Standard disclaimer.

Just an AU idea that came to me. Hope you like it.

A Castle by Any Other Profession.

2004

How long had it been? Katherine Beckett trailed her still chilled fingers lazily up and down the length of the polished wood arm rest, willing the rhythm to sublimate down to her tight nerves.

Four months?

She let her eyes rest on the dropped curtain on the stage, unfocused as her mind wandered, backtracking until she could see the moment perfectly. The last time she had been here, she had been in a skirt. The light cotton had threatened to catch on every chair arm she passed when she navigated the cramped aisles, so it must have been summer. If she narrowed her eyes, she could still remember the scent of old sweat and fresh cologne on the elderly gentleman who sat next to her that night. He had been alone too.

Summer, so six months?

It had been a last minute decision to come out tonight. She didn't check to see what was playing or even if there were any good tickets available. She had been offered a programme at the door but declined. There was never enough time or light to read the small print dedicated to the actors, production, set, story and history; glossy pages she used to collect and read closely at home after good performances.

She blinked and the details of the curtain she had ignored in favour of memories became clear to her again. The rich maroon velvet was starting to fade in places, the stage lights bleaching out some of the pigment. The heavy bottom was coated with dust where it swept across the battered black stage.

The homeliness didn't detract from the thrill of anticipation she could feel running relays along her nerves. She checked the face of her watch then for something to do she scanned the theatre again, noting the areas that had fleshed out a little since last she looked.

The seat next to her was as yet, unoccupied, but further down the aisle she could see friends bent and scanning their copy of the programme. In their fifties, Kate hazarded, they were dressed immaculately with understated jewellery which trembled under the overheads and they were bronzed with an unmistakable sheen of excitement having left their husbands alone for the night for this long awaited girls' night out. Or so she supposed. Kate couldn't make out the thread of their conversation over the muted droning of her fellow patrons- the room was almost full now, but she caught the word 'Rogers' and felt the relay runners under her skin give a little kick and run faster.

It had been a long time, but then there hadn't been a mention of Rodgers on the Broadway playbills, posters or sprawling bus ads for a long time. Rodgers had taken a long term hiatus, venturing only occasionally into off-Broadway.

It seemed tonight would be a reunion of sorts; Kate Beckett seeing Martha Rodgers take on the lights of Broadway again.

Kate's gaze shifted from the trio of whispering women to the heavy curtain almost as if she could see through it to the red headed woman she now knew to be somewhere behind the set, ensconced away in the maze of corridors and small rooms getting her makeup perfected, or perhaps reading over her lines one last time.

Before she could muse too much on the possible location of the actress, her neighbour for the evening arrived; a portly sort of man in his sixties, wrapped up to his eyebrows in thick winter gear. She stood to let him past her, their stomachs meeting even when she crowded as far back as she could, the back of her thighs imprinting uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. The fabric of his coat still held onto the chill New York streets despite the warmth of the theatre- she could feel it seep through the single layer she had allowed herself.

The man smiled, or at least Kate suspected he did- the corners of his eyes scrunched up even though his mouth was still hidden behind the confines of his muffler. It was only when he stopped in front of his own seat did she see his companion, a beautifully coifed doll of a woman easily only half the size of her husband. She slipped past to take the seat on Kate's immediate left, her lips quirking up gracefully in thanks and Kate returned it, an offering now they had been designated to share the next few hours together. Chanel began to waft into the air, already a vast improvement over her summer experience.

Watching the way she assisted him in removing his layers passed the time until the lights overhead dimmed further and Kate retrained her full attention on the stage. Already she felt herself shifting forward in her seat, waiting to be sucked in. Wanting to be absorbed.

She wasn't the premiere role and she did flutter her hands in agitation, but regardless of the role, Martha Rodgers hadn't changed. Kate had read an interview once and after reading the quotes offered had figured the actress to be a very jovial character in her own life. The article captured something boisterous and seductively charming, not to mention uncommonly giving in her answers. Kate remembered feeling that she would have loved to take the woman out for coffee, just to let her talk.

Cast here as a meek widow, Kate was sure she had never seen such a downtrodden character with a well of pep and fire. Those new to the Rodger's style might have thought it was a sign of the revival of her character; that the well would be called upon and there would be triumph, but Kate knew well enough that this was just the light Martha Rodgers lent all her parts. She didn't let her characters go down without a fight though often the roles she played went down in the end.

