#drabble fail

This was a drabble fail but I couldn't figure out how to edit it. for @jamilas-pen who likes birds and crack I'll try Parakeet again tomorrow @a-noble-dragon

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: POV Alex Claremont-Diaz, Pining Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Lovers, I'm not sure where to place this, It's not really angst or fluff or any of that, It just sort of...is, Alex Claremont-Diaz has no idea that he loves Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor but he does, Also known as that time Alex threatened to throw Henry in the Thames, Unresolved Sexual Tension, you can cut it with a knife, Internal Monologue, Alex waxes poetic about how beautiful Henry is, But they definitely aren't in love, Nope they're mortal enemies Summary:

Henry sighs. "Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?"

OR

“Lex,” Twyla breathes. “You remembered.”

Alexis’s heart aches with the way Twyla says her name. How Twyla’s eyes light up, shiny with tears, when she opens the gift — a stuffed pink bunny with tiny flowers between its front paws Alexis brought from New York.

One summer night, feeling lonely and a bit too wine drunk, Alexis dialed Twyla’s number before she realized what she was even doing. Twyla giggled and humored her until well past midnight, when Alexis was beginning to drift off, but refused to be the first to hang up.

They got to talking about their childhood bedtime rituals and Alexis became enchanted listening to Twyla wax poetic about her favorite stuffed animal. How she loved holding it close at night, all snuggled under the covers with only the soft glow of her sunflower nightlight in the room. But then her voice carried a subtle lilt of sadness as she recalled losing the bunny in a move to a new house. Alexis had wanted nothing more than to snap her fingers, find one just like it, and deliver it to Twyla’s arms. If only to never hear that mournful tone ever again.

Locating one involved a lot more than finger-snapping and wishful thinking. In fact, it required conversations with more than a few sketchy people that David would most definitely have yelled at her for. But every screeching syllable, and hand flail, would have been worth it for the way Twyla’s looking at her now.

Alexis shrugs, aiming for nonchalant, and boops Twyla on the tip of her adorably freckled nose, wishing she could kiss her instead. “Of course I did.”

Title: Catalyst WC: 800

He stares down, disbelieving, at the ruined title page. The handwriting is undeniably his, what he can still see of it, anyway—jagged, irregular bits that peek out from beneath frustrated slashes of ink that run through what used to be words. The pen that etched those slashes deep into the paper is undeniably clenched between his fingers, and still he stares down in disbelief.

It was fine. The two generic lines he’d sandwiched in between her name and his own—in thirty-point font underscored by the bold slash of his signature—were absolutely fine. They’d been better than fine thousands of times before he’d set them beneath the imperious letters of her name, her title. And any way, the stupid book is a ruse. It’s an In Case of Emergency move that he probably won’t even need. He’ll probably be well clear of the precinct, booty in tow, before she’s even in for the day.

It’s a ruse—a precaution—but he slams the ruined book shut. He reaches for another in the stack behind him. He flips to a fresh title page and freezes, pen poised. He grits his teeth and forces his hand to move, but all he can seem to get down is his signature, more cramped and hurried than it should be. It’s terrible. He slams the second book shut and shoves it aside.

He reaches for scratch paper. It’s ridiculous, but he reaches for a cube cut to look like a three-dimensional skull and tugs a few sheets free of the glue strip at the top. He drafts long lines and short ones. He pencils in his name in thirty-point all caps and scrawls hers above it. He goes for breezy and careless. He experiments with calligraphy. He crumples and shreds and folds sheet after sheet until his three-dimensional skull is down to pretty much teeth and jaws, and he still has nothing.

He grows desperate enough to reach for a third book. He stares at the fresh title page, hoping it will shock something out of him at last. It does. It works, though his heart is pounding and his knuckles are white as the pen moves across the terrifying expanse of white. Kate, he writes, breathing a sigh of relief as everything else falls away—her title, her last name, every other stupid, snarky, cutesy thing he’d considered.

Kate.


He sits up straight to get a better look at it. He shifts the book on the blotter and enjoys the play of light and shadow. He likes the look of it—her name, then his, and his again. His hand moves lightning fast now to set down his signature with more flourish than he usually allows himself when he’s signing.

