two ficlets for the price of one: castle and the old folks.
aftermath, a castle/beckett ficlet
written for hecatescurse, who wanted hurt!castle
inspired by the preview for tomorrow's episode (533 words)
He opened his eyes slowly.
The world was still shaking. Ash and smoke was raining from the sky, the light uncertain and the air choking him as he tried to gasp a breath. There were alarms ringing somewhere, sirens shrieking, but they were so very far away, wrapped in cotton and muffled. He was floating, but his arms felt so heavy and cold, pinning him to the dirty, bucking ground even as his mind drifted above the chaos.
How many times had he written about explosions? The first time was for the fourth Derek Storm novel, he remembered that much. The killer had planted a shoebox bomb in Derek’s new ladylove’s office. He’d described the fiery blast, the smoke and the gaping hole in the side of the building; the muddled aftermath and damage.
But he’d done it all wrong. He hadn’t gotten any of it right. And this was what he latched onto, focused on, his whole being concentrated on knowing that he had failed in such a hugely insignificant way. Over two dozen books to his name, and he’d gotten something so fundamental wrong. His research had failed him -- he never thought about the way ash burns the back of the throat as it’s swallowed in a panicked gasp, the way it hissed in your nose. Or the way the world seemed submerged in an immense tank of water, the loudest of sounds the merest ripples when they reached you.
He had to focus on that mistake. If he didn’t, he’d start to think about his mother, about the other hostages, about his own condition -- and he couldn’t feel his feet...
But then a single sound cut through the fog and confusion, crystal clear and clarion.
"Castle!"
He blinked, dust thick in his eyelashes, and she was there. Kneeling beside him, leaning over him, curled tendrils of dark hair hanging around her face. Her hand closed around his, and he could tell by the way she stared, the way she bit down on her lip -- hard enough to draw blood, a single drop welling up -- that she wanted to do more, wanted to pull him up and help him out of this devastation. But what if the room wasn’t the only thing damaged...
"Shouldn’t... be here, Kate," he managed to cough out.
"Bullshit," she said, and her eyes were unnaturally bright in the half-light. "I remember a night when you ran into my apartment, just a minute after a bomb went off."
"That’s what partners do," he managed to say with a crooked smile, before a coughing fit overtook him. It was so hard to breathe properly lying like this, one leg bent awkwardly beneath him.
"Hang on, Rick," she ordered, a twinge of panic in her voice. And that scared him. Kate Beckett only showed fear when things were bad -- she only used his first name when things were worse.
"My mom..." It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. He was cold, and he was tired, and he just wanted to sleep.
"Just hold still. Keep still. The paramedics are coming in. Just hang on, Rick. Squeeze my hand. Don’t you dare close your eyes. Rick. CASTLE!"
loneliness in company, an eleven/magnus fic
"old folks" (doctor who/sanctuary with hints of sherlock)
written for corellianjedi for the halloween meme.(715 words)
“Doctor, what in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Helen, such language!” he chided without looking up from the folder he was perusing. “I hope you don’t talk like that around Sherlock.”
“Sherlock has been out of this Sanctuary for over ten years,” Magnus said, a touch of ice sharpening her words. “He’s been living in London, on Baker Street, with a doctor who’s a sight more charming and reliable than you are.”
“Ah,” the Doctor said, finally looking at her. “So I’ve missed a few birthdays, then?”
“Just a few. As usual.”
“And how’s our boy doing, then?”
“I’d suggest you visit him and ask him yourself. Now stop trying to divert me and answer the initial question: exactly what are you doing in my office, going through my personal files?”
“Anything that you truly want protected is no doubt filed away in your computer, my dear,” the Doctor said, flipping the folder onto the desk. “Which I could, of course, hack in less than a heartbeat. But I wouldn’t do such a thing, for that would really be invading your privacy. No, I was just getting a gander over a case of yours from a few years ago, which may be connected to a situation that’s come to my attention in the south of Wales.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, lips pressed together in a strict line.
“Oh, Helen,” the Doctor said, eyebrows knitting together, fingers drumming against the desk. “You’re not usually so angry with me. Even if I have missed a decade or so.”
