a/n; this fic is about the song 'personal' by stars. orignally, i had just intended for this first chapter to exist. however, after finding out the song's true meaning (based on the murder mystery), the plot bunnies began plotting and i was helpless to their evil ways.
chapter one is lovers, the story of two lonely people, both searching for escape, but neither of them finding it the way they want.
chapter two is killers, the story of a man and a woman. a target and a murderer. and the sympathy that gets in the way.
disclaimer; i do not own personal or castle. trust me.
He was ashamed to admit that it hadn't been Martha's idea. It had been his fingers that tapped away at the worn down keys of his laptop - this time new words being typed out, something that wasn't crime and mystery and murder. Something that even he couldn't properly define, which scared him some considering that, as a writer, he had an extensive vocabulary and it was basically his job to describe and define things. This, however? This was... new? Pathetic? Desperate? An experiment? Loneliness?
Him. Richard Castle. He could have his pick of women, easy. But all those women knew him as Ricky or Richard or Castle or the author or the famous author or the rich famous author. Stories and gossip and rumour and reputation and all of it he was sick, sick, sick. He wanted a sweet taste of anonymity.
Castle spent so much time clicking away and wearing down his keyboard keys; all his time spilling out letters and words onto a screen. For once, he wanted to just be words on a screen. A character of a person. Somebody with all the possible plot twists waiting ahead for him.
Instead of the glamour and buzz, he needed quiet. Alone. Somebody who appreciated him for the words and sentences that made up him as a person, not the words and sentences that made up the stories that made up what he did.
(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, mrs. destiny, send photo to address, is it you and me?)
Detective Beckett was about ready to pull out her gun and make Lanie pay. This idea was stupid, the website was stupid, her profile was stupid. Her loneliness was just stupid. And Lanie shouldn't have even gotten involved. The raised eyebrows as she declined another promise of a hunky date, she could deal with. But an online dating profile?
The Katherine Beckett in her, the same girl who had the tattoo and the motorbike and insisted on doing things her way and who fell apart as her father fell apart but managed to pick herself up quick enough to drag him up along with her and the little girl who somehow lost the little girl part of her and traded it in for a badge and a gun, she liked the idea.
Not the idea of anonymous freaks wanting to 'get to know her'. The idea of having a hand to hold and a mouth to kiss and a body to press against hers. A person to call her own and warn her away from touching that manilla folder with the details of her mother's murder stamped across the pages. A person who could call her his, as much as she hated thinking she could completely belong to somebody, the idea thrilled her the same way a loaded gun did. Something with so much power to destroy, yet something she can hold that protects her and ensures that she can't be touched. (Mostly.)
So, the Kate inside her doesn't delete the profile, only edits it. And as the suggestion pops up on her screen, the Detective wants to X out of it and close the site and take a long sip of a hot coffee to drag her kicking and screaming back to the reality that she would never be able to have anything she wanted because she was too damn tangled up in the past.
For once, that part of her is silenced.
(reply to single m: my name is katherine, cell phone number here, call if you have the time, twenty eight and bored, grieving over loss, sorry to be heavy, but heavy is the cost, heavy is the cost)
He doesn't know what to expect or do or say (or rather, type). Richard Castle, at a lot for words. Ironic. Except it shouldn't be, not really, because beyond being a writer, he's a person too. And they're allowed to be lost for words, right?
Except he's not exactly speechless. His fingers are still clicking and tapping and working furiously to do something that he's not even sure yet. Another thing he can't really define because he's never experienced it and doesn't understand. Eventually he gives in and gives up and sighs, pushing the hair from his forehead.
Alexis will be home soon. He scrawls a note, leaves it on the counter and grabs his coat to leave the loft.
He walks in central park, where the leaves are decaying to a burnt apple pie colour, and finally breaking off the branches to float to the ground. Around him are couples and parents and dogs walking their owners and around the corner there are cars and cabs and walkers and jay walkers. It's not like Richard Castle to ever be tired of how things are - no, he's mister jump up and go. Fun to be had, parties to attend, daughter's boyfriends to intimidate.
Books to write.
Which is the crux of the matter really, because most of who he is stems from his writing. And sometimes it seems like everybody in his life if jut so desperate to smush the two together, so he becomes the words that he clicks out onto a page. He wants somebody who doesn't care for that. Words are just words. As magical, beautiful, influential, complicated and downright awesome as they could be, he liked to think that people where much more than words on a page.
Deciding he won't let himself become that, he stands up and leaves the bench and the park and returns home to the words and the clicking and tapping.
(reply to katherine: thanks so much for response, these things can be scary, not always what you want, how about a drink? this ancient club at noon, i'll phone you first i guess, i hope i see you soon)
Her heart thuds in her chest, beating against her ribs as if it wants to get out and run away because it's all too scary and real. Of course, the cop in her is more realistic and cautious. She looks up the place he suggests 'The Old Haunt' and checks and double checks and she's not sure if it's out of curiousity, concern for her safety or insecurity. Perhaps a dangerous concoction of all three.
