Disclaimer : This story was inspired by Marc Levy's book, Et si c'était vrai, and it's sequel, Vous revoir. All characters belong to AWM.
The musty smell of well-worn books hits his nostrils the moment he steps into the New York Library. He inhales slowly, deeply, fills himself with the memories it brings back. It feels like home.
He wanders around aimlessly, lets his fingers trail on the spines of countless of books, until he feels a layer of dust gather on them. He stops, grimaces at the grim staining his digits, chuckles a bit as he sees the title of the section.
Russian Lit.
"I recommend The Master and Margarita. Bulgakov."
He whips around, startled, tracks with his eyes the source of the noise. The adrenaline coursing through his body fades away as he spots the young woman sitting at the nearest table, a heavy book opened in front of her. He approaches, peaking at the letters etched on the cover, pieces together lstoy.
"You can hear me?" she asks, her eyes widening, genuine surprise lining her features.
The question throws him off. "Shouldn't I?"
The woman hesitates, but doesn't answer, simply shrugs and observes him. He pulls the chair besides her, points to the cover of the book, silently asking.
"War and Peace," she answers, her index finger hovering over the lettering on top of the page. "The original Russian version is much better, but they didn't have it here."
"You're Russian?"
His disbelief amuses her because a small smile graces her lips. "No. But I did do a semester in Kiev during my college years." She pauses, properly take him in. "You're Richard Castle."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's me." His left hand comes up as he scratches the back of his head. "A fan?" The grin he shoots her is mischievous and entirely too smug. He holds his hand out to her and she goes for it, recoils at the last minute.
"Of the genre. Don't flatter herself, okay?" One of his eyebrow shoots up and he hums in agreement and understanding, a throaty low note that screams his disbelief.
She bites her lower lip, drags her teeth across the abused flesh and he can't help but follow their path, hypnotized by the effortless sensuality of the gesture.
Oh. This is bad.
She's a homicide detective, he learns the week after, and he's intrigued by Katherine Beckett with the soulful eyes. She laughs at the spark that animates his blue eyes when she tells him, amusement that becomes annoyance when he starts shooting her a thousand questions at a time.
"But Kate," he protests slightly, the vowels of her name stretched out in a whine. "I'm a mystery novelist. It's research."
She scoffs and ignores him in favor of her latest book. He closes his laptop screen, props her elbows on the utilitarian table, hand on either side of his cheeks, staring intently at the woman, eagerness radiating off him.
"Fine," she gives in. "But, the staring? Still creepy, Castle."
"Castle?"
"Force of habit. You don't mind, do you?"
"Are you kidding, it's so cool!"
He bounces a little on his seat and pleads for stories, the juicy kind, and she relents. She's amid the retelling of the vampire case her team had caught a year earlier when a look passes over his face. He opens the laptop with one hand, blindly reaching for his notebook he'd flung unceremoniously on the table earlier. Beckett arches an eyebrow when he finds it, hurriedly producing a pen out of his pocket and frantically starting scribbling on it while his other hand draws up an empty word document on his computer.
It feels like air in his lung, writing again, a breath of vital oxygen for a drowning sailor.
It feels like he's living again.
Most weeks, they sit in silence.
And he writes. He writes more than he's written in months. His fingers fly across the keyboard, stuttering with the flow of words that cascades through his mind.
It's all her, the slash of her cheekbones, the sharpness of her mind, the depths of her intelligence. The hidden universe that floats behind her eyes, the stories it whispers to him, the very same stories he itches to immortalize on paper.
Nikki Heat, he calls her, the her-not-really-her. But it is her.
It's her melodious voice he hears when he imagines Nikki, the teasing lilt to her tone whenever she tells him to stop staring, her hair, the luscious brown locks she hides behind whenever he tells her she's cute when she reads, her lips quivering with the beginning of beautiful smile she's trying to restrain.
He doesn't know how to tell Kate.
So, he writes and she reads and in the silence their friendship blossoms, quieting the weary feelings assailing him, permanently settling at the pit of his stomach.
He writes and she reads and he hopes she can forgive him.
He opens the imposing doors of the library, the gesture a familiar one now, iced coffee in hand easing the stifling heat of a New York summer. He's excited. His daughter is finally back after almost two months away, he gets to see Kate and the day is bright. But, something constricts in his chest when he doesn't spot the young detective and he hurries to their usual spot, inspecting every nearby row of shelves.
She's not there.
The usual librarian passes by, the one that spent the summer shooting him dirty looks whenever his conversations with Beckett got too loud, and he lightly taps her on the shoulder.
"The young woman I'm usually with, did she come in today?" he asks, the easy charming grin he dazzles his fans with naturally stretching his lips.
The woman hesitates, watches him carefully, wearily before answering.
"Mr. Castle. There's never any woman sitting beside you here."
"No there was. I swear there was. She…" he trails off, his voice strangely high pitched, breathy. He hears himself faintly, an out-of-body experience. "You're sure? Tall, brunette, constantly devouring bricks of Russian Lit?" he insists.
"Mr. Castle… I'm sorry. But I'm sure."
Impossible. It's impossible.
He's not crazy, he knows he's not. She's real. He's sure of it. How could he have imagined her, the sweetness of her smile, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the beauty in her intelligence?
"And you are absolutely sure?" he tries again in a vain attempt.
"Mr. Castle!"
He offers the poor librarian an apologetic smile, but his mind is reeling and he staggers out of the New York public library, manages to hail a cab in a daze.
Twenty minutes later, he's standing in front of his building, having no recollection of the ride other than the mantra that loops around in his head.
She's real.
Eduardo politely greets him as jams repeatedly the call button for his elevator, animated by and odd kind of frenzy.
She's real.
The elevator makes a shrill sound as the doors open.
She's real.
His fingers are like lead around his door key, fumbling just to get them inside the lock.
She's real.
The computer is slow, maddeningly so, the cursor mocking him. He flings his jacket somewhere, grunting in victory when the google web search page finally loads.
She's real.
He types her name, and it's there, her face, donning the NYPD hat. His blood chills in his veins when he reads the title of the article, rereads it twice just to make sure.
NYPD detective, Katherine Beckett, shot at the late Captain's funeral, still in a coma.
I started writing this in the beginning of October and realized, midway through my writing, that Ghost!Character seemed to be a popular theme this year.
Oh well, hoped you enjoyed! Tell me if you eventually want a sequel and make sure to review!
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