hospital. The bed is stiff, his side hurts, his neck is sore and there's that unappealing hospital smell.
Then he sees Beckett, her face hovering above him. She looks a little pale, and her eyes seem worried.
“Castle,” she says softly. His head feels several sizes too big, and he feels numb and disoriented.
“Where am I?” he asks, even if he knows the answer. He needs to establish what happened, needs to hear her say it, tell him how bad it is. He needs the room to stop spinning.
“Hospital. You had a car accident.”
“How bad?”
“You or the car?” she asks, and despite the numbness and hurt he smiles and closes his eyes. “Your arm is broken, she informs him.
“Crap.”
If car accident is a bad plot device, then this has to be a plothole. He needs to finish the damn book.
“And you'll need a new car,” her voice breaks just a little but she somehow keeps the smile in place.
“I already hated this one,” he jokes back and looks at her. Beneath the smile, in her eyes, he can see that she's scared.
“Elizabeth?” he finally dares to ask.
“She needed a minor surgery,” Beckett says and places her palm on his chest. “She will be okay,” she adds.
“Did - did anyone call John Sheppard?”
“I'm not sure,” she answers. Richard swallows, his throat is dry and sore. He feels he owns a favor, owns lot of them, not sure why, he just knows he does.
“Can you do it, please?”
*
Next time he wakes up, he senses that someone else is sitting beside him. Richard turns his head slowly, still feeling numb and sore.
“Well. Looks like you can't keep yourself out of the trouble,” Sheppard is sitting there, simply looking worried.
“They say that about me,” Richard answers and shifts, testing how much movement he can stand.
“Elizabeth told me to say hi.”
Even though he knows she will be all right, it’s still relief to hear that.
“How is she?” asks Richard. His eyes keep closing, and it must be meds.
“Well, she says she's okay. The doctors say she needs to stay in bed for a week at least.”
Richard sighs and grins. “So typical.”
“You?” Sheppard asks.
“I feel like I was hit by a freight train, thank you.”
Sheppard shifts in his chair.
“It will get better.”
“Color me comforted,” Richard lifts his wrapped arm just slightly. There's numbing pain along his arm, starting below his elbow and spreading toward his fingers.
“You're that writer?” asks Sheppard with mild interest.
“Yeah,” says Richard. “That writer.”
“Well, that sucks,” Richard gives him a pointed look. “Not the writing. The arm -” Sheppard gestures with his hand with an awkward expression on his face.
“I'll just have to adapt,” Richard lifts his good hand, making a typing motion with his fingers. Sheppard smirks, then turns serious.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“Your friend cop told me about the crash,” says Sheppard, and Richard picks up on the meaning behind the words. He wasn’t very good at preventing harm coming Elizabeth’s way when it really mattered. Something tells him Sheppard would gladly switch places with him. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Haven't done enough, obviously,” it takes some effort, but Richard manages to push himself up a little.
“You couldn’t do anything else,” Sheppard says. “Listen. I'm gonna go and -,” he points his thumb behind his back.
“Tell her I said hi,” Richard leans back into his pillow. Sheppard nods, then turns toward the door. It seems that the tension between then had gone away, and indeed, what a predictable plot twist this is.
“Looks like you have a visit,” Sheppard says just before he leaves. At the door he greets Martha and Alexis. The girl storms into the room and thankfully she is mindful enough not to hug Richard senseless, although she probably wants to. Instead she looks worriedly at him.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“Yes, sure thing sweetie,” he says, looks at his mother who seems shaken, but her smile is there, in place. Just before Alexis carefully lowers herself into his one handed embrace, Richard glances toward the door, where John stands. He nods and Richard gives a tiny nod back.
*
Two days later he's good to go. Beckett comes to take him home, and Ryan and Esposito tag along. They tease him, and Richard can hear undertones of relief in their jokes. Before he leaves he goes to see Elizabeth - her room is close by - however Richard doesn't enter. Through the narrow, thick glass on the wooden door he can see her and John engaged in a conversation. She is sitting on her bed and he is in a chair nearby and they're not even holding hands, but there's something about them, something about the way the look together. There's a sense of belonging and knowing each other and it's just something he doesn't want to interrupt.
“Well,” says Kate and smiles.
“Exactly,” Esposito chimes in and Ryan nudges him lightly.
“I don't know about you, but that? That's definitely romance novel worthy.”
*
For someone really skilled with plots and twists, Richard Castle sometimes doesn't think at all.
Two days after Elizabeth is released he goes to visit her at her home. It's morning - not really early, but it's still breakfast time. He picks up The New York Ledger and freshly baked muffins. It takes some skill and effort, considering his broken arm. When Elizabeth opens the door, Richard belatedly realizes that he is, in fact, interrupting.
She lets him in even as she's slightly blushing. He can hear the music from the radio and practically senses she isn't alone. “Come in, Rick. John is, ah, making the breakfast.”
Richard gives her a peck on the cheek and smiles, placing the muffins and newspaper into her hands. He quickly scans the living room from where he stands, the Christmas three, newspaper, and two cups of coffee on the table. He smiles, she lifts an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not. I don't want to interfere with -”
“Don't be silly,” she says and her lips curl in a small grin. “We're all grown ups. And it would be plain mean, to kick out an injured man who just brought me muffins and newspaper,” she says and ushers him in, and John greets him from his spot near the stove.
“Why would you eat muffins when you have pancakes?” asks Richard when he sees what John is making.
“Because I love both muffins and pancakes for my breakfast,” she answers, making him sit onto the couch.
“Elizabeth,” he lovers his voice and gives her his best conspiracy face. “That's not just breakfast. That guy over there is making you pancakes,” he says, remembering how that must have looked to Lanie, Esposito and Ryan, and finds he doesn't mind that much, wishing it was the truth.
“The guy has a point,” says John, wiping his hands on the apron he's wearing. He seems like a different man here and now. “Quid pro quo, Castle. You brought the newspaper, the least you earned is coffee,” he smirks easily and Richard notes how much tension is gone from him. He didn’t even realize how much there was, until seeing him here.
