A/N: Please note that this is a series of one shots.
Prosemeds+Swallowedminds = swallowedmeds :D
Eleven-thirty won't come fast enough.
Unable to engage in any other work besides waiting, she finds her eyes constantly seeking out the time.
She's sitting at her desk, far too idle for her liking, leg shaking up and down, eyes drilling a hole in the clock on her computer screen. Every once in awhile, she lets her eyes drift to the book stuffed in her purse next to her.
She's hungrier for words than for food, really, and lunch is the only real time during the day that she gets to sit down without worry or interruption, and immerse herself fully into the words — the tales of other lives. Most days, odds are, she catches a case or is overloaded with paperwork, leaving little time and energy to venture off in someone else's story.
Today is a rare light day and that freedom—temporary though it may be once Esposito books their suspect—begins at eleven-thirty.
A double homicide kept her team busy for a week, but they closed the case early this morning, and though an endless sea of paperwork awaits her, no one will notice if she doesn't start it until after lunch. It seems everyone, even the Captain, is planning to kick back this lunch break.
When the clock finally ticks to eleven-thirty her chest sinks in. Relief. She's free to leave. Eager hands hook the strap of her purse on her shoulder as she stands to push in the chair, striding toward the elevator in light steps. They carry her swiftly to the doors as they slide open, as if on the command of her presence.
Inside, she can't help but eye the book partially jutting out of her bag. The title Storm Fall is the only lettering exposed, but seeing the name proves to be enough. Enough to reel her back in. All the way.
It's actually wicked how engrossed Kate's become in this book. She's only bought it three days ago, and she hasn't been able to put it down unless by force of exhaustion. Their double pop-and-drop barely left her with the energy to walk up the stairs to her fourth floor walk up and crash into bed, let alone the ability to keep her eyes open to read, even a book as enthralling as Richard Castle's.
Richard Castle. Damn, Richard Castle. What a fantastic writer. His words flow through her, swirl around in her mind. They're stunning. She recalls them like a conversation; a one-sided exchange with an old friend...like he's resting there next to her as he tells the story.
Her head lowers and shakes at the sudden goosebumps over her skin. Juvenile.
The walk over to the coffee shop is shorter than usual, probably due to the excitement buzzing under her skin.
She can smell the fresh coffee grounds tangled in the downwind of the city air, already desperate for it several feet before she walks in. The aroma floods her nostrils, breathing it in as her mouth salivates for the usual vanilla latte, or anything resembling a decent cup. She hasn't had one since six this morning when she got out of bed.
The promise of good, real coffee motivates Kate to hasten her steps as she makes her way along the crosswalk, the books in its silky, paperback cover calling to her with each step.
It's so good. That good.
Castle's easily her favorite writer. Ever since her mom first convinced her to check out In The Hail Of Bullets before she died, Kate hasn't been able to stop reading his work. He's addictive. Well, his words. Somehow, they remedy the sense of loss or loneliness in her heart whenever she misses her mother more than usual. Or when her dad is back in a dark, dark place — unable to be reached.
The worlds he creates help her escape from this harsh reality she's grown so weary of.
But as much as she loves his work, Kate likes to wait for the paperback books to be released. She likes to save her Castle books for the finer reading life: curled up in bed after a long day, or even in a hot bath with a tall glass of wine. Hard covers are more difficult to carry around.
As the door chimes signaling her arrival, her favorite barista, Michelle, greets her with a sweet smile.
"Morning," Kate says, walking up to the counter. "How are you? How's Kirk?"
Michelle sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly at the name. "Being a jerk."
"So the usual, huh?" Kate says, cocking half a grin to coax one from the barista. "Well, tell him to straighten himself out or he'll have me to deal with."
Michelle giggles and winks, a blush glowing on her cheeks. "You've always got my back."
"And don't ever forget it."
"You go sit down, and I'll bring you your usual. On the house."
"No come on, you don't need to—"
"You deserve it, Kate. You've got a hard job. Let me get this one."
"That's sweet. Thank you. Really, you're the best."
When she turns towards the tables she finds her favorite one by the window unoccupied. Flopping down in the chair, she sets her purse down on the table, and the long strap pools in a circle as she focuses on the book in her hand.
She can't even pretend she isn't excited to finally, finally know who's framed Storm, and she clutches the book to her chest a second and closes her eyes. This is it. The end of the Derrick Storm series...well, what she speculates.
Rumors have been swirling for months that Richard Castle is bored of Storm, and has failed to provide any assurance that something else is in the works. If this is the last installment, she wants to savor it. Every word. Every delicate stroke of ink across these cream pages.
But when she opens her eyes again, the smile flattens on her face, because the man sitting at the table next to her is staring at her, wide eyed and…judgmental.
