Quick AN: I have another story that's been crying out for an update for months and months, but I haven't been able to write due to lack of a laptop(and a general busy life). But now I have a laptop, I can write again! Really, there were so many 47 Seconds feelings rattling around in my brain I had to write something down and it wouldn't have fit with my other story.
I love Beckett. I really, really do. I completely understand why she lied and I bet I would have done the same or worse – I probably would have been too much of a coward to approach Castle after freezing him out over the Summer. So bear with me on the Beckett-bashing from Castle... he's just working through his hurt.
He can't get out of the precinct fast enough. He had to leave.
He can't keep the false smile on his face; feels it sliding off and revealing the bitterness below. He can see Beckett's confusion at his actions, feel her tentatively reaching out to him, covering the insecurity with a glaze of normalcy. He can't face being around her – a drink is out of the question.
"So I guess it's just us," Beckett prompts. He can feel the faltering bravado, an invitation with the pretense that it's a given.
After all, when had he ever turned down a post-precinct outing? Drinks at the Old Haunt, catching the comfort food truck, burgers at Remy's... he would always say yes. He would jump at the chance. She could invite him to go dig through trash with her, and he'd run to the elevator, raring to go.
Always waiting for her say-so, taking any treats she fed him. Eager, willing, waiting with wide eyes. Like a dog, perpetually grateful that its master was walking it and giving it attention. He feels embarrassed, disgusted with himself.
"Yeah." he shifts his feet, brushes his coat off, before he finally stops avoiding her gaze. Big mistake, judging by the wrench in his stomach.
"You know, now that the case is done... what did you want to talk about?"
It catches him off guard. Not that he had forgotten what he almost said earlier – how could he? – but he wasn't expecting her to bring it up. She's nervous, he can tell that much. It's in the split second before she schools her expression into one that says mildly curious instead of should I be worried.
It takes him too long to answer, too long to push back all the anger and the hurt he wants to throw at her, and she gives him a questioning look. He scrabbles for a foothold, hauls the fake smile back up, and shakes his head. "Nothing. Nothing important, anyway."
He takes a moment to examine the statement – paradoxically, it is both a lie and the truth. It was everything, but it wasn't important. Not now he knows he's just a plucky sidekick, a colourful distraction from the dark world of a cop, and nothing more.
Not her One and Done. Not the man she wanted to be with. Not enough.
His chest hurts and he can't stand it anymore, can't stand looking at her puzzled expression, the hints of worry and hurt that start clouding her eyes. Imperceptible, almost, but he could always read the tiniest clues in her. Or so he thought.
"I'm gonna head home," he announces, straining to make it sound casual. "'Night."
He's walking almost as soon as he starts the sentence, desperate to get away. He thinks about how he always waits, hangs around as he says goodbye, happy to stay in her presence as long as he can. The self-disgust comes back in waves, battering him as he heads for the elevator. Such a fool, he repeats in his head.
"G'night," Beckett calls after a pause, and he can feel her eyes on him. He doesn't indulge her confusion with a glance, stares straight ahead with shoulders squared. He keeps his posture straight, keeps his expression closed as he accidentally catches Beckett's eye, seeing her frown grow. She knows something is wrong – well, let her. He doesn't care. Isn't that what he said to his mother? Watch me. Just watch me stop caring. I can do it.
Only he can't, and he hates himself for it.
He needs to go home.
Alexis phones him when he's on his way home, tells him she'll be out tonight. She's spending some time with her friends, having a sleepover, trying to forget the last few days. How sweet that would be, he thinks. He tells her to have fun – god knows she deserves it – and says goodbye, despite the selfish part of him that wants his daughter at home, keeping him company.
He figures he'll have to get used to her not being there for movie nights and smiley pancakes, with her going off to college soon. Funny(or really, not funny at all), but he always thought that when Alexis left, he wouldn't be lonely. Because no matter how far away it had sometimes seemed, there had always been a small, stubborn part of him that believed Kate would be with him. Eventually. He had been willing to wait for however long 'eventually' took.
He searches for that tiny part of himself now: the quiet belief that she loves him, the small white hope in the Pandora's box of his doubt and insecurity.
He can't find it.
He drags a hand down his face, tips the cabbie handsomely for not trying to engage him in conversation, and heads up to his loft.
"Mother? You here?" he calls out, tossing his keys onto the first surface he sees. Probably not, he guesses. The place is dark, and the air is still. He's alone.
He heads for his office, but is stopped by the sight of a note on the table. It's from his mother – he recognises the handwriting even from a distance. She isn't one to leave notes when she's going out. If they're lucky, they'll get a don't wait up! on her way out the door, or a see you when I see you.
He picks it up with a puzzled frown, scans it. His mother is going out with old friends, and probably won't be back until the morning. If he needs anything, he can call her. It's signed chin up, kiddo and that drags a smile from him, soothes the ache in his chest for a moment.
