Some people have adorable ferrets and fluffy bunnies... I have ninjas. Fashion ninjas.
Kate is not mine, but the ninjas are mine, all mine. Ok, fine, Marlowe, I'll share Carrie with you. Hope you enjoy it, throw me a review for good measure.
To the curious yet extremely busy New Yorker, a scene such as this one, a story such as this one, might be far from incredible. Everyone is trying to make it in this town, everyone is crazy and everyone, yet absolutely no one, will meddle into your business… unless invited. This is why even when a tired stockbroker sees a couple of figures dressed in black jump from one rooftop to another, he won't meddle, he won't care, because China wakes up in five hours and he just downed his sixth. Straight, neat.
The city is a permissive mistress, allowing for all sorts of travesties and adventures, and the shadows that slither through the night, scurrying and hiding from the light, have a million and one chances to survive. The night. The secrets. The crazy.
The figures jump and run, carrying a heavy load, while spilling their secrets through the neighborhood.
"Oh, don't you dare put that foot there!" She says.
A young voice replies, a man's voice, most likely in his twenties.
"Well, where exactly do you expect me to put it?! I need some leverage here, woman!"
"I told you not to call me 'Woman' ever again!" She's the type of girl that won't take bullshit from anyone, but really that's not entirely true. Because at some point everyone does.
"You lost all forbidding rights when you broke up with me three hours ago and tossed my goldfish bowl across my dorm room." His voice is filled with annoyance, the kind that has had enough of fighting and angsting about ridiculous matters such as petty fights and who forgot to feed the dog.
He contemplates calling the cops; people jumping from rooftop to rooftop in the middle of the night and not necessarily practicing Parkour must definitely be up to no good. But no, fuck it. The Chinese are up in a few hours and maybe, if he rushes it, he can squeeze in a seventh shot before bedtime.
"Whatever, you're an ass," she responds, and her eyes roll in a huffed attempt to hoist the load they're carrying to a more comfortable angle. Climbing buildings and rooftops in lower Manhattan, on a windy cold night can be a great endeavor. Especially with this load, a white box, a heavy white box.
"This 'ass' just climbed over two firescapes and dangled from a clothesline to reach for that fucking box when you couldn't hold on to it!" He loses his grip on the brick and almost slips, but is back on his feet right away. He's tired and the air escaping his lips makes angry puffs that cloud his face.
"Well, it's heavy, and you were the one that was supposed to pivot it!" She retorts, equally cold and tired. The blonde hair escapes her black beanie, and her cheeks sport a crimson blush that could either be her fair skin's protest to the cold or the latest fashion statement around the editorial pages of a fashion magazine.
"You didn't say pivot!" He's convinced, firm in his reply. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to swallow insults that he knows he'll regret, because this woman really knows how to push the right buttons, buttons that if not careful might turn him into a serial killer.
"I did too, and I had every right to be mad at you, because you're a self centered jackhole that doesn't understand you don't just cancel on Matilda." She huffs, and finally pushes the box past the ledge with a single guttural grunt. "No one ever cancels on Matilda."
He takes the load back up again and moves through the disarray of old boxes and discarded pigeon cages that clutter this particular roof.
"And who has clotheslines in Manhattan anyways?" She asks, but it isn't really a question, more a social commentary about the state of the island's domestic ways. Because the city as she knows it lives on designer's mass envy and socialite's intense desire to one up one another.
"Well, I dunno, maybe someone planning to have two people 'stealthily' jump from their building to another in the middle of the night while wearing some god awful get up?" He's upset, clearly upset, annoyed and upset, but mostly upset.
"Its not god awful, and not a get up!" She says taking a second to check herself. Some days she forgets what it was to not care about these things, when she was seven and mud felt great against her skin, between her toes… and worms... "These are from our last 'Daring sports' collection and it's perfect for yoga; it should be perfectly fine for this."
He laughs because he can remember that time too, when shit was simple.
"I'm sure that nightly ninja training was part of the thought process when designing this 'Collection'" He retorts, and she pushes him away. "I have no balls."
"Look, she's an NYPD Detective, we have to do as Matilda said. If she says 'Surprise' - you surprise." He loves it actually, when she gets bossy. It's often led to angry make up sex, but not tonight, tonight he's bent up in teaching her a lesson and so he will. No more using him as her sex toy, nope, that won't happen again. She needs to learn that he can also walk away.
