Seasons Such As These-A Caskett, S7 One-Shot

[pollylynn]

Title: Seasons Such As These

WC: ~3200

Rating: T

Summary: "It feels sudden to her and she thinks it probably shouldn't. She thinks it's another family thing and she's missed all the subtext leading up to this moment. She feels a flutter in her stomach and their words filling her ears."

A/N: My Brain is unconvinced that it has an incredible amount of work it should be doing. Set sometime not too long after Reckoning (7 x 14), though it has nothing really to do with the events of the two-parter.

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you

From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en

Too little care of this!

- Shakespeare, King Lear



"You're late."

He's on the move, half snapping at her over his shoulder as he disappears into the office. Definitely not picking up the vibe rolling off her. She's had a hell of a day, and running late is the least of it.

She lets the door slam behind her. It's petty. She knows he hates it, and sure enough his head reappears in the doorway.

"Hi, honey, I'm home." She turns away from him and dumps her keys in the bowl by the door. That's louder than necessary, too, as is the thump of one shoe, then the other.

He's behind her, quicker than should be possible, a hand at her hip and his lips at the spot on her neck that's not playing fair, but he's whispering sorry sorry sorry and turning her toward him.

"I'm glad you're home." He kisses her, lingering, even though she feels the tension in his shoulders though the clean lines of his suit jacket.

"You're glad," she says, hating him a little bit for undoing her so easily when she'd like to be annoyed. "But we're late." He bobs his chin, relieved and guilty. She steps back to hold him at arm's length. "You're . . . fancy."

That has him spinning toward the mirror over the hall table, smoothing an anxious palm down his tie. "Fancy," he repeats as he picks something imaginary from his lapel. "Ok, though?"

She slips her arms around his waist from behind, rising up on her toes to peer at him over his shoulder in the mirror. She nuzzles his neck with her cheek, his hair ruffling up with her breath.

"Better than ok."

She stands in the closet, paralyzed. The theater is way off Broadway, and given what she knows about the production, she'd assumed she'd be fine swapping out her blouse and doing a quick touch up of her hair and make up.

But he's fancy. He's nervous.

It feels sudden to her, and she thinks it probably shouldn't. She thinks it's another family thing, and she's missed all the subtext leading up to this moment. She feels a flutter in her stomach and their words filling her ears.

He and his mother, sniping back and forth about Martha coming and going at all hours. Stalking the length of the loft, sometimes working the same handful of lines for hours on end while he'd offered running commentary to iPad, to the cutting board, to the gas fire, pathologically unable to shut up or keep his nose out of it.

It all sounds different, here and now, standing in a walk-in closet, turning in slow circles and wondering what the hell to wear. It sounds different as she flicks through hangers and she feels nerves and excitement drumming fingers against her ribs.

It's important to both of them, and this is how they do this. It's how they listen to one another. Mother to son, but more than that. As people who create, he from nothing and she from the revered words of others. It's how they have this conversation, and she sees how it must have always been like this.

She sees Martha's hand now in the precision of his speech when he's angry. When he knows he's losing an argument, and it's all in fun, but he can't help but fight to the end. She sees his quick memory, honed with a script curled back on itself in his hands. She sees him hunched in the front row of a half-lit theater, pointedly board and still taking every last detail in.

She feels a line of buzzing energy from him to her and the effort it takes him not to call out again. It's important. She grabs a hanger and spins out of the closet, shedding her pants and hopping along to pull off her socks one by one.

It's important, and she's late.

"You look amazing," he says for the hundredth time. He runs his fingers along the hem riding high on her thigh. He seems equally fascinated by the shot silk changing colors as the street lights glide over it and the smooth skin beneath.

Almost equally fascinated. She breathes a startled laugh into his mouth as he kisses her, unexpected and hard enough to leave her blinking and leaning after him as he pulls back long before she's done with him. The car is slowing, she realizes. It hasn't quite stopped yet, but he has the door open already.

"Be right back," he murmurs, but he's not quite going yet. His fingers can't quite give up the feel of her skin, and she can't quite give up the taste of him.