The lines come easily then. They’re simple and honest and a little obnoxious and he thinks she’ll like them. He thinks that’ll annoy her, and it all sounds about right. He dots the end of them with an emphatic period. He gathers up the evidence of his struggles. There’s enough that it looks like highly localized indoor snowfall.

He ends up pulling the hem of his t-shirt taut and sweeping the whole lot into the makeshift basket of it. He creeps into the living room on soft feet and heads for the door. He’ll feel better with all of it fluttering its way down the trash chute.

“Dad?”

He yelps at the sound of his daughter’s sleep-heavy voice. He yips, actually, in a previously unknown part of his vocal register. He jumps a good foot into the air, and paper goes flying everywhere.

“Alexis. What are you doing up?” He turns, disoriented, and tries to find a window. Maybe she should be up. Maybe it’s morning and he’s already late.

“I heard you,” she says. She’s already on her knees, attending to the mess he’s made. “You were slamming things, and then it was quiet.” She looks up at him. “I thought you’d finally gone to bed.” 



“I am.” He goes to his knees, too. He works quickly, gathering everything he can reach. “I’m just about to, but I need to—I’m getting rid of these.” He holds up a sheepish handful. “That’s all, and then bed. Promise.”

“But what are they?” She frowns down at a scrap on her palm, then her gaze snaps up to lock with his. “Are you . . . writing?”

She asks in a voice so small that it breaks his heart. He holds out his hands to take her share of the load.

“I am,” he says quietly, and a profound shock runs through him. It’s true. It’s a handful of simple, honest, obnoxious words that’ll annoy her a little, but counts. For the first time in months, it counts. “I’m writing.” A/N: Hmmm.

My deepest and most heartfelt thanks to @kiwiana-writes, @anincompletelist, and @littlemisskittentoes for the tags this week. And thank you all, for reading the words that pop into my head and for letting me share it with the world. It has been...a not-so-great time over the last couple of days, and writing is something I can always come back to, so thank you for making me feel like what I have to say means something.

With all that being said, have more than six sentences of a drabble fail that I didn't expect to become what it has but that I'm looking forward to sharing with y'all when it's time, which will hopefully be soon!

“Your Royal Highness! Mr. Claremont-Diaz! A photo, please?” Alex, who had been avoiding Henry’s gaze since he was unceremoniously pushed onto the bridge for foreign dignitaries next to the prince, turns to find a pair of narrowed blue eyes already looking his way, an unspoken question written there. Alex answers by taking a hesitant step closer, with Henry mirroring his movement, both of them careful not to make any sort of physical contact before smiling their best press smiles, the corners of Henry’s lips pinched tightly. “Do either of you have a prediction for today’s race?” a voice calls from the sea of camera lenses. “Hopefully a bit of fun to be had by all in the midst of great tradition and sportsmanship,” Henry says, ever as neutral and lacking entirely in emotion as his bland presence. Alex blinks a bit longer than normal to keep his eyes from rolling before he notices that Henry has turned his bright blue gaze back on him. “As long as nobody ends up in the Thames, I think it’ll be a great day,” Alex teases, earning a chorus of forced, polite laughter from the gathered media. Henry huffs something between a chuckle and a cough, and Alex suspects it’s possibly the closest to an actual laugh the prince could ever manage.

Title: Overture WC: 1000

He brings out the petty in her. She’s not proud of that.

“Come on,” he whines. “Haven’t I earned it?”

It’s a standoff in the break room, and she might be petty, but he’s pushy.

“NYPD-issued mugs.” She leans back against the counter, her body between him and his current heart’s desire. “For NYPD personnel.”

“You just like watching me burn my hands on those stupid paper things.” He bobs from side, his eyes on the row of mugs drying on the drainboard behind her. “Those useless little . . . wings or whatever they are. They’re a hazard, do you know that? They’re an actual hazard.”  

“Gee, Castle.” She folds her arms across her chest. It’s a blatant invitation to try—just try—to make the break around her body that she knows he’s considering.  “It’s too bad you’re not rich or something. Then you might be able to get your coffee—in a proper cup, even—literally anywhere else.”

He has a retort spooled up. It’s something bratty and pushy and infuriating. She can practically taste it. Every bit of petty in her stands ready to hit back, twice as hard, but he pulls up short at the last second. He drops into another gear entirely.