It is slightly depressing, though, that he's now such a pity-case his mother – his mother – felt the need to let him know where she was going and that he could reach her.
He shakes the thought, heads for his office. He can't remember the last time he ate, but despite the pangs of hunger in his stomach, he knows food would be ash in his mouth. No, he needs to distract himself. Writing. He could always write, get out what he wanted to say on a blank document. Like therapy, but free.
Yet thirty minutes later, he's still staring at a blank document. He's typed several things, sure, but deleted them all because he didn't want to look at them. Sentence fragments, mostly, some paragraphs. Some Nikki Heat, but mostly disjointed nonsense, dark imagery and turbulent thoughts. He'd tried writing a chapter for Heat, but found he wasn't staying in Nikki's head well enough to write her. It's not that he couldn't. He just didn't want to be there, in her head. Too similar to another detective he was trying to get away from.
His screensaver comes on – You Should Be Writing. The words needle him, seeming to mock him for his inability to do the one thing he's supposed to be good at, and he shuts the laptop lid with a growl.
If not writing, he thinks, then what about reading? Escaping into a world created from ink and paper. It's been his go-to coping mechanism since he was small, so surely it can't fail him now.
He jumps up, scanning the shelves, trying to decide what he's in the mood for. He could opt for the old favourites – Christie, Doyle – but he's not in the mood for a mystery. He could go for classic – when was the last time he read an Austen? – but the thought of reading about love makes him queasy. He feels like something new, and heads to the section of his bookcase he keeps for his "to do" list.
Employing a tactic he used as a child in the library, he scans the books and waits for a cover or a title to catch his eye. When one does, he pulls it out and examines it critically. Alexis read it, recommended it to him, gave it to him to read. The Very Thought of You, it's called. Not off to a promising start, since he's trying not to think about the very person that title made him think about. He vaguely remembers Alexis saying it was about a child evacuee in the war, though, so he decides to give it a shot.
He opens the book with a sigh, settling back down in his office chair. He flips past the pages he think will contain the dedication, though he usually reads them. He doesn't want to see it, the tender thanks to a partner or a friend. He feels too bitter, remembering his mention of Kate in Heat Rises – how to make sense of songs. It was cryptic, and there was a chance she didn't get it, didn't remember the conversation he referenced... but he knows she did.
His eyes land on a paragraph and he automatically starts reading.
Of all the many people we meet in a lifetime, it is strange that so many of us find ourselves in thrall to one particular person. Once that face is seen, an involuntary heartache sets in for which there is no cure. All the wonder of this world finds shape in that one person and thereafter there is no reprieve, because this kind of love does not end, or not until death–
He snarls, shuts the book, throws it down as if it burned him.
He really needs a drink.
He tells himself he's just going to have a scotch or two as he heads to the kitchen, but if he's honest with himself, he knows he means to get drunk off his ass. It's not the most mature way to deal with things, but sometimes, you don't need mature. Sometimes you need the bite of the scotch and the drink-addled detachment. And if there was ever a sometimes, it's now.
He grabs the first bottle he sees in the drinks cabinet – Famous Grouse, a Christmas present from someone, if he remembers correctly – and grabs a glass to go with it before heading to the couch. He pours a tall glass and downs it in one, relishing the spice and the burn and the urge to shudder, enjoying the way it burns all the way down his throat and into his empty stomach.
The TV calls to him, so he switches it on if only for the background noise. Nothing appeals to him, and he flicks through several channels before he gives up and sets down the remote. He has an odd notion that sitting getting drunk with the TV on is slightly less pathetic than sitting getting drunk in complete silence, so he's testing it out.
Well, either way he still feels pathetic. That can be fixed with more scotch, though, he's sure.
His phone chimes the arrival of a text, and he picks it up, sneers at his screen when he sees the sender. Beckett. "The hell do you want?" he spits aloud, tempted to throw the phone away from him. After a brief internal struggle, curiosity prevails and has him opening the message.
Just found out Remy's is running a one day only special. Two for one double decker cheeseburgers and fries. Hungry?
He blinks in surprise, momentarily forgetting his hurt. For a microsecond, his instinct is to grin, type a cheerful response, and grab his coat. Old habits and all. He pinches the bridge of his nose, opens up his phonebook, and scrolls to Beckett's number. He pulls up the menu and sees an option: "send calls from this contact directly to voicemail".
He selects it, puts the phone down, and pours himself another drink. Old habits die hard, but they still die. Eventually.
Next chapter is Beckett's POV. And, if anyone's wondering if I made that book up, I didn't – it's an actual book. The Very Thought of You by Rosie Alison. It's pretty good; you should read it if you get the chance. :) PS: I don't have a beta and I typed this in one long session while running on little sleep and no food for a long time, so excuse any errors.