A vision of a perfect evening? With a twist. That you may or may not appreciate. Oh, yeah, this is complete. Shortest thing I have ever written.
(I expect to be thoroughly flamed for this, but I'm stuck on my other stories and this one leaped out at me last night (perhaps as penalty for going off of my diet and gorging myself on Mexican food). I hope you enjoy it, and when you review, please remember that I bruise easily. Black and blue is not attractive on a platinum blonde.
The Usual Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Castle universe but the Season I DVD and the Nikki Heat book in both hardcover and paperback, but since I've lost over 100 pounds, it would be a nice token of recognition to be given the rights by Andrew Marlowe, but I ain't holding my breath.
Again, enjoy/review. I had to get this out before the Season III premiere; please don't hate me. I work for the coroner, so I have a really warped sense of humor and irony.
The man with the mesmerizing blue eyes looked deeply into the emerald green eyes of the woman sitting opposite to him at the small outside cafe table. When sitting, the difference in their height was more notable: when standing, the 4" heels on the female resulted in her being almost on the same eye level as the male; when seated, the athletic legs, while still shapely and toned, were no longer elongated by the stilettos, so the height advantage was negated, and the man found himself looking downwards into her eyes rather than across the same horizontal plane as when speaking to an equal. He considered himself a modern, if not a liberated, man; he believed in equality between the sexes (at least, in most aspects of modern living), but, as he was discovering in his self-journey of life, that he was really enjoying the fact that it was simply nice being taller than the beautiful lady that was presently the sole focus of all of his attention.
To be perfectly honest, he had no idea as to what the topic of conversation was that she was currently engaged in talking about. He had lost his concentration on the spoken words of the woman several minutes ago, preferring to let himself focus in on the visual rather than the audio. Now, he was just nodding, breaking into a grin whenever she laughed, picking up his glass of wine for a quick sip and then replacing it onto the cafe table whenever she took a sip from the wine glass that she was holding and gesturing with, and, in general, allowing himself the luxury of being able to focus on her features and the sound of her voice without the fear of interruption or the effort of making sense of whatever story she was sharing with him.
For all he knew, she might be thinking that they were communicating better at this time than ever before, since their initial introduction to one another.
However, his inner voice was letting him know that he really needed to try to concentrate on the words, but the baser masculine portion of his being was solidly in control at this time. He knew that he would be in trouble if he allowed that Y chromosome to continue its reign over his brain (the one in his head, not the other one that was doing its best to supersede the domination of the brain in his head), but evolved man was, at this precise time, not triumphing over the decidedly masculine hit-her-with-club-and-take-into-cave homo sapiens sitting at that table.
Somewhere, an iota of self-preservation broke through. The woman had reached a break in her story, was no longer gesturing with the now empty wine glass, and appeared to be awaiting a response from him as to something she had said. Something that he had absolutely no idea of. Damn. He was screwed.
He reached for a carrot stick from the small cut glass dish in front of them, as if contemplating his chosen response. In actuality, all he really knew at that time was that he hated raw carrots. But that did the trick. His brain (the one in his head, in back of his eyes) was emerging from its recession into where ever it had taken refuge, and as he tried to form a noncommittal sentence, their waiter made an appearance.
"Sir, your table is now ready."
The man made the immediate decision to double the size of whatever tip he would calculate appropriate at the end of the meal. Instead, he simply said, "Thank you. Kate, shall we?" He then stood up, gently eased out the chair of the lady from the table, and offering his arm, escorted her into the main dining room of the establishment.
He knew that they were being watched by almost everyone else in the restaurant as they were led to their table on the far end of the room. They made a striking couple, tall, poised, and her beauty was such that even the other women were admiring her as she walked by. Not for the first time, the man was pleased to take a secondary role to her presence, allowing her to be the focus of the attention of all others. She had the grace and posture of a dancer, and he felt inadequate in contrast (although the women of his recent acquaintance would negate such a statement, instead describing him as "quite the catch", as if that statement would sum up all of his own rather considerable physical desirability). They were seated, their water glasses filled as the waiter gently unraveled their linen napkins and placed them onto their laps, and then handed them the oversized menus, first to her, and then to him. He noticed that his menu was the one listing the prices. Yes, it was occasionally nice to be the male of the species.