"I'm pretty sure she didn't mean for this to be part of the surprise," he says, admiring the gap between this building ledge and the next building's wall.
"Well I sure as hell couldn't figure out a way through her front door with all those double bolts, and the guy, and the stuff."
She surely thinks that this is his fault, he considers, because everything always is...
"What stuff?" He asks, distracted, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap.
"Well, she isn't there, and the super wouldn't let me in because he's had enough of serial killers, and then some other shit that this chick apparently is a magnet to..."
This grabs his attention - serial killers - what in the actual fuck?!
"Plus, you just don't leave a box with the Austrian crystal, platinum embroidery, limited edition tulle, and the newly added multi-layered petticoat of a magnificent thirty-thousand dollar wedding dress in someone's hallway."
"A… what!?"
There's a moment in life where all adults become children and throw a tantrum, this is obviously it for her.
"It's a fucking expensive dress, and I'm not leaving it in a hallway. Matilda said leave it in her living room and so it shall happen." There's a vein near her temple that throbs whenever she's annoyed, impatient, or just plain being stubborn. It's quite visible right now, and her eyes are accusing him of something, like not knowing these things is up to the par of capital offense.
"I don't even - I can't… I just, whatever," he says, throwing his hands up in the air and trying to find some respite in the fact that this is soon to be over. "So what's your plan here? I mean we still have to go all the way over to that balcony and then figure out a logical way to jump to her roof garden, and I'm fresh out of genetically engineered spider webs."
"Well that's why we've got this." She produces a tightly tied black roll with a shiny smile, as if there's magical powers attached to it.
"Rope?"
"Yes." She's disappointed at his disappointment.
"To do what exactly? Besides tying you down because you've obviously lost it…" He takes it from her, hastily, and punctuating his impatience with an eye roll for good measure.
"Look all we have to do is get to that balcony, climb to the top floor and then go across the roof to the other side so we can rappel down to the other rooftop…"
All we have to do, she says, and he scoffs. "She says as if this is my day job and Ethan Hunt is my homie."
He should really get around with different people, people that don't make him do these things and possibly end up in jail, he considers as he mentally tries to do the math of what needs to be done.
"It can't be that hard." Her tone is almost teasing, or flirty; he remembers flirty Carrie.
"Yeah, no, I mean, we're only hauling a two ton wedding dress!"
"It's not two ton! Its barely eighty pounds, which is totally okay," she corrects him, and that wins her another glare.
"Says the fashionista that's not carrying around a small Chinese gymnast." He shakes his head at her one last time before pulling the ladder to them, making the gap just a bit smaller. "There, okay, so I say we throw the box first."
"No!" she whines, "What if it misses the railing and tumbles all one..two...four… seven stories down?"
He peeks over, and yes, that would be unfortunate... or not, and they could call it a night… but then, oh god, who is he kidding?
"No, you go, jump to the balcony and then I'll toss the box to you."
It is the only sound plan, he considers, then again, they could have also stayed home, could have continued fighting and maybe, possibly have had make-up sex.
"You can't possibly have the strength for that," he says, trying not to laugh, because she had stopped eating at some point to fit into some Oscar de la Renta gown for some god awful benefit.
"Fine then you toss it." There's no more whispering, she means business; he's just ready for this ridiculous caper to be over with.
"Then you jump first," he dares back.
"Oh well, look who's a coward after all!?" Apparently she's not done fighting; she's picking up another angle, and he'll be damned if he's gonna let her have her way… Well, no more than she already is.
"Why am I a coward now?"
"You're making me jump first!" She sounds like an annoyed brat, and he still wonders why is that he is - he was - dating her.
"I-but we just- I'm not going to fall for this again. Rising above, rising above," he chants. He takes a deep breath. His college counselor once said that she just liked pushing buttons and he's not going to fall for it. Not this time.
"Fine," she huffs, leaning off and jumping, making a stealthy walk over to the next balcony and turning back to him. Damn, she can be agile. "Okay, that wasn't hard, toss it."
"Ready?"
