Wander, Chapter 2: Better, Though I Wonder; Short Castle WIP post-Squab and the Quail (5 x 22)
Title: Wander, Chapter 2: Better, Though I Wonder
WC: ~3400 this chapter (~6600 so far)
Rating: T
Summary: “But it’s not just this April she hates. It’s the last and the last and the last. Almost since he’s been with her, though not quite.” A short WIP (4 chapters) set after The Squab and the Quail (5 x 22)
A/N: Thank you for the kind words on chapter 1; this chapter has some references to Significant Others (5 x 10) and A Chill Goes Through Her Veins (1 x 05).
Here's Chapter 1, if you missed it.
It's better after the stillness.
After one night just being still and the next morning when she leaves and he sleeps in.
He brings lunch and he's a little late. He's not entirely put together. A shirt without buttons, and he's managed to miss a patch of stubble on his jaw. The same spot he always misses when he's in a hurry.
She wonders if he just woke up. She searches around his eyes for the tired lines and wishes he'd have just skipped today. She feels it bunching up in her throat. Annoyance and worry. At him and about him and for him.
But then she sees the bags his arms are loaded down with and it's gone.
It's lunch for all of them. The team, and that's not just about the two of them hiding in plain sight. It's for the team, but it's hot dogs from the place she likes, and that's really why he's late. It's more of a trek. It's out of the way and always crowded, but he made the effort and the tight feeling in her throat is gone.
He sets the boys' usual orders out on their desks and asks where they are. He chatters and starts moving things around on the corner of hers closest to his chair. He's clearing space. Careful to keep her piles separate and in order as he makes space for the spread.
She lays a hand on his wrist to stop him. His head snaps up. He looks wary and a little resigned. But she smiles and she doesn't have to try.
He blinks once, but doesn't miss a beat. He smiles back.
"Missed you as soon as you left," he says in a low voice, just for her. Just for her.
"You were asleep before I left," she retorts.
"Still missed you." He shrugs and turns back to the work at hand, but she curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs him toward the stairwell.
He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't argue. He lets her take the bags from him. He lets her pull him down with her. They sit side by side on the bottom step and she steals his fries and won't touch the ones he got for her.
"I never get fries," she insists as she reaches for another. Another one of his. She gives him a look that says she dares him-she dares him-to slap her hand away.
"Because you always have mine," he pouts.
"Always?" she shoots back and all of a sudden the air is heavy between them.
The cheeky grin dies on her lips and her face goes up in flames, but he leans in quickly. He chases it. The grin and the moment and the question she didn't mean to ask. He chases.
He kisses her and she lets him, even though he's had relish. She hates relish, and usually there are rules about that.
"As long as you want them," he says softly.
He kisses her and she lets him.
It's better after the stillness.
Things are easier between them. Closer to easy, anyway, and she's frustrated with herself for how it's been the last few weeks. For how they let it get.
She's frustrated that she let Vaughn get in her head. That she let Meredith do the same a few months ago. She thinks that's where this started. That sucks. It's such a goddamned cliché, and it just sucks. Because she thought she'd been doing well. They'd been doing well.
She'd had a moment when the door closed and Meredith's perfume still hung heavy in the air. There's no point in denying that. She'd had a moment. She'd rocked back on her heels and stood there, unanchored and wondering if she knew him at all. After all this time, if she knew anything about him.
And the answer wouldn't come. Not at first. Not right away and not all at once. Not until she looked for it. Not until she did the work. So she rolled up her sleeves and searched out the things she knows.
She does know him, even though it's not easy. He's not easy to know. That much is true and it's a surprise, but not a new one. It's not something she needed Meredith to tell her.
She's known for years. The way he runs his mouth and never says anything about himself. The way it seems like he's wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he's damned near impenetrable when it really matters.
But for all that, she knows him. She's gotten to know him and he's let her get to know him even though it scares him. Even though he still worries that the next thing she finds out will be the one she can't live with.
She knows him.
She knows why he writes and how insecure he is underneath all the ego. That he lives with the fear every day and every night that he'll sit down one day and it will be gone. Every last word will be gone.
She knows that he's shy in his own way. That he has this huge personality and he loves people, but at a distance.
She knows that all the arm's length examination and unraveling he does might be the writer at work, but it's also the way a lonely little boy learned to live in temporary worlds. Theaters and boarding schools that lasted a season or a year. A cast of thousands, but acquaintances, mostly, with real friends and real connections few and far between.
She knows it's still like that. That being part of the team and having the boys-having her-is something he's not really used to. That he loves the rough handling-the insults and the way they don't hesitate to call bullshit on each other-but it's hard on him, too, because he's never had friends like that and he still worries he's on the outside looking in. That he always will be.
She knows he clings so tightly to Alexis because she's the only constant in his life and he ties himself in knots about what kind of father he is. That he loves his mother fiercely and depends on her. That he's proud of the relationship they've been able to build, but part of him is always waiting for her to let him down.
