a twist in his story; a castle fanfic.
a twist in his story; a castle fanfic. castle/beckett. 3,375 words; pg. general spoilers for season two, vague spoilers for upcoming episodes.
So I'm still on a hiatus until mid-May, but I had nothing to do today and inspiration for my newest tv show love struck. Enjoy!
He always told himself it was about the story, that he was fascinated by her because she was intriguing subject matter; the tough detective with a wounded soul, a future maimed by the past. It was prime novelist material, a story that never gets old. People will always relate, people will always understand.
She spoke to him, everything she did, every move she made. The ebb and flow of their relationship had moved from clashing waves to a sycophantic rhythm that worked well in helping them do their respective jobs. He assisted her in crime-solving, she gave him a book heroine who was the focal point of a new commercial empire. Millions rested on the character of Nikki Heat; a series of mystery novels, a new potential blockbuster film. And as one could get lost in the hype, as publishers became greedy and agents were looking to capitalize on the nation’s love of the character, he only saw the truth behind the story. He only saw her.
Yes, she gave him a book heroine, but what she didn’t know (and what he was barely able to admit to himself) was that she also gave him everything else.
Maybe it was symptomatic of his love for the female species, or maybe it was a sign of his love for storytelling. Nevertheless, Kate Beckett was something of another kind of human, the kind that became stronger the more that fate handed her; the kind that saw the world for what it could be and was sad about what people had settled for; the kind who was akin to a living, breathing, free verse poem that was more abstract than it was historical narrative. He occasionally glimpsed into the little nooks and crannies of her existence. He never let her on to these new world discoveries; she probably would have killed him if she knew everything his mind possessed about her. The large tomes on the Chinese culture that littered the living space of her (former) apartment, her odd idiosyncrasies when it came to criminal profiling and methodology, the vibrant pastels she wore when not on duty, the way her hair escaped the pins that attempted to clamp it all together, the swagger of her hips that she attempted to control when she was at the scene of a crime, the scrunchy look that adorned her face when she was analyzing the puzzle pieces half-hazardly painted across the white of her murder board. He knew how she was feeling on specific days based on how she took her coffee (more sugar on days when the case was struggling, he figured she needed the extra sugar to keep her buoyant). He knew that deep down she was childish innocence and when she told him over Chinese food, hot dogs, and sushi that she liked having him around, he saw Kate Beckett as a smiling, playful teenager who loved to be wrapped up in the warm arms of others and who liked to give her heart and soul to anyone who stayed around long enough.
They were starting to settle like a married couple, the kind of married couple who were just as comfortable in the silence as they were in the chaos. It was in these moments when she didn’t berate him for watching her do paperwork; rather, he just sat and sipped his coffee and made idle small talk that was about nothing and everything. It built up their relationship to the point where the little things took on real significance. No longer was it about murder cases or car rides or interrogation rooms or obligations to the mayor--- it was about how she was now only second on his speed dial to Alexis, how she wasn’t afraid to lean into his gentle flirtations, how ritual it had become to share meals after long days, how she was now considered a surrogate member of his family. The mechanical wheels of their relationship had become more like a lazy current, bumping along the edges and steadily moving onward towards the mouth and into the ocean.
Richard Castle would be the first to assert that he’s fairly immune to change. There were few constants in his life, it was something he grappled with since childhood. The multitudes of father-figures, the multitudes of his own women, the new headline, the new event. Maybe the unstable life was the worst kind of stalemate.
Was the new comfort unsettling? If it was, it was unheard of for either of them, two orbiting souls who were looking for peace of mind, but somehow only managed to bounce off of it and land into the regular routine of their ebb and flow relationship. It was something that worked for them, but it was entirely troublesome at the same moment. They were teetering, tired, and torn. They had reached a stage where so many different paths could be taken. Neither were ready to go down the road less traveled.
It would have been easy to akin the moment to a ticking time bomb. As a writer, he was always looking for the perfect metaphor for their relationship, but he could never quite settle on one. They just were. There was no comparison. And yet when Demming waltzed into the precinct and her life and his comfort, it was like the ticking time bomb was the only thing in his mind and he didn’t even know why the metaphor was there or what it meant, but it was quickly becoming a nuisance. He ran to the precinct with coffee and pastries, as if it were some kind of unspoken competition to get there first. It suddenly became like a horrible Anthropology course and he was flashing back to when he learned about male-to-male competition in the fight for the girl.
And when Demming waltzed into the precinct and her life, and his comfort, it’s like all he could do was think in metaphors. It was becoming a distraction. A distraction from what, he was not entirely sure yet.
It didn’t know what possessed him to ask the question. He knew the answer, it’s as if he just wanted to antagonize himself.
“What’s tomorrow night?”
She looked at him quizzically. She knew what he was talking about, she was just stalling, and it mildly annoyed him.
“Oh, Tom was wondering if I wanted to get together tomorrow night.” She must have sensed the annoyance on his face because she quickly followed up by asking him if he had a problem with the arrangement.
It was if he could hear himself sounding stupidly obvious. “Why would I have a problem with that?”
