An AU story: what if they were all classical musicians?
IMBROGLIO
She was half-asleep on her couch, book sliding down her lap, when her phone rang. It was Roy, calling from the music school. "Kate? We got a last-minute call for a sub. You know the Lalo Symphonie Espagnole, right?"
"The first movement? I could play it in my sleep."
"One of the high schoolers from the academy is playing in the city competition tomorrow and I guess her accompanist flaked out an hour ago. She's in a panic. The dad's offering double your usual fee, and if you're free, you two can practice tonight. You in?"
Well, tomorrow was supposed to be her day off. But one student? Manageable. "Sure. Where and when?"
"She said seven. I'll text you her address. Says she's got a piano at home."
She hung up, scrubbing a hand over her eyes, and set the book aside. No reading tonight, then.
Her dad's watch said 6:56 when she got to the address Roy had sent. The building was nice. Really, really nice. The doorman politely held the door, and the equally polite man at the front desk asked for her name and checked a list before pointing her towards the elevator with the apartment number. Okay then.
Finally certain she was at the right apartment, Kate raised her hand to knock. But before her hand hit the door, it swung open to reveal a man with blue eyes, brown hair and a ruggedly handsome face that had been in every issue of Opera News for the past year and a half. She froze, fist poised in mid-air.
"Kate Beckett? You're Kate Beckett? Hi." He gave her a firm handshake, flashing bright white teeth and sparkling eyes. "Richard Castle. Thank you so much for doing this last-minute. We were getting a little panicked."
Kate swallowed hard. Because he didn't seem to realize that she'd seen him before. She saw him as Figaro just three weeks ago. Even got his autograph. Stood outside the backstage door of the Met for an hour so he could sign her program. "Um, yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Castle."
"Please, call me Rick." He grinned, opened the door. "Piano's right through here."
The piano was inside the music room; it was a Steinway baby grand, bright and polished and littered with scores. Le nozze di Figaro. Il barbiere di siviglia. Billy Budd. Susannah. Even Wozzeck.
"Why don't you get yourself settled? Let me go get Alexis."
He handed her the Lalo score and disappeared up the stairs.
The music room was gorgeous – gleaming wood floors, a large desk, a comfortable chair. Warm golden lamplight. And the shelves. Oh, the shelves. Kate almost gasped. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled an entire wall, loaded with scores, books, CD's, records, and videos. Operas. Oratorios. Musical theater. Art songs. Concerts.
Kate set her bag down and pulled out her pencil, flipped open the Lalo on the music rack, but she kept eyeing his music. It was just sitting there, right on the piano, just inches away –
Oh, what could it hurt?
She bit her lip and snatched up the Rossini score from the piano, flipping it open, thumbing carefully through the pages until – there. Largo al factotum. Figaro's famous aria. It was riddled with pencil markings – translations, arrows, phonetic symbols for pronunciation. Even a sloppy scribble that looked like fuck all next to the last high G. She chuckled.
"Ah, digging in my opera stash, are we?"
Kate gasped, her head snapping up. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded. He was grinning.
Her face got hot, and she set the music back guiltily. "Uh. Sorry. I was just – "
"No, no, it's okay. One of my favorite roles. I just finished a run of it over at the Met." He ran a hand through his hair. "Great production."
She nodded, trying not to look too excited. It really was a great production. And he – well. She didn't not enjoy his shirtless scenes.
A pretty red-haired girl hurried in, violin and bow in hand. "Hi! Are you Miss Beckett?"
"You can call me Kate. You're Alexis, right?"
"Yeah." The girl beamed, tightening the bow and fitting on her shoulder rest. "Thank you so much for doing this. Kyra was going to play, but she just called this afternoon. She sprained her wrist. So Dad said he'd find someone to replace her. He called the school and begged Mr. Montgomery."
"And he called me."
"Why don't I go make myself scarce so you two can practice," Rick offered. "I'll be in the living room if you need me, pumpkin."
He left and Alexis rolled her eyes. "Just so you know, he's sitting there listening to every note."
"Of course." Kate tried valiantly to ignore the tingle that slipped through her at the thought of Richard Castle listening to her play. Richard Castle. Wow. "Let's get you tuned and run through it, okay?"
She shouldn't have been surprised. Of course Richard Castle's daughter was talented. Alexis was good. She was really, genuinely good. She was also remarkably insecure.