"Right back," she says sternly. She tugs him close and pushes him away at the same time. She sinks back into the seat, biting her lip and pressing a hand to her stomach. She's grinning hard and feeling all of sixteen years old. Missing him already.

But he is right back. He's practically diving through the door as he pats the back of the driver's seat and holds something carefully aloft.

"Flowers?" She circles his wrist with her fingers, knowing somehow that he'd rather hide them, this fistful of corner-stand color. Zinnias and daisies and carnations in cheap cellophane, when there's already a huge, exquisite bouquet resting on a bed of ice by the minibar.

"Flowers," she says again, turning his hand up to the light. Knowing he's blushing even before the color creeps up over his collar.

"It's . . . a thing." He pulls his hand away. He jams the stems into the tub of ice none too gently. "Just a . . . I forgot once. I was . . . fourteen or something and she had an opening and I forgot flowers."

"Forgot." She plucks the lie out from the rest. He scowls at her, annoyed, but pleased, too. He likes being caught. She likes catching him. "Forgot, Castle?"

"I spent . . ." He clears his throat. "I'd already spent my allowance on a date. At least I thought it was a date. But it wasn't a date . . ." He glances at her. He falls for the straight face, even though she's having trouble holding on to it. "That's really not important," he says hastily. "It's just a thing now. I always . . . flowers. With my own money," he finishes.

It's a little miserable. He's anxious and ridiculous. He's a grown man and a gawky kid. He's nervous for her. For his mother. He's wearing his heart on his sleeve, and she loves him.

"Your own money. That's sweet, Castle." She slides closer to him on the seat. She wraps her arms around him crushes herself to him. "That's really sweet."

He goes snappish again when they make it to the theater, like the press of the crowd gets to him. Or the nearness of curtain time. He shoves the big bouquet into her arms and disappears with the other.

His own money.

She tries to hold on to the fondness of that, but she's stranded in the small, buzzing lobby. Everyone looks a million years younger than her. There's a profusion of sleek, black hair and vibrant, elaborate tattoos. Fierce jewel tones that leap from their skin. She feels old and out of place in her simple sheath with a tiny satin clutch tucked under her arm.

"This is fantastic."

Kate whirls, shifting the bouquet to her left elbow and circling her wrist to break the hold of the stranger peering down at hammered metal cuff.

"Sorry!" The young woman shows her palms. She laughs at herself and flashes a grin Kate can't help but return. "I"m so sorry. Touching! Not ok. But that piece . . ."

She leans in again for a closer look. Kate holds out her arm this time, pleased and a little less self-conscious. A little more part of things than she thought possible.

"Thanks, it's . . ." She hesitates, the word tasting a little strange on her tongue, even so many months on. "My mother-in-law's." She feels a smile twitching at her lips. A pleasant flutter of pride. "She's in the show."

"Kate!" The woman claps her hands. "You're Martha's Kate!"

Kate ducks her head. Her eyes dart around the room, sure that she'll see everyone gawking, but the room is louder if anything. The house lights flicker and the energy kicks up another notch.

"My Kate, actually." Castle's fingers grip her waist a little too hard. He smiles and nods to the young woman. It's charming, but a little too sharp. He's edgy again, and she wishes for a quiet moment. A just-the-two-of them place and quiet to soothe him out of it. "You've met Belinda?"

"Mr. Castle." Her eyes drop. "Hi."

"Richard," he corrects, then scowls at himself. "Rick." He dips his chin, bringing his mouth closer to Kate's ear. "Belinda makes this whole company go." He sweeps his arm toward the open door of the theater. "She even manages to get Mother to things on time. Occasionally."

"No. No." Belinda waves him off. "Martha is . . . well, it's such a privilege."

He smiles wide. The lights flicker again. He touches the young woman's shoulder as he ushers Kate past into the theater itself. "You should be up there." He nods to the stage. "You're a fantastic liar."

"Nice to meet you!" Kate calls over her shoulder as Castle hustles her through the door.

Belinda doesn't hear, though. She's staring after him as sudden splotches of uneven color crawl up her cheeks. Kate feels a pang of sympathy. She knows what it's like to have that smile aimed her way.

She knows what it's like to have a crush on him.