“How do you expect me to react, when you swan in here unannounced like this? Just to rifle through my work. Not even to see me, or our son-no, just to grab a file or two and be on your merry way.”
“You’re looking lovely, I’d just like to add, without any hint of trying to distract you or turn the freight train of this conversation onto a new rail entirely-no, sorry, that’s a rubbish analogy and a blatantly obvious attempt to do just that.” He sighed, pushing a hand through his forever impossible hair. “Why is it every time I see you, I’m apologizing?”
“Because it’s always a necessity. Because you never fail to have something to apologize for-”
“What’s wrong, Helen?” he asked softly, fixing her with those steady, cloudy eyes, and she felt her steely pretense start to shift and melt.
Oh, but what to confess to? The mounting pressures of handling the Sanctuary network now that James was gone? The headache and heartache that was John? How lonely she always felt, with Ashley gone-it may have been long ago, but the pain of losing a child was one that never truly dulled-and Sherlock an ocean away? The fact that she’d been wishing, praying, that this fool of a madman would come back to help her before everything, the full weight of her years, crushed her? How she’d needed his smile and his wit and his goodness and eternal optimism to chase away the dark figures haunting her dreams?
She sighed heavily, uncrossing her arms and letting them drop to her sides, hands balled into fists. “I… I’ve just missed you. And you know how sharp I am with you when I’ve missed you.”
He looked at her steadily, brow furrowed, and not for the first time she found herself wondering if he actually could read her thoughts. He wasn’t a man, after all, though she often had to remind herself of his alienness.
And then he stood, stepping around the desk in three long strides. He took her hand, uncurling the clenched fingers before lacing them with his own.
“We both know what it is to outlive people we love. We know what it is to feel both timeless and painfully ancient. And we both know the best way to make it through each day… Is with a hand to hold.”
She smiled at him, tears burning at her eyes, before she pulled him into a vise-like hug.
“God, how I’ve missed you,” she murmured against his tweed lapel.
“I didn’t really need to see your files,” he replied against her hair. “You know me-I love a good excuse."
written for hecatescurse, who wanted hurt!castle
inspired by the preview for tomorrow's episode (533 words)
He opened his eyes slowly.
The world was still shaking. Ash and smoke was raining from the sky, the light uncertain and the air choking him as he tried to gasp a breath. There were alarms ringing somewhere, sirens shrieking, but they were so very far away, wrapped in cotton and muffled. He was floating, but his arms felt so heavy and cold, pinning him to the dirty, bucking ground even as his mind drifted above the chaos.
How many times had he written about explosions? The first time was for the fourth Derek Storm novel, he remembered that much. The killer had planted a shoebox bomb in Derek’s new ladylove’s office. He’d described the fiery blast, the smoke and the gaping hole in the side of the building; the muddled aftermath and damage.
But he’d done it all wrong. He hadn’t gotten any of it right. And this was what he latched onto, focused on, his whole being concentrated on knowing that he had failed in such a hugely insignificant way. Over two dozen books to his name, and he’d gotten something so fundamental wrong. His research had failed him -- he never thought about the way ash burns the back of the throat as it’s swallowed in a panicked gasp, the way it hissed in your nose. Or the way the world seemed submerged in an immense tank of water, the loudest of sounds the merest ripples when they reached you.
He had to focus on that mistake. If he didn’t, he’d start to think about his mother, about the other hostages, about his own condition -- and he couldn’t feel his feet...
But then a single sound cut through the fog and confusion, crystal clear and clarion.
"Castle!"
He blinked, dust thick in his eyelashes, and she was there. Kneeling beside him, leaning over him, curled tendrils of dark hair hanging around her face. Her hand closed around his, and he could tell by the way she stared, the way she bit down on her lip -- hard enough to draw blood, a single drop welling up -- that she wanted to do more, wanted to pull him up and help him out of this devastation. But what if the room wasn’t the only thing damaged...
"Shouldn’t... be here, Kate," he managed to cough out.
"Bullshit," she said, and her eyes were unnaturally bright in the half-light. "I remember a night when you ran into my apartment, just a minute after a bomb went off."
