Smitten-A Caskett One-Shot Set between Undead Again (4 x 22) and Always (4 x 23)
Title: Smitten
Rating: T
WC: ~1600
Summary: "Kate Beckett is well and truly drunk." One-shot set between Undead Again (4 x 22) and Always (4 x 23).
A/N: Because Brain likes to punish me for grading.
You put your face in front of mine
All but hiding desperation
Hunger leaks out of your eyes
Whetting me with dark temptation
-Bree Sharp, "Smitten"
Kate Beckett is well and truly drunk.
It's a first. The front-row seat for him is a first, anyway, and he wishes he had it in him to find it captivating. Interesting, even. He'd settle for interesting. Mostly, though, it's a problem. Mostly it's just . . . kind of a pain in the ass.
She's heavy and stumbling. Not even stumbling. She aspires to stumbling in these stupid heels.
"You won't let me take them off," she points out blearily as she miraculously puts one foot in front of the other just to spite him. "You drunk, too, Castle?"
He gives her an exasperated, pleading look. He catches her by the elbow for the hundredth time as her balance fails her again. "No. Not drunk, Beckett. Lucky for you."
"Not sober, either." She tries for a scowl and doesn't quite make it. She's kind of a happy drunk. Kind of. "Talking to yourself. About my shoes."
"Well, you can't take them off! You can't go wandering around New York in the middle of the night in bare feet!" he snaps.
"Check." She shoots him a cheeky grin like she doesn't care at all that he's snapping at her. Like she doesn't get that this is a pain in the ass. "Sensible," she says a minute later, as if she's been thinking about it. Maybe she has. God knows he hasn't the faintest idea what goes on in her head, drunk or sober. "Smart. But it doesn't mean you're sober."
It's a fair enough cop. He must not be sober. He must be talking to himself. He might as well, though. She's not a great conversationalist like this, and it's . . . frustrating. Because she doesn't seem to want to talk, even though that was supposed to be the point.
He thinks so, anyway. He thought that was the point. After yet another conversation within a conversation within a conversation that's definitely not a conversation about them . . . he was dumb enough to think she really wanted to talk. Dumb enough to hope.
Because she . . . she kind of asked him out, right? Or asked him to join her, anyway. She called him. And it didn't seem like a drunk dial. He'd have known. He'd have recognized it, even from her. Even if no one has exactly drunk dialed him since dinosaurs roamed the earth.
"Parasaurolophous," she says perfectly. It tugs his focus back to their slow, winding progress down the street.
"What?" He reels her back in by the arm, then drops it immediately.
"Best dinosaur." He looks away, but she leans right into him as she says it. "You're the one who brought it up. Dinosaurs roaming the earth. Parasaurolophous is obviously the best." She shrugs at him. Raises a hand. "You brought it up, Castle. Because you're. Not. Sober."
She bumps his shoulder three times for emphasis. He jerks back in a futile attempt to avoid any more direct contact than is strictly necessary.
She gives him a heavy look, like she knows exactly what he's up to. Exactly what he's determined not to be up to. Because she's drunk. And they were supposed to be talking, right?
"I'm not the drunk one, Beckett."
It comes out harsh. Harsher than he means to let it, but he's angry. Still angry. Because he kind of understands. He "thinks" he understands, and any sentence that puts his name and want in her mouth has him stupidly, painfully hoping all over again. But she lied to him. She left him alone for three months knowing . . .
So he's still angry. That's probably ok. It's probably "healthy" by some standards.
But when the happy, tipsy light dies in her eyes and she says I am so faintly that he's not even sure she hears herself, he's nothing but sorry. There's no room for angry any more, because he's so fucking sorry for hurting her. That's probably less healthy.
"It's ok," he says flatly, and thank God, they're finally in her neighborhood.
"I didn't mean to be." She clears her throat. She speaks up, and her brow furrows like she's thinking hard. Like she's concentrating and trying not to be such a pain in the ass. "When I called. I didn't mean to be drunk."