"Yeah, just get it over with!" She screams, impatient as she adopts a stance that reminds him of his great Aunt Olga, tossing oat sacks at his grandparents farm. Feminine, she was not. He lifts the box, much to the chagrin of all of his back muscles, and throws it, up, high... The next he hears is a shriek and a dull thud.
"Oh my - Carrie, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'll probably need facial reconstructive surgery, but at least I won't get fired. Not this week anyways."
She rubs her face while she inspects the box. Its dented, on the side, but he won't tell her. "Or murdered…" he mutters, apparently not low enough for her not to hear.
"Matilda didn't do it," she counters as he tries to find the best way to jump toward the railing. "It was Julian, and it figures, because that dude - ugh. I actually do think you broke my nose!"
"Make room, please, I'd like to finish breaking and entering into people's apartments before the night is over."
He lands, and he twist his foot; he winces but bites his tongue to keep from crying out. He won't let her have that satisfaction.
"You know, you should totally try to look at this from a positive point of view."
They both grab onto the box this time, jostling it a bit before they both have a semi-decent grasp onto the edges and they can raise it off the ground.
"And that would be achieved just how?"
"You're always complaining that we never do stuff together, now we're doing something together." She almost sounds chirpy, and he thinks it's ridiculous that she's bringing this up right now.
"Felony and risking my life wasn't exactly what I had in mind," he responds, trying to hide his limp. "Why is it so important that this is a surprise anyways? Why couldn't epic dragon lady just give it to the woman and be done?"
"Because… they've got some kind of history, like ancient."
She starts the story as they climb over. "She used to be a model for her, and Matilda had all these hopes and dreams about her protege. She was fond of her cheekbones or something and one day this chick just picked up and left, 'cause you know that obviously goes down well with Matilda. So now, I don't know, the chick is getting married, Matilda is older and people grow hearts, I guess. It's the whole 'Grinch Syndrome'. And she mentioned something about reflections in mirrors and phone calls, and... I don't know, I don't question her decisions. She wants the unicorny police detective to have the wedding dress delivered to her house in the middle of the night, and so it shall happen - whoa - So… pretty high."
They've finally made it over to the edge of the building and… it is insanely high. The kind of terrifying high that he'd be ashamed to admit to Carrie, is making him shiver. It's definitely not the wind.
"Yeah," he nods.
"But then that's it, that's her roof…" She trails off, pointing to their final destination. But hopefully not their final final destination. "We are pretty high," she repeats.
He wishes she'd quit reminding him. He gets it. High. Very high. "Yeah, let's just - we'll use the rope."
"Are you sure that's the-" She starts but he won't have it anymore.
He digs for his best authority voice, and looks at her like he's a possessed being. Because that's it. He's possessed. He has to be. It's the only explanation for him standing on a roof in the middle of the night wearing a ridiculous outfit, carrying a ridiculous box, and staring into a dark abyss seven stories down. High. It's really very high. He clears his quickly tightening throat and speaks.
"There's no more questions, Carrie. I'm not responding. I'm tying this, and we're going down, and then we are balancing ourselves over to the other ledge, and then we'll land there, and then this nightmare will be over."
"Right," she answers, petrified.
Because finally he's proved he actually has some balls. "I'll go first, then the box, then you."
She simply nods back.
He ties the rope to the railing, but he can't help but remembering the number of times he messed this up at camp and landed on his butt when the knots just... unraveled - this time though, the land would be a lot less pleasurable than crashing onto dry mulch.
"Okay," he says once he's satisfied with a bunch of over tied knots that make no sense. "You're just going to grab onto this for good measure."
She nods, again.
He leans out, down the wall, and he can feel his feet slipping from the brick. Some ninja he is, he thinks as he feels his hands start to moisten and slide.
"Shit," he curses between his teeth as he slips more than intended and misses the window sill on his left. He looks up and Carrie is watching intently. Crap, she's worried. He can't look at her like that, so worried. Because that means she cares. He takes a deep breath and looks behind him to the ledge that's supposed to be his destination. He just has to squat toward the wall, push with all his strength, and magically land on that rooftop. That easy. It's nothing.
So when he does just that, and lands, rolling, and scraping everything that's not covered by his 'ninja yoga couture,' the list of expletives that surface isn't really surprising. In his head it sounds like relief. Because he didn't crash land on the bottom of the alley. On top of garbage… and possibly cats. Lots of cats.