“Anywhere else might have real cups, Detective.” He goes meekly to the stack of cheap paper things they trot out for their least favorite visitors and makes a production out of unfolding the flimsy double handles and working his finger through the holes that are too small by a lot. “But they wouldn’t have such charming company.”

The scalding coffee hits the cup and burns right through to the thin skin of his knuckle where it’s wedged  up against the paper. He hisses between his teeth and turns it into a smile.

Good, she thinks as she storms past him and back in the direction of her desk. Good.


He really brings out the petty in her.

It’s the only explanation for what she does later. What she does when Esposito and Ryan defect to Team Flavor Country. What she does when there is absolutely no reason to do it.

Petty, she thinks as she brushes her hair out with almost violent motions and sprays it within an inch of its life. Petty. It’s her eye-makeup, zipper dance, peep-toe or ankle-strap, statement jewelry mantra as she stomps out the door and makes her dramatic entrance, peeling the A-line coat from her shoulders and draping it carelessly over one arm as she golf claps with the best of them.  

His reaction is exactly what she expects, and then it isn’t at all. She has him rising to the bait with her melodramatic imitation, and then his mother is there. His kid is there and she wants to scrub off the stupid, shimmery eye makeup and pocket the chandelier earrings. She looks down at her peep-toe pumps and wants to die on the spot, because what is she doing? What does he have her doing? 


That all gets lost in the wash of rage when the name Nikki Heat makes its way into her world and no foam-core cutout of his smug, smiling self can save him. A blast radius opens up around them as they trade furious whispers. She’s vaguely aware of the ring of onlookers—his adoring fans from eighteen to eighty who all want a piece of him. She thinks about tearing the head off the stupid cutout and tossing it to the masses, because see above, re: petty and him.

She thinks about going.

She is going when he does it to her again. He switches off whatever it is she brings out in him. He ditches the furious whisper and sets the cutout on its feet, well away from them.

“We don’t have to do this here,”  he says abruptly in a tone that would be normal if it weren’t so  . . .blurty. “We could go for coffee. You could tell me to change the name, and I could tell you I won’t. Over coffee.”

“It’s too late for coffee,” she snaps.

It’s stupid. It’s ambiguous—after hours, or at the end of the world. It might mean either. It’s stupid, and it makes him smile. It makes her blush.

“Hot chocolate, then.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. He tries to strike a pose, but there’s something goofy about it. It’s fidgety. He’s fidgeting. “Herbal tea. Whatever.”

“You’re not seriously asking me for coffee.” She waves a hand and hates the plastic jangle of her over-the-top bracelets.

“Why wouldn’t I be seriously asking you for coffee?” He cocks his head.

It’s a question. It’s an honest question even though there’s a ring of onlookers. There’s his mother and his kid and a stupid foam core cutout of him, and still it’s a question.

“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s honest at first. It’s an answer, but then she panics. The petty rises up. “Figured you might have another date with a prostitute, Castle.”

“On a school night?”

He laughs as he says it. She laughs, too, but the moment is broken.

The world around them swings back into motion. Fans edge closer to him. Alexis says something firm to Martha and the two of them make a beeline for the furious knot of activity that springs up around him. 


She’s edged out the side, dancing almost with the stupid cutout. He lifts his head to find her over the crowd pressing in around him. He gives her a wistful nod even as he dips his head and murmurs something along the lines of Sorry, I didn’t catch that to whoever it is that’s closet, loudest, most determined.

She nods back. She slips her arms into the A-line coat and makes her way out of the crowd.

He brings out the petty in her. She brings out something just like it in him. But he was seriously asking her for coffee. A/N: Hmmm. Coffee cups . . .

Title: Talisman
 WC: 800

The elevator is on its way down before she remembers. Before she realizes, really. She’s too tired for remembering, but that’s kind of the point. She’s leaning too comfortably against the back wall of the car as it makes its herky-jerky way down, and that shouldn’t be possible. There should be an oversized bag in the way, hanging off one protesting shoulder.

The elevator hits the first floor with its usual, graceless thump. The doors squeal open and a crowd of cops, both uniformed and not, give their handcuffed company for the evening a shove forward, then a tug back when they spy her in the corner.