Richard observes them, the open flow of emotion between them. Like Earth and the Moon, they seem to share a gravity field, a connection. It draws them close, even though it seems they're traveling apart from each other on occasion. It's in a single look, but that much Richard knew first time he saw them looking at each other. He admits to himself that he hadn’t seen much of that in his life and wonders if he ever truly had that. He hopes he will, some day, sooner rather than later. Elizabeth smiles affectionately and pulls her robe tighter around her. Richard smirks at her look and thinks it’s cute. The atmosphere is homely and welcoming, and Richard decides he doesn't mind staying for coffee.
“I have to warn you, though,” Sheppard walks toward kitchen, moving through Elizabeth's space, and Richard gets the feeling that they simply belong - together and to each other, no matter where they might be thrown. “I make incredibly bad coffee.”
“That's a lie,” Elizabeth says, sitting on a sofa. “Is there more for me?” she asks.
“I think there might be a little,” answers Sheppard.
“John, did you drink all of my coffee?” she asks pretending to be angry.
They laugh, and Sheppard jokes about entire New York City not having enough coffee for Elizabeth Weir. Richard makes himself comfortable as they sit and talk.
Later, after he leaves them, Richard thinks about three possible scenarios to end his new book. He always liked neat endings, where all ends meet.
Maybe that’s the different thing he should do. Not every question should be answered, they’re meant to lead you to seek, and find and change. Writing is not mathematics; it doesn’t need that kind of precision. Richard thinks of Elizabeth and his own questions, and decides that he prefers a happy ending over having all the answers. It might be a cliché, and there may not be much depth in it, but it makes him happy.
Fandom: Castle + SGA crossover
Pairing(s): Elizabeth Weir/John Sheppard, Richard Castle/Kate Beckett, mostly USTish
Rating: PG - 13
Genre: introspection, romance, light angst
Spoilers: Castle season two, up to “Wrapped up in death”; and SGA season three, “Return part I”
Warnings: none, I think
Disclaimer: not mine, just borrowing, not earning money, simply having fun
Beta: the awesome tenacious_err who said it's okay ♥ !!!
A/N1: I’d say this fic requires knowing both TV shows involved.
A/N2: written for otl_fest, for the prompt “Elizabeth/John, Castle/Beckett, writing another book.” Set after Return part I, then going AU. I am pretending that the second season of Castle happened roughly at the same time, for which, I hope, you can forgive me. The title was borrowed from John Farnham and his song “You're the voice”. A huge thank you to tenacious_err, hihoplastic and southernred2 (aka the usual enablers) and for the hand holding, prodding, idea - bouncing and listening to my rants. You're the best!! ♥
A/N3. I adore "Castle" and this is my first try at writing Castle - fic. Which is why I'm super nervous about this! Also, my very first crossover! AND, my very favorite pairings are here. *flails and runs in circles* Comments are so very very welcome. I apologize in advance for possible typos.
*
Some day, Richard Castle will write a different kind of story.
There won’t be murder and dead bodies.
It will be ordinary. Normal. Perhaps even predictable, in a way ordinary life is, without being boring.
In the meantime Richard is trying to decide if Nikki Heat should go undercover or solve a murder of a famous movie star. Perhaps she could do both.
“Dad?”
“Huh?” he looks up at his daughter.
“Something wrong, dad?”
“Um. No,” he says. Alexis is eyeing him suspiciously, sensing that something is not quite right. He probably doesn’t know anyone in the way he knows Alexis, and yet, she reads him so well, and manages to surprise him anew.
“You sure? Because you have that face.”
“What face?”
“You know. That face. I’m - stuck, my - muse - has - left - me face.”
“I do not have that face. I was just -“
Alexis raises an eyebrow, something she had learned from Martha.
“Just what?” she insists, and yes, it's him who taught her this, not to drop an issue and pursue answers.
“Thinking,” he says. It's a honest response, he only wishes his thinking would lead him somewhere.
She doesn’t ask more questions but she keeps glancing at him from the other corner of the room, while she goes through her English homework. She probably knows he isn't feeling comfortable discussing it further.
If he had his old typewriter, he would grab the paper, fisting it in his hand and throw it toward the bin in the corner. Computers are fun but deleting a document doesn't match the fun of throwing the paper away. Then he speaks, picking a slightly different topic.
“Do you think I should write something different?”
Alexis looks up with a confused expression on her face.
“Like what?” she asks.
“Like drama.”
Alexis frowns.
“Why would you do that?” she asks.
Good point, he thinks. Why.
Richard closes his eyes and leans deeply into his writing chair, hating to admit that this is one of those times. In his head, Nikki feels tired, tired and bored. She hasn't reached the unmotivated phase yet, but Richard can see her slowly going there. She has solved all kinds of cases - in his head, not necessarily the books - and just like him, Nikki needs a challenge. He just doesn't know what kind of challenge.
Like any writer, Richard hates not having a story to tell.
*
Richard believes a writer should have a good reason to tell a story. There are plenty of good reasons to write crime mystery novels.
They’re fun. Exciting. People like them. They can make you famous, which means parties, cocktails and pretty girls. Money isn’t bad either.
Not to mention, you sometimes get to work with real cops.
But, in his heart of hearts, Richard knows (and never admits aloud) that writing gives you power, and a sense of control. In his books, death is explained, and cases are always successfully closed. World is a safer place, and there is one bad guy less, but on the last page his characters are back to square one. They don't really change.
His writing is just not profound.
That's why he thinks he should do something different.
“Why would you do that?” asks Ryan, smoothing down another ridiculously looking necktie.
“Yes, why would you do that?” Esposito echoes, as Beckett walks into the break room. She sets her coffee cup down and Richard gives her a wide smirk. Beckett frowns at the overheard conversation.
“Do what?” she asks, taking a sip of her own coffee.
“Big Rick is writing a romantic drama,” says Ryan.
“I am not,” says Richard with indignation, but he can feel suspicious warmth creeping up his face as Ryan and Esposito go on with the wink - wink - nudge - nudge routine, aiming to clue Beckett in. Beckett smiles and gives him one of those narrowed looks that sends him into hurried explaining. “I am not! I said family focused drama -“
“With romantic undertones,” adds Ryan.
Beckett is staring at him, her expression unreadable and it’s not helping. That’s the look that usually makes him say whatever she wants to know.
“Focused on family dynamics, interpersonal issues, everyday struggles, real life things -,“ three of them break into giggles. “Things like your necktie,” he says and three of them laugh. “There is romance in normal, everyday life!” he protests.
