Sooo… I'm kind of Faily McFailperson this week, but to make up for it (theoretically) here's a nice little ficlet for Castle Fanfic Monday!
Based on the prompt from castlefanficprompts: In headhunters Beckett actually loses her job (or gets suspended) because Slaughter reported her. How does Castle handle that?
Suspension of Disbelief
Post-Headhunters AU
K+
She doesn't look at him when she exits the captain's office. There's no glare, no accusation, no anger. There's no wide-eyed confusion, not even the hurt puppy look he's seen her sending his way recently – when he's seen her, that is. There's nothing.
Beckett walks past him, head held high, as if he's not even there.
What happened in there?
He glances into the office again, wondering what Gates and the Chief of Detectives had said to her, only to find the captain staring back at him from the doorway.
Oh, that look can only mean bad things.
"Mr. Castle, given Detective Beckett's current status, your 'services' are not required. Please see yourself out of my precinct."
Wait, Beckett's current status? What does that mean?
"I, ah, are you kicking me out?"
Gates looks unimpressed. "Detective Beckett is on leave for the next ten days; I'd say she's not in need of a shadow for the time being, wouldn't you?"
On leave?
"You suspended her?" It had been the worst-case scenario. How could they have jumped to the worst-case scenario so quickly? Beckett had kept an innocent – sort of – person from going to jail; wasn't that what she was supposed to do?
"She interfered with another detective's case, Mr. Castle. One you were working with, as I recall. So instead of being angry with me, I suggest you take a look in the mirror if you'd like to assign blame. At home."
She is kicking him out, with no small amount of satisfaction if her face is anything to go by.
Straightening his shoulders, he gives her a nod. "Captain."
Ryan and Esposito are nowhere to be found when he turns around to gather his coat from the back of his chair. Neither is Beckett. Her computer monitor has been turned off, and the bottom drawer where she keeps her bag is empty. She didn't even bother to close it in her haste to leave.
Castle nudges it shut, knowing how much she hates the idea of people going through her desk – she's nothing if not consistent – before draping the suede jacket he'd retrieved from Slaughter over his arm.
Shame settles heavily in his gut. This… he hadn't meant for this to happen. He hadn't meant for Beckett to end up suspended because she helped him. He hadn't meant for his need for space – for clarity – to mess things up so badly.
Instead he'd made things worse than they already were.
Heading home doesn't sound very appealing, but the idea of licking his wounds and wallowing in his guilt while he nurses a drink makes his head throb anew. No, after the other night with Slaughter, he's laying off the liquor for a little while.
So instead he walks, letting the last few days, the last few months roll through his mind. He should call Beckett to apologize, to say something at the very least, but he's sure she'll send it to voicemail as soon as she sees who it is. Not that he's been much better; he's skirted more than a few of her calls in the last few weeks.
But doesn't it say something that she's been trying?
He thumbs his way to their almost-dormant text thread, taking a moment to reread everything they'd said since they'd replaced their last phones. The jokes, the subtle flirting – and he knows it had been flirting – even the more serious conversation they'd been having the day before the bombing. After that, most of the texts are from her; his replies are sporadic and succinct, indicative of the mood he's been in.
I'm sorry. It's not enough, but it's the first thing his fingers type, the first thing that comes to mind as he stares at her last message. She'd told him she was prepping for a trial, but still hinted her desire for him to come in and distract her.
He didn't come in. Not until he caught onto the severed heads case.
Erasing his half-written apology, he scrubs his other hand down his face. Beckett's not going to want to hear he's sorry. A sorry won't get mark off her record. It won't fix whatever damage the debacle has done to the tentative truce she's struck with Gates. Hell, it won't fix them.
Not that there is a them, not really.
But there's a traitorous part of his heart that still hopes, still wishes, still thinks there might be, even after everything.
Can we talk?
He hits send before he second-guesses himself, before "I remember every second of it," reverberates in his skull, hardening his nerves once more.
She's suspended because of him. And not just because 'that's what partners do.' There has to be more to it than that.
He checks his phone once, twice, three times before he decides to make his way home. Each time, the message status is the same: delivered, but not read.
Well, he does probably deserve that.
Beckett still hasn't acknowledged his message by the time he reaches his building, and he considers making another lap around the block before going up to the loft. Alexis isn't home; she'd texted him to let him know she was starting her shift with Lanie. He has no idea where his mother is – out, he suspects – but as long as it's not wreaking havoc in his living room, he's satisfied.
It's better if he's alone, he decides, heading inside. Then all he has to worry about is changing into lounge clothes and attempting to make words come to him until he falls asleep.
He spares his phone a final glance as the elevator doors open to his floor. He has new alerts. Another reminder from Gina about his chapters – yes, he knows he's behind – an invitation to a party Paula thinks will be perfect for him, and a message from his accountant. No Beckett.
"What a fine mess this is," he mutters.
