Material Witness-I'll Cover You (4 x 15, Pandora, and 4 x 16, Linchpin), part II

[pollylynn]

A/N: This is part II. The story was too long for LJ (oops). Here's Part I.



2013

He didn't do it to punish her.

Not this, anyway. Last year, when he found out that she'd known all along-that she remembered everything about that day. . . . It's hard. It's hard to sort out what was punishment and what was survival. When he couldn't make himself leave and staying hurt so badly. He doesn't want to think about those months.

But he didn't bring back Derrick Storm to punish her.

It had just made sense given how well the graphic novels were doing and he never felt done with Nikki. Even . . . even then. In the bad months when he sat up on the roof of the loft and told himself he'd feed things to the fire. The small pile of things in the purple accordion folder. Notes for the books and all the things he wrote that had nothing to do with the books. The story of how he fell in love with her and he told himself he'd feed it to the fire.

(He didn't. He never did.)

He didn't do it to punish her, but he can't sort it out, either. One past from another from now. Eleven and a half years ago. A little more than a year ago. Today and every day since someday.

Derrick Storm is taking up a lot of his time and attention these days. There are signings and events and interviews. And he has to make sure Gina and Paula don't commit him to things he wants no part of. It's taking him away from her and the work and he hates that.

He'd hate it anyway, but it's not just being away from her. It bothers him. He doesn't think he did it to punish her, but he worries. He thinks she worries, too.

But it's good in a way. Or there are good things about it. He's back to being visible. Back to page six and the reality is he needs to be there. He worried about that, too, and he knows she did. What would happen when they had another set of lies to tell. A new host of prying eyes to avoid. He knows she still worries a little, but it's like the whole world has forgotten about Nikki Heat, and he barely even has to hedge about their relationship.

Hardly anyone asks, and when they do, it's in passing. It's a stop on the way to Clara Strike. Suddenly they want to know if Nikki wasn't the first. If he created Clara in the same way and who the mystery woman behind her might be. The old answers-the answers he's always given-don't seem to satisfy.

He resents it. He's jealous for Nikki. Jealous for Kate, even though it's silly.

He hates that he can't give the answer he wants to give. The answer he gave Kate then. That Clara started with Sophia. With what Sophia wanted him to believe. But she ended up something else. Something he'd been looking for all along but didn't realize until he met her. Kate.

It's not an answer he can give with half a dozen phones crowding in around him to record it, and he's thankful for the call from Danberg out of the blue. He laughs at the cover story, but there's silence on the other end, so he chokes it back and says thank you.

It sounds so fake. The few details are arranged just so and he wonders who'll believe it. But Danberg tells him flatly that's the cover and, sure enough, the press eats it up. He says he only recently got clearance to talk about it and they eat it up.

Kate snorts and rolls her eyes the first time she hears it. They're heading out of the precinct at the end of the day and there's a young woman he vaguely remembers. Lydia or Laura or something. She writes for a site with a handful of people covering everything. Crime and books and theater. Local interest and everything under the sun. He remembers thinking she's good. That he's liked a couple of things she's written, so he stops when she tries to catch his attention.

Kate walks a few steps on, and he worries at first that she'll go entirely. But she nods at him and lingers not too far away. Listening. She's listening. He spends a few minutes with the reporter and hopes she doesn't notice that he can't stop sneaking looks at Kate. He can't stop looking at her, even though she's rolling her eyes.

She's rolling her eyes, but there's something familiar about the way she shoves her hands in her pockets and hunches into her collar. She gives him an exasperated smile and shakes her head, at something especially ridiculous from Danberg, but she's a little lost, too. She's shivering like she can't get warm, and he knows she's thinking about it. He knows she remembers and she still wonders, because they put it away and never really talked about it.

He turns his attention back to the reporter. Laura, he thinks. She just told him, but he's already forgotten. He rushes her through her questions and feels a pang of guilt, but he wants to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kate shiver, and he just wants to go.

He thinks about the box on his closet shelf. The accordion file. He thinks about them and watches her. She's holding her elbows and turning her face away from the wind and he knows then. He knows he wants to give it to her. All of it. He wants her to have the story.

