#thread . / silverf0xes / John River

[baeckett-a]

          She’s over it. Her teeth chewing along her inner lip as the eye roll comes natural. The captain keeps going on about adding to the team. Bringing in new blood and perspective. Kate can’t help how bitter the idea was becoming, especially with the target she feels still scathing her skin. She thinks of all the truths they hid to save Roy Montgomery’s name as he laid in his grave. To keep his name as a good man. Kate knows he never fell short of that. Forgives him.

          It’s absent minded as her hand presses to the spot on her chest the more she dwells. A habit when she reflects.

          She can’t do anything beyond playing nice. Slinging her jacket across the back of her chair, exchanging far and few looks shared between the twinning detectives on her team, she busies herself while waiting. Pouring over the beginnings of a case instead, expecting some new, out-of-the-academy hot shot to show up, waiting to ‘school’ them with his book smarts.  

          The surprise is hardly hidden when that’s not what she gets at all. Brown eyes only flickering up to see a much older man than she’s expecting. Her eyes waver through the glass to the captain. There’s a tale end of reprimand as her boss offers a coarse nod and pointed look to make nice. It’s a battle, Kate decides, she doesn’t feel like having with Captain Victoria Gates. At least, not the first few weeks back.  

                                                 This is who they traded Castle for? 

          “Hi,” she starts, pushing herself to stand. Extending a hand, she does her best to offer a faux smile. “You must be John River.” 

sᴇᴍɪ-ᴘʟᴏᴛᴛᴇᴅ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀ . / . @silverf0xes​ / John River

[baeckett-a]

@silverf0xes​ ASKED :  ❝  here, sleep.  ❞ // from River

          These are the hardest cases. A woman left staggered in an alley. Stabbed. Discarded among the protest of trash that work as walls built by a boycott of a union strike. The stagnant smell of rot and filth leave the bile against the back of her throat, burning in ancient memory. She doesn’t let it go. Can’t give this one up on a lie she once believed       a murder of chance when it was plotted. Johanna Beckett’s face is the one she sees every time she enters the bullpen. 

          “I’m fine,” she shakes her head, hoping to clear her vision of the doubling mug in her hand. There’s a strong will to stop the shake of her fingers as she tips the pots towards her cup, filling it in what seems a stiffened motion. While the couch has provided more than enough comfort to aching limbs and tired eyes in the past, the rest seems like a waste to the time that’s already precious. She doesn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear before  she cradles the mug.

          “Really,” she assures her partner.  “I just need a lead,” she sighs in a wintry mix. One half disappointment. The second half frustration. Her nails play loose with the patterned print on the cup. Draws her focus from the inevitable sting between her breasts, scar still fresh and tight. She’s not sure if it’s anger or anxiety. She shoves it down deeper, swallowing it when her lips meet the rim of her mug and scolds the tip of her tongue with hot coffee. She needs to be fine.