"I'm fine," he says, dusting himself off. "Don't worry, I'm fine."
"I wasn't worried," she dismisses.
But she was. He knows she was and it gives him a little burst of manly pride that somewhat helps toward easing the pain in his scuffed up ass.
"Gee, thanks!" he says, rolling his eyes and pursing his mouth shut to avoid smiling at her.
He grabs onto the rope again and swings it so she can tie the box and lower it to him. She doesn't do bad, in fact it was a better job than he would have done. Damn her for being better at this than him too.
He grabs to the end of the rope and starts pulling it down from the ledge.
"Careful," she yells.
"Well you need to swing it!"
"But its going to crease even more," she screams, no, she screeches, because her nerves make her sound like some crazed banshee. "If it hits the wall it will have stains and it could open and then we're doomed."
"You're doomed, I'm just crazy," he corrects. Another swing, and he reaches out.
"Got it!" He unties it, and damn, this poor box. "Now roll that up and come down."
"I don't think I can do this," she says after a minute. "It's too high."
He wants to laugh. No shit, it's high. He's been there and done that. No way is he breaking and entering alone. Not for her.
"Carrie, I'm not the one that's going to be fed to vicious, little, toy-sized pomeranians. You are! Now get your ass down here before someone calls the cops. Because if that happens I'm sure we won't have a problem surprising everyone: your boss, the detective unicorn, your parents, mine, and the people that gave me scholarships, they will all be so pleased to have given money to a felon."
"Fine!" She leans over and off the ledge and starts her descent. "Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!"
Its almost comical but her very tight ninja costume is now revealing that she should have probably worn a thong… but he won't tell her that… she can't know that he's checking out her ass, or that is not as firm as she thinks it is.
"Now push yourself from the wall…" he advises, trying to regain some composure. She does push, but its almost as if she's not even trying, barely separating from the bricks. "Harder!"
"I am!" She says in a tone that's more terror than annoyance.
"You need to go to the gym then…" he says, trying to make light. He should have trusted his gut and kept quiet because he can hear her next retort before it's even out of her mouth.
"Are you calling me fat!?"
Bingo! And there it is. No sense shutting up now, besides, it seems to be distracting her from the fear. "Well feather light you are not…" he says in between hushed snorts.
"Don't look at me that way."
"What way?" It's almost daring.
"Like that, like, 'I'm going to toss you on the couch and maul you' kind of a way."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But he's blushing, and again, it's not the wind. He really is thinking more and more about how rushed he was in deciding to break up with her. "You're not my girlfriend anymore, and you owe me a goldfish."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." She finally manages to swing high enough to fling herself backwards and onto the rooftop, landing awkwardly and rushing to her feet fast, avoiding his gaze and concentrating on the space before her. "Wow, this is pretty."
He follows her to the open landing of the roof; it is pretty alright. Even with the bitter winter, and the snow that has been falling, this is a garden that is actually pretty because it can withstand anything. There's 'flower beds', covered with intricate sculptures and wrought iron that mimic foliage and flowers, rocks and wood. There are candle holders that rest in a variety of colorful quartz stones, and glass mosaics…. everywhere. In the center sits a fire pit, complete with benches and what he imagines are surfaces that would hold wine and snacks… or a book, or something... It's a garden that can be a garden anytime. And the view of lower Manhattan is just amazing. Even right now, at night. Even with the cold. Maybe especially because of the night and the cold.
"Are you sure she's a cop?" He asks as he twirls one of the wrought iron daisies.
"Yeah, she doesn't look like one, and she struts - she struts - her Burberry like nobody's business, but yeah, she's a cop." Carrie says as she moves through the garden to the roof door. "She's Nikki Heat."
"Wait, what? The Nikki Heat?" That new information surely snapped him out of his gazing.
"Yeah, hot female detective… writer following her around… blah, blah, blah. You got her books right? I'm sure I got you one." She's dragged the box by herself to the door while she dismissively described this dream of a woman. "They're getting married in real life. It was all over Page Six a few weeks back."