He wants her to know that he didn't do it to punish her.

They talk a little that night. Lying in the dark of her bedroom, she asks about Danberg and something else he's not expecting.

"When did you start?" She runs her fingernails in a long line down his side.

It's deliberate. A calculated distraction that only half works. He shivers. Catches her hand and stills it against his hip.

He thinks about it as he kisses the tip of her chin. There's a longer answer, but it's not the right one for now. He tells her the most important part. The truth. "Last year. Gary Harper and Tracy McGrath."

"Oh," she says, and if he didn't know her as well as he does, he wouldn't hear the catch in her voice. "That makes sense."

He can feel her frowning. Her shoulders tighten and she rolls away from him on to her back. She wasn't expecting him to know what she was talking about. She wanted it to be out of the blue. She wanted to catch him off guard. To talk about it and not talk about it. He anchors and arm across her waist and flips on to his stomach. He twines one foot between hers and won't let her go too far.

"Not like that," he says into her shoulder. "Not because of her."

She pulls her lip between her teeth and stares up at the ceiling while he stares up at her. He waits. Feels her ribs rising and falling under his cheek. Three breaths go by with no words. He waits. Four. He's just about to say something because he doesn't think she will and he wants her to have the story.

She tips her head down and looks him in the eye. "Not because of her?"

He shakes his head and smiles. "Not because of her."

"Ok," she says and shivers a little.

He reaches across her and tugs the comforter higher over both of them. He rubs his palm down her arm to smooth away the goosebumps.

He thinks about saying more. He wants to give her the story and he thinks maybe he should say more. But she says ok again and he believes her. She wriggles closer to and tucks her hands against his body to warm them and he believes her.

He's on a plane flipping through a Skymall catalog when he finds a home for it. A home for all of it, finally. He's relieved. He's been anxious. It's time. It's long past time and he wants them to talk about this. He wants her to have the story and this is how he can give it to her.

It's a little ridiculous. More than a little ridiculous, but it's right, too.

God knows she doesn't need another coat. Neither of them needs another coat. But they're so cool and he has to have them. One for each of them. Dozens and dozens of pockets and loops and buttons and magnets and they're so cool.

He calls as soon as he's on the ground. They're awesome, but not exactly right. They will be, though. They'll be perfect.

He calls. He wheedles and charms and gets shuffled around. Everyone he talks to sounds surprised. They all agree. Some sooner than others, but they all agree they can do what he wants and every time, there's a surprised pause on the other end. He rushes in with thanks and asks for the next thing. It'll take a while, but he gets them to bend on that, too. He has something in mind and they have to be ready on time.

It's all squared away. It's a string of promises that all hinge on one another. A lot has to go right, but he knows it will. It has to.

It has a home. It all finally has a home.

It's late. It's so late. They were supposed to be here yesterday, but there was a hold up. The call didn't come until early evening and the woman was so apologetic-so invested in his crazy little project-that he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She offered to send them anyway. He could have had them and sent them back in, just for a day or so, but it's the most important part. The best part.

So he said he'd wait. She promised them today. This morning, first thing. But something else came up and her assistant called, somber to the point of grief, and he is laughing now. It's a little hysterical, but he's laughing, because there's something like eleven people who don't even know her, but they want this to happen almost as badly as he does. Almost.

They're here now. Finally, here, but he's hardly had any time to get things together and it's late.

The packaging is everywhere. It was amazing, the presentation, but he needs it gone. He has his own plans. He needs it all gone and there's tissue to be pulled out of each and every pocket and there are brightly colored cloth tags sewn on loosely and hand lettered, each one explaining the function of a particular piece. Each pocket or flap or loop. He wants the tags all gone. He needs them all gone and it's so late.

He saws at the last of the tags with manicure scissors. He's vaguely aware there's some kind of sewing tool for this. He tore apart his mother's costume storage looking, but he couldn't find anything that looked likely. The tag flutters to the ground and he dashes into his office.

