"Torrents of Indistinguishable Somethings"
He's always been able to figure out his own thoughts before, and he's always been able to come up with a plan. Why is the appearance of Tom Demming making Castle question everything he thinks he knows…and the things he doesn't? One-shot, indirectly Castle/Beckett.
Rating: K+
(it may be the most harmless thing I've ever written; two swear words toward the end)
Spoilers: Set two weeks after 2.21 ("Den of Thieves"). No other spoilers for future episodes.
A/N: This one hit me while I was trying to sleep. Thought I'd type it out and see what comes of it. The story's certainly different from my normal writing style, and it was done so on purpose. Not sure if I pulled it off, but in general, there is no cause for alarm. Or panic. Or a combination of them both. Also note that this piece is just as much Castle/Lanie (as in friendship) as it is Castle/Beckett, but I've tagged it as the latter because it's that dynamic that drives the events below.
If anyone ends up here wondering about "Chuck vs. ABA," there's a final chapter coming at some point within the next month or two. I'd explain, but there'd be stories of dysfunctional computers, lost files, and the day job that would bore anyone, including myself, to death.
I apologize for any typos that may have snuck through, seeing as I did read this over a few times before posting. As a disclaimer: Castle doesn't belong to me. I'm nowhere near that awesome. Sarcasm, on the other hand, I have in spades. Super spades, in fact.
Considering the situation, he thought he was dealing with it remarkably well. At least in the beginning. Demming had asked if he and Kate were involved, he'd given the robbery detective the all-clear signal, and that was that. Life had moved on.
Or it was supposed to.
Nagging bits of uncertainty and something else seemed to permeate Castle's thoughts before Demming had even left the room two weeks ago. The same uncertainty and something else hadn't started keeping him up nights until a few days ago. Now, Castle'd needed only one glimpse of the robbery detective casually perched on the edge of Beckett's desk, the two cops sipping coffee, to find himself turning on his heels to head back into the elevator he'd just exited.
Mind in a confused haze, Castle's feet led him to the morgue. He's not sure why his feet thought the morgue would be a good destination. He's also not sure how long he'd been standing there, or how long it took him to get there. All he knows is that he's never felt so unlike himself, and that Lanie's looking at him with a pleasant, but expectant, look.
"What do I do?" he asks, the indistinguishable torrent of thoughts manifesting in his tone.
Shutting the file being read prior to Castle's sudden appearance, Lanie patiently studies the man in front of her. Seriousness begins to tinge her face, along with a bit of confusion. "What do you do about what, Castle?"
"Look, I know you're her best friend, and this is worse than using a cheat code—asking the best friend is like reading the strategy guide for a video game," he thrusts the cup of coffee that was supposed to be Beckett's into Lanie's hands to make sure 'strategy guide' is emphasized enough, "but I don't kn…just…what do I do?"
The ME's eyes shift downward for one beat to the coffee cup before shifting back up to Castle. "What do you do about…Beckett?" Castle's not quite in the frame of mind to explain properly, and Lanie's trying to catch up in a conversation she feels like she walked into the middle of.
It'd be easier if she knew what, precisely, she was catching up to.
When Castle only nods and starts to pace while throwing back the dregs of his coffee like a shot of hard liquor, Lanie starts to get worried. "Is something wrong, Castle?"
"I want to fight for her." His words seem to echo around the empty room, and he wonders if he really said them that loudly; as is, they've taken on a shot-heard-'round-the-world quality. "If it were anyone else, I'd be…" He knows doesn't need to finish the sentence, which is great, because he's not exactly sure how he would. It's clear from the slight eye roll and knowing eyebrow raise he catches a glimpse of from Lanie that she now knows what he's talking about, and more importantly, what he's trying to imply.
If it were anyone else, he'd be acting like 13-year-old Richard Castle, purposely running interference and forcefully inserting himself into every aspect of her life in an effort to sabotage the relationship from within. Money—or, more accurately, spending a lot of it—would get him his way at the end of the day.
If it were anyone else, he would not be pacing the pristine linoleum in the basement of the city morgue, trying to sort out his thoughts by talking to someone else. It's never been his style. But, for that matter, it's never been his style to be so flummoxed by one woman.
Lanie seems to know that, too.
"But, Demming asked, and I said nothing, and now we have...this." Castle's stopped pacing, but his back is to Lanie and he's looking at the ceiling while he talks. "But I couldn't say anything, because it's her call to make, not mine. I can't fight the way I normally would, because it's her. She's not anyone else. She's…" The word "extraordinary" gets stuck in his throat, not because he's getting overly emotional, but because the gravity of what it is he might be professing aloud (and to another human being, no less) is slowly beginning to register.
Yet again, the dearth of commentary from Lanie suggests that she knows exactly what word he was about to say. Given what he's just started to realize, he doesn't know whether that's a good thing or not.