“Middle aged writing crisis?” asks Esposito. “And there is nothing normal about that necktie!”
“That’s it. No more advance copies for you!”
“Ouch,” says Ryan and cracks up. Then, Beckett’s phone rings and they're called for another case. The teasing stops and the action begins, and Richard forgets about his writing woes.
Beckett doesn’t comment on the issue until later, during the ride in her new car. She stops at red lights and glances at him.
“Really, Castle. Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. He knows what she is asking.
“I could use a change?”
She grins.
“That’s not the reason,” she says and looks at him, and that tone and look usually get through to him.
“I could use a challenge?” he offers less defensively.
“I don’t think that’s the real reason either,” she answers. It's not, he thinks, but doesn't want to tell her. He thinks of Derrick Storm, comparing him mentally to Nikki and decides he likes Nikki a helluva lot more to give her a Derrick kind of send off. He doesn’t want to even hint at it, so he just keeps looking at her hands on the steering wheel, contemplating familiarity.
When the day comes, he will just send her to retirement. But not yet. Familiarity feels good, and he needs a reason to stick around.
That's why he has to find another story.
Richard grumbles and leans back in his seat. Beckett is grinning, like she knows something he doesn’t, and that doesn’t make him very content, but experience tells him he just has to live with it. Muses come and go. They're whimsy like that.
They reach the crime scene and she glances at him before they go out to face the real world.
“Don’t let it bother you too much. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says.
*
Days go. The case is solved, and another. It still bothers him.
What Richard needs is a mystery to solve.
It bothers him for weeks, until the fundraiser for Metropolitan Opera.
He takes Beckett with him, and she looks amazing in the long emerald dress. He contemplates how well she finds her way into his world, and seamlessly fits in when he sees her; someone he didn't expect to see.
She is wearing a long red dress. For a moment Richard is stunned when he recognizes the wavy hair and slim figure, her bony, bare shoulders and the laugh. He’d recognize her anywhere.
Elizabeth. Elizabeth Weir. That freckled faced girl he knows since he was fifteen, who could always verbally kick his ass. She looks too thin, she always has, and her hair is longer and her skin paler than he remembers. He used to have a crush on her. Richard tries to remember when was the last time he saw her and can’t. She is talking and holding a glass, and then, when she sees him she stops talking and her face breaks into a smile.
“Elizabeth Weir,” he says, smiling as she looks up at him.
“Richard,” her smile is a little too happy, but the affection when she hugs him is genuine. In rush he tries to take in everything he sees and catches bits and small things, how tired she looks under her smile, the dark rings under her eyes carefully hidden under make up. He remembers studying with her, bringing her coffee and discussing politics, remembers her throwing pillows at him. He remembers asking her out, until she got tired of it and caved in. They spent the night talking. They didn’t kiss.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking for words and still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this really is her, that she showed up just as suddenly and unexpectedly as she had disappeared.
“Doing a favor to a friend,” she says and looks around and Richard is too overwhelmed with the fact that she is here again, after all these years. He forgets to ask her where she was for the last three, or maybe four years, when he wanted to invite her to book signings, when Martha wanted her to see the plays, but no one could find her. Richard still remembers wondering what happened to her, or was it a classified diplomatic assignment that got her captured and killed. “She is around here somewhere,” she says and her sounds just like four years ago, like it was yesterday.
“Is she as hot as you?” he asks, and that gets him an eyebrow and a smile. He breathes through his own relief, feeling overwhelmed just as questions he wants to ask her feel, but he can't even begin.
“She’s married,” says Elizabeth with an easy, practiced smile.
“And you are, hopefully, single?” he asks, and doesn’t miss the shadow that quickly disappears from her face. “Elizabeth?” he asks, all those concerns and questions locked in that single word.
“Still single and still off limits. You, on the other hand -“
She indicates with her head in Beckett's direction.
“She’s a -“ Richard turns around and nods toward Beckett, raising his glass. Beckett is smirking in a knowing way, expecting that he is chatting up a pretty woman, but this is not what she thinks it is. “A friend. Working partner,” Richard swallows slightly at the raised eyebrow. “She is! She's a cop. I work with her, so I could write credible crime novels.”
“I remain happily divorced,” he adds.
“I see,” says Elizabeth and Richard nods. She keeps smiling.
“So. How long are you staying in town, Elizabeth?”
*
It turns out that Elizabeth lives here.
Richard finds that odd.
New York was never on top of Elizabeth’s favorites list. Not that she disliked it, it just wasn’t her kind of place. Richard can't put his finger on it and find a reason behind his odd feeling, but it seems like a too perfect alibi, and those always turned out false. Well, at least in all the stories he wrote that was the case.
However, Elizabeth Weir teaching in a public school in Brooklyn is a tad bit out of her character. Really, not right for her.
So, in a surge of protectiveness he has no right to feel, Richard tells Beckett about Elizabeth, and he tells her it’s not wrong, per se, meeting the stare of his partner, one she uses in the box. Then he realizes he’s being an easy mark again as tells her about Elizabeth he remembers - smart, strong, goal driven and idealistic. She had gone all the way, with two doctorates and dozen of peace treaties under her belt and things simply don’t make sense. It’s not that he thinks teaching is demeaning, or anything along those lines. You just don’t send the best detective to hand out speeding tickets.
Beckett just looks at him, waiting for him to ask the question.
And he does, while he walks next to her through the precinct.
“Can you look into her?”
“Absolutely not, Castle,” she says, exasperated.
“But!”
She stops in front of him, raises her finger and enters his private space.
“No,” she is determinant. “It would be out of the line and wrong.”
“Oh, come on. Are you going to tell me that a woman with two Ph.Ds, who mediated peace treaties God - knows - where, worked for the UN, who was AWOL for nearly four years, suddenly teaching in a poor public school doesn’t sound odd to you?”
“Castle.” She sighs and they do one of their stare - competitions, complete with Ryan and Esposito in the background wishing for some popcorn. She turns away, goes to her desk and sits, “We have a new case to deal with. Unless your friend is a suspect, I won’t be looking into her.”
*
However, Ryan and Esposito are nothing but too willing helpers.
