moirai
Or: The Five Times They Didn't Quite and the One Time They Did
Let's call this a 'canon-adjacent' AU. (For this story, the age difference between Castle and Beckett is presumed to be approximately 8 years.)
moirai
noun, plural. (1) the personification of fate. (2) the Fates. (3) a person's fate or destiny.
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...
He slips the second strap back over his shoulder, the backpack's weight sinking down, dragging on him heavily. He hardly notices, his nose already buried in the first pages of the latest Uncanny X-Men he'd just got his hands on. He starts walking, navigating up the sidewalk. He doesn't need to look; Rick knows his way around. It's easy, 14th Station is only a couple of blocks from 'Forbidden Planet' and he'll catch the subway there to get back uptown before his mother will even notice that he'd detoured down here after school was out.
He flips the page, notices someone or something in his way from out of the corner of his eyes, swerves around. This is a good one, the action picks up immediately; his eyes flick down the page, the dialog racing by as the plot unfolds, scenes playing in his mind when he suddenly crashes into something. He rocks forward from the impact, then back, gasps audibly.
"Careful, young man," a voice booms from above and Rick looks, finds that it's not a something but a large hand that's pressed to his chest, holding him back. He blinks, stares up. Not one but two faces look solemnly down at him. The man who the hand belongs to points straight ahead and Rick follows his finger. Oh. He'd reached the intersection. The signal glares 'Don't Walk,' a car races by too close to the curb and he hadn't even noticed. Uff, close one. He could've been in soooo much trouble.
The man nods at him and drops his hand, smiling now that Rick's safely stopped at the sidewalk but the little girl he's holding on his hip keeps staring at him. She's cute, a little like a cartoon kid, he thinks, or like one of those they pick for diaper commercials, with her large doe eyes and those fat baby cheeks but it's unnerving, how she just keeps looking. Kinda serious for a kid. Observant. Yeah, that's the right word. Observant.
"Uhm, hey," he says, feels like a complete dork because why is he talking to a baby. The little thing whips her head around, ponytail flopping as she buries her face against the neck of the old man. Rick smirks, goes back to his comic but from the corner of his eye he notices the girl eyeing him again almost immediately. He looks up, staring right back and her eyes go even wider- how that's even possible he doesn't know- as she watches him curiously.
Then the light changes and the man starts striding across the road, the kid bopping on his hip. His steps are longer than Rick's and he starts trailing behind the pair of them but the girl keeps looking straight at him over the man's shoulder. Hmm. Rick raises his arm, waves his fingers at her. It takes a second, as if she has to think it through, and then she lifts her chubby little hand, fingers scrunching in and out as she waves back at him. He can't help but laugh, and suddenly she giggles. Even from the distance and above the street noise, he can hear the joyful sound drifting toward him.
Whoa. He's, like, a baby whisperer. Cool.
She grins at him, little head peeking over the man's shoulder, grins and waves until they turn into a side street and Rick can no longer see them.
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...
She wanders down the aisle, her head turning left, right, left again. The shelves reach all the way up to the ceiling of the store and they are crammed with stuff and she's trying to see everything. She has to strain her neck, wishes she were taller already. She thinks this is probably her favorite place in the whole whole world. Papa always talks to Mr. Drake for a while when they are here and he lets her go explore while they drink tea as long as she stays in the store.
There are books and sets with magic for beginners but she has one of those and they're really kinda boring so she keeps walking. She wants to learn how the bunny gets into the top hat, or how she can disappear in the cloud of smoke. Though last time Mr. Drake showed her how to make the flowers come out of her sleeve and that was really cool too and she still has the bunch of fake flowers at home to practice.
She turns around the corner at the end into the next aisle and startles, shrinks back into the shadow of the shelf. There's a boy sitting on the floor in the middle of the carpet between the shelves and she's not supposed to talk to strangers but she really wants to know what he's doing because he has a top hat perched crookedly on his head and a black cloak with red inside swung around his shoulder, and some silver trick rings and rope lying around him but he's not playing with anything. He's sitting cross-legged with his back hunched over and his head bend down, and he's talking to himself only no sounds are coming out of his mouth. And then suddenly he starts scribbling on the note pad lying on his legs, and his hand goes so fast across the page and he doesn't pause at all.
Oh. He must be writing, like a story or a book or something. She wants to ask and her heart goes all fast in her chest because maybe he's a famous author and his story is about dragons and dragon-slayers and wizards and secret magic because those are her favorites but also he doesn't look so grown-up, more like Timmy who mows the lawn on Saturdays and he's only 14, so maybe he's not a famous writer.
"Sweetie? Time to go," Papa's voice booms from the front of the store. She startles and the boy does too and then he looks up and sees her and he has really really blue eyes. Katie turns and runs back down the other aisle.
"Coming, Papa."
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...