Flustered and slightly out of breath, she pushes her hair away from her face and bites at her lower lip. It's such an un-Beckett like thing to feel. Or rather, it's something she's felt before but not in a long, long time and so the sudden flush of hope takes her by surprise.
He gives it a day.
She's home when the phone trills. And the unknown number tips her off; gives her a few seconds to breathe.
Their voices are soft and quiet and most of the call is spent talking in hushed voices, as if they've both been let into a secret that nobody else knows. Perhaps it's that they're both scared. Her more so, she thinks. And in those few seconds she panics. Perhaps her baggage isn't something he wants to help her carry around. Then again, he replied, didn't he? She continues as if everything were okay and she isn't scared and she isn't unsure and some tiny part of her believes maybe he's sitting wherever he is and doing completely the same thing.
She thinks about his face and his arms and eyes and imagines the sort of person she can see herself being with. It's hard to get a picture, because Royce and Demming and Josh all get in the way and remind her of her past mistakes. Their features blend into one and suddenly this mystery person becomes a combination of all three and she's back to that scared panic again. Because she doesn't want this to be another thing. She's tired of fucking and pretend loving.
Part of her wonders if he's sitting, contemplating her face. And for the first time, she reverts back to the stupid teenage self who's paranoid about everyone and everything and feels this pressure weighing on her to be beautiful.
Despite it all, she sleeps a tiny bit better that night.
(i never got your name, i assume you're thirty three, your voice, it sounded kind, i hope that you like me, when you see my face, i hope that you don't laugh, i'm not a film star beauty, i'll send a photograph, i hope that you don't laugh)
It all seems too good and lovely and honest to be true and real and when he heard her voice, slightly more timid than he had expected (but only slightly; he could tell she was strong, determined, grounded), it felt like all those thing exaggerated.
The Old Haunt waits for him the next day, his stomach buzzing with a sick type of nerves. Talking and typing were all very well, but letting somebody in, letting them see you and be close to you and touch your skin and breathe closer and whisper and make eye contact and break free from photos and phone calls to become real, solid things... that was complicated and terrifying. He had barely told Katherine anything about himself.
The possibilities and odds felt stacked up against him. Each one a building block of the tallest, thickest wall which led him further and further away from the girl he wanted.
The girl sitting with her sandy coloured hair curling over her shoulder. Her high cheek bones defining the rest of her face, and giving the impression of a strong, beautiful, woman. Focused and clear and sharp, yet gnawing on her thumb nail and clutching at the book in her hand and peering around nervously.
He stands watching from a distance, lingering for a few seconds too long and not even caring that he'd bordering on strange and creepy. He takes the moment in; takes her in. His eyes lingering all over. His eyes lingering on her book. The author.
Richard Castle.
His heart thuds. It beats and pounds and punches his rib cage fiercely and his first instinct is the childish one of running and hiding. Anonymous. A person in a city with a name. Couldn't he have that? He walks over and doesn't look st her and orders a drink and he's not her as her date, he tells himself over and over. He doesn't want that. His words are what he's trying to escape; they can't have followed him here, surely?
His eyes linger too long and, like a match, conversation is struck up and burns strong and fades out. Helped her through her mother's murder, she tells him. Favourite author, she tells him.
When he's gone, she looks around, confused and lost.
Heavy is the cost.
(note to single m: why did you not show up? i waited for an hour, i finally gave up, i thought once that i saw you, i thought that you saw me, i guess we'll never meet now, it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't mean to be, i was sure you saw me, but it wasn't meant to be)
It's out of spite that she sends it. The same way she bangs the desk to scare a particularly difficult suspect. The satisfaction of knowing she'd had some sort of last word.
That's the Detective talking.
Somewhere, Katherine Beckett is sighing softly and leaving a bar and tugging her coat closer and thinking 'not tonight'. Someday, she might tag on a 'maybe next time', but her recent levels of optimism have been drained dry and she doesn't feel up to the task of replenishing them in her current state.
Instead she sleeps, and clears the call history of her phone.
(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, nothing too heavy, send photo to address, is it you or me?)
He masks it with her problems and her baggage and somewhere in his head there's still a tiny, stupid spot for 'her'. Sometimes that part is a comfort on a rainy day, or a person to sit by in the park. He projects it onto his lovers and pretends they're her and she wasn't reading that book and he hadn't deleted her number and that they could just stay and pretend and not have to continue on being single f's and m's and letters and numbers and words on a page.
Although, over time, she's slowly compressed to an image in his head and a woman of his imagination, she's something more than the others. She makes him watch to break free and become more than the words.
And so he captures her with them instead. Freeing himself and tying her up. The girl with the hair, with the coat, with the book. The girl with the timid voice filled with a confidence that needs a little teasing out. Like a drawing on a napkin, she's an idea that pops into his head at all the wrong times and in all the wrong places and has never once let him go.
(is it you or me? is it you or me? is it you or me?)