Of course, Richard knows a guy who knows a guy and even after they do everything by the book, soon enough they hit a wall, as solid as a security clearance and confidential information. It isn't surprising, but it's still disappointing, and it makes him frustrated.
There’s a call from Important Somebody and Montgomery is quite pissed about it, pissed at Ryan and Esposito, and of course that is how Beckett finds out and gives Richard an earful, even though the guys defend him wholeheartedly.
At the end it’s even odder. Beckett admits as much after they solve another case, and asks Richard to tell her more about Elizabeth.
He does.
Catherine Weir, Elizabeth’s mother, loves theater. Richard supposes that’s how she met his own mother. He had known Elizabeth since he was a teenager. He remembers pigtails, books and her monologues about civil rights, environmental issues, elephants, all sorts of activism. He remembers teasing her about it. He remembers that she had enough wisdom and willpower to convince majority of the world into reason. She wanted to join Greenpeace and Doctors Without Borders and become a President. At seventeen Richard believed she could do all that, but in between he used to remind her she should have a walk, or a coffee, or simply a laugh. Sometimes she had to be reminded of that.
She also loved to stare over the wide expanse of the sea. Richard remembers that he never got to kiss her. He doesn't say that bit out loud.
“Sounds like you had a crush on her,” teases Beckett while eating a burger and messing up his car. Richard doesn’t mind. He just wants to brush off that small bit of salad from Beckett's cheek.
“Everyone had a crush on her,” he says.
*
A true writer investigates.
Not that he is going to write a book about Elizabeth Weir. She is a secret, that much he's aware of, and he isn’t sure he could ever solve that mystery. She got too good at not answering the questions, no matter how much time they spend talking. Even after the walks, and few dinners at his place he still doesn’t know where she’s been, and what she’s been doing. His rational mind understands things like confidentiality, but his heart feels like he had lost something important.
Elizabeth talks to Martha, and Alexis, and the girl instantly adores Elizabeth. But no amount of conversation gets him anywhere. Richard is left with pieces, lines on her face she didn't have four years ago, that make her look too old, like someone who aged too soon; someone who had seen too many frightening things. He counts the flecks on the thin skin of her hands and studies her profile when she is lost in thought, when she doesn't know she's being watched. Richard has seen people before, men and women marked by something bigger than them. That is how she looks, and the notion leaves him restless when he tries imagining things she’d seen.
Sometimes she reacts in ways he can't explain differently than people, or places reminding her of something else - certain buildings, certain people; it seems like she is pulled back under the water. A tall man with dreadlocks passes them on the street and she turns, eyes momentarily frozen on his back. Richard asks if she knows him and she just shakes her head.
“Reminds me of someone I used to know,” she murmurs and that's as far as he will get.
It seems like a shroud of silence is engulfing her, at all times, and nobody and nothing can pull her out. He sees glimpses of old Elizabeth, vibrant and strong, colorful with her passion and her intensity, hidden somewhere in there, but he can't pull her out.
But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t even try - which is why Beckett’ follows him through the halls of Boys and Girls High School on Fulton Street. Richard doesn’t feel as comfortable as he does in crime scenes, because unlike with crime scenes he doesn’t know what to expect right now. Beckett walks with confidence until they find the classroom number twenty - four and Richard can hear a familiar voice.
He can hear her voice, the rhythmic pace of her telling, and when he nears the door, he can see her through the glass. It’s an unknown sight, and he finds himself with a bittersweet feeling in his chest. The door isn’t shut closed and Richard hears the patient tone with sharp edges underneath as he pries the door slightly open, and Beckett rolls her eyes at him. Richard can feel his face spread into a grin, watching her with a piece of white chalk in her hand, glasses halfway down her nose, while she is writing down things on the board. It’s not grammar. Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway, narration, stream of consciousness. She looks so much like that girl he used to know, the one who read tons of books, that cute girl with freckles on her face, with intelligence and knowledge and passion. A room full of teenagers is quiet as they listen.
That’s the Elizabeth he knows.
It couldn’t be better, he thinks, but watching Elizabeth teaching about writing.
When she asks for homework, a kid tries to weasel out, but she will have none of it, and she reminds him he didn’t have his homework done the last time either.
And then the kid stands up - in his teens he is taller and bigger than her - and he stares down at her, calls her a ‘stupid teacher with stupid books’ and Richard wants to walk inside and mightily step in between them.
Then something happens. Something that will keep him thinking, something he doesn’t expect, but later, when he drives in his car and thinks about it, it’s not really that strange. Elizabeth only looks fragile. She never really needed someone to step in for her, she was always capable of handling herself, or any trouble.
Richard later marvels the steel determination in her eyes as she told the kid to sit down, the tone of her voice he hasn't heard yet, tempting him closer.
The kid doesn’t do obey her at first, and keeps staring at her, but there’s something in there - something - not quite whole and not quite broken, and the unruly teenager backs down in front of that force, and falls into his chair, grumbling.
Richard shares a look with Beckett.
“I think he's in trouble,” he says. Beckett just grins.
*
There was a queen once, Richard writes. The warriors bent to her will and she ruled many lands.
His fingers pause and he stares at the words blinking back at him from the laptop screen. He can’t believe what he just had written.
“Dad,” Alexis leans forward over his shoulder. “That is so clichéd,” she says.
“Really?”
“Like, incredibly clichéd.”
“You don’t like it?” he asks.
Alexis hops onto his desk and dangles her feet through the air. He smiles internally at her long braids, her pink - orange pajamas and rabbit - slippers, thinking of the little girl she was just yesterday and the young woman she isn’t quite yet.
“I do. Don't cliches rule the world of telling?” she asks, smiling.
“Admittedly, they do,” says Richard practically. “It's very hard coming up with something original these days. What matters is how you tell the story.”
“A - ha,” Alexis lifts one finger grinning at him. “Don't you always say that? That you should tell the story you would like to read yourself? One you want to tell? Don't care about the reviews too much and have fun and all that?”
“Hum, yeah,” he agrees.
“There you go, dad,” she smiles at him.
“You have a point, kiddo.”
“I have my moments,” she says, dangling her feet. There is a moment of silence, and he just looks at Alexis, trying to capture the moment in his mind and save it somewhere. “Tell me about her?”
“About whom, sweetie?”
“The queen,” she says.