There's some delay. The houselights dim and come half way up again. Kate things he might be the death of her. He shifts in his seat, constantly nudging her feet. He has her hand in an iron grip and he's completely oblivious to her sad attempts to reestablish blood flow until she flat out elbows him.

"Sorry." He blinks down at her, wincing at how hard it is to uncurl his own fingers. He mouths the word again and brushes his lips over her palm. "Nervous," he says, hardly audible, even against her ear. He breathes deep, sound rumbling in his chest a little as he catches the scent of the perfume she hardly ever wears. "Nervous."

He lays her palm along his thigh and rests his own over it. The lights dim again. A mournful note sounds and the whole room crackles with anticipation. Martha enters, and from that moment on, she hardly knows whether to watch the stage or him.

It's good. The play. It's so good in a stripped down, vital way that uses the intimacy of the small, black box theater to its greatest advantage.

It's really good. The word tumbles over and over in her mind, inadequate, but she can't get over it. She's been holding her tongue all this while. She's proud of Martha. Castle is, too, though he decidedly hasn't been holding his. He's teased Martha mercilessly about the idea-a gender-swapped Lear-and Kate's just been . . . hoping for the best.

It's uneasy at first. The familiar words are all just off kilter. Son here and daughter there and it's strange in her ears. Unexpected pronouns skitter off the actors' tongues, but Martha hits the beat perfectly-I cannot conceive you. Surprised laughter ripples through the crowd and suddenly everyone is leaning in, rapt. Him most of all, and she hardly knows who to watch.

He's still and animated all at once. She feels his chest rise sharply and fall. The way his mouth screws up to the side and he glances at her when there's something he's filing away. The way he beams with pride at Martha's fierce rendition of Kent, the faithful old soldier, and how his face goes soft in awe and admiration when draws a hundred people close to feel her pain.

It's good.

He's off like a shot for the bar at intermission. She watches him, head and shoulders above the crowd. Everyone is tiny and thin and young. The deep red of his shirt stands out against the sea of black as he turns and turns again, smiling and nodding and ducking away from the hands that reach out to snag at his jacket.

His shoulders drop with relief as he spies the relatively quiet corner she's managed to snag. He sags against the wall, turning most of his back to the crowd.

"Hi," he says softly as he pushes the glass of wine into her hand.

She raises an eyebrow at the tumbler in his other hand. "No scotch for me?"

He looks flustered. Despondent as he cranes over his shoulder and looks quickly away, breaking eye contact with a cluster of girls who've moved from surreptitious looks to openly watching the two of them in record time.

"You want scotch?"

He squares his shoulders, not happy about it, but willing to brave the crowd again. She tugs him by the lapel before he gets anywhere, though. "I'm good with wine." She laughs up at him. "Scotch for you, though?"

"Nerves."

He leans into her as he says it and she wonders if it's this. Now, with a lobby full of people and too many of them interested in a way he's not inclined to welcome when it's Martha's night. But he stares into his glass and the stumbling question tells her it's not this. It's not mostly this.

"It's . . . something," he says. "The show?"

"It's wonderful." The word fills her mouth and tastes strange. Bigger than she usually is. More demonstrative, but it is Martha they're talking about, and anyway, she means it. "Castle, it's really . . ."

"Good." He smiles. It's quiet and settled and happy. "She's really good. My mother," he adds, rattling the ice in his glass, as if she might not know.

"Wonderful." She clinks her glass against his. "Just wonderful."

"We don't have to stay long."

With his arm firmly around her waist, she thinks the low words are more for him than her. She's grateful of the promise before too long, though. It's crushingly warm, and she finds herself exhausted. Eager for him and home and the gas fire. Eager to hear what he has to say.

The crowd writhes and a few people worm themselves halfway between them so he has to unwind himself. She clings tight to the tips of his fingers and follows the big, bright bouquet he's leading with. She nods dumbly at questions and congratulations alike, hoping none of it's too rude, but she can hardly hear a thing.

"Richard! Katherine!"

Martha wraps her arms around the two of them, and Kate feels her trembling. She sees the strain around her eyes and knows exactly how much the performance must have taken out of her. She whispers something barely audible. Some weariness in answer and hopes that it serves for now.