"We're going into Nikki Heat's apartment…"
A myriad of images in his catalog of fantasies keeps playing in his head, but just as surely it all comes crashing down at the realization that she is getting hitched. To Jameson Rook. The real one. Richard Castle. And he hopes this dude is as bad ass as he paints himself in these books, because he'd lose a little respect if this is some sissy dude, some nerdy, girly-screaming… like he is. No, Nikki Heat deserves a manly man.
"Stop drooling, you're gonna stain the box." Oh… yeah. The damn box.
"Wait, you said that the apartment is super safe with bolts and stuff because of serial killers, so I have two questions: One, what makes you think that we're going to be able to access this place through the roof? And two, aren't you worried that she's got some kind of anti-perp system that might zap us the minute we touch the door? And wait, I have a third too. What if she's inside? And shoots us? Can we just -"
She cuts him off covering his mouth with her gloved hand.
"She's not here." Another glare, as if he's irrational by bringing this up, and then she produces a black pouch, with little rods and a tube and god knows where she got this from, but he's now extremely scared of her. Maybe she is crazy. "I sent the accounting intern to the precinct that they're holding Julian in. She's staking out the place for me, and she will text me if the woman leaves."
"Remind me now why it is that you want this job so much?"
They're breaking and entering… into a cop's home. One that's deadly, apparently. He's so going to be worm meal by the end of all this.
"Must we have this conversation every two days?" She complains and then the door opens. "There. Go. In. Now."
"Where did you - How did you- Who are you!?"
"Some things you don't want to know, but if you must, I'll just say this: Carolina Herrera has some very weird ways of locking herself in places, with people, and substances. Knowing how to open difficult single bolt locks comes in handy."
"What if it wasn't a single?"
"That's why we didn't go through the front door." She gets a hold of one side of the box and he positions himself to carry the other side.
"I'm not even going to argue with you, 'cause it doesn't make any fucking sense." He starts moving in; it's dark and it's hard walking backwards.
"Watch for the steps, there's some-" She warns, but its too late. "Watch out!"
A loud clatter of heavy objects and what sounds like fluttering papers landing on surfaces startles him, and Carrie rushes him on, huffing and muttering under her breath, to finish going down the stairs to the main area of the apartment.
"Look what you did!" she says as she surveys the damage, now that she has turned on the light of the entrance lamp.
"I did!?" he protests in disbelief. "Why would you put books on steps anyway? Doesn't she have bookshelves?"
Oh, but she does. Many. He steps further into the living room, forgetting about the annoying dead weight they've been hauling and admires the space, turning on the side table lamps and admiring the knick knacks and personal touches that populate the bohemian loft. There's definitely more to this woman than just a character in a book, more than a cop…
"You know, you shouldn't be criticizing. Your house furnishings are made up of discarded phone books," she says as she tries to tidy up some of the damage. "I think you broke her Keurig. Yeah, this is definitely broken."
She pulls out her iPhone and looks at him curiously while speaking to the device. "Siri, remind me to send Detective Beckett a new Vue brewer."
She's annoyed, he can tell, and for a second he thinks that so is her virtual assistant. {Yes, Carrie, I will.} says the robot on her phone as she tucks it back into her pocket.
He admires some of the pictures that rest on one of her shelves and she joins him. She's looking so happy with the dude. He must be some dude. Pictures in the snow, pictures at the beach… pictures, pictures… she's in love.
He turns to Carrie and there's a moment between them that he can't deny, but he can't let himself dwell on it. She's crazy. He wants out of the crazy. Definitely no more crazy.
"Ok, so where do you want this?" He says, clearing his throat and walking back to the forgotten white elephant of a box.
"Hmm, I say her bedroom is the most logical place," she says.
"Really, logical seems to be an odd word to be using this evening." He looks around; the apartment isn't that big. Anywhere they leave it, she'd be able to notice it. "I'm not going into her bedroom. What if there's a machine gun set to shoot any intruders?"
"Hey, she's a police detective, not a paid assassin." Carrie scoffs.
"You were the one that brought up the serial killer," he reminds her, throwing his hands up in the air comically. "The most logical place would be by her foyer, a bit towards the kitchen, so she doesn't run into it… so, like, here."
He drags the box, and turns it so that the bad, damaged, side faces away from attention.
"I always knew you would be a great interior decorator." She says, making light of the detail he's taking to feature the box.