A fighter, not a prophet. That's what the article had labelled her. She didn't promise happy endings and magical solutions, she just made sure that when she was on stage her characters lived.

Kate spent over half an hour watching her fend off the advances of her friend's disgraced husband, believed dead in the war but instead living with his mistress in the City, trying to convince him to go home. More than a little mad with grief over the loss of her own husband in the War, she delivers an ultimatum and is cut down; the killer unaware she had consulted with her son, a P.I in the City.

Though her demise was expected, it hurt. Grateful for the opportunity to regain some control over the options the murder had provoked, Kate watched the curtains fall with mixed feelings, knowing what would open the next act. A phone call? Maybe a personal visit? Maybe this wasn't the escapism she had thought it would be.

Kate could list all the stages of grieving. She could list the ways people coped or failed to accept the violent passing of a loved one. Anger, shock, denial. In her year as a uniform with the NYPD 12th Precinct Homicide Division she had seen more people broken by loss than most and she didn't think it would ever get easier. Grief was not something one could ever witness cavalierly. As Detective she was going to have to be the one to tell them. Even if she could bring them closure, her face would be bitter sweet at best; the one who broke their world but tried to patch it as best she could.

Martha's fictional son chose anger.

The act opened with an almost offensively loud shatter of pottery as her son tossed his coffee cup. The language as he demanded answers from the detectives working the case was grossly outdated, even for a period piece and the essence of said detectives showed heavy signs of artistic license; unsympathetic and inefficient, they barely registered except to more firmly entrench this P.I in his own personal vendetta for answers.

But where the detectives were insignificant as to be invisible, the P.I was consuming. His grief and denial sat heavily in the back of her throat, making each breath a conscious act of control. Without even seeing his face she could feel the contorting despair and anger. In curious style he didn't dedicate his attention or performance to the audience or to his fellow actors, but claimed his space and used it freely, naturally. He never faced the audience directly, but never ignored them either because they didn't seem to exist to him; caught up in his story. He looked where he wanted, he faced who he wanted to. For a moment she was relieved she never saw the full force of it all on his face.

He took to sleuthing, backtracking his mother's final months with a spectacular hit and miss, unrealistic style that would make Hammett proud. However unlike the refined hero Hammett favoured, this P.I slipped steadily down into the darkness of Noir. Fatigue started to erode him, his shoulders rounding, his movements growing heavier and in a sight that burnt the back of her throat and tongue bitterly, the stereotypical metal flask was no longer concealed in his fedora or in an office desk drawer, but tucked into the back of his waist band for easy access. He was a man drowning.

Much like someone watching a train wreck or a building fall in on itself, she couldn't force her eyes away from him, staring long past the point where her eyes began to burn from looking into the bright lights. She forgot she was a homicide uniform. She forgot how to think how poorly the murder remained unsolved, the evidence and anonymous tips impossible in reality. She forgot that the knots being tied and pulled inside her were the shadows she never left behind, ghosts of the wreck of her life and her father's. This actor was dancing along her nerves like a ballroom king, manipulating her like puppeteer.

Who was he?

..

It was in the intermission when she had wandered out to the lobby, more to work out the residual tension than to stretch her legs, when the conversation around her answers her question. Trained to listen in on conversations coupled with a natural gift for curiosity might have made her a great writer; she might have even headed that way after finishing lit at college. She wanted the stories, who what when where why. As it was, she couldn't stop the flow of words around her, registering with distinct clarity.

Fundraisers. Business deals. Book clubs and dinners. The play so far and the debut.

The first time Martha Rodgers co-stared with her son.

Kate blinked when she overheard it, her eyes drawn to the promotional posters breaking the interior walls with tasteful regularity. She only sees 'Rodgers' written once and in smaller print at that. She didn't know Martha had a son.

The group just behind her shoulder however were invaluable gossips.

Richard Castle. Recently returning to Broadway and theatre after years in L.A.

He did some theatre work out there, even landed some roles in independent films. The voice was male, sounded self-important and middle aged.

Kate absently thought that would account for the way…Castle?... used the stage, a combination of film and theatre acting.

He was an excellent actor. Female. Older. Restrained gushing.

Kate had to agree.

Apparently so did one of the gentlemen in the circle, even informing his associates of a rumour that Castle had been teaching part time at a very reputable acting school.

None of them could tell her why he came back to New York.

..