Richard smiles and starts the story with 'once upon a time', just like he used to do when Alexis was a little girl. It feels good to tell a story just for the sake of telling.
*
Then, nearly two months later, something happens.
It's almost too cold to sit in the park, but Elizabeth likes it. She tells him about her students and he tells her about the cases and amusing little things that happen. They spend a lot of time together. If she were someone else Richard would ask her on a date. When people ask questions about them, he dismisses them in a way that stops further questioning, and Richard himself feels that she is committed to someone - something. He feels it's bigger than her and much bigger than him, and he would just like to help her get out of there, wherever 'there' might be. But, if he is honest, he has no idea what he's doing, just that she seems to enjoy his company. Sometimes Beckett joins them, sometimes it's a poker game at his place and Ryan and Esposito compete over making her laugh. But those are just moments, and her laughs are just glimpses.
Richard tells her about that time he thought he was cursed. He tells her about the elevator and the dog and his torn jeans ('right on my butt' - she laughs), when it happens. Richard notices she isn't listening to him, but staring in front of them instead, her cup of coffee in her slightly shaking hand. He follows her gaze, fixed at the man standing not too far away.
It doesn't last long. Less than a minute, perhaps, but at the same time it seems much, much longer. She stares and the man stares back - the man in a long black coat, with dark, unruly hair and unusually expressive face. The silence is thick, a bird's cry distant and frozen in November air. The man's gaze is calling out to her, loudly. It's a look that any writer could describe in detail, going on for pages, detailing the history, the things done and words unsaid. It doesn't take much imagination, when she stands up, and the man comes closer, one hand slightly outstretched toward her. Richard doesn't need a leap of imagination to realize that they shared something and each other.
The man is looking at Elizabeth like she were the last breath of sun he would ever see, and part of Richard wants to leave, and leave them alone.
“Elizabeth,” the man's voice is raw and low, and her name feels familiar, dripping from his lips. She straightens her expression, smoothing out everything until the mask she's wearing is impeccable. At the same time she is wringing her fingers. Richard knows that gesture.
She shakes her head.
“John,” is all she says, before she looks at Richard. It's one of those looks that ask ‘let’s go somewhere else’. He isn't there to question. Elizabeth is his friend, all he wants is to help. He offers his hand.
It's Richard who turns around. The man stares after them, and the man’s eyes darken, a look of hurt slipping from under his control.
She keeps wringing his fingers as they walk.
*
“What if the queen was in love?” Richard suddenly asks.
Alexis looks up from the jigsaw puzzle they're putting together.
“Dad?”
“The queen? You know the queen? Cliches?” he prods and it takes some time, but Alexis figures out what he’s talking about.
“Oh, the queen!”
“Yes, that queen.”
“She was in love?” asks Alexis.
“I think she was.”
“Like Guinevere and Lancelot?”
“Not quite,” Richard gaze turns thoughtful. “She isn't married. Never was. I don't think there was another man between them,” One part fact, one part fiction, he thinks and continues. “But perhaps there is another reason she can't have the man she loves?”
Alexis grins. “Men from all over the country court her, but nobody is truly worthy of her hand?” she asks theatrically. Richard smiles at her suggestion but deep down he knows the reason is deeper and sadder.
“Or, perhaps, her duties to her people prevent her from giving in to desires of her heart,” he puts another piece to the puzzle. A two thousand piece picture of Taj Mahal is far from being done. It's raining outside. The bad weather is dull and constant. There are only weeks until the Christmas, but Richard doesn't feel the holiday cheer yet. He feels like he's been locked inside his head for too long, with only pieces of the story, but nothing to connect it.
“That sounds incredibly classic,” Martha walks into the room with a glass of wine and sits on the sofa. “I'd say, just ask her who's the mystery man and what did he do,” she takes a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass.
“There's an actual mystery man?” Alexis perks up.
“Yup. Tall, dark and handsome.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Yes. John - something.”
“Elizabeth and John,” says Martha thoughtfully and smiles. “Very classical names.”
“Sir John and Lady Elizabeth,” adds Alexis playfully. “Sounds like a movie I'd watch.”
“They seemed more like star crossed lovers. Should have seen the looks,” Richard winks.
“Sparks flying?”
“High voltage,” Richard grins and after few moments of silence he says, “I wonder what happened to her. To them. She'll never tell me, though,” he concludes. It's more than writer's curiosity or a challenge to crack. It seems like there is no way to help her. “It's like one of those cases that never get solved.”
Martha folds her fingers around her glass neatly.
“Maybe you need a different approach here, son.”
“What do you mean, mother?”
“What you usually do is figure out what kills people, and who does it and why. What you need to do now, kiddo, is figure out what makes them kick and scream and hope. Not to say you're not doing that, or incapable of doing it. But your focus is usually elsewhere. Your friend here didn't lose her life, she had lost her hope. It sounds like that, at least. Sometimes that's scarier than anything else that could happen to you.”
*
“Maybe he disappointed her,” says Beckett thoughtfully. Ryan and Esposito nod in agreement. At this point they're all sucked into the mystery Richard is trying to solve, and they're debating it, much like they're debating their cases and suspects; writing out possible scenarios over a bowl of french fries at Remy’s. “She doesn't seem like a person who could walk over something like that.”
Richard shakes his head slowly.
“She isn't, but it didn't look like that,” he says, staring at the food in front of them, and puts his burger down.
“Then how did it look? All they did -,” Esposito waves his hand between them, “was an exchange of names?”
“And gazes,” Richard lifts his finger, followed by a wooing sound by Ryan and Beckett. “And in a span of moment, eternity had passed.”
“That's it, bro,” Esposito laughs. “You're so done. Hey, Beckett, why do we even keep him here? He turned into a romance novelist,” Esposito jokes and Richard pretends to get angry.
“Because I am smart and help you figure out things more quickly than you would do without me?”
The three detectives keep laughing. Richard realizes that no amount of pouting or fake threats will help him out this time.
*
“I need to pick a lock.”
Ryan drops the pencil that was stuck between his lips and lowers the report he's reading.
“Castle, telling a police officer that you're possibly about to commit a crime isn't the best idea,” says Esposito.
“I am not telling you I'm about to commit crime. Just that I need to pick a lock.”
“It can be a bet,” says Ryan. Esposito suppresses a laugh. “You know, who’s quicker in lock picking.”