She knows him and it doesn't matter what he tells her and what she's had to find out for herself, because that's how people work. That's how she works, and she knows him all the same and she feels like she shouldn't have to ask.
She shouldn't. She's knows him. She's sure of him and she hates that she hesitated when Vaughn asked.
She feels like she should already know. Like it should be clear and not need saying out loud. It's part of the reason she can't seem to just come out with it. Part, but not all of it.
She wonders what would happen if she did ask. She wonders what would happen, because she doesn't have an answer for herself. She doesn't even really have a question.
Where are we going?
That's it. She supposes that's the question, and there's not a lot more to it. She doesn't know how she'd answer it. She doesn't even know how she wants him to answer it. Not really.
But it's there. The question is there or one a lot like it. One that might make more sense if she knew what how much of it was already there-already on her mind-and how much of it she'd let in.
She's frustrated with that, too. That it's not just them in her head. That whatever agenda Vaughn might have had, whatever Meredith might have really wanted-however much either of them might have been trying to get into her head-it's not just them. She's frustrated to know that the things they said would never have taken hold if there weren't something there in the first place. Some worry of hers.
She thinks maybe she should be proud of that in some twisted way. Proud of the fact that at least she's not letting everything in any more. She's not scouring every moment for cautionary tales she should take to heart. For reasons why this is a bad idea. For the writing on the wall and evidence that he'll let her down. That all their secrets will weight them down and they'll implode. That he'll break her heart.
So, yes, she's proud. She's a little proud that she's at least past fixating on the cover story of a lying killer. Past expecting the implosion around every corner.
But it's hard to proud when it's a simple question. It's a simple question, but she opens her mouth and she can't make the words come out. It's hard to be proud when she doesn't know what she's afraid of or what she wants the answer to be. His or hers.
Miles Haxton might not be in her head, but he's on her mind, because she is proud of that. The way she said what she wanted and he said yes and relief just shot through her because he wanted it, too. His face lit up and he stepped closer to her and she knew it was exactly what he wanted, too. The two of them and no one else between them anymore. No one else between them after all this time.
She's proud of that. All the more because he was an idiot and so was she and they stumbled into the conversation tongue-tied and backwards and it was so them. Clumsy and harder than it needed to be. Hard won by the two of them together, but it feels all the more solid for that. It's as reassuring to her as the fact that they still snap at each other.
They do. That they go back to snapping at each other after that morning. After the stillness, it's the closest they've come to it yet. Hot dogs and a stolen moment in a stairwell and it's the closest they've come to a real conversation about it.
But it's better somehow. It rights them or at least nudges them back toward center. They go back to snapping at each other afterward, and she's glad.
She's proud of that. The way they hold on to the things that define them and move forward.
It's better than it has been.
But this-now-is more complicated. She still hates the taste of that on her tongue. Those words. They taste like a long year without him. They taste like last April and the pitying smirk behind Vaughn's eyes when she let them slip out.
But it's true. However much she hates the taste, it's true. Where they go from here-almost a year on-is more complicated.
A year. Four years. Five. All that time and the weight of expectation and she wishes everyone would just shut up. She wishes she couldn't feel everyone's assumptions and suspicions and surprise and I-told-you-sos crowding in on her.
She wishes Lanie would keep her speculation to herself and her father would stop asking if things are ". . . good" between them, pause and all. She wishes that Alexis weren't so polite and wary and Martha didn't sneak the world's least surreptitious peeks at her left hand every time the two of them came back from anything more upscale than burgers at Remy's.
She's not expecting . . . that. It's not what this is about or what she wants.
But it's not what she doesn't want either.
She doesn't not expect it.
She worries and she hopes and she just doesn't know how she feels about . . . that.
And she hates the inevitability of it. Not it. Not that itself. But the assumption. That it must be next and it must be soon, because it's been a year. It's been four years. And if it's not soon then, well. Well.
She doesn't feel that way. She doesn't think she feels that way, but how can she tell? How can she tell with everyone else clamoring in her head?
She hates that it's not just the two of them finding their way and figuring out what comes next. Even if they're bad at it. Even if they'll stumble and hurt each other more than they need to, she hates that it's not just them. Kate and Rick.
But it's not just them. It's not Kate and Rick. It's Beckett and Castle. Her damage and his reputation and everyone on the sidelines and she hates that. She hates all the tortured things that crowd into her head. About what she wants and expects and doesn't want and doesn't expect and doesn't not want and doesn't not expect.
She hates the way it all stops her mouth and she can't get them any closer to the conversation than they got in the stairwell the day after.
And even though it's better, she hates that she can't bring herself to ask. She hates that she doesn't know what answer she wants or what answer she'd give. She doesn't even really know what the question is.
Where are we going?
It's better after the stillness. But it's not good. It used to be. It was good before, and that's not just his imagination. It wasn't just him being deluded and coasting along on a lie.
Before Vaughn. Before his mother got into his head. Before he started overdoing it and she started trying all the time, things were good.
It's better now. She asked, though she didn't mean to. He answered, though not the way he wanted. And it's been better. Subtext and a bag of french fries and, God help them, it's been better.