He's tried to steel his heart, tried to accept it before it happened but it had been useless, it didn't work. He's still staring at the gate, the steel door already closed and locked after having swallowed the last passengers, and his heart is broken. Shattered; sharp shards at his feet. He realizes that he'd held on to hope- until the last possible second he had hoped she would change her mind, and not go to London, and just stay with him. They had been so good together. But she didn't. She had kissed him goodbye, a long kiss that was too tender and tasted too sad, and then she had cradled his cheek with her palm, her thumb stroking his cheek. Bye Rick, she had whispered, and she had turned around and walked down the gangway without another look back. She had left.
Kyra had actually left.
His heart feels like it is being torn from his chest, every dream and hope and thought draining from him until he feels like nothing but an empty shell of his former self. The urge to scream is tearing through him, to punch and claw at the walls, to let his anger suffocate him until he won't feel so much any longer. He wants to feel nothing, not this pain, this hopelessness, this devastating ache.
The gate next to him opens, spilling a wave of arriving travelers into the airport. Not for the first time he thinks how completely unfair it is to have arrival gates next to departures when the passengers unite with those waiting for them at the gate. Couples crashing together in long, lingering embraces, little kids squealing and running for moms or daddies or nanas that are walking out of the gangway, friends hugging and clinging together. The air hums like a beehive, alive with laughter and excitement and he wants to be angry at them, he wants to rant at the unfairness and yet he can't look away. Maybe it's the writer in him but he can't help but soak in the scenes unfolding before his eyes.
Like the little boy, no more than two maybe, with wisps of blond hair sticking up from his head wobbling forward and into the arms of grandma, who crouches down for him, enfolding the toddler into her embrace and not letting go again. Like the woman in a tan business suit and sensible heels walking into the arms of whom he presumes must be her husband and her daughter, a lanky teen who is all legs, almost as tall as her mother already and with the same chocolate-brown, wavy hair. There's a softness to their hug, a calm tenderness that tells him this was not a long separation; likely a business trip, just a few days and yet they both came to pick her up. Before he realizes it he's spinning a story for them while he watches the teen hook her arm around her mother's waist and rest her cheek on her shoulder. He can't really see their faces but he doesn't need to, he knows how wide the girl's smile is, and how the mother will kiss her daughter's temple and then fold her fingers into her husband's hand.
Someday he'll have this. He wants this. The thought startles him, so much hope and belief in it despite his current devastation. Maybe Kyra will come back for him. And if- No. He can't fathom any other outcome. He glances one last time, watches the family as they walk toward baggage claim together, and then he turns away from the gate, searching for the nearest exit. He didn't think he could still hope, still believe, and yet- he does.
Because if he won't keep believing in magic, how's he ever going to find it?
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...
The beats drone in her ears, thump heavily in her stomach; all of her seems to vibrate from the blaring music and the illicit excitement flaring through her blood, bright like the strobe lights pulsating around them. Maddie nudges her forward and they slide deeper into the bowels of the dark club, pushing through the masses of writhing bodies and contorting limbs as they try to get further onto the dance floor. Her friend gestures at her, mouthing that she'll get them drinks and Kate nods though she doesn't care, doesn't need the alcohol tonight.
It's not the type of music she likes, usually, but it doesn't matter. Now that they've actually made it inside she wants to dance, wants to lose herself in the hammering rhythm, the sheer volume that deafens every thought in her head until all that's left is the feel of the pulsing beats everywhere. Her eyes half-closed, she lets her hips sway and her torso roll, aware of the glances, the looks sweeping up and down her body, the stares resting on her and it's exhilarating. She knows the tight, short dress in combination with the high heels make her legs look endless, and the heavy, seductive eye make-up she's experimented with has paid off, got them in the door with only a rudimentary glance at their fake ID's. She feels daring, and alive, and free.
Kate twirls in a circle, throws her hair back over her shoulder, fingers swiping at a strand that sticks to her cheek, and as her eyes flick open at random she sees him at the other end of the dance floor - as if the crowd has parted just for her, just for this one moment. Tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame, he's more idea than person, the embodiment of sexy, manly allure.
She can't make out his face, just the defined lines of his profile, the line of his jaw kissed with stubble, the flop of unruly hair and her heart starts leaping. He's barely dancing yet every move makes her face flare with warmth; he gestures at his friends and his biceps bulge beneath his black, short-sleeved shirt. She's dated guys before but they were boys and this, this is a man.
Her teeth dig into her lower lip as her eyes trail over his form; her insides tingle and heat races everywhere, her earlobes and fingertips and low in her midsection. There's something about him, an allure she can't define and she swallows hard, dares herself to move, just a few steps, do it, Kate, be brave. She wills her feet to move just as the guy seems to turn in her direction, the blood rushing in her ears.
"Earth to Becks!" Kate startles as Maddie yells in her ear, elbowing her in the ribs. She turns just as she notices a whirlwind of a redhead throwing herself at the object of her affection, arms and hips tightly curved to the guy. Damn. Kate grabs the drink that Maddie is holding, downing the shot. The alcohol burns down her esophagus, hot and fiery and tasting too much like disappointment.
She glances again, just for one moment, but the crowd has shuffled closed before her once more, enfolding him in its midst.
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...