The coy, responsive look on her face mirrored everything he felt. He was pathetic and afraid and he couldn’t explain why but those metaphors were creeping up again. It felt like the point in the story where the conflict was introduced. Conflicts split characters, gave meaning to their actions. It executed the human drama and exposed people for who they were and what their fears were. It was the turning point, the rest was all falling action and eventual denouement.
It was funny how he couldn’t hide his annoyance. Try as he might, it was like a nervous tick. The mention of Demming just made his face contort. Chalk it up to chain reaction. Beckett always noticed, too. Was he just being possessive? He missed the comfort. Now there was invisible space between them and it was no longer the easy sycophantic rhythm of coffee, car rides, murder cases, and easy silence; the whole system was off. Someone stuck a wedge in the machinery. The worst part was that her ever-cool and calm demeanor never betrayed her feelings; he couldn’t tell if she was feeling off-put as well, or if she was gaining an odd, sadistic pleasure out of watching him squirm. Or maybe she was just as disconcerted as he was.
What was frightening was that he couldn’t tell. The object of his fascination, the queen of his commercial empire, the subject of his creative curiosity. And she was a mystery to him.
He stared at his computer. And stared. He opened several word documents only to backspace everything he thought he knew and everything he thought was real. It was foreign and intimidating to feel so creatively empty . Especially from where he sat in his study, and he glanced up to the kitchen where he only saw her in his mind, cooking breakfast for his family in the t-shirt he loaned her to sleep in. It was beautiful to him; it felt believable. Sometimes having the mind of an author was a blessing and a curse. You could dream up the ending, but often times, you project your hopes and fears onto things that really didn’t carry as much meaning as you imagined they did.
The blank word document was mocking him. He closed it and went to sleep.
Some days were more comfortable than others. He pondered on this so much that it felt more like months when in reality it had only been a couple of weeks. She was wearing her hair differently. Her clothes were…lighter? They felt different. Her whole aura felt less heavy than usual. He had a strange love/hate relationship with it; he wanted to ask her why she hadn’t acted this way before, but then he glanced in her direction and he couldn’t remember why he was angry anymore. She just looked so beautiful. He tried a different approach.
“You look nice today.”
She looked at him approvingly. “Thanks.”
He felt that it was the least he could do. If he couldn’t be the reason for it, he wanted to be the constant that moved it along. He needed to be a part of it somehow.
And every day it just got progressively worse. He felt like he was stalling and he was watching something that was increasingly gaining momentum. And he was the spectator to it all. He could walk away, but he needed to see it. Self-induced agony; he had become a masochist. The worst part was that he still couldn’t write. She was once the creative spark and now she was the detriment. Maybe that was putting it a bit harshly.
Friday night. They had just closed up a murder case. He sat at home with a glass of water and his laptop. Alexis was out. Mother was with Chet. Everything felt very loud even though the only noise came from the pitter-patter of a light rain outside. It wasn't soothing. The rain usually helped him write better, but tonight it was cacophonous, ear-piercing. Somehow in the past hour, he had only managed to produce a paragraph; it wasn’t even a good paragraph, it was entirely case exposition. It was the laborious part of being a mystery writer. But the words felt limp and weak. He couldn’t even recognize Nikki from the way he was writing her. He rubbed his eyes frustratedly and took a drink of water.
He needed to get out.
He supposed he could have gone anywhere in the city. After all, he was Richard Castle. It was the advantage of having a recognizable name and a charming personality. For some reason he told the cab driver to go to the 12th precinct.
Why he chose to go to the 12th precinct, of all places in New York City, was beyond him, but he was there. It was still lightly raining outside and he just needed a place cloaked in familiarity that wasn’t the inside of a study or an empty home, with his book outlines and his bestsellers sitting on the shelf in front of him as he typed meaningless words into a machine. The precinct had become a strange second home to him now, for it held all of the things that a home normally does for any human being: memories both good and bad, a place where you saw the people you loved.
Somewhere along the way, it became a part of him. Or maybe he just needed a change of scenery.
God, he hated when he got too reflective. But soon, he was in the shaking elevator and he didn’t even know what to do when he reached his destination. The building was probably vacated by now; the clock was creeping towards nine-thirty. He had never actually been inside the precinct this late before, he thought that maybe it would give him the sense of serenity he needed. He could sit at her desk and mess with her chair. Maybe she would yell at him on Monday. Maybe he could brainstorm like he was unable to in the silence of his loft.
The elevator doors opened; she was sitting there, at her desk. She glanced upward at the sound of an intruder coming into her den.
“Castle? What are you doing here?”
He wasn’t so much surprised as he actually was happy to see her. A slight smile spread across his features. He walked over to the desk where she sat, pen in hand, and a half-empty, cold cup of coffee next to her arm.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here. I just wanted to get out for awhile.”
“So…you came to the precinct?” She was giving him that same look she gave him in the beginning of their relationship, when he handed her an advanced copy of Storm Fall and she didn’t know if she should be apprehensive towards the gesture or thrilled.
