Material Witness-Joy in Mudville (2 x 15, Suicide Squeeze): A Series of Linked Castle One-Shots
Title: Joy in Mudville
Rating: T
WC: ~4700
Summary: "It knocks him back a little when she opens up. When she lets him see what's behind the badass facade. When she talks about days at the ballpark with her dad. When he thinks about her as a carefree little girl, clinging to her father's hand and climbing and climbing for the cheap seats on a Saturday afternoon."
Spoilers: Suicide Squeeze (2 x 15), mainly, but references to A Rose for Ever After (2 x 12), Suckerpunch (2 x13), Significant Others (5 x 10), and Recoil (5 x 14)
A/N: BerkieLynn? Diabolical. And the reason this series exists.
This is the sixth story in this series prompted by Berkielynn, who diabolically put the idea in my head when I just meant the gifts to get Castle out of boyfriend jail at the end of Secret Santa/Silent Night, Ferret Night.If you missed it, here's the prologue that sets up the series premise, and here's the first story and the second, the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. They're loosely linked one-shots that can be read independently and in any order you like.
The gift in question was one of my first ideas for the series, but I didn't know how to work it out until recently.
I write it under protest as I refuse to accept Beckett-or any right-thinking person-as a Yankees fan.
Had hoped to get it up last week, but vacation, then plague.
2010
He hovers the pointer over the "buy" button.
Three months ago, he wouldn't have had a second thought. Three months ago, it would have been perfect. A "girly fit" home jersey, white with pink pinstripes, "Beckett" and double zeros emblazoned across the back.
Three months ago it would have been ideal. Exactly the right thing to annoy her a lot and charm her a little. To make her glare and bring out the smile that goes with his name. Sometimes it goes with his name. Occasionally.
But it's not three months ago. It's now. It's after Kyra. After he let go of something he didn't realize he'd been holding on to. Something that two marriages and a kid hadn't convinced him to let go of, apparently. Something that she shook loose. Something that floated up and away, because she . . . . She.
It's not three months ago. It's after Coonan. After she gave up her best chance for answers to save his life.
That annoys him. It troubles him, and that's worse. That he was dumb enough to get grabbed. Dumb enough to put her in that position. Dumb enough to wonder if she would have done the same if it were anyone else.
He wonders about that a lot. Did she take the shot as soon as possible-maybe sooner than she should have because they're . . . what? Friends? That feels wrong. Coming and going, that's not quite what they are. Too much and not nearly enough to capture whatever is is they are.
Or did she wait? Did she hold off because she was counting on him to get himself out of it?
Doubtful. Doubtful. And why would he even want that? It's her job, not his, and why would he even want that?
A prompt little voice pipes up: Because you want her to be impressed. You want her to count on you.
You want.
The prompt little voice is kind of a dick.
It's not the only one. Not the only little voice that wonders. Because he wonders if she blames him, too. She didn't take the out. When he said he'd stop shadowing her. He said he'd leave her in peace, and she didn't take the out, and that has to mean something.
But he wants. He wants.
He doesn't trust himself, even though It's more than just her not taking the out. It's more than just that. She said it. That she likes having him around. She said she wants him there when she gets her answers. She said it and they're a long, long way from when he knew she'd never take him back.
But he still wonders if she blames him. If every time she sees him, she thinks about everything she's lost. Not just Coonan, but whatever peace she'd managed to make with her life before that.
Peace he'd set fire to. Peace he'd burned because he just had to have the story. Because he just had to know. She's right. She was right three months ago, when she said he did if for himself, not for her. She was right, however far they've come since then, and he wonders if she blames him. He wonders how he she could possibly keep from blaming him.
He circles the pointer over the button again. He doesn't want to wonder. About any of this. He wants it to be a dirty joke wrapped around a nice thing that she'll like. He wants it all to be simple like it used to be.
But it's never been simple. Another prompt little voice pipes up to point out that it has never been simple.
He clicks "buy."
He'll give it to her. This one. Because he can, right? It doesn't need to go in the closet. He can just give it to her.
It's not like the others. Strange and laden with something. Questions waiting for the right moment. Do you? Will you? Could you ever? Meaning and memory and the way she builds and builds in his mind. The way she's become his landscape. The others are like that. Some of the others are like that, but not this one.