He pushes Alexis ahead of him, fingers tightly gripped into the neckline of her hoodie so as not to lose her in the push and shuffle. The subway is unusually crowded, even for New York, the pouring rain having lured people into the city's bowels in droves, commuters and students, business men and women in crisp suits, chattering tourists and loud teenagers. They squeeze inside and all the seats are already taken. He finds one of the vertical handrails, guiding his daughter to hang on and then gripping a hand to the sticky metal above her.
The subway lurches forward, squeezing everybody together with its momentum, and Alexis wraps herself around him instead. He can't blame her; the poor kids always have their faces right at the level of people's butts in any crowd. He thinks back to when he could just prop her on his hip, but she is too tall for that now, so grown-up already; they'd both lose their balance. Instead he ruffles her hair, making faces at her and she grins up at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously, seeing the adventure in the sardine can ride – just like he taught her.
A few more people push in at the next stop, bodies pressing against his arms and his back, crowding him, boxing him in. The person behind him reaches over, wraps a hand around the metal pole just beneath his, skin brushing against his. He looks over, notices that it must be a woman; her hand and wrist and forearm, everything is slender, graceful. Her skin is pale like porcelain, feels warm and soft against his.
The train startles into motion once more, lurching everybody forward and he feels a body, her body, pressed against his back. Warmth flares through him and it's unexpected, surprises him. He breathes, thinks he can smell her too; her scent like a breath of fresh air above the stench of sweat and dirty rain that permeates the commuter car. Subtle but alluring, cherry or cherry blossoms, maybe, feminine with a tempting kick of spice.
He stands stock-still, not daring to move as the subway races through the dark tunnel system, stopping, going, stopping again while they swerve and sway with the rocking motions. He just breathes, in and out, in and out, and wishes he could see her, put a face to the lithe form that fits so well and warm against him but then again, maybe it's better this way, more… magical. This random woman on the subway, and he can paint the picture, write the story in his head, fill in the blanks- her face and the sound of her laughter, the hum of her voice and the sweet taste of her skin.
And then the train stops once more, the doors slide open, people file out. Her fingers loosen from the metal handrail as the warmth disappears from his back. He tries to turn, to see, but the crowd is thick, swallowing any trace of her before he can catch a glimpse.
His hand doesn't stop tingling all day.
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...
She bounces on her toes, her fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her sweater and her teeth nervously snagging at her lower lip. She shouldn't be this jittery, feels rather ridiculous for it. But she is just the same, can't suppress the flip of her stomach, the flutters in her chest that almost make her nauseous, the sensation heightening with every step closer to the front of the line.
It's been a couple of hours by now and she had opened the book, had tried to read but nothing could hold her attention, not even his words; she kept looking up, trying to sneak a glance beyond the crowd in front of her. Now the book is clutched in her left hand, her knuckles turning white with the death grip she has on the hardcover because the line has dwindled down to only two people in front of her and- there he is.
He's sitting behind the makeshift desk, framed by stacks of his books on either side, head bend down as he scribbles a dedication, and then looks up at the person in front of him, hands her back her book and oh, oh. His smile. Her heart starts racing.
He looks so much better than on his book jackets, more masculine, more rugged. Her favorite author, whose words have spoken to her when nobody could, have carried her through and she'll actually, truly get to meet him now. She suppresses the urge to squeal, schools her features to appear more sane than she feels because all of her jolts with excitement.
And then the last person in front of her steps aside and she moves forward as if in a trance, can't quite believe that it is even happening. Her mouth is parched and her heart hammers in her chest, and then he smiles at her.
She figures it's generic, he probably smiles at every fan like this and yet it feels so genuine and warm, like she is the only thing worthy of his undivided attention. She can hardly breathe. He winks at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and warmth flares in her cheeks as she feels the blush climbing her face.
"Who should I make it out to?" His voice is low and private, as if he's whispering secrets to her in the dark.
"Uhm, Kate," she stutters, finally remembers to hand over the book. Good grief, she's an adult, she censors herself, an accomplished professional. Pull yourself together, Kate. "You can make it out to Kate."
He takes the book from her hand and their fingers almost brush, and then he flips open the cover page and starts writing. His hair falls down over his forehead and she feels the sudden and inexplicable urge to run her fingers through it, caress his scalp with her nails. She watches the glide of his hand, the flow of the letters as they sink into the paper, thick and black, can almost imagine his fingertips caressing her skin the way he caresses the words.
He caps the pen, closes it, hands the book back to her. His eyes meet hers; stark blue pools, deep enough that she feels like she's sinking, being absorbed into their depths. He's still smiling but it's less flirtatious now, so much more tender and she feels understood, found.
Her heart is hammering and she's still staring at him when his handler starts ushering her away. He blinks, flits his eyes to the next fan- the next smile, the next book, the next words but she clutches her book to her chest, can't wipe the idiotic smile off her face.
Only once she is outside does she flip open the book, soaking in the words he gave only to her as she strokes her thumb across the inked letters.
Kate,
Stay strong.
Richard Castle
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(fin)
...and so it begins...