All this is ready at least. It's all laid out and he starts on the coat. He reaches for the handcuffs first and grins. He runs a finger over the fuzzy material-black and orange stripes-and grins. He'll pay for these. Oh, he'll pay.

He thumbs open the magnetic flap near the belt line and loops the cuffs over the cord inside. He lets the flap snap back in place and experiments. As advertised, they're easily accessible from both inside and outside the coat. He feels the weight they add and grins.

He stows away the gadgets next: A compact flashlight that's supposed to be better for night vision. A Kennedy half dollar that breaks apart into a knife. Three or four other things that she'll try not to laugh at and then his favorite: A spy pen with a camera and voice recorder. It's a crappy pen, but how cool is that? And she's nowhere near as big a pen snob as he is anyway.

He zips the spy pen into the special pocket along the placket and turns to the rest. To the story he wants to give her. The story he's made a home for here. But he falters all of a sudden. He doesn't know where to start with it.

They're all set out. All the pages and pieces in their different shapes and sizes now. He's spent days folding them. Going on weeks at this point, he realizes. There are snug paper football shapes and complicated self-contained envelopes that should unfurl into a single sheet when she tugs just squares with satisfying heft and thin strips rolled into tight cylinders. They're all set out.

Every one has been folded and rolled and made with the pockets in mind. He has a diagram-a blueprint of it all so that she'll pull them out in the right order. The old things first. The things he cut and scrawled and clipped and stapled. Old things made new when he couldn't get to angry and he couldn't get her out of his mind. All these hollow old moments he filled up that make the story just as much hers as it is his.

And then the new things. The first glimmerings of Nikki with their wide open truth. All his wonderings and observations and the first things he loved about her. The things he loved about her so much that he had to make into something and put it out into the world.

He has a plan for it all, and he should just start stowing them away, but his hands won't work. He's worried about what's inside each one. He's worried about every word and whether any of it is good enough. He sits with the coat across his knees and he can't make himself move. It seems like forever and he can't make himself move.

He's always worried. Every time, he's pumped up with bravado and self-importance, but he's worried underneath. But this is worse. Way worse.

She doesn't really want to go. It's not the big launch party for Storm Front, but it's the one that matters, and she doesn't really want to go. She's been better since the night they talked-kind of talked-but she's still quiet about the whole thing and she doesn't want to go. It's his thing, she says, and she should probably just hang back.

That's what gets his hands moving again. The ridiculous notion that anything of his isn't hers, too. That he could have done it without her.

He wants her to see. He wants her to know how much a part she is of everything he writes. Everything he does, really, but this is something he has to show for it and he wants her to know.

He tucks away the first page. Tugs the zipper closed and reaches for the next and the next and the next. His hands are moving faster now and he likes the weight of the fabric. He likes the pull and tug of the different fasteners and satisfying snick of magnets and snaps and latches. He likes the way it becomes hers in his hands. It's not something new. Not anymore. It's hers and it's where all these things belong.

He likes the weight in his hands and it comes back to him. The excitement. The feeling that this is right. That the words are right and the coat is home and this is the way he gives her the story.

He's caught up in it. So caught up in it that he doesn't hear her come in. All of a sudden she's filling the doorway of his office. She's in black. Something simple with a deep neckline and a hem that falls mid-thigh. It fits close and she is a long, elegant line, an endless curve against the upright of the bookcase. Her hair is up, just a few long waves framing her face and brushing her shoulders, and she's incredible. She's just incredible.

"Castle, you're not even dressed." She advances on him and he realizes that she may be incredible, but she's terrifying, too. "What the hell?"

He catches sight of the dial on his watch and almost falls off the desk chair. It's so late. He looks up at her with wide eyes. "Kate. It's so late."

Her eyes narrow and she sputters. She's incredulous enough that she can't get her words going right away and he takes advantage. He pushes up from the chair and drapes the coat over one arm. He catches her around the waist with the other and tugs her to him. She tugs back, but he has the element of surprise on his side. He kisses her on the mouth and ducks his head to drag his lips down her throat.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. "So beautiful. And it's so late. I'm so glad you're coming with me. And this is for you."

