Give a Little Bit-A Caskett 3-shot, Set after Love Me Dead (2 x 09)
Title: Give a Litlte Bit, Ch. 1
Rating: T
WC: ~1400, this chapter
Summary:"He thought he knew. That she likes the book. That she likes him and he's forgiven. That she didn't want him to leave and he didn't want to go. He thought they'd turned a corner, but here they are. It's her birthday and they're leaving him out. It hurts."
Three-shot set on Beckett's 30th birthday, shortly after Love Me Dead (2 x 09).
Give a little bit
I'll give a little bit of my love to you
There's so much that we need to share
Send a smile and show you care
It hurts.
He tries not to think about it, but it's no good. He's hurt that they're leaving him out. Esposito, sure. But Ryan? Lanie?
Beckett.
That, he should have expected, he supposes. Except he'd thought they'd turned a corner lately. Him leaving and then not leaving. The book coming out, and he knows she likes it. That it makes her blush and squirm and roll her eyes, but it pleases her, too. The book itself. The dedication and that one honest moment between them.
I meant it. You are extraordinary.
Unusual. Perfect. A relief, even if it all went to hell from there. That one moment was a relief.
They're not in the habit of just saying things, and it's weird for him. He lives with his mother, after all. He lives with a teenager who wears her heart on his sleeve, and he's never been one to have much of a filter until now. Until her, and usually it's ok that they don't say things.
It's . . . interesting the way thoughts push at one another in his own head. The keen edge of anticipation in the way he curls his tongue around things he shouldn't say, because that's not how they are, and she knows anyway.
He knows. Whatever she says or doesn't say, he knows. From the flick of her eyes, away and back. From the flutter of lashes and the jut of her hip. How sharp she makes the angle of her jaw and the pale indentation of teeth at the corner of her lip. The way her tongue peeps out and retreats to carry away all the things she's not saying either.
He thought he knew. That she likes the book. That she likes him and he's forgiven. That she didn't want him to leave and he didn't want to go.
He thought they'd turned a corner, but here they are. It's her birthday and they're leaving him out.
It hurts.
He blames it on coincidence.
It's a big year, he supposes, and women care more about that kind of thing, don't they? Round-number birthdays. God knows Gina had cared, and he'd screwed that up royally, way back when. He pushes the painful memory away, and tells himself that's what's really going on with Beckett.
He tells himself they have turned a corner, and it's just an accident of the calendar that makes it awkward. She likes him and he likes her, but you don't spend your thirtieth with just anyone.
And he must be just anyone. He must not make the cut.
It's no good at all. It makes him more miserable, somehow. For a long afternoon It does, anyway, and she loses her patience with him. She snaps and walks away like she hasn't done in weeks, and he can't even blame her, because it's interesting the way they don't say things, but it sucks, too. He'd snap and walk away from himself, if only he could.
It doesn't last, though. That particular funk, because it doesn't fit. Women might care-in general they might-but he can't see it on her. When he closes his eyes and calls her up and the words are there-unstoppable sometimes-he never sees her leaning in close to the mirror to search for wrinkles. He can't picture her plucking a single grey hair from the dark fabric of her jacket and worrying it between her fingers.
It doesn't fit, and that brings him full circle. It's him they're leaving out. She's leaving out, because Ryan at least is too nice not to have at least suggested they include him.
It's him, and that means he doesn't know nearly as much as he thought he did.
It's him, and he might not know anything at all.
It falls on a Tuesday. It's the stupidest possible day of the week for something like that. Something important.
It might already be over. Whatever celebration they have planned to usher her into the next decade, they might have already done it without him.
The weekend was jam-packed, though, so maybe not. Maybe they're saving it for the one to come. It's right before Thanksgiving, and lots of people do that, don't they? A blow-out with the Family You Choose and everyone resigning themselves to the stress of the last few weeks of the year.
Lots of people do that, and it's another thought that drags him down and down. Because he obviously doesn't make the cut, so that's probably it. The occasion is still to come and that's why no one's saying a word.
He doesn't need to be there. At the precinct. On the outskirts of the bullpen at what might well be the crack of dawn, if there were any sun at all.
There isn't, though. It's a miserable November Tuesday, and there's no body. There's nothing but an even more shocking amount of paperwork than usual. He doesn't know how that works.
Buckley was a public figure. It was a high-profile case, but a body is a body is a body, and he knows he should ask about it. The writer in him knows he should ask, if only to see her response. To see the way it puts steel in her spine. The way the fact that some bodies matter more than others rankles.
He's working on that. It's a plausible enough excuse, if he could only work his way up through the misery to pull it together, he could walk right up. He could drop into his chair and pester her.
He doesn't, though. He stands there on the outskirts of the bullpen with a greasy white bag and the biggest possible latte from her favorite place. He holds on to hope and hates himself for it.
"Castle!"
She's surprised to see him. Surprised by the cup even his broad palm has a hard time wrapping all the way around and the unexpected sprinkles that rain down on her desk when she tips the bag out.
"Thanks," she says. She's grateful enough, but it's a stilted, truncated thing. She blinks up at him, questioning.
It's her favorite. The coffee already came from blocks and blocks out of his way, and the donut is from a different place entirely. A bakery blocks from that. Its something she indulges in only rarely and she doesn't get it. She's still blinking up at him, tipping her head and trying to work it out as he tongue darts out to sweep sprinkles off her fingertip.
Happy birthday.
It stalls on his tongue, and he doesn't know what it would have sounded like anyway. If it might have been sullen and bitter or pathetic and needy. A sad plea for . . . something. Inclusion or validation. Reassurance that they're . . . something.
But the moment goes. The words are stuck in his mouth. Montgomery crosses in the distance, Beckett curls in on herself a little, looking sheepish when the Captain gives them the hairy eyeball. No one else says a thing beyond Hey, Castle, complete with puzzled frown.
The paperwork thing must be a big deal in its own right. He must be in the way. He turns back to her. There's a goodbye waiting somewhere in the back of his throat. A carefree parting shot with not nearly enough air to bring it out into the world.
"You . . . need something?" She's prompting him, but there's a trace of regret in it. A hint of apology as her eyes flick to the break room where Montgomery won't be stirring his coffee forever.
She's not sorry to see him, even if she doesn't get it. She might even be sorry to see him go, so there's that.
"Nothing," he says, false and bright. "Just . . . passing by."
He turns to go. It's lamer than lame. Something so obviously false. She runs her finger over the wrinkled logo of the bakery bag. She's not quite calling him out, but it's a question.
He goes. He doesn't have an answer, and he has to get out of here before this gets any more awkward than it already is. He strides away. Her voice follows. She calls after him.
"Castle?" There's a question in that, too, but he's going. He gives her a faint smile as he slumps against the back wall of the elevator.
"Thanks," she says again.
He flicks his fingers in recognition. It's all he can manage, and she probably doesn't even see it. The doors are closing already.