She can’t do it, she decides as she levers herself upright. She just can’t bear to ride all the way back up for the bag that lies forgotten in the big bottom drawer of her desk. She can’t when she knows it’ll mean getting button-holed by someone or other for one last question. It’ll mean giving in to one last glance at the inbox, the file, her messages. She makes her way through the doors instead, nodding right and left on the off-chance that she actually knows any of the faces she’s too bleary-eyed to focus on right now.

She pats her coat pockets to confirm she’s got her badge, keys, and phone on her. She flips the skirts back t and feels for the little bit of cash she makes a habit of shoving in her pants pockets for occasions such as this. Her fingers find the edges of a few bills and a heavy collection of change that plucks at her attention. Why the hell is she hauling change around?

She pushes the question aside and pulls her coat closed. She’s got enough for a cab, and as the cold hits her, she’s tempted—sorely tempted—to flag one down, but the thought of rolling the dice and getting stuck with a talkative driver is less appealing than the more or less guaranteed elbow-to-elbow anonymity of the subway. She turns right with a sigh, buttoning up and tucking her scarf into the neck of her coat as she goes.

She hardly remembers the ride. It should alarm her. It does alarm her somewhere in the back of her exhausted mind as she pushes through the door of her apartment, but the relief she feels at being home at last tamps it right down.

She goes through the ritual of hanging up her coat and scarf, of slipping her weapon out of its holster and into the box atop her dresser along with her mom’s ring, her dad’s watch. She drags her sweater over her head in almost the same motion as she pulls on a shapeless, oversized t-shirt.

She’s tired enough that she needs a second to lean against the dresser before she can face the idea of shedding the pants she’ll have to hang up if she doesn’t want to face the horror of having to iron. She buys herself another few as she goes through the motions of emptying her pockets. She tucks the bills under the corner of the heavy wooden box and scoops the mystery coins into her palm.

Her stomach growls loudly, and she thinks that’s it—the answer to why the unfamiliar weight has been prodding at the edges of her attention. She remembers shaking Esposito down for change for a couple dollars. She remembers that she’d meant to grab something from the vending machine in lieu of actual dinner.

“Apparently that didn’t happen,” she mutters aloud as nickels and dimes rain down on the dresser top.

Her hand closes before the last coin falls. It closes tight, and her heart is suddenly pounding. She’s suddenly wide awake and present. Her fist opens, one finger at a time, revealing a tarnished quarter in the center of her palm. A shiver chases from the crown of her head down her spine and all the way out to the very tips of her fingers. Her breath catches and she feels her whole body in the grip of his storytelling all over again.

He almost smiled at his good fortune when he found a quarter in his pocket …

She keeps an awkward hold on the coin as she shucks her pants and, yes, hangs them up.

“Stupid,” she tells it, scowling down as it glints in the light of her bedside lamp. “Stupid.”

But she sets it on the nightstand, right at the corner. She snaps off the light and peeks at it through one eye cracked open. It catches the streetlight that bleeds through the slats of the shutters. It pulses, blue and eerie and just within reach. It holds the magic of it—the moment, his voice, the story.

A/N: This was almost about The Scarf. But then it wasn’t. Also. Hmmm.

Title: Libation WC: 1100

This isn’t the drink he’s envisioned buying her. The precinct’s vending machine just might be older than she is. The slot he feeds the coins into is nonspecifically sticky enough that he has to jab at the last quarter with the end of his house key to get it to fall, and even though he manages to ace her out so he can retrieve the can and hand it over with a courtly flourish, this is definitely not the drink he’s envisioned buying her.

He’d thought about using it as a segue into an invitation. He’d thought for a split second about holding the can aloft—out of reach—until she’d agreed to let him buy her a real drink. But a split second was all it took for him to remember that she favors exceptionally wicked heels. He envisions shins maimed, toes stomped, and his slow and violent death written off to a freak accident. And even without the risks that poses to his bodily integrity, he’s begun to suspect that buying her a drink will be complicated.

It shouldn’t be complicated. It wouldn’t have been if she’d just taken him up on his offer at the end of that first case. It wouldn’t have been at all complicated, but then again he wouldn’t be here now, toiling in her wake on a canvas, driving her up the wall by shaking the boys down—and the Captain, too, for bonus points—for a hundred words for criminal. He wouldn’t be fitting in here with them. With her. Kind of fitting in, anyway.