“I don’t actually know why I came here. It just felt like the only place I could go to get out of my head.”
“Something been bothering you?”
If only you knew, he thought to himself.
“I’ve just been having some trouble writing. Nothing major. Happens occasionally.”
She nodded at him with a little more intensity than would suggest acceptance of that excuse. For as much as he knew her at times, he felt that sometimes she probably understood him more than he was aware of. He was staring at her again; she was all dark beauty as she cast a vague penumbra on the precinct wall by way of green computer light. It was the first time he felt that the moments that made up the foundation of their partnership were purely ephemeral, gossamer wisps. He decided to make conversation.
“What are you doing here this late? It’s a Friday night, I would have thought you would have been out with Demming.” He tried to keep the talk casual. The words sounded funny to him as they came out.
“Oh we were going to go out but I cancelled at the last minute. I wanted to get a jumpstart on the paperwork to put the final closing details on the case. The DA wants it as soon as possible.”
They sat there for awhile in that familiar silence that had been accustom to them before Demming came into the picture. The lights where dim, the windows were slightly hazy from the drizzle outside. He let out a long, contented sigh. She looked up from her paperwork and yawned.
“Do you want me to refill your coffee?”
Her look of appreciation was her response. He smiled at her and stood up to go to the break room, squeezing her shoulder as he passed her. He watched her through the window the entire time he filled up their mugs. When he returned, he set her cup next to her, careful not to pull her focus.
“A lot of paperwork?”
“Yeah, more than usual. It’s harder when you hold more suspects, releasing them is a hassle.”
He pondered on their forced conversation. It felt nice but it was painful at the same time. He sipped from his mug. Suddenly, her pen stopped. She set it down and looked at him.
“I’ve missed you.”
Her admission took him away from his frothy drink. She was smiling at him sincerely and beautifully. All of a sudden he wasn’t sure if it was the cappuccino warming him, or this thaw in their relationship. He didn’t want to seem too needy.
“Well, you have someone now, I respect that. I mean, life goes on right?”
Her face cracked slightly, almost as if those weren’t the words she was looking for. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m happy.”
Something in her vulnerability made him forget all of his anger in the past two weeks. Her hair was wavy. She was glowing. But now, she seemed unsure and frightened. He was used to her equilibrium. When she was off-balance, so was he. It was just the most organic part of their relationship.
“Listen to me, Demming is a great guy. He’s good for you. You like him,” he looked into her eyes cautiously, and was surprised to see hints of tears swirling in the green. “Leave this paperwork here, you can finish it on Monday.”
After three heartbeats, she nodded understandingly. “You’re right.”
He smiled. “I always am.”
“Well, I guess we can always count on your ego being intact,” she laughed. He reflected for a moment on how wonderful this felt. Then her laughter died and his smile faded. He looked at her intensely. His hand moved to rest on her forearm.
“I don’t want anything to change. I don’t want…us…to change.”
It felt heavy, coming out of his mouth. It was the only declaration of feelings he knew. It was almost ten at night and they were all unspoken emotions and twisted linguistics. He had known her for a year now and she was forward and reasonable, but now everything was irrational and unsteady and it made him feel weak and powerless in the face of how riveted he could become simply by the way she was staring at him. It was probably the most literary moment of his life. The air suddenly loomed over them and he was aware that the raindrops were tapping the precinct windows again. The look on her face was sorrowful, yet empathetic. He waited.
“That’s the problem, Castle.”
The funny part was that he knew exactly what she meant, and he knew that he deserved it. But she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t even sad. She was just accepting of it. And that’s what bothered him. It was the apathy that hurt.
She stood up and wrapped her coat around her shoulders. He remained in his chair; a grown man feeling impossibly beaten and weathered by missed opportunities. She squeezed his shoulder much as he did her’s earlier. She stopped in mid-step towards the elevator. He chanced a look backward at her, that unspoken part of their connection that both hindered them and rushed them ever forward. He knew he looked pitiable. She spoke softly.
“Maybe…someday. But I’ve got to go now.”
He nodded because it was all he knew how to do. He heard the tapping of her boots against the cold, hard ground as she left him sitting in the chair, and he could only imagine her figure walking away from him as she had so many times before. He was left paralyzed.
He wasn’t actually sure how long he remained there. It could have been two or fifteen minutes. He finished his cappuccino and returned both of their mugs to the break room. She had forgotten to push her chair in when she left, so he did it for her.
When he finally got home, it was past ten-thirty. He figured Alexis was asleep, so he warmed up some leftovers that were in the refrigerator and cleaned the remaining dishes in the sink. He felt oddly lucid, it was a kind of strange insomnia in which he was being willed to write but nothing would come, not a turn of a phrase, not an emotion behind the crime scene imagery, not character progression. But when there was nothing left to distract himself with, he went to his study and turned on his laptop. He opened the blank word document of some ambiguous chapter in his second Heat book, willing the inspiration to come. But it wouldn’t.
It was hard to write about Nikki Heat when his thoughts were full of Kate Beckett.
Comments appreciated!