A/U: BECAUSE EVERYONE NEEDS CLICHÉ BABY FIC. Honestly, just setting the scene. MAJOR STUFF HAPPENS AFTER. It's taken me about, idk, three weeks to write this, so the writing kind of changes at parts. But ho hum. Not overly happy with it, but it will do. KATIE STOP WRITING NEW STUFF WHEN YOU HAVE OLD STUFF THAT NEEDS TO BE WRITTEN SIGH. this is why you can't have nice things.
Disclaimer: if I worked with the cast of Castle and got to stare at Seamus Dever's face all day, I genuinely don't think I'd be alive to write this.
She hates herself for using alcohol. Hates herself for resorting to the same thing that made her lose faith in her own father. Her own father, who on her mother's birthday is spending the night unconscious on his sofa with an empty bottle of scotch. So she's spending her mother's birthday sat at a bar nursing a few too many rum and vodka's. Her hair feels heavy against her bare shoulders and it irritates her and she wants to get it cut, the blue dress she foolishly decided to wear feeling tight around her chest. She doesn't know why she wore it. Doesn't know why she felt like she was in the mood for having men come on to her every five minutes. She's left her gun at home and she wishes she hadn't . Wishes she hadn't even come out for a stupid drink.
"Why the long face?"
She turns sharply, finds blue eyes and brown hair looking back at her. He's vaguely familiar, but she's met so many people in her line of work that she can't put a face to a name. He's good looking, but in the more ruggedly handsome way. And it's annoying because he knows it. And knows how to use it.
"Long day." She replies, turning herself away from him ever so slightly.
"Buy you a drink?"
"Why do you care?"
"Because I am a gentleman and if a woman as beautiful as you looks like they've just watched a puppy get kicked in the face then I am automatically obligated to buy them a drink."
She lets a small smile show, looking down at the bar carefully. "Well, that's nice of you, but I'm really okay."
He chuckled. "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England. I'm a good listener."
"I'm not a good talker."
"Even over coffee in the morning?"
"Especially over coffee in the morning."
"Sure I can't change your mind?"
She laughs. "Well, I have to say, out of all the guys you have tried to get into my pants tonight, you are definitely the nicest. But I'm afraid I will have to decline your offer."
"The drink or the morning coffee?"
"I suppose I'll let you buy me a drink."
"Is this going to be an anonymous drink, or do I get to know your name?"
She can't help but smile. "I'm Kate. Kate Beckett."
"Nice to meet you, Kate. I'm Rick."
"So, you're a writer?" she asks, running a finger around the rim of her (third) drink.
"Well, I like to think so. My mother, on the other hand, is sceptical. What do you do?"
"I, erm, I'm a detective. Homicide."
"Sweeeeet. You carry a gun?"
She can't decide if she's more deterred or amused at his enthusiasm, can't work out why she's leading him on when she's not going to be going home with him. Not going anywhere with him. Not going anywhere with anyone. But he's nice, and he's helping her forget. Forget what, she's not sure, because she can't get the image of her drunken father out of her head. But with him, with Rick, it doesn't seem quite as important. She laughs quietly, shaking her head. Her feels somewhat lighter, somewhat softer against her skin.
"No, not right now. I'm off duty." Truth be told, she carries her gun with her whether she's on duty or off. But today of all days, she doesn't want the heavy weight of it in her purse. Doesn't want the reminder that she has to kill people for a living.
"That's a shame. " Rick replied, a corner of his mouth twisted up into a smirk.
"Really? You like the idea of women and guns?"
"Hey, I'm a crime novelist. Guns are necessary in my line of work. Nothing sexier than a woman in uniform. Especially with a gun."
"Yeah, well I don't wear a uniform unless it's a formal occasion."
"Like what?"
"In our line of work?" she sighed, "Usually a funeral."
"Is that why today sucks?"
"I… no. No, it's… something else." She sat back, tipped her head against the back of the booth they'd moved to and stared at the ceiling. "Not that you're going to wheedle it out of me with alcohol."
"I'm not trying to wheedle anything out of you."
"Not even trying to wheedle me out of my dress?" Kate asked, one eyebrow raised. "That's all men seem to be interested in at the minute."
"Can you blame them? You're there all dark, curly hair, smoky eyes and really, really long legs in killer heels and a dress that barely covers anything. Can't expect men to let the evening go without even trying to buy you a drink."
"Hm, the dress wasn't a good idea, I realise that now. But I think it's home time soon anyway."
"It's only half ten!"
"I'm working tomorrow. Knowing my luck I'll have a body drop at six in the morning and I don't want to be running on too little sleep." She moved, pushed her glass away, reached for her jacket and her purse. "Thanks for the drinks. It was… nice talking."
"I'll walk you out. And call you a cab?"
She shook her head. "It's fine. I don't live that far away. And I can look after myself." She added, after she saw him opening his mouth to say something about women and dark streets and murderers.
"I'll just follow you and make sure you're safe then."
"I am a detective. I can arrest you for stalking."
"Not stalking. Simply walking in the same direction." She shook her head, but she was still smiling even as he stood up. "Just a friendly neighbourhood gentleman doing his good deed for the day. My intentions are pure, I promise."
"I'm not going to have to break your nose for getting too physical, am I?"
He placed his palm against his chest. "Cross my heart."