“See? A bet,” accepts Richard quickly, gesturing with his hand. Esposito’s face stretches into a mischievous grin.
“Okay. We don't want our buddy to lose a bet,” Esposito agrees, setting his coffee - mug on the desk. “Just don’t get yourself in trouble.”
*
Richard was never fond of white knights. He dislikes easy solutions in telling. Besides, a true hero should have a flaw.
Perhaps John - what's - his - name is a flawed hero, not a stalker. He does persistently seek Elizabeth, and Richard keeps running into him, or finds them talking, or perhaps trying not to talk. It looks uncomfortable, they look uncomfortable, like a wire under too much strain. He sees the little things, the look in John's eyes and how close they stand to each other, how painfully hard it is for Elizabeth to move away from him each time. Richard sees him leave and one day he follows John, finds out where he lives, then tricks the doorman into telling him the number of apartment.
Sheppard, he reads on the door as he's fiddling with the lock. Symbolical last name to go with a classic name. His mother would probably like the combination. The process goes slower than his lessons with Esposito and Ryan. Finally the lock gives in and the door slides open. Richard walks in slowly, quietly, not intending to disturb anything. He is just investigating. Just trying to help a friend, he tells himself, although chills run up his spine. All he wants is to understand, which isn’t wrong per se, but intruding is. He never had a problem with it, but in his time as Beckett’s partner he had few bitter lessons about intruding, and almost lost her. He just prays he won’t get caught again.
The place is smaller than he expected. John Sheppard seems to be a neat man, his possessions are few. He has two shelves full of books and there Richard finds a strange selection of titles. no Nikki Heat or Derrick Storm, in fact, his collection seems outdated. A worn copy of War and Peace catches his eye and he pulls it out. A book says a lot about the owner. Richard opens it to find leaves worn, read and used, carrying a scent of something far away and out of reach. A photograph slips out from somewhere in the middle and Richard isn't entirely surprised to see Elizabeth among women and men. She is smiling and it's this John she's standing very close to. That doesn’t surprise him either.
For a moment Richard just stares. She looks content and calm, and even though her smile isn't as big as he remembers, he realizes that she looks happy. She looks like Elizabeth he knows.
It takes a moment of hesitation. Richard hushes the voice of his conscience and slips the photograph into the inner pocket of his jacket, telling himself that he will need it. It’s a proof that she’s still there, somewhere, that he isn’t imagining it.
He wanders through living room, finding newspaper, a four years old golf magazine, an odd looking ceramic pot.
A small object catches his eye, looking carelessly discarded on a dining table. Richard lifts the chain with his fingers, looking at two small plates of metal, unmistakably knowing what those are. And just before he can start to wonder, before his mind is sent reeling - because Elizabeth was always, always about stopping and preventing military action - he hears the door open and a shout behind his back and he knows he's busted.
“What the hell are you doing here?!!”
Richard turns around slowly, trying to give his brain time to come up with a response. He feels like an idiot, like a fucking idiot, because of course this had been a bad idea. It was a horrible idea.
“Nothing in particular,” is what he comes up with, and that man, John Sheppard, is looking at him with dangerous determination.
“Get out of here,” the voice is low, clearly threatening, but Richard has to try, against his better judgment.
“I am Elizabeth's friend,” he says hurriedly. “My name is Richard Castle. I want to help her.”
“I said get out,” Sheppard repeats, and it doesn't look like Richard's words have reached him at all.
“Tell me how can I help her,” he presses, but his request is starting to lose the point. What on earth was he thinking?
“I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. I’d get out of here really, really fast,” says John and in three fast strides he walks up to Richard, and skillfully grabs him by the arm. Just before he kicks him out Richard manages to say one more thing.
“Call me. If you need help, if you -”
The door slams closed.
“That went well,” he mutters to himself.
*
It feels like a hole in his chest.
“She never liked military,” he says quietly. Beckett's eyes are thoughtful as she looks at him, then looks back at the photograph lying on the desk in front of her. He is poking the chain of dogtags with his finger, not really wanting to touch it. The photograph is next to the chain and Beckett is studying people on the picture. She doesn’t lecture him about it, it seems that she finds his remorse satisfactory. He doesn’t really think about what he found out, because one answer brought dragged ten questions along. Maybe some secrets are better left alone.
Beckett's voice is soft when she speaks. “People change, Castle.”
“But not like that. She was always...,” he looks up at her, feeling a little overwhelmed, confused and worried. “I can't imagine what she's been through. What could change her so much? It was a matter of principle. It’s like Gandhi carrying a gun,” he is thinking aloud and Beckett is regarding him quietly. “She's so different, Kate,” he uses her name, a thing he does when whatever they were discussing is just too important, and their little game of hot and cold ceases.
And then they are both silent, Richard with his eyes on the small piece of metal and Beckett's eyes on him, until she gently clasps his hand.
“Then there's not much help, Castle,” he looks up at Beckett, her face serious and sad and wonders where she finds her patience for him. She knows what she is saying, things she's talking about. “Sometimes people can't be changed back. All you can do is being their friend.”
*
John Sheppard doesn't look as grim as Richard remembers. He doesn't seem very pleased as he sits down across from Richard.
“What do you want?” he asks. Richard holds back his curiosity; it’s not the time to investigate.
“I want to apologize,” says Richard solemnly, placing the chain with dog tags in between them. John gives him a grave look and keeps looking at him when Richard puts the picture on the table. “They were, um, in my hand,” he explains as Sheppard narrows his eyes at him. “I was out of line.”
“That you were,” Sheppard takes his possessions and keeps his hard look on Richard.
“I know, I had no right to do what I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sheppard gives him an impatient look. “Are we done with this?”
“Yes,” Richard says, realizes that this is that one mystery he has to let go of, that he has no right prying like this.
That it’s not his place or right, saving her.
“I'm really sorry. I have... unfortunate methods of helping,” Richard shifts under Sheppard’s uncomfortable gaze. “No, that's a lie. I have a hard time accepting that I can't help.”
“Fair enough,” says Sheppard, and the tight set of his jaw loosens.
“I meant what I said, though.” They stare at each other for a moment more. “About Elizabeth. About being her friend. Remember that.”