He presses the coat into her hands and backs away, grinning.

"Castle," she looks down at the dark fabric and back at him. She lifts it like she's surprised at the weight and her brow furrows. She's frustrated and still pissed and now confused joins the mix.

"I'll be quick," he calls over his shoulder as he spins through the doorway to the bedroom.

"You're never quick," she snaps.

His head pops into the doorway again. "Hmm. I haven't noticed you complaining, Detective. But I can be quick when the situation calls for it."

He hates every tie he owns, which is saying something. They're littering the floor of the closet and form an irregular trail to the bathroom. His hair is dripping all over them-it's dripping everywhere, actually-and at this point, even if he wanted to wear one, he's screwed. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and realizes that the shoulders of his shirt are soaked, too. Shit.

He strips off the shirt and kicks it with the ties into the corner of the room. He'll have to bundle it all up for the dry cleaners and where the hell did the towel go? He finds it neatly draped over a hanger in the closet. He scrubs at the apparently useless thing above his shoulders and pulls on another shirt.

He tucks it into his pants once he finally has the buttons lined up and flicks through his jackets. He hates all those, too, but he needs something. Hopefully something that will work without a tie. Everything is stripes. Why does he have so many stripes?

He grabs what seems like the best option-stripes, but at least they're muted-and shrugs into it. He stuffs his feet into shoes and heads for the office, trying not to trip over the flapping laces.

"Hey, can I go without a tie in this?" he says in a rush as he steps through the doorway. "Please say yes, because they're all . . ."

He stops. She's curled in one of the arm chairs with her feet tucked up, a pair of strappy heels tipped over and forgotten on the floor. She has the coat draped over most of her lap, and there's a sea of paper spread around her. All his shapes carefully smoothed flat and laid out around her like she wants to see them all at once.

She tips her head up eagerly and smiles at him, wide and happy-so happy-and his stomach flips. She sets down the paper she's holding. One of the oversized, bulky ones, and she has to settle it just so to keep it from toppling off the arm. She reaches her hand out toward him wordlessly.

He stumbles toward her and she clears a space on the arm of the chair for him. She gathers up the pages and her brow furrows as she looks around for somewhere to put them. He reaches for them, but she holds on as if she's reluctant to let them go.

He looks down at her curiously. "Just gonna set them on the desk."

"But I can . . . I can have them back?" she shoots him a warning look as her voice catches. Like she's daring him to bring it up.

"Of course," he says as he takes them from her. She can't keep her eyes form following as he sets them down. Then he realizes. Then he gets it. "They're yours, Kate."

Her eyes go so wide that he only just catches himself before a laugh sneaks out.

"Oh," she says finally. "Oh." She reaches her hand out again and tugs him down on to the arm of the chair.

He balances himself on one hip and reaches behind her to prop a fist on the opposite arm. He leans down to kiss the top of her spine. He presses his lips against her skin to keep quiet. He wants to say something. He wants to ask. If she likes it. If she sees. If she understands that she makes him better and he can't do this without her.

But her fingers are eager at the pockets and flaps and she's smiling and tossing comments over her shoulder to him. And then she's quiet and nibbling on her lip and thoughtful. He runs his hand up and down her back and lets her read.

She whips her head around all of a sudden. "Are these spoilers? Are you spoiling me?"

"No!" he says quickly, then thinks about it. "Not . . . I don't think so. They're not even outline stuff. And . . . " He can't help adding it. She'll make him pay, but he can't help it. "You could have read the advance copy."

"Never again." Her head swivels away from him. "I don't trust you, Mr. Castle."

"I changed one minor detail," he protests.

"Minor!" She snorts. "You had Petar in a location that would have made it impossible for him to . . ."

He leans in quickly and silences her with a kiss. "An oversight-a minor oversight-caught by my brilliant partner that I was able to fix before it went to the final print."

She twists away from him. Her eyes are sparkling and she's more than ready to string the argument out, but she stops when she sees the look on his face. His head is tipped down and his fingers are worrying at the buttonhole on his jacket. She lays a hand gently on his knee and his eyes come up to meet hers.