So he supposes it’s worth the trade off, or it would be, if he did trade offs. But he’s Richard Castle, and he doesn’t, so he makes up his mind to buy her a proper drink. He thinks strategy and kicks himself in retrospect for not coming up with some killer line about how grown-ups settle reverse-double-jinx debts. Then he, once again, thinks about her kicking him, this time for such a terrible line, and he’s glad he did no such thing.

He’s trying out better lines when he tracks her down at the shooting range, but . . . shooting range. And even without that even more direct threat to his person, “complicated” rears its head again. She’s upset, and while there’s a certain ruthless practically to the way his bid for the stolen property photos plays out—while he’s certainly more than a little bit of an ass—he doesn’t seriously entertain the idea of asking once he sees how badly the case is hitting her.

He has absolutely grand plans for the fundraising gala. He has it on good authority that he’s absolutely irresistible in a tux, and he’s counting on the open bar giving him an assist in the “inhibition lowering” department.

He’s counting on a lot of things when she lands the one-two punch of merely existing in that dress and greeting him with a quiet, sincere Thank you, Castle where he’d penciled in an ear-twisting at the very least as punishment for sending it. And just like that, there goes the gala for the perfect opportunity, because it’s nice. It’s just . . . really nice the way she accepts the dress as easily as she accepts his mother’s over-the-top gesture with the borrowed jewelry, and he finds himself scowling down at open bar martinis wondering why inviting her out for a damned drink isn’t the easiest thing in the world.

But it’s not. It’s really not until she shows up on his doorstep on a Saturday when the sun’s barely up. There’s no question they’ll let her leave, and that is the easiest thing the world—the way he insists and his mother seconds the motion. Alexis has already filled a mug for her, and it’s a fait accompli.

He’s studiously busy as she tells her version of the story, taking liberties to make him look as ridiculous as possible. He offers the occasional mock protest, but the three of them have ganged up on him. They wave him off and Then What Happened? the thing along. He catches her eye and holds up the pitcher of orange juice in offering. She nods and mouths a quiet Yes, please as his mother captivates them all with her absolutely outrageous take on the auction.   While they’re engrossed, he slips away to the stemware rack  and snags a flute. He sets it in front of her, empty, and spins away again. He can feel her eyes following him, wary, but curious. He tugs open the wine fridge and makes a determined grab for a bottle that’s remarkable but not heart stopping. He’s just about to attack the foil surrounding the wire cage when she holds up an apologetic hand.

“Pardon me, Martha,” she says, her eyes on him. “Castle, what are—”

“I never did get to deliver you that vodka last night.” The foil is off. He’s in it now. “I hope a mimosa will do?”


Alexis and his mother exchange a look that most definitely does not escape Beckett.

“It’s 7:15 AM.” Her lips twitch. Little white lines appear at the corners of her mouth.

“Which is why I was thinking mimosa, not screwdriver.“ He gestures with the bottle, its cork now bare.

“I have to go to work,” she says, her voice tight. 

“So you’d like a raincheck?” His elbows hit the counter. He leans in close. “We’d certainly be happy to honor that at your earliest convenience.”

“Someone’s living dangerously,” his mother crows with a delighted little clap.

“Not that dangerously.” He flicks a conspiratorial look at her and Alexis. ”I know she won’t kill me in front of you.”

“And you’re sure about that, Dad?”

Alexis’s laugh is on the nervous side. She looks from him to Beckett. Beckett looks pointedly at him.

“No, he’s right.” She slowly lifts one eyebrow, daring him to say anything. “I’ll wait until he thinks I’ve forgotten before I kill him.

“Very wise, darling.” His mother nods. “Best served cold and all that.”

“Oooh,” Alexis brightens. “How will you get rid of the body?

“Friends,” she says with an acid-laced, devastating smile. “I’ve got very good, very useful friends.”

The conversation rolls on with him out the outskirts again. His heart pounds pleasantly as he listens in, as he waits on the three of them, as he contemplates the fact that she’s sipping orange juice from one of his champagne flutes and shooting him deadly looks.

It’s not the drink he envisioned buying her, but it’ll do for now. 

A/N: Drinks. Hmmm.