To The Real Nikki Heat, With Gratitude
Disclaimer: I owe nothing and no one.
Rating: K+
Summary: She likes to think that eventually, even without Richard Castle, she would have come to the same conclusions. That it was a natural evolution from who she used to be, to who she became. But she doesn't like to think about how much harder it would have been or entertain the notion that it might not have been that way at all. That she might have chosen a different route had his words not been in her life.
AN: Just a little oneshot. Enjoy. Feedback is welcome.
The book in and of itself should be enough. But it's not what she remembers. The story between the pages gets lost sometimes. What she remembers are the words most skip. The words that mean so little to everyone else. The words only a select few understand.
The part of the book only a few lines long. Simple words strung together as a thank you of sorts.
Extraordinary.
It makes her smile.
The real Nikki Heat.
She wonders why the real Jamison Rook keeps dedicating his books to her.
And why she thinks the second dedication reads more like an apology.
With gratitude.
Or a farewell.
A final say.
Sometimes she wonders if he ever would have called her had she not bumped into him again, or if she would have picked up his book one day and read his last words to her.
Thanks for everything, have a nice life.
Maybe that's why she wants to think what he means is: Thanks for putting up with me. I'm sorry I left.
She knows it isn't. Knows that she can't put any more meaning behind those words than are on the paper. But sometimes she pulls her copy of Naked Heat out and runs her fingers over them. Trying to decipher exactly what he meant by them.
To the real Nikki Heat, with gratitude.
They aren't as comforting as his first dedication and in a way not as personal. Everyone knows she is his Nikki Heat. Not many knew the extraordinary KB. There was mystery in those two letters. Mystery and deniability.
Maybe it's only because when she thinks about that book, she thinks about that time in their friendship when he left her. When she...missed him.
So she can't help but wonder what he meant, if he meant anything, by it.
She wants it to mean: Thanks for taking me back. But she hadn't taken him back yet, not when the books went to print. She wants it to mean he thinks of her as his. The real Nikki Heat. His creation versus her being. Like he is putting his name on her as well.
Ten years ago he saved her life. She was lost. Had lost everything she loved, her mother to an unknown assailant and her father to booze. His books let her escape her everyday life. Gave her something to look forward to. Days to count down till the next release. Minutes left until she could curl up and forget it all with him.
They fostered the idea that she could do that. Could solve crimes. Her mother's murder. Why didn't she? Why didn't see take control of her sinking life and be the hero of it? Why didn't she make it so no one else had to feel that pain?
Then they forced her to look for other clues. Things she might have missed. They made her think outside of the box, which in turn made her a good detective.
She likes to think that eventually, even without Richard Castle, she would have come to the same conclusions. That it was a natural evolution from who she used to be, to who she became. But she doesn't like to think about how much harder it would have been or entertain the notion that it might not have been that way at all. That she might have chosen a different route had his words not been in her life.
Because even now when she is upset she finds herself curled up with him. The only difference is that now sometimes she picks the person over the page. He's still forcing her to think outside the box. He's still making her forget the pain. And he's still giving her reasons to believe.
So when he dedicated that first book to her... Well... She gave him part of herself too. Or maybe just acknowledged what he had already taken. Maybe he had taken it the first time he keyed Nikki Heat's name on his computer. When he had captured so much of her in a character for his book.
True there were things about them that were different. She was his creature not a real person. But sometimes when she reads his words she wonders just how he had managed to capture her heart and soul and put it on paper. What had given her away?
She wonders too if Nikki Heat is his fantasy woman. In soft quiet moments, when her arms and heart seem empty, she wonders if the real Nikki Heat could ever compete or if he thinks she is better than fiction. If he sees himself as a Jamison Rook, or if Rook is just a character he has created to balance her out.
Sometimes she feels like she is living a secret life with him, trapped between the pages, bound within its covers. Like the life she chose and the life she wants live in perfect harmony. She has it all, in fact and in fiction. But some of the time...
Some of the time it just makes her long for fiction to become fact. His portrayal of himself is lacking, the man on the page not as honest as the man who sits at her desk. Only a mere shadow of the author, and not good enough to satisfy anything but the fictional version.
Sometimes she wants to read more into his spoken words, see some of his written. She wonders when that changed. When his words became more than words. Became living things that littered the air and choked her up over stupid silly things.
When they meant more than words. Emotion unable to be contained by a simple stringing together of letters. Feelings untamed by any alphabet.