"Can't do it without you, Kate. Nikki. Derrick Storm. Any of it. I . . ." He pauses, at a rare loss for words. "I'm better at this now . . . ever since I met you . . . I'm better. And I'm glad you're coming with me tonight."

She raises up a little on her knees. She hooks one arm around his neck. The page in her hand crinkles against his shoulder, but she pulls him in for a long kiss anyway.

"I'm glad, too," she murmurs as she pulls away. "But we're going to be so late."

He chases after her. Plucks the page from her hand and leans over her to set it on the floor as his lips seek the bare skin of her shoulder. "Guests of honor. They'll wait."

"Castle!" She laughs and turns her head away, but she has a hold of his jacket with both hands and she's tugging him closer.

"Can we really be late?" she asks in a low voice.

He swallows hard and nods. "We can definitely be late."

"Good," she breathes against his cheek. "Then I can finish reading."

She shoves him firmly enough that he loses his balance and slides off the arm. He manages to catch himself before he actually hits the floor and control his fall. His head pops up, and he has every intention of going after her again, but she's playing with one of the inside pockets, snicking and unsnicking the flap.

"Magnets," she says with a grin. "I love the magnets."

He sighs. There's no defense against her when she's cute. There's no defense against her, period, but especially not when she's cute. He scoots around to the front of the chair and leans his back against it. She slides her fingers into his hair and he tips his head against her knee.

Her hand idly strokes his head. It's awkward, pulling the stiff little shapes out and unfolding them with only one hand, but they both seem to want the contact. She lets out soft laughs and disbelieving snorts and the occasional question. He answers and takes the pages from her as she finishes, making a careful pile.

She's . . . thrilled with it. There's no other word. Her voice is low and excited and her breath catches every so often. She's thrilled and he's quiet. Solemn and quiet and so glad that it means something to her like it does to him.

But she's nearly to the end. It's the last of the old things and he finds his heart is pounding. He thinks about those early days. What an ass he was. How badly he wanted her. Like he could have her and it would burn him up. Burn her out of him and he'd be over her. He'd stop wanting more. From her. From himself and the book and his life. He turns his head and presses a kiss to the bare skin just below the hem of her dress.

"Castle." She tugs at his hair a little irritably, but he looks up at her and her fingers relax. "You ok?"

He nods, but she's not convinced.

"Do we need to go? I can . . ." She trails off and runs a regretful hand over the coat.

"No." He grabs for her fingertips and kisses them. He nudges her hand back toward the coat. "No, go ahead."

She smoothes a palm down his cheek and gives him a long look. He nods again and she believes him this time. She works open the next pocket. It's long and narrow with a top flap and she pulls out a thin cylinder.

She flattens it along her thigh and peers down at it. "This is . . . there's so much. I can hardly read . . ." She breaks off suddenly and looks at him. He's watching her, but doesn't seem inclined to say anything. Her eyes travel back to the paper. She takes it delicately between her fingertips and moves it into the light and reads the first line. "Justice. You can hear the capital letter every time she says it."

She looks down at him and he's grinning now. She wants to flick his ear. She wants to kiss him. She wants to hide. A blush creeps over her. Her cheeks and collar bones are bright and warm with it.

She shifts uncomfortably and he lays a heavy hand on her thigh. He tips his head back and wraps his fingers around her wrist. He pulls her hand toward him and kisses her palm. "Still can. Every time."

"Castle, I . . . this . . ." She holds the paper out to him.

He takes it from her and catches her hand again. He sets the paper aside. Starts another pile and takes her hand in both her own. "There's a lot. You don't have to read it now. But I wanted you to know. Last year . . ." He thinks about it. "Still. I still want you to know that it's never been like it is with us. For me . . ."

He trails off, frustrated with his own stumbling words. She slips from the chair to the floor. Swings her knees over his thighs and presses close to his side. She still has the coat clutched in her hand and the skirt of it spreads over both of them.

