Matter Out of Place, Ch. 3-A Caskett WIP set after Belly of the Beast (6 x 17)
Title: Matter Out of Place
Rating: T
WC: ~1700, this chapter; ~4300 total so far
Summary: "He says there's nothing wrong. He says he's fine. They're fine. Most of the time, she believes him." Post-Belly of the Beast (6 x 17).
He makes peace without her. The three of them do, and it's strange.
It's a guy thing, she supposes. Stoic reticence. Except it's exactly the kind of guy he's not. Exactly the kind of thing she's never come up against with him. Not really.
He's quiet about himself a lot of the time. That surprised her along the way. Something she only realized bit by bit. That he's happy enough to spread everyone else's emotional mess out and pick through it. Sifting and sorting out motivations. Unearthing reasoning and twisted emotional logic beneath the horrible facts. He's good at that. Terrible and clinical and devastatingly right. She should know.
It's his job in more ways than one, and the fact that he keeps himself shuttered a lot of the time-heart and mind quiet, hidden from the outside world-that surprised her back then. The way a scar would show and he'd rush to cover it with a joke or a leer or blank denial, solid enough to make her wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing. The sudden story of Meredith abandoning Alexis. Abandoning him. Brief glimpses into the chaos of his childhood and the sharp edges of his love for Martha and hers for him. Raw moments piling up between them and him retreating. Hiding away again.
It surprised her, over and over, for a long time. Inconvenient substance beneath the surface. A good, complicated man in the flimsy armor of his public persona. It annoyed her at first.
Then it hurt. Because somewhere along the way, he wasn't like that with her. They weren't like that with each other. Except when he was. When they were. Demming and Gina and Josh and every time they couldn't be brave enough to name what was happening between them. Wouldn't be brave enough.
But it's been a long time. For him, it's been a long time since the last retreat. Not so long for her, maybe. Maybe, but it's not how they are anymore. They're not quiet about themselves, even when it's hard. Even when not being quiet cuts and tears and she feels like the life is draining out of her, because this is so hard. Because being more isn't something she'll ever be done with and God she hates when Burke is right.
All of It's hard. Every day. But they're better than this. It's not how they are any more. Not with each other.
Except he is now. About this peace he's made with her boys. Their boys.
That's not really fair. He comes clean about it. A little prodding from her. Some pushing and calling him out, because it's still not ok in daylight. It's still not ok in the bullpen or when Gates calls them on the carpet and the air hums with how angry he is. How angry he's been since Elena.
But he comes clean all on his own sometimes. He whispers sorry in the dark. He crashes into her in the stairwell, coming back just as she's going after him when it's the middle of the day and something breaks him to pieces. Something she never saw coming and doesn't really understand even now. When he crashes into her and holds her tight enough to hurt and whispers it again. Sorry.
He comes clean when she calls him out, too. When she won't let them be like this because they've fought too long and too hard and she loves him. He comes clean. Always. Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm trying, Kate.
He is. He's trying, and the three of them have made their peace without her. Except they haven't. Not really. They're hurting. All three of them in their different ways.
Esposito bristles. He's defensive and rough with both of them. With everyone, and Lanie tells her that he's falling apart in his own good time. That he won't talk about it, of course. Castle. Elena. Any of the whole mess. She says he's dark and silent. That he pushes her away and she's on the verge of letting him.
What else can I do? she asks. But Kate doesn't know. She doesn't know at all.
Ryan is tired. He takes too much on himself anyway. Always, and fatherhood sharpens that. He feels the need for them keenly. Friends, family. The ones he counts on to send him safe home every night to Jenny. To their little girl. He tries hard to make things ok, but everything is out of joint, and he's tired enough already.
He tells her that sometimes. Ryan. He uses her first name. Startles her with it and ducks his head. He tells her he misses how things were. How they should be.
He tells her that he's tired. They all are, and she knows.
She knows it's all still wrong. But there's nothing much she can do about it.
"Should you . . . do you want to . . ." She breaks off.
They're on the roof of the loft, and it's a beautiful evening. Something of spring in the air after so long a winter, and she hates to ruin it. He's wound all around her, back propped against something solid. He's wound all around her, and she loves the taste of warm wind on his skin.