The girl sighed, dropping her right arm to shake out her wrist. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I'm playing that muddy, and I swear I had it perfect just yesterday -"
"It sounds amazing, sweetheart." Kate turned around to find Rick leaning through the door, beaming proudly. "You're going to be great tomorrow."
"Dad, no, stop it. I'm not - " Alexis sighed as her dad came over, ruffled her hair.
"You're playing perfectly. Now stop fussing. You don't want to overstress." He kissed the top of her head. "You sound wonderful."
"Thanks."
"Good." He patted her shoulder affectionately. "Now run your trouble spots one last time and tell Kate thank you for being here."
After profuse thank-you's and a hug, Alexis bounded upstairs, her red hair swirling around her shoulders.
Kate quickly tucked her pencil and water bottle back into her bag. "She's good. Very talented."
"Yeah, she is." Rick was still watching the stairs, his face beaming with pride. Her heart pounded. He was a proud, proud father. It was - really sweet. "She's a hard worker."
She turned, looking for her jacket - where did she put it? - but instead of producing it, he set a hand on her arm. She had to stop herself from flinching. He smelled good. Really, really good. "You don't have to run out, do you? Why don't you stay for a bit, have a drink?"
She opened her mouth, fully intending to politely decline, but somehow he managed to relieve her of her bag and steer her neatly towards his kitchen, where he produced a bottle of red wine. "So, Kate Beckett. Tell me about you."
She felt a flush rising in her cheeks, because Richard Castle was chatting her up. In his home. How was this even happening? "Uh - what do you want to know?"
He shrugged. "Anything. Where you're from. Who you studied with." His eyes sparkled as he grinned. "Your favorite color. Whether or not you like walks on the beach."
Kate blushed hot behind her wineglass. He was flirting. Pretty brazenly. Most singers had big personalities - it took balls to stand alone on a stage and sing an aria - but she hadn't really thought he'd turn all that charm on her. "I did my BM at CCM and my MM at Indiana."
"Nice." He nods. "You're good."
"Thank you."
Kate took a long sip (and of course it was amazingly good wine), hoping the glass hid her flushed face.
"So, at the risk of being called Don Giovanni, any chance I can interest you in dinner sometime?"
Luckily she'd just swallowed a sip of wine; otherwise she might have choked. As it was, Kate froze, her whole body tensing. "I don't - think that would really be appropriate." Right. Inappropriate. He shouldn't be asking her to dinner. Or giving her wine. Or flirting with her. Or shooting her those smoldering little glances that kept making her look at his mouth. Stop it. No.
She managed to excuse herself and leave quickly. Castle was tremendously, maddeningly gracious, holding her coat for her to slip her arms into. His hand brushed her neck and she had to bite her lip.
"Good night, Mr. Castle."
He flashed her a dazzling smile. "It's been a pleasure, Kate. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."
Kate got home and settled back on her couch. Her book was still where she'd left it on her coffee table. She picked it up, her face flushing. Sex, Drugs and Opera: the Perfect Storm, by Richard Castle. His stories were scandalous - the backstage antics, the sexy times during sitzprobes, the cast parties, the champagne and glitz and high life. The book briefly dealt with his marriage to that flighty little soprano - he'd avoided her real name, but everyone in the business knew exactly when he'd turned little-known, largely incompetent soubrette Meredith Harper from his pregnant girlfriend into his wife, only to get divorced three years later when he walked in on her having sex with her voice coach.
Since then, Meredith had slid back into relative obscurity, while Rick's career had blossomed. Opera News had done a huge article on his rise to fame, detailing his childhood as the son of Broadway star Martha Rogers, his conservatory years, his stunning upset victory to win the Met's young artist award. He was known as "the bad boy of opera" for a reason, and he wore fewer shirts than almost any baritone in the business.
And half an hour ago, he asked her to dinner.
She set the book aside and curled up on her couch with a glass of red wine - which she couldn't help but notice wasn't as good as his - leftover mushu pork, and the DVD she'd picked up last week. Covent Garden's production of Don Giovanni. Starring Richard Castle. Of course.
She debated for a long moment, but - oh well. It's not like he'd ever know.
a/n: Will do my best to update in a reasonable time frame. As long as real life lets me.