She can't quite pin point the moment she let him get close to her. It might have been at her front door. Or maybe it was the lift. Could have been the door to her building. She tells herself she shouldn't. Tells herself numerous times to get him to stop with his mouth on hers and one hand in her hair, the other running across the small of her back. He's somehow managed to find all of her erogenous zones within a matter of minutes and it's not fair when he runs his fingers across the back of her neck because he's barely touched her and she already wants to drag him down the hall and into her bedroom. And isn't this what she wanted? A chance to forget everything? It's not the first time she's done one night stands, and she doesn't really regret them. But she'd said, both to herself and to him that nothing was going to happen tonight. She couldn't afford for it to happen. And yet here she was, her back against a wall and his hands trying to find every inch of bare skin they can. And it's not like he's doing all the work. She's somehow managed to tug his jacket off his shoulders and has undone the top three buttons on his shirt. She's not complaining. Definitely not complaining when he finds the zipper on her dress and pulls it down ever so slowly until it lands in a pool at her feet. Some miniscule part of her tuts at the fact she wasn't wearing a bra, the majority of her brain is very much agreeing with the lack of said underwear, especially when his mouth and his hands do that thing and ohh, why was this a bad idea again?
It's not half six when her phone rings. Thankfully it's closer to eight, and even though Kate still feels like she could sleep for another five hours she drags herself out of bed and into the shower. She debates waking the snoring (and drooling) man in her bed, though whether it's so he can join her in the shower or so she can kick him out before she has to leave, she's not quite sure. But she's not got time to have company in the shower, so she jostles the bed as she walks past. He sits up in a state of panic, arms flailing, hair mussed and in need of a wash and eyes blurry. "Wass'goinon?"
"I need to go to work. You need to leave."
"Urgh." He replies, flopping backwards onto the bed. "Five more minutes."
"You have until I get out of the shower." She answers, but she's pretty sure he's already asleep again.
"Girl, you are distracted." Lanie Parish insists for what must be the fourth time that day. "What has gotten into you?"
"Nothing's gotten into me." Beckett replies, pushing a lock of flyaway hair behind her ear. "Just, yesterday was tough. I'm fine."
"Uh-uh." The M.E. retorted. "And I'm the back end of a donkey. And if I am not mistaken, and I rarely am, you have a hickey. You're not doing covering up very well. So, spill. Who was it?"
Beckett pulled the collar of her jacket further up her neck, ignoring the raised eyebrows of Lanie. "Just a guy I met in a bar. Nothing special."
"Because heaven forbid Kate Beckett actually goes out on a date."
"I don't have time for dates, Lanie. I'm a homicide detective. It just… doesn't work. I'd have to cancel every other date and cut some short because somebody has shot somebody else. I'll go on dates when I've retired. Happy?"
"Not in the slightest, but that is the most I've got out of you concerning your so called love life since I first met you, so I guess it'll have to do."
"Right. Can we get back to the cause of death now?"
She doesn't panic when she skips a period. It's not the first time. The stress of the job, and not really eating at all well, it's a common occurrence. And it's not like she misses it. She only gets a little niggle of doubt when the sight of a crime scene sends her stomach rolling. She swallows the nausea down until she's back at the precinct where she proceeds to empty what little is in her stomach into the toilet. Montgomery soon sends her home.
She loses count of the times she makes a desperate run for the toilet before climbing into bed and pulling the covers above her head in a futile attempt at blocking out the world. She should phone somebody. And the only person she can phone would be Lanie. Lanie, who may tut at her for being stupid, but she'd be there.
"Kate? You okay?"
"I-Lanie, I think I'm pregnant."
"Are you not going to tell him?"
Kate shrugged, digging her spoon into the tub of ice cream that is currently resting on her swollen belly. "Don't see why I should. We don't need him."
"Kate, he's a father. Or going to be. If I was him…"
"But you're not. And how the hell do you expect I go about finding him, exactly? It's not like New York's small."
Lanie turned over on her side of the bed, one eyebrow raised. "You are a detective. Forget your stupid rule about only using police resources for work, and look his name up. It's not hard."
Kate sighed. "I'm on maternity leave, Lanie. I'm not allowed back. Montgomery's banned me for six months. And there's not a chance in hell I am letting Ryan and Esposito look it up for me."
"Well, wait until afterwards! You can't not tell him. Imagine if it was you in his shoes… how would you were in his shoes and someone came up and told you that they were your son or daughter? For eighteen or something years someone hid the fact that you were a parent?"
"Lanie, you're not changing my mind on this. It's my choice."
"She looks like you." Jim Beckett whispered, bending over the cot. "Spitting image of you as a baby."
Kate hummed, feeling far too tired to respond. Jim chuckled. "Twenty seven hours. She's just as stubborn as you too. Though you came along fairly quickly. You never have liked wasting time. You decided on a name yet?"
"Harriet Johanna Beckett, I think."
"And the father?"
"Not in the picture. And I don't want him in it. You know that Dad."
"You're going to raise your daughter on your own? It's hard enough raising any kid, but she's going to give you hell, Katie."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. And anyway, I've got you, Lanie. I'm pretty sure Ryan and Esposito have already taken the roles of Uncles. I don't think I'll be on my own."
He chuckled. "No, I don't think you will be. You'll be a good mother, Katie. Johanna would be proud."
Kate smiled, already feeling her eyelids closing. "Thanks, Dad."
"I'll be here when you wake up. Go to sleep."