“I will,” Sheppard says, and his face looks the same, and his eyes still carry that grave, dark expression. “I know her for a long time now,” Richard keeps talking, looking back into Sheppard’s eyes. “She disappeared four years ago. I never heard anything, didn’t know if her job got her killed. You see, she was in dangerous places. But she was never… like this,” he says quietly. For a moment, Sheppard lowers her gaze. “You worked with her,” says Richard, letting his writer’s mind tap as far as he can go. Sheppard gives a small nod. “Then you know -,” Richard doesn’t finish his thought and Sheppard just swallows. “I’m sorry. I’m pushing it again.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Well, you’re not making it easier.”
“Elizabeth can take care of herself,” retorts Sheppard.
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Good,” echoes Richard. “She also needs reminding she should eat.”
Sheppard lowers his head again, lips pressed to prevent a sad smile.
“I - my intentions weren’t bad,” he says. Sheppard looks at him without malice. Perhaps he even believes him, at least a little, because it seems they’re on the same page, two failed white knights. Richard would like to tell him more - ask him more - tell him how much it hurts him to see Elizabeth like this, not broken and not whole, but this man here probably knows it all, perhaps even how to fix whatever needs fixing. It hurts to think of it, think of Elizabeth, the way she was, and the way she is now, and realize that there's a part of her life he wasn't a part of, and never could be, for some inexplicable reason that's towering over them all.
But, above all, Richard knows she wouldn't like him, doing this. He has forgotten that she is a friend, and not a case to solve, forgotten where to draw a line, and that is why this man across the table has every right to be pissed.
That, thankfully, can be fixed before it’s too late. He hopes it’s not too late.
“Have you told her?” asks Richard, and unexpectedly Sheppard smiles. It's a small smile, barely there, and faint under the sadness he is trying to hold form spilling out.
“No,” he says.
“Thanks.”
Richard shakes John's hand as they walk out of the diner and thinks of Beckett's words. People can't be changed back.
*
It helps.
Richard starts writing again. There is a deadline looming just around the corner, and not having his mind wrapped around something he can't solve does help. He doesn't think of whys and he sure doesn't think of critic, he just writes (he has to), and sends Nikki on another adventure, a wild chase where she's running against the clock and her own better judgment. He's not sure is it good, but it makes him feel good.
He can be happy when Elizabeth is smiling, just for the sake of a smile. That, too, makes him feel good, even if the underlying problem is still there. He accepts his place and respects the line he shouldn’t cross.
He teases Beckett and she teases him back. The days fly by. There’s snow. There are Christmas carols on the radio. It’s cold. Ryan has another crazy looking tie. There is a case they solve pretty quickly. There is another case, and he is spending his days and nights at precinct and texting Elizabeth at least twice a day. He buys Christmas presents and confuses the hell out of Alexis' new boyfriend, when he comes to pick her up for a party. His daughter only rolls eyes at him.
He runs into John several times more and they greet each other. Richard can't be certain, but he seems calmer and Elizabeth seems happier and he crosses his fingers for them.
Perhaps they can be sufficiently fixed. Sometimes that’s enough, you take your crutch and limp, but you’re still moving.
Three days before Christmas he offers Elizabeth to take her to the airport. It's snowing. He meets Elizabeth in front of her apartment building and puts her single suitcase into his trunk. Her breath freezes in December morning as she talks about her mom and her dog. A family visit should do her good. Richard drives slowly because of the snow and the traffic and all the while they're chatting. There's music in the background and people on the streets.
There are lights, and sounds and snow, and the world seems to slow down, but it’s still moving too fast.
Richard barely sees the other car, not until it’s too late, and does everything he can to avoid the impact, but his car shakes and slips out of control, but it's the driver's side that takes the blow - a though of that crosses his mind even as two cars crash into each other, and he thinks, that's better, safer, that's where the car is, should be built stronger. He thinks how it’s a cheap plot device. How he wouldn’t have written it like this - he realizes they could die, and the thought of his daughter growing up without him flashes in his mind. There is a sound of glass breaking. It feels like something incredibly heavy falling from the sky, shattering against him, all in one second that lasts and lasts, and lasts. His head is thrown back, he sees Elizabeth jerking backwards and then forward, her face colliding with the airbag; and the world around him goes silent and black.
For a moment.
And then it's hard to move, and Elizabeth is there, but it's like she's miles apart, and he can't help her, now when he should. He sees blood and broken glass and the car around him feels squished and twisted. He barely registers the commotion around him, as the fingers of his right hand reach for his cell phone. His left arm is pinned between him and the door, and he can distantly feel the cold from the outside, seeping in.
He calls Beckett. He dials by memory because his vision is blurry. He doesn't really remember what he tells her - but there is a sound of her steady voice in his mind, saying she will be there. He knows she will. He knows. He feels like falling down. He doesn't remember the medics or telling them to take care of Elizabeth first.
*
Richard sees the ceiling. It's dull and the color is faded and he realizes he's in a hospital. The bed is stiff, his side hurts, his neck is sore and there's that unappealing hospital smell.
Then he sees Beckett, her face hovering above him. She looks a little pale, and her eyes seem worried.
“Castle,” she says softly. His head feels several sizes too big, and he feels numb and disoriented.
“Where am I?” he asks, even if he knows the answer. He needs to establish what happened, needs to hear her say it, tell him how bad it is. He needs the room to stop spinning.
“Hospital. You had a car accident.”
“How bad?”
“You or the car?” she asks, and despite the numbness and hurt he smiles and closes his eyes. “Your arm is broken, she informs him.
“Crap.”
If car accident is a bad plot device, then this has to be a plothole. He needs to finish the damn book.
“And you'll need a new car,” her voice breaks just a little but she somehow keeps the smile in place.
“I already hated this one,” he jokes back and looks at her. Beneath the smile, in her eyes, he can see that she's scared.
“Elizabeth?” he finally dares to ask.
“She needed a minor surgery,” Beckett says and places her palm on his chest. “She will be okay,” she adds.
“Did - did anyone call John Sheppard?”
“I'm not sure,” she answers. Richard swallows, his throat is dry and sore. He feels he owns a favor, owns lot of them, not sure why, he just knows he does.
“Can you do it, please?”
*
Next time he wakes up, he senses that someone else is sitting beside him. Richard turns his head slowly, still feeling numb and sore.
