So, I want to be sorry for this, but I just, I'm not. But sorry anyway.
Richard Castle is not a happy person right now, at all.
He swears on all that is good and holy in this world, that if Gina sends him another text message, email, photograph, or letter by pigeon carrier requesting, or demanding, rather, the completion of the chapter of his book, he will just have to resort to drastic measures in dealing with her.
Changing his name and moving to the south of France doesn't sound so bad.
He's trying to decide what his awesome, totally cool new name would be – his would have to be better then his mother's and daughter's, of course – when he walks into the coffee shop that he frequents when he just can't get the last five or so pages out.
Castle is just so wrapped up in his future French wife that he walks right into the customer leaving the coffee shop, spilling her hot coffee equally between them, and eliciting a not-so-happy noise from his newfound friend.
Okay, so maybe she won't be his friend after this, if the look in her eyes is any indication.
"I am so sorry," he manages to get out, words tied up around his tongue because she just looks so damn angry.
"I just – you know – ugh," she sighs, swatting at her chest with her hands uselessly.
Then she looks up at him, and she looks so tired and sad and just, she looks awful, to be honest, that he immediately feels one hundred times worse for spilling he coffee.
"It's okay," she says finally, a faint ghost of a smile pulling at one corner of her mouth.
It's almost invisible, but not to him. He sees it, knows it's there.
"No, it's not okay," he responds, placing his hand on her elbow and almost dragging her back to the center of the shop, motioning to a table.
He has to admit: he's surprised when she sits willingly.
Castle walks to the counter, orders his usual and asks the barista to make whatever she made for the lady who he knows she witnessed him walking right into. The barista smiles at him and tells him it's no problem, to have a seat and she'll bring the coffees to them.
When he sits at the table across from her, she gives him another really tiny smile and pushes her hair behind her ear. He has to wonder if she does this all the time.
"I hope I'm not stopping you from getting anywhere important," he starts.
"Just work, but I have a few minutes."
"What about your blouse? It's completely ruined," he says as he digs in his pocket for his wallet, "at least let me give you something for the dry cleaning."
"No, no," she responds quickly, shaking her head, "it's an old blouse, and besides, it can just be tossed in the dryer, don't worry. Plus, I have a spare in my locker at work."
"You get a locker where you work, huh?"
She laughs at him when he wiggles his eyebrows at her.
"Kind of like when you moved up from elementary school to middle school and finally had a locker?"
Her answer is on the tip of her tongue when the barista shows up with their coffees. Castle gives her a smile and a tip. When he looks back at his new friend – he thinks it's safe to call her a friend now – she's beginning to stand up.
"Is this the part where you leave me without telling me your name?"
"This is, in fact, that part," she responds.
"Look, I'm sorry if I made your day completely awful by getting you with hot coffee at eight in the morning."
"Nope, it's not you," she says, her eyes visibly falling, the lines on her face softening.
"Rough week?"
She sighs, sits back down. He has to suppress a smile.
"You could say that," she tells him, taking a deep breath. He can tell there's more, so he waits patiently.
"My boss died yesterday. His funeral is tomorrow morning."
"Yeah, I think that qualifies you for a bad week," he says, "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she responds, "he was a great man."
She stands again, half because she really, really has to go and half because the man in front of her makes her a bit nervous.
"Now you're leaving without telling me you're name?"
"Kate Beckett," she tells him, holding out her hand, "detective."
"I'm Rick Castle," he responds, "writer."
They shake hands quickly and she tells him thank you for the coffee and the listening ear, and he smiles and tells her she's welcome, anytime. She leaves with a last glance over her shoulder and Castle has to suppress the urge to go after her, tell her to skip work and come for a walk in the park with him and talk to him for hours.
There was just something about her and he has the sinking feeling he'll never be able to find out what it is.
When he wakes, he's smiling.
He hears his mother and daughter chatting away in the kitchen. He can smell fresh coffee and eggs and bacon. The sun is shining through his blinds and he can see that the sky a beautiful blue. He sits up, empowered by the glorious day that he sees ahead of him and he can't stop smiling.
When he gets out of bed, he tosses on a t-shirt and pulls on pair sweatpants to join his family for breakfast on this beautiful morning. He practically floats to the kitchen. There's just a good feeling about today.
"Good morning, darling," his mother smiles at him from the dining room table, "breakfast is on the counter. The morning paper is there, too."
He goes to the table and presses a kiss to each to the foreheads of each of his favorite ladies before making his way to the kitchen. He makes himself a plate, grabs the paper and takes a seat at the table.
The chatter is aimless, really. Who has what planned for the day and all that. He listens to his mother and Alexis talk about their shopping plans and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he'll get a bit of writing done today and finally get Gina off his back.
Castle continues listening as he picks up the paper and unfolds it, exposing the front-page headline and suddenly, today is now a bad day and he can't believe what he's reading. Later, he would swear that the breath had been taken from his lungs, because he knows the woman on the page.
Wearing her dress blues, with the sad eyes and the pretty smile is the woman from the coffee shop. Kate.
Kate Beckett. Yes, that was her name.
NYPD Detective Slain at Captain's Funeral
He met Kate Beckett two days ago - forty eight hours ago - and now, she was dead.
The article went on to say how she'd been killed with a sniper bullet that grazed her heart. She was pronounced dead at the hospital. The newspaper urged anyone with information on possible suspects to contact the NYPD.
There had just been something about her at that coffee shop, something akin to a magnet that just made him want to go after her in the best way possible, follow her around and annoy her incessantly.
And today, she wasn't there anymore. She wasn't alive anymore.
He would never be able to find out what that something was about her.
He would never find out what made her eyes so sad.