He flicks his sight to the floor when she catches him, turning his eyes back to his laptop. Kate shakes his rudeness off, determined instead to finish the book and not let anything distract her.
Thumbing the pages for the corner she'd dog-eared, her nail cuts in to find the marked page; she's consumed by the fourth sentence, immersed in this thrill that she swallows up so eagerly.
It's like getting socked in the stomach.
No. That's not right.
It's like being tempted with your favorite ice cream.
No. Not that either.
It's like going downhill on a rollercoaster.
Damn it, he can't even write in his head.
Point is...she's beautiful. Striking in a sinful way. And it's overwhelming. She is.
A smile had flirted her lips, and she had a powerful strut to her steps that drew his eye. Time, it seemed, slowed enough for him to admire her — her hair in the wind, her graceful walk. He hadn't expected her to come in, but he'd hoped for it. And when she sashayed through the door, he was even more awestruck by her beauty than before.
High cheek bones, pink lips, strong, piercing eyes, and long wavy brown locks that bounce with every step she takes. Everything about her is flawless, graceful.
Oh, but now she's talking to his favorite barista, and although he can't hear what she's saying, her body speaks a sexier language. She's fierce here, stronger, independent. Probably can talk her way out of anything.
But it's when she sits down at the table next to him that he gets to really see her. Delicate. There's a greater story in her than in everything he's ever written, combined. She embodies every quality he's longed to write. This woman is what writers dream of creating. She's the living testament to the power of mystery, altering his understanding of it, deepening his love for it, but she has no clue.
And then he sees her holding his book.
It's the last thing he expected, really. For a woman like this to pull out his book and hold it the way she is, like it's vital to her life. Like it's her only companion.
His lungs don't know what to do now, how to expand.
They're punching at his ribcage, begging him to just breathe. The world is stopping, slowing for the sight before him.
He can't stop staring, because her fingers curl around both edges as she presses it for dear life against her chest, like it's the air she needs and oh god, what is happening?
Never in all his time as a famous writer, meeting fan after fan, has he met one with this much love for his work.
It makes him want to go talk to her and try to—
Shit, she's caught him.
This has taken his day for quite a turn; he's only here to get some writing done at his publisher's behest. He may be a little behind on the first draft of his next book and maybe he hasn't started yet.
But how can he concentrate now with this gorgeous woman reading his book next to him and seemingly doesn't know who he is? That he is him.
Alexis is going to have a field day with this.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Oh the awkwardness underlining her words is so poorly concealed, he has to wonder if she even tried.
He likes her a little more for it, though.
Castle clears his throat and unbuttons the top button on his shirt, finds it to be too constraining given the circumstances.
"Umm, no, no. I was just uhh, just checking out your-your book."
Smooth, Rick. Real smooth.
Her face lights up at that, eagerness spilling through the cracks of awkwardness. He takes a swig at his coffee to settle himself.
"You like Richard Castle?"
He nods, pretends to mull it over. "Sometimes. I'm not a huge fan of his earlier work."
She continues her streak of surprising him when her jaw drops, void of sound, on the floor with a wild look of bewilderment on her face.
"What? How do you not like them? He was just starting out and his emotions were still so raw and — what?"
"Hey now," he laughs, "I didn't say I didn't like them, I just mean I think he's more accomplished now. Don't you think?"
She shrugs. "Sure, I guess so. But all of his work, I mean, it's fantastic. There's always somethin' he does to hook you."
"Really? What hooks you in this one? He has so many books it's hard to keep up." It's not a complete lie. He doesn't remember most of the little details in the books he writes, and the more he writes, the more characters, plots, events start to mush together.
"Are you kidding me? Every word is a hook. Especially the part where Clara calls him right before the police get to the apartment."
"Wait! Clara calls him?" He does his best to manufacture shock, but his gaping mouth curves wide, the corners of his lips upturned.
Her hand flies to her mouth, a deep blush forming on her cheeks, spreading to her ears. "I'm so sorry." But then she's laughing, eyes snapping shut, and head bowed down.
"Spoiler. Alert."
"Oh, so sorry, I'll be quiet about it." Castle closes his laptop and shakes his head. The woman across from him dog-ears the page she's on and closes her—his?—book and faces him.
"This is the last Storm book. How far have you gotten? I'm reading every moment I have available."
"I guess I just don't have the time to read as often as I'd like."
"Definitely make time. Castle's books are…" she sighs, her grin infectious in its admiration. "He just…," she bows her head again, fiddles with a chain that's around her neck.
"What?" he asks, head tilting as he notes her forlorn affection for the ring between her fingertips.
"I just love his work," she says after a swallow, managing a faint smile when her gaze returns to his.