“Well. Looks like you can't keep yourself out of the trouble,” Sheppard is sitting there, simply looking worried.
“They say that about me,” Richard answers and shifts, testing how much movement he can stand.
“Elizabeth told me to say hi.”
Even though he knows she will be all right, it’s still relief to hear that.
“How is she?” asks Richard. His eyes keep closing, and it must be meds.
“Well, she says she's okay. The doctors say she needs to stay in bed for a week at least.”
Richard sighs and grins. “So typical.”
“You?” Sheppard asks.
“I feel like I was hit by a freight train, thank you.”
Sheppard shifts in his chair.
“It will get better.”
“Color me comforted,” Richard lifts his wrapped arm just slightly. There's numbing pain along his arm, starting below his elbow and spreading toward his fingers.
“You're that writer?” asks Sheppard with mild interest.
“Yeah,” says Richard. “That writer.”
“Well, that sucks,” Richard gives him a pointed look. “Not the writing. The arm -” Sheppard gestures with his hand with an awkward expression on his face.
“I'll just have to adapt,” Richard lifts his good hand, making a typing motion with his fingers. Sheppard smirks, then turns serious.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“Your friend cop told me about the crash,” says Sheppard, and Richard picks up on the meaning behind the words. He wasn’t very good at preventing harm coming Elizabeth’s way when it really mattered. Something tells him Sheppard would gladly switch places with him. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Haven't done enough, obviously,” it takes some effort, but Richard manages to push himself up a little.
“You couldn’t do anything else,” Sheppard says. “Listen. I'm gonna go and -,” he points his thumb behind his back.
“Tell her I said hi,” Richard leans back into his pillow. Sheppard nods, then turns toward the door. It seems that the tension between then had gone away, and indeed, what a predictable plot twist this is.
“Looks like you have a visit,” Sheppard says just before he leaves. At the door he greets Martha and Alexis. The girl storms into the room and thankfully she is mindful enough not to hug Richard senseless, although she probably wants to. Instead she looks worriedly at him.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“Yes, sure thing sweetie,” he says, looks at his mother who seems shaken, but her smile is there, in place. Just before Alexis carefully lowers herself into his one handed embrace, Richard glances toward the door, where John stands. He nods and Richard gives a tiny nod back.
*
Two days later he's good to go. Beckett comes to take him home, and Ryan and Esposito tag along. They tease him, and Richard can hear undertones of relief in their jokes. Before he leaves he goes to see Elizabeth - her room is close by - however Richard doesn't enter. Through the narrow, thick glass on the wooden door he can see her and John engaged in a conversation. She is sitting on her bed and he is in a chair nearby and they're not even holding hands, but there's something about them, something about the way the look together. There's a sense of belonging and knowing each other and it's just something he doesn't want to interrupt.
“Well,” says Kate and smiles.
“Exactly,” Esposito chimes in and Ryan nudges him lightly.
“I don't know about you, but that? That's definitely romance novel worthy.”
*
For someone really skilled with plots and twists, Richard Castle sometimes doesn't think at all.
Two days after Elizabeth is released he goes to visit her at her home. It's morning - not really early, but it's still breakfast time. He picks up The New York Ledger and freshly baked muffins. It takes some skill and effort, considering his broken arm. When Elizabeth opens the door, Richard belatedly realizes that he is, in fact, interrupting.
She lets him in even as she's slightly blushing. He can hear the music from the radio and practically senses she isn't alone. “Come in, Rick. John is, ah, making the breakfast.”
Richard gives her a peck on the cheek and smiles, placing the muffins and newspaper into her hands. He quickly scans the living room from where he stands, the Christmas three, newspaper, and two cups of coffee on the table. He smiles, she lifts an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not. I don't want to interfere with -”
“Don't be silly,” she says and her lips curl in a small grin. “We're all grown ups. And it would be plain mean, to kick out an injured man who just brought me muffins and newspaper,” she says and ushers him in, and John greets him from his spot near the stove.
“Why would you eat muffins when you have pancakes?” asks Richard when he sees what John is making.
“Because I love both muffins and pancakes for my breakfast,” she answers, making him sit onto the couch.
“Elizabeth,” he lovers his voice and gives her his best conspiracy face. “That's not just breakfast. That guy over there is making you pancakes,” he says, remembering how that must have looked to Lanie, Esposito and Ryan, and finds he doesn't mind that much, wishing it was the truth.
“The guy has a point,” says John, wiping his hands on the apron he's wearing. He seems like a different man here and now. “Quid pro quo, Castle. You brought the newspaper, the least you earned is coffee,” he smirks easily and Richard notes how much tension is gone from him. He didn’t even realize how much there was, until seeing him here.
Richard observes them, the open flow of emotion between them. Like Earth and the Moon, they seem to share a gravity field, a connection. It draws them close, even though it seems they're traveling apart from each other on occasion. It's in a single look, but that much Richard knew first time he saw them looking at each other. He admits to himself that he hadn’t seen much of that in his life and wonders if he ever truly had that. He hopes he will, some day, sooner rather than later. Elizabeth smiles affectionately and pulls her robe tighter around her. Richard smirks at her look and thinks it’s cute. The atmosphere is homely and welcoming, and Richard decides he doesn't mind staying for coffee.
“I have to warn you, though,” Sheppard walks toward kitchen, moving through Elizabeth's space, and Richard gets the feeling that they simply belong - together and to each other, no matter where they might be thrown. “I make incredibly bad coffee.”
“That's a lie,” Elizabeth says, sitting on a sofa. “Is there more for me?” she asks.
“I think there might be a little,” answers Sheppard.
“John, did you drink all of my coffee?” she asks pretending to be angry.
They laugh, and Sheppard jokes about entire New York City not having enough coffee for Elizabeth Weir. Richard makes himself comfortable as they sit and talk.
Later, after he leaves them, Richard thinks about three possible scenarios to end his new book. He always liked neat endings, where all ends meet.
Maybe that’s the different thing he should do. Not every question should be answered, they’re meant to lead you to seek, and find and change. Writing is not mathematics; it doesn’t need that kind of precision. Richard thinks of Elizabeth and his own questions, and decides that he prefers a happy ending over having all the answers. It might be a cliché, and there may not be much depth in it, but it makes him happy.