It's just a gift. He'll give this to her. It's a nice gesture. Kind of a nice gesture, but not too nice. Girly. That's enough to draw a sharp look from her, and then she'll see and she won't know whether to glare or smile all over her face the way she sometimes does. But it won't feel like too much. It won't mean too much. Nice, but not too nice. That's what he tells himself.
Having it signed is a nice gesture. Joe had agreed immediately. The whole team had. They'd wanted to do something more. Something bigger to thank her, and he heard himself saying no. That anything more would make her uncomfortable.
And it's true, right? Anything more-any big gesture-and it would be all glare when he gave it to her. Because she'd have to worry how it might look. Like she wasn't just doing her job. And anyway, she's just not like that. He doesn't think she's like that. Big gestures. It's just not her.
It's true. All of that is true, but it's not why he says no when Joe offers. It's not why he insists that he'll buy the jersey. That he'll pick it out himself. It's not the only reason he regrets the bratty move. A girly jersey. Pink and white. He kind of regrets it.
It knocks him back a little when she opens up. When she lets him see what's behind the badass facade. When she talks about days at the ballpark with her dad. When he thinks about her as a carefree little girl, clinging to her father's hand and climbing and climbing for the cheap seats on a Saturday afternoon. When he thinks about her stretching up on her toes and leaning way over to snag a foul ball. Telling her dad they'd get the next one for sure. The next one.
It knocks him back a little when she completely loses her cool because it's Joe Freakin' Torre and he hears the smile that goes with his own name and that's her dad she's talking to and he's trying not to read too much into that, even though he wants to.
He wants to, but it all knocks him back a little. More than a little and he wonders if he really can give it to her. If it's more than a nice gesture. If she'll know. Know what, exactly, he has no idea.
And that's the problem.
He doesn't give it to her. He can't.
He holds it in his hands and it's complicated. It's always so complicated when it comes to her and whatever they are.
No one expected the turn the case took. Fathers and daughters and so much history. Twists and baggage and heartbreak that hit too close to home. Or should hit close to home and they don't. For him, they don't, and he feels foolish. He feels like an ass. Projecting his own weightless way of moving through the world on to everyone. On to his daughter. On to Beckett and the only family she has left that she didn't have to make for herself. He feels like an ass.
He supposes he must have cared at some point. About his father. He must have wondered and felt hard done by, not knowing. How could that particular crisis have passed him by entirely, given the strange world of privilege he sometimes walked in as a kid? As a teenager, when his mother had the money, or an in at the school, or the sheer need to park him somewhere while she traveled. Academies and such when there was nowhere else for him to go. He must have felt the lack of a father. A name or a bloodline.
He must have been made to feel it, but he doesn't remember at all. It didn't touch him deeply. By then-long before then-he was accustomed to making up the world around him to suit his needs. Making up a reality to get him over the next hump or through the next crisis. Shaping it into something that could be-if not a home to him-somewhere he could walk for a while and come out something like himself at the end.
He supposes he has missed it before. In some kind of detached way, he knows that's why he never got the father-son dynamic quite right in anything he's written. Derrick Storm and Jedidiah Jones and everything before that. None of it rings quite true. No one but him really seems to care much, but he knows. He writes it by the numbers, and it's completely without anchor in the real world. So he supposes he did miss something.
He just doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember feeling the lack of or the longing for a father or anything like it until now. Now he feels it. He feels it and finds himself desperate to trade stories that he doesn't have. With her. With Kate, but with Alexis, too. With his daughter.
He's proud of their relationship most of the time. The rest of the time he feels like he deserves no credit at all. Because he's jealous and he's never had to share her. Not even with Meredith, really, because his kid is so level headed, so practical and grounded, that there's never been a question of it.
And he gets to be the good guy. He gets to argue how important it is that Alexis spend time with her mother. Gets to make sure no one speaks ill of Meredith. He get to make a show of being fair minded but cautious and protective without there ever being a question of sharing.
But now he hears Beckett's stories, and Esposito's, and Ryan's and everyone's he doesn't have any. Not with his own father. Not with the mother of his own child, and he wants stories to share. With his kid. With them all, like he's one of them.
He wants stories to share with his mother.
It's somehow never really occurred to him. They have that in common: Single parenthood, more or less, and he wishes . . .
They're good in their own way. Clumsy and sharp with each other, but it's just their way. They're solid enough underneath. And she's never said a word about it, raising him alone. Not really. Not beyond her tales of dramatic sacrifice. Emphasis on dramatic. But now he wonders if she missed it. Sharing that with someone. If she still misses it.