And yet she wonders when his written word lost some of its magic as well. No longer able to reach all those dark corners his voice can. When her desire to pick up his book, first became her desire to pick up her phone. When the thought of curling up for a soak in the tub with his new novel, first became the thought of curling up for a soak in the tub in his arms.
That last still startles her sometimes. It's so new and mind boggling in its absurdity. That she could ever think of him in that manner, the man who...
He changed her life before they had even met. Was insistently pushing his way into her thoughts before she had ever heard his voice. Sometimes she wonders despite herself, just who she would be without him. The feeling though persistent and annoying as he could be, is also mildly comforting and reassuring. The inevitability of it, like fate had a hand in them, even if it terrifies her at the same time.
Ridiculous, and not something she would ordinarily entertain, but as she runs her fingers across his words and ponder their meaning, she also has to wonder how much of her is his already. Without her knowledge or consent, how much has she given to him? It's a dangerous spiral she hates going down, but it's always in the back of her mind.
Sometimes she wishes he wouldn't do things like that. Wouldn't put a claim on her in his writing. Wouldn't spell out their special bond in words that so inadequately hide their meaning, or perhaps too adequately hide them. Other times she feels like it doesn't matter, like he has nothing to claim, like she isn't his creation at all. His words are simply words, nothing more.
She is the one who puts meaning behind them. She is the one that makes them come alive and dance off the pages and into her life. She is the one who gives him permission to take little pieces of her and put them down where everyone can see them. He has nothing she hasn't given him.
Perhaps that is what terrifies her the most. That she has given herself to him in ways she has never done before. With any man. And yet he still stands far off, unobtainable, even if she doesn't really want to obtain him. That they are still separated by fact and fiction. By words and actions. By thoughts and feelings and everything else.
He confuses her. Makes her unable to tell up from down. Who she is from who she isn't. Strips her of control and reason, but leaves her clothed and alone at the end of the day. Emotionally bare, but physically empty. What he does is much worse. His words are more intimate than his actions, like kisses along her neck. Black and white letters that whisper their sweet nothings across her skin.
She should hate him for it. But she doesn't. Instead she wants more clarity. Wants him to tell her what he means with his dedications and stories. Does he want her like Rook wants Heat? Like book wants pen? Like day wants night and light wants dark? Or is she just research, a clever little puzzle to solve? A Rubik's cube of emotions and contradictions to twist and turn into place.
All she really knows, is that she doesn't know. That at the end of the day, she can't really define what they are to each other. She can no longer tell where those lines are drawn, or what is his and what is hers.
She started dating Josh to try and get some of herself back. She started dating him to try and give some of herself to another man. Hoping he would claim those pieces that Castle hoarded so jealously. It worked, for the most part. Some of the time?
She's a different woman with Josh, a little more reckless, a little less by the book. The woman she has always wanted to be with Castle, but knows it isn't safe to be. The woman who is free to love without boundaries. Passionate. All in.
But all it feels like is trying too hard to be someone else. To make it work. To forget what didn't. Josh is work, it doesn't come effortless like her connection to Castle does. And she doesn't define herself with parts of Josh. Most often, Josh is forgotten when he isn't in the room. When she first met him, he was the answer to an unvoiced prayer. Now, even the sex sometimes isn't enough to block out the questions.
Ever since Rick Castle walked back into her life...
It takes unbelievable effort and control. Like he knows all about Josh. All about how she tries so hard to make herself feel more, be more. Create a new character that he has no say in. No effort in making. But even that is a lie. If she changes again, to forget him, to spite him, to be without him, it's the same as before. He still has a hand in making her who she is. He still owns part of her.
Sometimes it feels like his name is tattooed on her very soul, and she is just spinning her wheels by trying to run from it. Property of Rick Castle. Like he is simply amusing her by waiting to claim her. Letting her exhaust herself so that he can swoop in and take her more easily. That thought always sends a thrill down her spine. The idea that he could, no other man has had that power over her.
She can deny it all she wants. But she knows better.
If he wanted her, she would be as defenseless as Nikki Heat to Jamison Rook. She would fall just as quickly, be just as giving. Forget herself in a moment of passion and become entirely his creation. She has always been his groupie, now she is his slave as well. Forever bound to him in life as in print.
Which is why she never tips her hat. It's why she doesn't ask him what he means by his words, or if he thinks of her as his Nikki. Because he can never know just how much she is already his. His real Nikki Heat.
It doesn't bother her like it should. She smiles and sets his book down.
With gratitude.