But it's not good. And he has it in his head now that it won't be until he asks.
It's not that he doesn't want to ask. It's not that he doesn't want to buy her a ring. It's not that he doesn't want to plan something big and intimate and perfect and just ask.
It's not that his heart doesn't pound when he thinks about it. Her hand in his and a perfect circle sliding home. The perfect weight of it.
It's not that he doesn't want to ask.
It's that he does.
It's that he's wanted to from the minute she pressed his fingers-their fingers together-against her scar.
It's the fact that he's wanted to since long before that. Before they were even together. Before it even seemed possible that they'd ever be together, he's wanted it.
He remembers the exact moment. The very first time he thought about asking.
He was needling her. Of course he was needling her, but she walked right into it.
I'm not judging her. Some people love the institution, hate the day-to-day.
Are you one of those people, Castle?
I guess I just haven't met the right girl.
He was just a few weeks into knowing her then, and he felt like he'd never know her at all. So he was needling her. He pushed her buttons all the time and every once in a while she let things slip.
He was just needling her, and then he wasn't. In a sudden rush, it wasn't that at all. Then it was stupid. Even for him, it was stupid, but he wanted to ask. Just to see what she'd say.
And then not just to see. With his heart was thumping in his chest, he knew it wasn't just to see. He really wanted to ask. He wanted her to say yes. However stupid it was, he wanted to make happen. To make it happen right then and see where it went.
He hasn't stopped wanting it since then. Not really. Not when she sent him away the first time. Not when he was with Gina and she was with Demming and then she wasn't with Demming and she was with Josh. And he was with Gina and not with Gina all at the same time. Not when she left him for so long.
He's never stopped picturing it. He's never stopped wanting to ask, and his heart pounds every time he thinks about it.
He wants to ask, and that's the problem.
The problem is he's almost asked a dozen times in the last year. More than that. Ring or no ring, he's almost asked so many times. In quiet moments in the middle of the night. In the frantic aftermath of explosions and bullets whizzing right by them when it just seems so stupid not to ask. Loud moments on the street when she laughs at him or shoots him that pissed off look that's just for him.
He wants to the ask in the stillness. To the sound of her breath keeping time with his. He wants to ask in the everyday moments to the sound of New York traffic blaring around them or the busy murmur of the bullpen. He wants to ask at the top of a ski slope or down at their beach in the Hamptons with the ocean lapping at their toes.
He wants to ask.
He loves to ask.
That's not exactly something to be proud of, but he's always loved it.
He loves the rush of it. The heady, full-tilt romance. He loves being in love. He burns hot and bright with it. He always has, and it's always seemed like asking is the only thing big enough to show the world. To take the light and heat and turn it outward. To ask.
He wants to ask her now. But he's wanted to ask her for a long time. And he's always loved to ask.
He's worried that they're the same thing. That all three are tangled up in the same thing and they can't be. It's too important. She's too important and when he asks-if he asks-he wants it to be like nothing ever before. For him or for her.
Not just the event. Not just asking, though that, too. That should be like nothing ever before. However he does it. Whenever he does it. If he does it.
But not just asking. What it means. That should be like nothing ever before. It has to be.
He doesn't want to ask just because it's the next thing. Because he's supposed to and people expect it and they whisper and smirk and warn. Because all that's a little more out in the open every day that passes and he doesn't ask. Every day, more people warn her. They warn him and he hates it.
He doesn't want to ask just because he can't think what else to do.
Because he feels so much for her-so much-and he can never find the words when it comes to that. He almost chokes on the irony, but it's true. He's never been able to find the words with her, and asking can't just be some kind of Hail Mary to make up for that. He doesn't want it to be.
He doesn't want to ask because it's always been the beginning of the end. However full his heart was and however hot and bright he burned, it's always been the beginning of the end. He can't bear the thought of that with her. He never wants it to end, and if that means never asking, he'll think of something else.
They'll think of something else. The two of them together.
That's what he wants. That's how it should be, and he feels like a coward because he can't even say that. He doesn't even know how to start.
He doesn't know how to start, so he lets the lie pull them along. The illusion that things are ok and he doesn't have to decide what comes next. That they're sure of each other. Sure enough for now and things are better.
They are better.
Ever since the night she let him hold her and she slept. Since she tucked him in and told him to sleep and let him bring her lunch. Since they sat in the stairwell together and ate hot dogs and she kissed him in spite of the relish.
It's better and it's so tempting to just let things be.
She smiles now and it's not work. She rolls her eyes and snipes at him when he does something and overshoots the mark. When it's too big and too much and no way to make up for the times when he's clueless and self-absorbed and a pain in the ass. She calls him on it and sometimes she lets herself be charmed and she's not trying too hard all the time.
Sometimes she is, but not all the time and it's a relief. It's a relief, and he half thinks he can just sit back and let things unfold. He half thinks he should do that. Because things are better and why mess with that? Why not just let things be?
Because they're better, but they're not ok.
Because better isn't good enough.