"Stop it." A little more to the left… and done.
"Barely even a scratch, you wouldn't even guess this thing made it over five buildings, a few fire escapes… the rappelling…" She opens the lid and produces a bow and an envelope. "And now, it's complete."
"What is that?" he says, pointing at the crisp white covering.
"Shhh, don't touch it." She slaps his hand.
"What does it say?" He asks, curious. He wouldn't take Matilda for a sensible being, capable of writing a sentiment.
"Nothing you need to know." She tucks the envelope under the bow and adjusts its placement.
"You don't know what it says," he dares her, calling her privacy bluff.
"Oh, I know," she says with this air of superiority, but there's something else under he can't pinpoint. Could it be that the dragon actually did grow a heart?
They move towards the entrance to start shutting down the lights and she stops to look at one more goofy picture that seems to have been taken in one of those automated booths at some party or a bar.
"They're pretty," she observes, touching the one version that has them looking into each other's eyes while sporting some sort of crazy mardi gras ensemble.
"I wouldn't use that word exactly, but -" he stops, trying to find the words too. "Makes me wonder…"
"What?"
"If she ever flung a fishbowl at him…" he snickers and she elbows him playfully, annoyance that dissolves to a shy smile.
"Hey, thank you." She says, seriously.
"It's okay. You know that punches or not, vicious insults or not, I'll always come when you call." He says turning to her. "And now I can totally say that I helped Nikki Heat get her pretty dress to strut in…"
"Well, pretty is a lofty term on this one." She rolls her eyes, and her lips smirk in mischief. "Extravagant monstrosity is more like it."
"What?!" He reacts a bit louder than he actually intended, startling her. "You made me haul this fucking box all the way over here for a dress is not even the dress? Five rooftops, Carrie. Five."
"That's beside the point. It might not be my dress, or yours…" she says, throwing one last glance at the box that sits expectantly in the middle of the room. "but, I guess it's ...hers."
"Let me see it," he says, cocking his head to the side. He knows she can't resist that, and he's sure that by the end of the night the fight and their angst will be long forgotten.
"Ugh, fine." She concedes, quickly lifting the lid to the box and unveiling the dress.
"Wow… that is…"
He's speechless. Ugly? Unfinished? Poofy! Yeah, he's got nothing nice to say about it.
"I know, I know, Lord of the Rings wants it's elvish wedding dress back. Oh Fuck!" A look of terror invades her features and he feels a punch to his stomach in worry.
"What?"
"I forgot the silver sash! It's on my desk, and Matilda is going to kill me!" Beads of perspiration start to appear profusely on her forehead and he fears she's going to faint.
"You do know that this dress will get modified. Or, at least, I sure hope so, 'cause damn," he says, trying to calm her down when they hear the clear and telltale noise of a key turning a lock behind them.
"Fuck!" she hushes. "Hurry, hurry!"
They rush up the steps and close the door behind them, huddling and plastering their faces to the frosted glass right next to the rooftop entrance, trying to get some sense of what's going on inside.
"Ow, that's my elbow!" he protests when she leans more into him.
"Do you think she saw us?" she asks, worried, and slightly freaked out.
"I don't know, I can't hear anything," he says, leaning more on the glass and flinching at its coldness.
Carrie gets frustrated with him and the silence and moves over to the next window.
"Wait, we can see through here," she hushes as she wipes the grime off the clear glass. "Aw man," she whispers as they huddle together to see the reflection of the detective in the mirror on the wall inside. She's definitely in awe. Dreamy eyes and a smile, and my god, she's beautiful. Lucky bastard. She lifts the dress once again and pulls it out of the box, turning it and donning it over her, checking herself out in the mirror, caressing the crystals, hugging it to her, in this kind of hypnotic dance as if she was picturing the wedding day itself.
He turns to Carrie and her expression is every bit as dreamy as the unicorn detective inside. Damn. He's screwed.
"Carrie…" he says, breaking the spell.
"Yes?" she responds turning to him, and he tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"How are we getting off this building?"
Hope you liked it, LOL I certainly enjoyed writing this :)
As always, my undying love for Ky, who made me write this because I dared making a crazy comment while watching the episode! Because... NINJAS!
Please let me hear your thoughts!