He's been up here a long while without her. Things had been fine. Just an ordinary day, then a bad one all of a sudden. He'd walked out. Called before she could follow. Sent nothing but a choked sorry down the line and a sigh of relief when she said ok. That she'd see him at home.
But now the sun is down and he'd lifted his arms to her the second she pushed through the door and out into the night. He'd gathered her close and murmured better now before she could even ask.
He is. Better now. He is. But he's quiet. They both are. She tells herself they've earned it. That it's important to let them be ok. To hold him and know that's true. That he hasn't had a nightmare in weeks. She hasn't. That they're ok, and the nights are beautiful, even if everything else is fucked up.
She doesn't ask what it was today. An offhand comment. A file or a piece of paperwork. A name or an overheard conversation that reminded him of Elena. He doesn't know most of the time anyway. Not for days and days. Like he has to be through it. Past the dark moment completely before it drops in his lap and he says oh. yes. of course.
It worries her. It worries him. The fact that it's hidden. This machinery that keeps going wrong in daylight is a mystery them both.
He stays away. They both hate that. They all do. Ryan is tired and Esposito is angry, and they all hate that it's the best way sometimes. Taking himself out of the equation. Meeting them at the scene and not hanging around when nothing's happening and talk turns idly to the rest of their lives. Coming in late and cutting days short. Settling his arm tight around her and walking her out with him.
She hates not having him all the time. Little things winding into a knot inside her. Snapshots of murder boards she has to text him. Calls she has to make and his empty chair. She hates all of it, so she asks. Should you . . . Do you want to . . . ?
"What?" he asks, right away. "Do I want to what?"
It wrenches at her insides. How eager he is to try. How much he wants her to know that he'd make it right if he could. That he's trying hard to be ok all day long. As if she doesn't know. As if that isn't what hurts most. How hard they're both trying.
She's quiet. It feels like she's asking too much. Like it's selfish when she has him like this. When he never lets her think for an instant that it's her. That it's them that's wrong and they're in trouble.
But he asks again. Forlorn and insistent. Hopeful. Because he wants to be ok all the time. "Kate. Please. Should I what? Do I want to what?"
"Talk to someone." It comes out in a rush and she hides her face against him. "Burke . . . for me . . ." Her mouth drops open. "Not Burke. You can't talk to Burke."
He gives a pained laugh. A strangled puff of air against the back of her neck. "Not Burke," he says. "Not Burke."
He's quiet then. The laugh subsides and she's burning. She'd unwind it if she could. Those stupid words. She'd pull them back. He's not broken like she is. He fractures along different lines, and she . . . God knows it hurts her enough to need it. God knows it still makes her feel weak after all this time. Trailing into that damned office like a bird with a broken wing.
"I don't know," he says after a while. Into her skin the first time. Up at the night when she doesn't answer. "I don't know . . . maybe."
But he means no. They talk it out. Halting and careful with quiet in between. It's hours and hours and the wind changes. Rain patters on the metal overhang above them.
He tells her that it's hard for him. That so much of the time he doesn't know how to be close. To stop peering under the hood the minute he meets someone. Taking them apart and putting them back together again. Bits and pieces of disparate lives joined on the page. That it gets in the way, and he's out of practice opening up. Letting other people see inside him.
"I have . . . I'm lucky. I have Alexis. My mother." He makes a face. She laughs. Tugs his ear, but he brushes her hand aside. He dips his head to kiss her, shy, sweet, and grateful enough to make her blush. "I have you, Kate, and I know . . ." He draws a shuddering breath. Closer to tears than he's been in a long time. "I know it's not fair. How I've been . . . and maybe . . ."
She quiets him. Kisses him mouth and tells him no. stop. She kisses him and tells him it's not about fair. She makes him look at her and tells him again. Again and again and again. Until he nods and says ok. Until he promises not to be quiet with her.
"I won't," he says. "But, someone . . . maybe. I'll think about it."
He will. She knows he'll think about it. That he'll keep trying to be ok in daylight, because he wants it as badly as she does. As they all do.
He'll think about it. But maybe means no.
A/N: So. Obviously not a three-shot. But likely just four. Sorry.