He wishes they both had stories to share.
Mostly, he wishes he weren't such an ass. That he weren't standing in his office at 2 am on a Tuesday, clutching a tight-fitting, low-cut, pink pinstripe jersey. He wishes he could hand it over with a leer and a smirk. That he could stand up to her glare and anything that might come with it.
He wishes it were different. That it were something he could hand over with a quiet smile and no flourish at all, just a thank you for the things she shares with him. Her days. The work she does.
Of course he wants to thank her for that, but he wants to thank her for more. For the stories she tells and the glimpses she gives him of how she was before. Of how she might be again someday. He wants to thank her for giving him that kind of . . . hope?
Hope. It's the right word, but he doesn't know what he means by it. Whether it's for her or for him or for them. He doesn't know what he's hoping for, and that's just one of the reasons he can't give it to her.
It's complicated and it's simple, too. He's desperate to see her in it, and that's one of the simpler reasons he can't give it to her. He's imagined her in it a hundred times since he clicked "buy" and there is no way he can just give it to her and go on breathing.
He pictures it. He pictures her shaking it out and holding it up. He pictures realization dawning when she sees the letters sprawling over the fabric. The way she'll go soft and sharp at the same time. He pictures her slipping into it, messages and thank yous and names-theirs and hers-disappearing up and over her shoulder. Letters hemmed in by pink lines and boldly crossing them. Cramped handwriting and careful, wide open loops falling just over her hips.
He wishes he could stop, but he pictures every detail of it. Ink and fabric and the smile that goes with his name sometimes.
He wishes he could give it to her.
2013
Sometimes she just needs to be mad at him. He's fine with that. For the time being, he's just fine with that. Because he loves her. Fierce. Defiant. Sentimental. He loves every side of her. Every shade and mood and incarnation, he loves her, and it feels like the novelty of that will never wear off. He hopes it doesn't. He never wants it to. He loves her and sometimes she just needs to be mad at him.
She's not easy. Not simple. Neither is he, and she's finding that out, too. That she doesn't have him all figured out. That she has to dig beneath the surface, too, and they won't always disappoint each other and not everything is a world-ending crisis. But still, he has his moods and his failings and they're not always what she thinks they'll be, and they struggle. But he loves her at the end of every day, and she loves him.
She's figuring it out, but it aggravates her. And sometimes she needs to be mad at him.
The strangest things stress her out. Money. Sometimes, but not always. His past. A lot. But not always the things he expects. Her own past. The fact of these things that just are-that they couldn't change even if it made sense to want to-they upset her.
Like they'd be better at this if they'd come into it without the baggage. Without experience and wariness and things they know they'll never do again. She worries and she's not even aware of it or she can't articulate it or something. So she picks fights or he sets them up and it all comes out in short bursts.
And sometimes he's an idiot and an ass and handles everything wrong and it comes out the same way. Whether he deserves it, or she just needs to be mad at him, it comes out the same way. Anger, frustration, fear, worry. It comes out, and then it's over. It's over as soon as it starts and he'll take that any day over long silences and cold freezes.
It's been a while. It's been a long time since she shut him out completely, and the reality of that makes him smile all over his face in a way that's bound to get him in trouble if she sees. Because it's never enough to say he's just happy. That he's just in love with the woman she is right now and life is good. She always thinks he's up to something when he smiles like that.
It's been a while for the small stuff, too, though. She hasn't needed to be mad at him in a while. Since before Christmas, maybe. Or at least since Meredith. Since they got through that without much more than her torturing him-deservedly and not-and him providing comic relief, because that's how they do this when she needs to be mad at him.
It's been a while, and he thinks she's trying to wait herself out. That she's set herself a challenge or something. To see how long she can go-they can go-without an outbreak.
He loves her for it. He loves that she's trying. That she's in this.
But it's a little silly. He can take her being mad at him. They can take it. They've had four years of practice, after all. Being angry. Forgiving each other for little things. For not-so-little things. They can take it.
He hasn't thought about it in a long time. The jersey hasn't crossed his mind in a while. He winces when he thinks of it. Pink. What was he thinking? It's not much of a mystery, though. Not really. He was so far gone, even then.
Pink.