"That’s what partners do," he managed to say with a crooked smile, before a coughing fit overtook him. It was so hard to breathe properly lying like this, one leg bent awkwardly beneath him.
"Hang on, Rick," she ordered, a twinge of panic in her voice. And that scared him. Kate Beckett only showed fear when things were bad -- she only used his first name when things were worse.
"My mom..." It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. He was cold, and he was tired, and he just wanted to sleep.
"Just hold still. Keep still. The paramedics are coming in. Just hang on, Rick. Squeeze my hand. Don’t you dare close your eyes. Rick. CASTLE!"
loneliness in company, an eleven/magnus fic
"old folks" (doctor who/sanctuary with hints of sherlock)
written for corellianjedi for the halloween meme.(715 words)
“Doctor, what in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Helen, such language!” he chided without looking up from the folder he was perusing. “I hope you don’t talk like that around Sherlock.”
“Sherlock has been out of this Sanctuary for over ten years,” Magnus said, a touch of ice sharpening her words. “He’s been living in London, on Baker Street, with a doctor who’s a sight more charming and reliable than you are.”
“Ah,” the Doctor said, finally looking at her. “So I’ve missed a few birthdays, then?”
“Just a few. As usual.”
“And how’s our boy doing, then?”
“I’d suggest you visit him and ask him yourself. Now stop trying to divert me and answer the initial question: exactly what are you doing in my office, going through my personal files?”
“Anything that you truly want protected is no doubt filed away in your computer, my dear,” the Doctor said, flipping the folder onto the desk. “Which I could, of course, hack in less than a heartbeat. But I wouldn’t do such a thing, for that would really be invading your privacy. No, I was just getting a gander over a case of yours from a few years ago, which may be connected to a situation that’s come to my attention in the south of Wales.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, lips pressed together in a strict line.
“Oh, Helen,” the Doctor said, eyebrows knitting together, fingers drumming against the desk. “You’re not usually so angry with me. Even if I have missed a decade or so.”
“How do you expect me to react, when you swan in here unannounced like this? Just to rifle through my work. Not even to see me, or our son-no, just to grab a file or two and be on your merry way.”
“You’re looking lovely, I’d just like to add, without any hint of trying to distract you or turn the freight train of this conversation onto a new rail entirely-no, sorry, that’s a rubbish analogy and a blatantly obvious attempt to do just that.” He sighed, pushing a hand through his forever impossible hair. “Why is it every time I see you, I’m apologizing?”
“Because it’s always a necessity. Because you never fail to have something to apologize for-”
“What’s wrong, Helen?” he asked softly, fixing her with those steady, cloudy eyes, and she felt her steely pretense start to shift and melt.
Oh, but what to confess to? The mounting pressures of handling the Sanctuary network now that James was gone? The headache and heartache that was John? How lonely she always felt, with Ashley gone-it may have been long ago, but the pain of losing a child was one that never truly dulled-and Sherlock an ocean away? The fact that she’d been wishing, praying, that this fool of a madman would come back to help her before everything, the full weight of her years, crushed her? How she’d needed his smile and his wit and his goodness and eternal optimism to chase away the dark figures haunting her dreams?
She sighed heavily, uncrossing her arms and letting them drop to her sides, hands balled into fists. “I… I’ve just missed you. And you know how sharp I am with you when I’ve missed you.”
He looked at her steadily, brow furrowed, and not for the first time she found herself wondering if he actually could read her thoughts. He wasn’t a man, after all, though she often had to remind herself of his alienness.
And then he stood, stepping around the desk in three long strides. He took her hand, uncurling the clenched fingers before lacing them with his own.
“We both know what it is to outlive people we love. We know what it is to feel both timeless and painfully ancient. And we both know the best way to make it through each day… Is with a hand to hold.”
She smiled at him, tears burning at her eyes, before she pulled him into a vise-like hug.
“God, how I’ve missed you,” she murmured against his tweed lapel.
“I didn’t really need to see your files,” he replied against her hair. “You know me-I love a good excuse."