Wonderful, she thinks, but the moment's past now.

Castle speaks low in her ear and Martha's eyes droop closed. Soft light smooths over her face, and Kate tries to step back. She tries to give them their privacy, but Martha's fingers glide down her arm and close around her wrist. They meet the hammered metal cuff and Kate blushes hard.

"I hope . . ." She stutters, too loud even over the roar of the room. "For luck," she says, only realizing just then that it's true. That she's been caught up in these nerves all along, enough to send her rifling through Martha's jewelry like she's never done before. "I hope it's ok."

"Ok?" Martha holds her at arm's length. "Darling, it's exquisite." She turns abruptly from them. She links elbows with them both and shifts the bouquet to rest between her body and Castle's. "Come, you two. I must show you off."

She does show them off. She moves them deftly through the room and the crowd parts for her. It's cooler in the shade of her, somehow. Quieter, and Kate brims with pleasure to see her like this. Wholly in her element.

The party is more bearable on Martha's arm, but the glasses of half-finished champagne are getting to Kate. They're getting to Castle, too. He smiles and deflects when every few people are more interested in him than he wants to deal with. Kate warms to that, too. The way his generosity and real pride in Martha guide him through those moments with a sure hand. She warms to the way she knows this as the real him. Her partner. Her husband, but the evening is wearing on him, too.

"Dessert," he murmurs in her ear. He lets his cheek graze her neck and there's just the faintest rasp, though he shaved late in the day. "Let's get out of here and get dessert."

"Not just yet, Richard." Martha tugs at his elbow, though she can't possibly have heard. "There's one more person I need you to meet."

The crowd parts again for her. The densest knot, this time, and Martha's voice rises above the din. "Gwen . . . Gwendolyn, darling, a moment."

The woman smiles. Kate recognizes her from the program as the director, though she's younger than she would have thought. Every inch of her conveys intensity, and she looks more exhausted than all the cast and audience put together. Kate wonders what it must be like, the weariness of this kind of emotion for weeks and weeks, then night after night in performance. She holds a hand up to the person on her right, clearly in mid-conversation, and makes a beeline for them.

"Martha," she says quietly. The two step together out of time and space. Martha nods and lays one hand over her own heart in wordless thanks.

The moment ends and Martha turns, her arm outstretched to gather them in. Kate's suddenly shy and tongue tied. She's tired and grateful for Castle's hand wrapped tight around hers when Martha herds them all close and says, "Gwendolyn. You know my son, Richard. And this-this - " she makes a flourishing gesture " - is my beautiful daughter, Katherine."

He wraps his coat around her without asking. It's mild for March, but the wind teases at her skin, and they were late. She didn't think to bring so much as a wrap.

"You, okay?" He's restless. Eager for the car to be here. Eager for privacy. For her and for the two of them.

"Okay." She smiles over her shoulder at him and with his palms at her elbows and the fabric of his jacket a pleasant weight on her shoulders, it's true. It's mostly true. "Tired."

"Kate . . ." He looks up and down the street, but the car's nowhere in sight just yet. "My mother. She . . . I can talk to her. If you're . . ." He can't seem to find the word.

"Uncomfortable?"

She comes up with it. He nods and she finds it's not quite right.

She thinks about Alexis. How they seem to have settled on "Kate" and she overhears the words "my dad's wife." How the words are as good or bad as the two of them mean them to be, and "stepmother" is just so strange anyway. She looks down at the silver circling her wrist and thinks of all the ways it's strangely easy to live the way they do now. Loud and chaotic and far too in-the-open sometimes, but easy.

She thinks about being someone else's daughter. Sometimes, like tonight, when there aren't words for how close she feels to all of them. When she laughs at the just-now memory of him introducing her as "my partner," and not even registering the odd look from Martha's cast mate.

She thinks about all the things family means. How Sarah Grace is every inch their niece and Lanie is the sister she'd have chosen if she could have. She thinks about her dad and Alexis and the closeness that's grown between them almost before anyone else noticed.

"Not uncomfortable." She turns to lean her head against his shoulder. "Wonderful, Castle. Tonight it's wonderful to be someone's daughter."

A/N: Thanks for reading yet another bit of nothing.