Whatever he was thinking back then-however likely she might have been to kill him at the time-it's ideal right now. She needs to be mad at him, and this will absolutely get the job done. The timing is perfect.
It's perfect, and the only reason he hesitates at all is that he wonders how much it means to her. The unbroken streak. He wonders if it's therapy or something he only understands part of. If doing things like this has been wearing her down all this time and he hasn't even noticed.
He doesn't think so. The make-up sex alone suggests that this way works just fine for them. Maybe he should have more than make-up sex-however spectacular-on his side, though. Maybe.
He hesitates right up until the morning he lays a hand along her back and he can feel it. Tension and worry and pent up something. Until she falls on him fiercely, all teeth and nails and curses when he tries to still her. To slow her down, but she's determined and he's never had it in him to resist her. Until she tears herself away the minute it's over and stalks off to the shower alone. Until the door closes behind her, emphatic and unmistakeable.
Make-up sex without the other part. That worries him.
He thinks about it all day. He lays out their recent history and goes over it and there's nothing he can see. They've been good lately. More than good. Solid and open and together. She tells him stories in the dark and listens to his like she can't get enough. They've been good.
They've weathered Bracken and all that came of that. All that might come still. In the end, it brought them closer than ever. All that looking into one another's dark and hollow places and neither of them flinching.
It's nothing like that as far as he can see, and he can't even think of anything small. If anything she's been more there lately. Present and affectionate and less like she thinks she has to hide it or ration it or whatever. And that just might be it. She might just need to be mad at him and he's up for it. He's definitely up for it.
He roots around in the closet for while and finally comes up with the box. It's worse than he'd remembered. He wrapped it, but the box came from the shop and it's stamped with pink cursive instead of the familiar calligraphy of the team logo. The bow is huge and he remembers now. He remembers going a little overboard on the tissue paper inside. All frothy pastels and lots of it. Lots.
But it's good. It's the perfect thing right now.
It's the worst kind of day. Boring. A case, but one that's brutal, straightforward, and senseless. Nothing but endless, mechanical interviews and horrible details. Sorting out one ass-covering lie from another and hoping they got what they needed before everyone lawyered up.
It's such a bad day that she wants to go home on her own, but he wheedles and pleads and then he falters. Just for a minute, he falters.
He thinks this is where she wants him to talk her into it. He thinks it is, but she's subdued. There's no spark underneath, and maybe she doesn't need to be mad at him. Maybe she just needs to be away from him.
And that's fine. It's fine, right?
He falters and goes quiet. She does, too, and he thinks that's the end of it. That he'll go home alone like a big boy, and they'll see each other tomorrow, for God's sake. It's not the end of the world.
It's not the end of the world, but the thought of putting that box back up on the shelf cuts deep.
The timing was perfect.
But it's fine.
"Okay," he says and dredges up a smile. "Until tomorrow, Detective."
"Castle."
He doesn't mean anything by it. The old phrase that doesn't get much use any more. He doesn't think he means anything by it, but it makes her shoulders go stiff, and then he's sure. He remembers the feeling of the straight line of her spine under his palm, and he's sure enough that he has to move fast to hide a smile. She just needs to be mad at him. That's all this is.
"Kate," he says quietly. "Please. For me?"
Her head snaps up and she wants to say no. She wants to bite out something sharp and turn on her heel. But she doesn't. She won't let herself and, oh, he loves her.
He might love her a little too much. A little too visibly at this particular moment.
She leans in all of a sudden, like she knows he's up to something. Like she can smell it on him. He wants to protest. She always thinks he's up to something, so she's bound to be right sometimes.
She's staring him down, but he won't break. He keeps his face as neutral as he can.
"Just dinner, Castle," she warns him finally.
A huge breath rushes out of him before he even registers that he was holding it, but it's ok. He's happy. Falling all over himself excited about it, really, but she expects that. It's part of the set up. He makes a few different scout's honor gestures that have her narrowing her eyes, but she'll be there. She says she'll be there.
She makes it to the loft about 10 minutes after he does, and he hasn't had time to plan anything. He doesn't have a real setup for this and it needs one. But maybe that's ok. Maybe this is the set up.
She wants to catch him off guard. She wants to start something. She wants to be mad at him and he can oblige without doing a thing.
She kisses him on her way through the door like she's doing him a favor, and she is. They both know she is. He stutters something about dinner. Something about cooking for her.