He smiled at her as the waiter began to describe the chef's specialties being offered for just that evening. Yes, her smile back told him, I am having a wonderful time.
Their evening was off to a perfect start. The robbery detective and the homicide detective were finally getting their formal date night: no candle on the desk of the precinct to illuminate the Chinese take-out boxes, no interruptions by her squad members, and, most of all, no "him" to steal her focus. Demming smiled, his white teeth illuminating his face, for Kate Beckett would be all his for the entire evening.
And it was about time.
She knew that something was wrong. She wasn't sure what that something was, but something was incorrect in her thoughts. She tried not to let her mind escape into alien worlds such as this one, but there was somehow a major error in the characters that were populating her thoughts. The physical setting might be correct, and while she wasn't clear about the identity of the woman in her thoughts, she knew that she really didn't care: there was a major incorrectness about the identity of the male, and that needed to be dealt with on a most immediate basis.
It was then that the outside voice made yet another intrusion. It was an unwanted disruption. She needed to concentrate on her thoughts, as real as they continually became. Yes, this was an "outside" voice intruding, not one of her many "inside" voices.
"For the fourth time, are you going with me?"
River looked up at her brother. His one voice was often the only "outside" voice she would allow to break her considerable concentration. And she felt the pressing need to correct her latest thought. "I can hear you without the need for excessive volume."
Simon shook his head. "I sometimes wonder. What were you thinking about?"
River shrugged. 'It doesn't matter." She didn't like sharing her visions; they were hers and hers alone. And this one was incomplete. No, make that incorrect rather than incomplete. There was a difference. River hated incomplete, but was even more resistant to incorrect; so much of her life remained in exactly that state. When possible, she needed to take control and issue to necessary corrections.
She looked back at her older brother. He automatically paused, just in case she had a question or a response. "Do we know a "Demming"?"
Her brother looked at her, and then gently brushed back a lock of her long hair that was falling in front of her face. The gesture was one he repeated throughout the day, as often as he deemed necessary. Most of the time, she was never aware of his attentions towards her.
"I don't think so. Why?"
"Just wondered." She continued to look at his face, but he felt her attention was already being directed elsewhere.
He nodded back at her. So often he tried to image what was actually going on in her head, what internal dialogues and scenarios her mind was developing at any one moment. This just might be another of those stories that he imagined she viewed as being so real, that were real only to her alone. So, he made his fifth effort to gain her attention in the here and now (or should that be the "hear" and now, he thought).
"We're being called for dinner by Kaylee. Are you going to follow me?"
River nodded. She just needed to run her thoughts again, only this time with Mal Reynolds instead of whomever this "Demming" was. "I'll be there shortly." It would take her less than six seconds to make the substitution and have her mind repeat the entire story. Once again, she had no idea as to what world she was assigning their captain to, but she thought he somehow had a right to be there, that he might even belong there, possibly more than he belonged to them. Closing her eyes, she pictured Mal in the strange clothing with that woman at that alien place where everything appeared plentiful and everyone was beautiful and seemingly had everything they ever wanted.
And, this time, instead of a carrot, it would be a strawberry in the cut glass dish. Yes, Kaylee would appreciate that gesture if River ever decided to share this vision with her.
After five seconds, River followed her older brother to the community eating room. She had completed the reconstructions of her vision, and it was time to await the next thought as it entered her mind.
Ta-DAH! i know, I just couldn't resist; thanks for the borrowing, Josh, no infraction of copyright law intended. Everyone else reviewing, have your way with me. -Jayce