"Just, how do I deal with this?" he asks in a voice that he—if he were writing the scene—would classify as 'completely lost.' The writer turns back to Lanie to find that she's looking more and more worried. She also looks like someone who's been told that there's a slight leak in the bathroom and opens the bathroom door to discover that water's pouring by the gallon from the ceiling.
It's the look of someone well aware of the situation, but has drastically underestimated how acute and serious it is.
Lanie's stunned silence is starting to become noticeable, and Castle finds himself crossing back over toward her while continuing in a more animated fashion.
"Like, okay, example: I taught Alexis how to play poker a few weeks ago. She wants to have you all over for a poker night. How do I invite Beckett—can I invite her? Am I allowed to do that? Do I have to invite Demming? He's a nice guy, but I'd rather…not. Unless Beckett wants me to invite him. But I can't know that unless I ask her. Which I'm not sure I'm allowed to do."
By the time he's finished, he's standing across from Lanie, the two of them separated by a clean gurney. Some inner voice is pointing out how ridiculous he sounds—that he's treading around Beckett like he would an ex-girlfriend or ex-wife. The notion strikes him as preposterous, but it's the dread that plummets down to his stomach before bouncing back up to drain the color from his face before lodging permanently in his chest that suggests the thought isn't too far off the mark after all.
How can he treat Beckett as an ex-anything? Cliché as it is, doing so would imply he had her in the first place. Then again, if he's about to frame their friendship in terms of clichés, he did run into a burning building to save her.
Perhaps cliché isn't the tool he should be using right now to defuse the pounding in his chest.
And perhaps he should be focusing on the person standing across the gurney from him, because Lanie still hasn't said anything. He risks a quick peek at her, and finds the beginning of major, serious, paradigmatic shock crossing her face.
Flapping the unflappable ME? That can't be a good sign.
Paradigm shifts? Definitely not a good sign.
One of his hands shoots up to run through his hair. His thoughts, while incrementally clearer than before, still make him feel like a walking contradiction. Castle decides to try to formulate a question that Lanie could respond to in general, and one she could answer without breaking the best-friend code.
Assuming, that is, that she recovers from her temporary case of muteness.
"Should I talk to h…no, I can't talk to her about it, not like this. I'm not that guy with her. I can't be, and I don't want to be." He pauses to try to find the magic question to make everything make sense. "How…?"
As his attempted question firmly grinds to a halt, and his mouth silently opens and shuts again, the thought that crosses his mind for a flash is something along the lines of, oh God, this is how ineloquent people must feel. It's enough to make him crumple against the second empty gurney behind him in a stunned half-sit.
For the first time, words are failing him.
It's then he realizes that the lack of words is almost as damning as their presence would be.
He might as well have shouted it.
He's fallen for Kate. Or, if he hasn't fallen, he's in the process of doing so.
And he's had absolutely no idea until now.
Lanie's beat him to the punch, already realizing what he just did. When Castle manages to get his eyes to focus again, she's looking at him with a mixture of shock, surprise, sympathy, confusion, worry…it all seems to be there. He can't even bother trying to catalog all the emotions, since he's even managed to score the cliché hand-over-stunned-mouth.
He should consider the cliché to be ironic, given his attempt at avoiding them a moment before. But, he doesn't have a lot of faith in anything literary-related right now.
That includes himself.
They're both standing in stunned, silent shock when the double-hinged morgue doors fly open a good half minute later.
Beckett's muttering curses at her cell phone as she shoulders her way through them, loud enough for the room's occupants to hear. From the sounds of it, she's mostly cursing Castle and his 'inability to answer the damn phone.'
It's only once she's a few steps into the expansive room that she notices its usual occupant and the subject of her recent curses. Halfway through her next step, the heavy atmosphere of the room seems to hit.
"Everything alright?" Beckett tentatively asks, uncertainty tingeing her words. She's come to a slow halt upon registering the expressions on Lanie's and Castle's face.
Castle half shrugs and nods at Beckett's phone. "Sounds like someone might be dead to me." A smile's managed to work its way onto his face, but his smile, tone, and shrug seem tired, followed closely by an unfamiliar tense cautiousness.
Beckett notices. She also notices the lack of an answer, but an arched eyebrow gets her no further elaboration from either party.
By then, Castle's managed to hurriedly hide everything away and rev himself back up to normal, spinning elaborate tales of zombies, Zuul, zoos, and Zephyrus for the case that Beckett isn't telling them about. He's acting so much like normal that Beckett silently breathes a sigh of relief before she cuts him off, patented eye roll included, to explain what the situation actually is (and that the murder does not involve any of the things Castle mentioned).
The duo's already halfway through the doors and into the hallway, off to see the body, when Kate takes one quick look back at Lanie. The ME's expression, if anything, has managed to turn more shocked and worried—she hasn't stopped looking at the back of Castle's head. It's when Lanie's eyes shift to her that Kate realizes the truth.
Something's not right. Something's not right at all.