She nods like she's not really listening and slings her jacket over the back of a barstool as she keeps moving through the loft. She announces that she deserves a millionaire shower-the look she throws over her shoulder says it's a solo event-and she expects to be fed.
He hides his grin in the refrigerator and waits. He's still grinning a few minutes later when he realizes he hasn't done a damned thing and he has to look busy. Innocent. Like there isn't a big frothy box, smack in the middle of the bed. Like it doesn't have a card with her name on it right on top.
Innocent. Right.
He grabs a random collection of things from the refrigerator in a panic. He sets them out on the counter and panics again. Marshmallow fluff and capers do not create an aura of innocence. He grabs one or two of the offending items and shoves them back in the fridge. He whirls toward the pull-out pantry and grabs a few things he hopes are more
plausible.
He repeats the process until there's something that could be the makings of a meal if he squints at it. He spins away from the pantry and halfway back to the fridge and very nearly drops dead.
Because she's right there. All of her is right there on the other side of the counter and she's wearing it. It's more or less all she's wearing, although one of his new favorite prompt little voices notes that her underwear match, and he's pretty sure they didn't this morning. This morning, he's pretty sure there was a faded pattern and some questionable elastic.
She's wearing it and how did she get from all the way in the bedroom to right there so quietly? Like the noise she makes should be proportional to how jaw-droppingly hot she is at any given moment. That thought comes courtesy of another prompt little voice that can shut up any time now. Any time.
It's cut high around the hips and from the side there's not a single inch of long, long leg hidden. The buttons seem to be decorative. Or suggestions. Or something. As buttons, they are utter failures. His very favorite failures.
The shoulder seams are wide set, falling almost to her elbows to suggest it's something borrowed. Something she just grabbed from a messy, morning after heap on the floor, and he is a huge fan of that in general. Her in his clothes. The real thing. But this doesn't suck, no matter how ridiculous it is, given that whole button thing. Given the way it clings everywhere else.
"Castle!"
Oh. Right. She's right there. And he's been standing here for how long?
On the one hand, he's still alive, so it can't have been that long. On the other, it's been long enough that she's mad. Ooops.
No, not Ooops: Good! Because that was the point, right? The point.
"Castle!"
"Yeah?" Not his best rejoinder, but at least his voice didn't crack. Much.
"What the hell is this?"
She steps around the counter and throws her shoulders back. She just catches the hem with her fingertips and the fabric pulls tight and . . . shit. She just asked him something, didn't she?
"A baseball jersey." It doesn't have a question mark at the end and it's completely true. This counts as progress. Shit.
"Castle!"
She takes a step toward him and he means to back away. His lizard brain and that whole fight-or-flight thing really want him to back away right the hell now.
But she's wearing it.
He takes a step toward her and her eyes flash. Surprise and how dare you? hot on the heels of that.
"A gift." He hears himself say it and his voice is even. "Pitchers and catchers report."
Her nostrils flare and her jaw works. He takes another step and it pulls a word from her. "Ass!"
"You don't like it?" His fingers flutter at the edge of the sleeve and dart away before she can slap them.
"It's pink!" She spits out the words and he knows this was one of his fantasies back then. That he'd give it to her and she'd be apoplectic and it would end up like this.
"It is." He snags the shirttail that's brushing-just barely brushing-her left thigh. She doesn't slap it away. She doesn't even try.
"It's a pink. Girly. Jersey." She grabs a fistful of his shirt and she's not at all careful about it. He doesn't flinch and she goes on. "A pink, girly jersey signed by the entire 40-man roster-and coaching staff-of the 2010 Yankees."
He lets the shirttail go. Lets his palm fall over her thigh. She tightens her hold and he curls his fingers out and over and up in response. He feels her muscles tighten under his hand. Long and smooth at the front, tight and bunching over her hip.
He leans in close to her ear. "What's the matter? Mets fan? Did I get that wrong?"
She hisses at that. Actually hisses and he might've laughed if her nails weren't almost certainly breaking skin right about now.
"Ass," she says again and her other hand finds a convenient fistful of hair and jerks his head down to look. "I can't wear this!"
Both hands are on her now and he's pretty sure she had counted on this going differently, because there's a whole slew of curse words he had no idea she knew the minute his fingers brush the skin just below her navel.
He takes advantage. Steps into her and rumbles in her ear.
"No. You can't, Kate. You definitely can't wear this."