"You weren't." He turns sharply toward her. He wants to know. He wants something out of this, but her hair hangs forward and the stupid blocks around her apartment have the worst lighting. "You weren't when you called, were you?"
She shakes her head. It's ambitious. She stumbles again and he rights her. She keeps her eyes on the sidewalk.
"What happened?"
He thinks this probably isn't fair. She's drunk, and it's not . . . honorable. It's certainly not how he wants them to start if that's what's happening here. If that's what's finally happening. It's bad enough already. Graveyard confessions and deathbed lies.
This is bad, too. It's like prying, isn't it? Snooping and hiding, and he just cannot go down that road right now. He just can't. Because he needs to be angry. He needs to know that he can be and they can still . . . He needs to know they can get past this. That they're strong enough to weather any secret.
But it's not fair to do it this way. She's really drunk and she wouldn't be saying any of this if she weren't. Even if she did call him.
"You don't have to tell me," he says miserably.
"I was scared." She says it before he's even finished, and he doesn't know if it's a sudden leap or she's not listening or what. "Drank too much. Liquid courage."
She stops suddenly. She wheels around toward him and blinks. They're in front of her building. He's as surprised as she is. The walk from the bar took forever, and now they're here. All of a sudden, they're here and she's still really drunk.
He shouldn't ask. Why? Scared of what?
He shouldn't even be thinking about asking. He should be taking care of this. Figuring out if she's ok enough to get herself up and into her apartment. If she'll remember aspirin and water and that she absolutely has to take off those stupid shoes.
"You like my shoes," she says, and she's smiling. Happy again. He half wishes he were drunk. He wishes happy were that easy for him right now. "You like all my shoes, Castle."
His mouth twists of its own volition. A grin he tries to wipe away, but she sees it. She lights up, and he's just too tired to take it back. He's too tired to be angry and not have this. To not have at least this one moment out of this whole godforsaken night and whatever this is about. She called him, and she didn't mean to be drunk. It has to mean something.
It has to.
"I like all your shoes, Beckett." It's the only thing he can think of to say.
He's standing too close. She sways and catches herself on his lapels. Her body lists right into his, and his hands land on her hips. He's steadying her. That's all. He's making sure she doesn't fall. He'll let go any second. Any second.
But she's not letting go. Her fingers are wrapped tight. They look right at home there against the dark fabric of his jacket, and she's breathing him in. Her eyes are closed and she's tasting the air between them and he knows-he knows-he has to be the one to stop this. She's really drunk.
But her eyes open then. Huge and luminous and so close. She licks her lips and he's just about lost when she speaks.
"I'm not in love with you."
It breaks him. He feels cracks deep inside, like he's coming to literal pieces.
She sees it. Hears it or feels it or whatever. She panics. She holds on tight and they take a few painful, grappling steps.
"Kate!" It's almost a shout even though he doesn't know where the breath comes from. He doesn't know how there's anything inside him to push out again like this.
"I'm not allowed!" She shouts right over him.
"What?" He's quieter. He's trying to be quieter, but grading on a drunk-Kate curve probably doesn't count.
She goes on like she hasn't heard him anyway. "I'm not good at it. Yet."
She frowns. Droops. She's sad. She's angry with herself. Disappointed, and he feels the probably-fucked-up-need to defend her rising in him and he just can't. This is bad.
"Beckett." He says it gently as he raises his hands to cover hers. As he tries to pry her fingers open. "You need to get upstairs. You need to get to bed."
She gasps as his fingers come to rest. A sharp inhale as skin meets skin. It fills her up and she's happy tips her chin up and she's smiling. She's not just drunk happy,and it's been so long since he's seen that. Since he's really seen her smile.
"Lanie calls it crazy." It's a whisper now. She thinks it is anyway. A confidential stage whisper. "She says I'm crazy about you."
"Are you?" He can't help it. It's late and he can't even get himself together to be angry and she called him. She called him. He can't help it. "Are you, Kate?"
She shakes her head. She draws the moment out and tugs him along on the thin line of a wicked smile.
"Smitten," she whispers. "I'm smitten, Castle."