He wraps his arm around her and gives her a grateful squeeze. "It's never been like this with anyone. Right from the start."

She's quiet, but she presses closer to him and it's better than words.

He doesn't want to move. He wants to stay like this with her. He wants to watch her read every word and tell her what it was like, knowing her. Falling in love with her. But there's time. He knows there's time and they really ought to go.

"I love your books." She says it quietly. Just as he's about to turn to her, and his mouth snaps shut. "For a long time. Since my mom died. I could count on them. I knew I could get the newest one or reread the ones I already had and I could just . . . escape for a while. They made me think and let me get out of my own head and I've loved them for a long time."

She goes quiet again and he doesn't know what to do. He wants to crush her against him and fall at her feet and drag her off to the bedroom. He doesn't know what to do, so he kisses her forehead and whispers, "Thank you. Thank you for telling me."

She tilts her chin up and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Don't be a jerk about it, ok?"

He laughs and wraps his other arm around her. "I'll try."

She pulls her knees up and slips the coat off their laps. She folds it in half and smooths a hand over the fabric. "We should probably go."

"Probably," he agrees. "You can read the rest later. Or whenever you want."

"Later," she agrees. "Together."

He nods and tries to not to grin like an idiot. "But you have to see the best part first!"

"You mean I haven't seen that already?" Her hands are a blur and all of a sudden she's dangling the open cuffs in front of his nose. They're close enough that the cheap fake fur tickles and he has to stifle a sneeze.

"No! No . . . those . . ." He scrambles backward, but she drops to her hands and knees and crawls after him and that's hardly fair. "Those are a highlight, but not . . . not the best part."

He yelps as her hand closes around his ankle and she pulls herself toward him. She's flipping one cuff through itself. Circling the hinge and the ratcheting noise is the worst combination of a threat and a promise.

"Beckett!" he whimpers. "Beckett! I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, but . . ."

She gives him a hard look and flips the cuffs in her hand, overlapping the bracelets and setting them aside. "I know. We have to go. But there's going to be a conversation about the fun fur."

"Definitely," he gulps. He's relieved. He's disappointed. He thinks about calling in a bomb threat to the party venue. "A conversation."

She rocks back on to her heels and it really should defuse the tension, but it doesn't. Her skirt pulls taut over her thighs and that neckline is fantastic and a bomb threat still sounds reasonable. She folds her arms over her chest and that's not helping. "So what's the 'best thing'."

It's too good a set up. He skitters back over to her and slides his hands over her shoulders. He kisses her. "You are. You're the best thing."

"Sap!" She rolls her eyes and pushes him away, but her eyes are shining and she's smiling wide.

"Yes. I am a sap." He lets her go and pushes himself to his feet. "Wait right here."

He dashes through the living room and wrestles the box from the front hall closet. They arrived so late and he needed to get hers together, so he's hardly had time to look at his own. He tears off the plastic as he rushes back into the office.

She sees the coat and holds up a hand. "Tell me they don't match."

He looks from the coat to her. "No. Well, yes, but no. I mean . . . . all the pockets and stuff, yeah, because they're so cool. But this is the 'Expedition' and yours is a trench coat because . . ." He gives her a heated look. "Trench coat. But they're not, like uniforms . . . well they kind of are, but they don't match. And it's the best part!"

She's laughing as he drops back to the floor next to her and nudges her attention toward the coat lying next to her. He spreads his own across his lap, front down, and watches as she does the same. He runs his finger along an almost invisible seam just below the shoulders. Her finger follows the same path on her own and she looks up at him, surprised.

"Magnets," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "On three?"

She presses her lips together. He can tell she wants to roll her eyes, but she's indulging him and he really, really wants to call in that bomb threat.

"One . . ." He nods to her

"Two . . ." She replies. She does roll her eyes, then. She's only human.

"Three!"

They tug in unison. A large square of fabric comes free and doubles back. Another strip of magnets catches the weight of the first and the flap seals neatly to the back of each coat, exposing a stretch of embroidery underneath. Silvery thread that reflects the low light. Familiar fat, blocky letters: TEAM BECKETT.