"Oh, I don't know, Castle. You're always telling me I need to take time off."
He stops short, eyes darting from his phone to the source of the tease.
"Beckett?"
She's leaning against the glass beside his front door, hands shoved in her pockets. He sees her phone peeking out from behind her hand, the screen dark.
"You said we should talk," she explains, knowing exactly what the one-word question means. "I knocked, but nobody's home. So I waited."
Nodding stupidly, he opens the door for her. "Alexis is… morgue with Lanie, and I'd say the less we know about my mother's whereabouts, the better."
Beckett crowds at his back, almost close enough to feel her lips turn up at his tired joke.
"That's okay. Probably better."
For his family not to hear the fight they're likely about to have? Yeah, definitely better.
She sidesteps him as soon as they're inside, shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over her arm. He eyes her warily, watching as Beckett ducks her head, taking a deep breath and letting her hair cover her face. Hiding a little more.
"What'd Gates tell you?" she asks finally, lifting her head. He's been staring at her in silence for just a little too long, he knows.
Clearing his throat, he takes the jacket from her fingers. He turned to hang it up, wondering how much to tell her.
"Just that you were on leave for the next ten days and I should go."
Beckett snorted, looking away. Confusion coursed through him. She's far less upset than he'd expected. He'd expected her to breathe fire, to come in spewing frustration and tell him exactly where to go for getting her suspended.
This Beckett is almost… calm?
"Is that… not what happened?"
"That's what Gates wants to think happened."
His brow furrows, causing her to sigh at his lack of comprehension. How he's supposed to comprehend something she won't say is beyond him. He's good at subtext, yes, especially with her, but sometimes there's no substitute for just coming right out and saying it.
"Look –" she starts again, shifting her weight under the force of her words. "I don't… I understand maybe you're just not there anymore, at that place you were seven months ago, but if you are, or if you want to get back to it… I have plenty of time."
If he's not there anymore? Where's there? And plenty of time? She has ten days, yes, but plenty of time?
"Beckett, I don't… what are you saying?"
"I quit, Castle. I quit because I wasn't going to listen to her badmouth you and blame you for another cop's negligence. Not when you were… not when you were following him around because of me."
Dumbfounded, he watches her throat work as she swallows.
She pushes her hair behind her ear. "So… your turn. Talk."
He doesn't even know where to start. Yes, he was following Slaughter because of her. Because of her lie seven months ago… seven months ago…
"What happened seven months ago, Kate?" His chin lifts defiantly, challenging her to stop talking in circles, in code.
"I was shot," she murmurs, her hand moving to her chest almost reflexively. "I was shot and you made me hold on. And then a month ago, you pulled away."
"A month ago I found out you'd lied this entire time," he hisses, watching her eyes widen. "You remember everything, and I felt – still feel – like a fool because you won't just tell me the truth."
"Castle, no. No, it's…"
"But what I can't figure out is why you would quit your job over Gates hurling playground insults at me when you don't feel the same way."
She steps closer, hands coming up between them to touch his chest. His breath seizes, strangled by the press of her slim fingers over his heart.
"You're so smart, Castle, and that's the conclusion you jump to? That I don't love you?"
"I – you –"
"I've been seeing a therapist at least once a week for the last four months. I've been working on me so I could, eventually, work on us. I've been trying, Castle. And I get that I'm not the poster child for sharing, but I could swear you understood that, even if you didn't know the details. Until you were parading a blonde and another cop in front of me."
Her words are hard, but her eyes betray her hurt, her confusion. He doesn't refute it, he can't. It was exactly what he'd done.
"So why don't we… can we go somewhere and get on the same page again? If you're willing, I have time."
Her hand creeps up his chest, toying with the edge of his collar. Silence has never been his forte, but she's stunned him into it. Shit, she's stunned the anger right out of his bones. She's been in therapy?
"Mhmm," she answers, lifting her eyes to his, making him realize he'd asked that aloud. "His name's Burke. He's… I think he's helped." Her forehead wrinkles in thought. "I thought so anyway."
Considering she avoided even a hint of a conversation like this a year ago, and now here they are…
"He is; he has," he murmurs, finally doing something with his hands besides letting them hang limply at his sides. Her breath hitches at the touch, but she doesn't shrug him off, doesn't force his hands off her waist. Instead, she moves closer, flattening one palm against his chest. Her other hand slides around his neck, sifting through his hair gently.
"I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry it made you think the complete opposite of the truth."
"What is the truth, Beckett?" he murmurs, letting her pull him in, letting her fingertips dust against the back of his neck. He needs her to spell it out for him. No more dancing around. No more secretive glances and subtext.
She inhales sharply, listing in his arms. Her nose brushes his chin, his cheek, before her lips lift to hover over his. "I love yo-"
He doesn't wait for her to finish before his mouth covers hers.
"I love you, too."