Hi all… thanks for all the reviews on previous Castle stories… you know the drill none of these characters belong to me… enjoy the story and please R&R… :))
Kate Beckett came through the door, exhausted from a day's work, and feeling a tension headache come on. She dropped her bag by the couch, beneath her feet as she flopped down on the black leather sofa. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the fabric.
Her mind wondered to Castle. He hadn't bugged her as he usually did, he had almost been- she was too afraid to even think the word, mature, in case she jinxed it. Kate liked him like this, mature and content, following her around and asking the RIGHT questions. It was refreshing.
His attitude was slightly different when his daughter was around, and Kate liked Alexis, she was smart, easy-going and from what she could tell, she could hold her own where her father was concerned. What wasn't to like?
Kate stood from the couch, and went to her bedroom to change out of her work uniform and into something more casual. She decided on her favorite pair of track pants and a HARVARD sweatshirt, there was nothing better than the comfort of her baggy house clothes.
She wondered into the kitchen to retrieve some food for herself, and as the aroma of mold and dirt filled the air, she longed for her old apartment. She had remembered coming home from a hard day at work, and the smell of chicken wings surrounded the small space of her apartment. It was a smell she had always welcomed. It was familiar. It was home.
As she settled back on the couch, with some food and case files to look over, she felt the vibration of the phone through the coffee table, and a moment later the STAR-TREK theme song started playing on her phone.
"Beckett," she answered slightly annoyed. The very little time she got to herself, she liked to USE for herself, but since the presence of Castle in her life, her private time had diminished somewhat.
"What you doin?" the voice responded almost child-like.
CASTLE!
"I'm busy!" she groaned. Kate had never given Castle her phone number, but like anything else he wanted his hands on, he had the right connections.
"I'm bored!" he stated matter-of-factly.
"Where's Alexis?" she questioned.
"Out with friends," he responded. Was that envy she heard in his voice?
Kate shuffled some papers on the coffee table in front of her. "Where's Martha?"
"My mother is rehearsing with some LAME old-foggy for her newest theatre production… its Broadway apparently."
"Lonely are you?" she teased concealing a smile. Kate imagined him sitting unaccompanied in his loungeroom, staring at the walls.
"Me?" he questioned. "I don't get lonely. I'm a tough writer. I have all those awesome characters to keep me company. I'm Just bored… come over and play poker with me?" he suggested.
For a moment she considered it. "Since you have the house to yourself, why don't you write one of your WORLD famous books?"
"Writer's block!" he answered simply. "Come on… we can play for cash this time, and to add some extra fun, we could make it STRIP poker… you know you want to?"
Kate laughed. "Keeping dreaming Castle…"
"I'll settle for average poker," he compromised.
"Thanks," she said silently rolling her eyes. "But I think I'll pass. I got a tone of paperwork to finish."
"I can help!" he offered his voice rising with excitement.
"Ur… I don't think so," Castle knew his books, and character analysis, and he certainly had contacts, but he knew very little about police paperwork. And there was A LOT of it. The last thing she needed was him under her feet.
"Please…" he begged. "I'll be good I promise. I'll do whatever you want."
"No, Castle," she was losing patience.
A dog-like whine came through the phone.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Castle!" she stated.
She hung up then, too annoyed to be bothered with the hurt feelings he might have. He must have been used to it now. It wasn't like she was nice to him on average.
It took twenty minutes for Richard Castle to locate Dec. Beckett's apartment. He stood at the door for a few moments before he had the courage to knock, with a six pack of beer in his hand, he was hoping that she'd at least let him inside. As he tapped his fingers on the door, he stood back with a smug smile across his face. She might even think he was charming and spontaneous for turning up unannounced on her doorstep.
Maybe he was living in a fantasy world too much? He considered.
The door opened, and Dec. Beckett's face appeared before him. He shot her his best everybody-loves-me smile.
"Hi," he greeted holding up the beer. "Brought you a present."
Dec. Beckett titled her head, frowning at him. "What are you doing here? I told you I had paperwork."
"And I told you, I could help," Castle never had been one to take NO for an answer. Why start now? He gently pushed past her, and stepped into her apartment, placing the six-pack in her hands on the way in.
"Castle," she groaned. "This borderlines on breaking and entering," she told him.
"Please be gentle with me, Detective," he pouted childishly holding out his wrists in a shackled like position.
Dec. Beckett rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Castle!"
Richard shrugged and turned his attention to the apartment. He had never set foot in her home before, and as he allowed his eyes to wonder, something familiar caught his attention. Across the wall on her bookshelf, was Richard's collection of novels.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"What?" she scowled.
"I didn't realize you were such a vivid fan," he taunted.
"You're cute, Castle…" she smiled. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She knew he'd use them to his advantage and she'd never hear the end of it.
"I am. REALLY?" his eyes widened in obvious pleasure.
"Of course," she grinned. She couldn't help herself. "Interesting… but ugly."
She watched as his face fell. Unable to see the heartbreak on his face, she turned her eyes away, pretending to rummage through her wall cabinet, and instead of coming up empty handed, she grabbed a file from the top drawer, with no intent on using it.
"I can sign them ALL for you, if you like?" he offered feeling both content and impressed by her dedication to his work. He had given her two advanced copies, signed, and delivered, but he hadn't even thought that she might have been a fan before they'd ever met.
He waltzed over to the book shelf and pulled one out.
"CASTLE!" she barked.
He jumped back, the book still gripped in his hands.
"Drop it!" she almost looked panicked. Her gun was cocked and aimed directly at him, and he flinched. Nobody liked a gun aimed at their head?
"O-K…" he hesitatingly mumbled. But Richard made no move to let the book go. Her attitude only made him more interested why she was so intent on him putting it down.
In one swift move, he opened the front cover, and got a glimpse of his own signature. He hadn't remembered signing it, but it was most defiantly his hand writing. A cocky smile spread across his face.
He looked up at her, and she had her eyes blankly to the floor. "Shut up, Castle. I swear to God, I'll shoot you."
Richard replaced the book on the shelf. He didn't need to look at them all to know they were signed by the author. "I never said a word," he replied.
HE went to the couch, and flopped himself down comfortably making himself at home. He took a beer from the pack Dec. Beckett had laid down on the coffee table amongst the paperwork.
"Sit… drink… talk," he suggested. He popped the top and offered it to Dec. Beckett, who snatched it from him, he took another one and popped the top on that before taking a swig.
Dec. Beckett sat on the opposite end of the couch. "You do realize I have to kill you now…" she muttered.
"Take a chill, pill, I don't intend on sharing your obsession with me with everyone."
"I'm not obsessed."
"Your collection, should suggest otherwise."
Dec. Beckett pulled a face.
Richard thought about the one question that Dec. Beckett had asked. WHY DID HE BECOME A WRITER? He had discussed it with her once, and flat-out lied. The story he had made up had been pretty good, he had even gotten her feeling sorry for him.
Maybe he owed her the truth, just this once.
"People think that being a writer means you have this tortured story, somebody close to you died, no reflection on you, or you have a sordid experience, but the truth is I just watched too many TV shows as a kid. That's it. No amazing agonizing story about my past, no injustice, just boring facts…" he told her honestly.
"Are you telling me the truth?" she questioned. He wasn't surprised that she doubted him; he never had been easy to believe. He was a fiction writer after all.
Richard enjoyed the distrust. "I guess you'll never know," he winked playfully. "You look since by the way…"
Dec. Beckett looked down at the track pants and sweatshirt, before rolling her eyes.