Castle blushes, tries not to let anything on, but after seeing what just talking about his books does to her he wants to tell her the truth. But he's come too far to go back now.
He gestures to the empty chair at her table and she nods, excitement in sharing this commonality that's so precious to her.
"So what's your favorite of his?" he asks as he pulls out the chair, gently sits his laptop and coffee cup down on the table.
"Heh. What's yours? I feel like you might hate me if I tell you it's one of the earlier novels."
She's laughing at him, which Castle takes as a good sign. "I'm partial to the first Storm book. Doesn't get any better than that."
Honestly, it doesn't. Storm is his first character. Sure, he's written others before him, but Castle has invested his soul into Storm.
It's a shame the journey has come to such a brutal end.
Oh god, he hates the thought of crushing her like that.
"In A Hail of Bullets," she answers, interrupting his thoughts as he nearly spits out the last sips of his coffee. "I got it as a gift. And it's resonated with me since the first time I read it."
"His first novel? That? That's your favorite one?" Castle can hardly call that his best work. He was so desperate to get signed then that to him the whole thing reads a little sloppily. But seeing the pure awe on her face makes his knees weak. Sure, he's met dedicated fans before, but even they were interested in him, but this woman—she's real. Everything she feels towards him is because of the books, hell, she doesn't even know what he looks like.
This is a true honor. To meet his number one fan.
"Like I said before, he was raw back then, and in the best kind of way. And there's this line, every time I read it, it just...it grounds me in some way."
He searches through, sifts and rummages forgotten words left to those pages long ago, but he can't remember.
Unless, she's talking about the only thing he can remember.
"What's the line?" he asks, leaning in, arms folded atop the table to support him as he waits.
She shakes her head. "You probably won't appreciate it as much as I do."
"Try me," he says, every line in his face curving in amusement as she purses her lips in return.
"Well, there's this scene. The lead detective, Wilson, he's sitting down with the victim's daughter. Her name's Emma. They've already caught the guy, but she's sobbing, weeping, can barely get a breath in. But Wilson he's kind, he sits and waits with her, tries to listen. He lets her vent before he starts talking and he says, 'Emma, you got a shitty road ahead. I won't lie to you. I'm not stickin' around here to tell you everything is okay. Life is never okay.'"
The inflection she adds imitating the character yanks at something inside him. Not pain, he's sure. But he knows, knows the next lines, enough to know her a little more.
The way she recites the words put him right back in that moment of time. When he was at The Old Haunt, an empty beer bottle sitting next to him and Eddie playing his favorite tunes. In that moment of bliss, he knew that no matter what, no matter how many more rejection letters, he would get the book out somehow, for that someone who needed the words she utters so eloquently now.
And he can't believe it's her.
"'Life'll tear you in and out of happiness and grief, giving you things and taking others away. That does not mean you fear it. That does not mean you stop livin' because you're wounded. You keep goin, no matter what.'"
Part of him wants to clap for the performance, but her irises glisten, and it tips him off that this may be more serious than she'll reveal.
He's always been a patient man though.
"Well, uh," he swallows, catches her eyes once more. "You were right...I don't appreciate it as much as you obviously do."
Her lips grin thinly, but the sparkle in her eyes never dies. "I figured."
"I believe that, though," he admits, gauging her reaction as she continues. "You can't let anything stop you from living your life. No matter how bleak the road looks."
"What's your name?" she says fast. He stiffens a bit, but still trying to keep composure. Finding out who he is now won't do either of them any good.
"You can call me Rick," he says in caution, averting his eyes towards the window hoping he hasn't drawn suspicion.
"Okay Rick — you ever have a tragedy strike down on your life?"
"Maybe," he shrugs. "My definition of tragedy may not meet yours—?"
"—Kate," she answers his tone. Her eyes study him, calculations and observations evident in her stare. "Death is a tragedy. You got baggage for it?"
"If you're asking for that, you gotta make it to date five," he teases, standing up to toss out his empty cup.
Her eyes watch him as he stands, as if she's attuned to his every movement. "Well if you leave now, how can I make it past one?" she baits him, teeth snagging her bottom lip.
"I should get another coffee then, huh?" His eyes squint playfully in question, as if they both don't already have the same answer to that.
So he strolls back to the counter, eyes steady on her even as he grabs another coffee from Michelle, who teases him discreetly as she processes the order.
"I see you've met Kate Beckett," she says, her smile instilled in every word. "She's amazing."
Once Kate looks over, he turns away to face the barista, handing her the money before she can ask.
"That might even be an understatement."
He wastes no time returning back to her even without waiting for his order, plopping back down into the chair now face to face again, the rush of being with her so captivating.
She's hooked him.
"Look I actually can't stay too long," she starts, a real note of regret living in her voice. "I'm just on break right now. So I'll understand if this doesn't count as...one."
"How long before you have to get back?" He tries to be subtle when he moves his chair closer to her, hopes she doesn't notice how drawn into her he is.
"15 minutes, maybe," she says as she pushes back her sleeve to glance down at her watch.
"Whoa, she comes from money," he enthuses, kicking back in his chair. "Can I ask what you do?"
Her lip still between her teeth, a crimson flush spreads through her cheeks as he looks at her.
"I'm—" she looks away, glances down at her hands before she flicks her eyes back up to meet his. "I'm a homicide detective, actually."
It's his turn for his mouth to drop.
And from her laughter, his face must be pretty ridiculous.
"That's—wow—I never—but you are—and I—wow, Kate that's so amazing."
"You think so? Kinda hard to tell from your reaction," she teases, tucking some hair behind her ear.
"How is it that you go home from that and read crime novels?"
"Tsk tsk," she says, tilting her head. "That's reserved for date five."
The laugh he gives is involuntary, it just bubbles out of him, loud and free. It's got the small amount of customers looking their way, trying to get in on the joke.
"I guess I deserved that. Nice way to turn my own words against me."
"Maybe I just want to make it to date five," she says, twirling her hair.
"So would I." Kate smiles, keeps her gaze locked with his. "So if this is definitely date one, then for date two I want to know how you feel about James Patterson."
"Ha! I much prefer Castle."
Castle perks up at that, interested to see what else she has to say.
"Really? I've never heard someone say that."
"Oh yeah. I like Patterson, don't get me wrong, but he's no Richard Castle." Kate slides her chair slightly forward, as if she wants to share a secret. "Patterson is all flashes and pretty lights. But Castle's work...he knows how death really feels. The emotions. All of it is real. Like he's experienced everything he's written about."
"Wow, you must really like him."
"Castle? He's my favorite author, easy. But lemme guess, you're a Patterson fan?"
"Not at all," he answers. "Just curious. What about Lehane, Connelly? I'd love to hear about more of your interests."
Kate squints, purses her lips. "Sure that's not more of a second date conversation?"
"Oh, you think you're so clever."
"She's very clever, Rick, you're in for it with this one," says Michelle as she walks up to them at the table with a coffee cup in hand.
"Oh, I've noticed," he says, winking in Kate's direction.
"I'm surprised he was able to keep up." Kate fires back.
"Well, you were talking about his books, right? Only make sense he'd show you up."
Castle's eyes instantly find the hazel ones across him, confusion evident in the crease of the brows above them both.
"Let me tell you something, Rick," Michelle continues. "Every time she's here, this girl has always got one of your books clutched in her hands. And I've been waiting for you two to meet each other for months."
He watches as her mouth opens then closes, but her expression stays one of bewilderment. "Wait, wait, wait, what? You are Rick—Rick—" she breaks off, a tint of anger filming over her face. "Richard—?"
"Castle," Michelle finishes. "What? He didn't tell you?"
"No," she deadpans. "He didn't."
Now he's got both woman staring at him and then only thing he can think to do is smile. "I can explain."
"Well you're on your own there bud," Michelle says patting his shoulder. He watches her walk away, gradually turning back to face the expressionless, and yet still gorgeous, cop before him.
"Listen to me Kate—"
"So is this part of building your rapport with fans? Masquerading as one to score dates?"
"I never meant to—"
"—to what? Make me think you weren't you?"
"Exactly. It just sorta happened."
He can see the assessment, the way her head shakes, nearly imperceptible, but he spots it. "Can I trust in anything I heard?" she says, easing back with a heavy sigh.
"Yes," he says, as firmly as he can.
"Well you'll need evidence for that," she says standing up, hugging the book again and slinging her purse strap over her shoulder.
"How do I do that?" he says, turning in his seat so his eyes can follow her towards the door.
"You've got four more dates to prove it."
And just as she entered she leaves, offering a smirk when she passes by the window and turns back for him. Just watching her go, Michelle returns and takes the empty seat.
"So what's the damage?"
"Four more dates," he says, going for a sip of his coffee. It's incredibly rich.
"Really? Huh. She give you her number?"
"Aw Michelle. C'mon. Now where's the fun in that?"
"How do you plan on having another date if you don't even know where to look?"
"I'm a writer," he says, grabbing his phone to dial. "And what kind of mystery writer would I be if I couldn't find my way to it?"
"Who're you calling?"
"Buddy of mine," he says, his smile unbearably smug. Before she can answer, the man on the line does.
A very important man in Manhattan.
"Rick! Didn't expect your call today—"
"Hey Weldon, I'm sorry to bother you. I need a favor. I'm looking for somebody, someone I think you can direct me to."
"Who's that?"
He grins. "The name's Kate. Kate Beckett."