Kate Beckett's flaming cheek presses down, stealing the chill from the sprung wood floor as she inhales. Her body relaxes into the stretch, lowering her chest and abs the final inches to lie flat between her outstretched legs. She holds the full center split for an extra few counts of eight, working through the tension in her spine. Her usual barre routine has left her muscles warm and limber, but her nerves have tied her stomach in knots.
Sitting, Kate folds her spandex-clad legs back in and steals another glance at the clock.
Ten minutes late.
She should not be surprised.
Celebrities, even minor ones, have no respect for other people's time.
Standing up, she crosses to the sound system. The song she has chosen for their first, and possibly last, routine pulls up a memory of standing atop her father's feet and swaying to the swell of a full orchestra. She had fallen in love that night, and for all its hardships, being a professional dancer still holds that same feeling of magic that she had felt two decades ago.
Reaching the corner of the room, she snaps out of the memory, smile mellowing as the reality of the next three months stretches out before her. At least they have drawn the foxtrot for the first week; it will be fairly benign and easy to adapt to any level of experience. And considering her student, now fourteen minutes late, she will have to adapt it significantly downward from her usual standards.
Richard Castle, best selling mystery writer and notorious Manhattan playboy, has probably never danced a step in his life. Well, not any real dancing, at least. Maybe a few smooth moves to impress a date at a charity function, but more than likely she will have to un-teach whatever he thinks he knows to keep them both from getting killed live on primetime TV.
As she cues up the proper track, her mind flashes back to the disaster that ended her last season on Dancing with the Stars: the over-muscled football player manhandling her out of their lift two beats too soon, and managing to drop Kate on her sequin-covered ass just as their song finished, had knocked them out in round one.
The first notes of her chosen song fill the room, and immediately her heart lightens. Not even the prospect of teaching another novice with an attitude, who also happens to be her favorite author, how to dance can diminish the burst of joy that comes with those notes.
Kate runs through the first few steps of her choreography, letting her body take over and shut off her brain. Her invisible partner, at least, gets every step right.
A sequence of spins leaves her facing the door, and she freezes mid-sway, arms tucking in to fold across her chest at the sight before her.
Six feet two inches of broad-chested male, clad in a simple black t-shirt that clings to bulging biceps and workout pants outlining well-muscled thighs, smiles at her across the room, and goose flesh erupts down her spine.
"Oh, please don't stop," he calls over the brass in the background.
Shaking her head, Kate rushes to shut off the song, giving herself an instant to press her palm to the wall and blink the stars from her eyes. When she turns, her lips are stretched wide in her most professional smile.
"Mr. Castle, so nice to meet you."
Kate will deny to her dying day the four hours she had spent waiting in line to have him sign her copy of Gathering Storm three years earlier. But that day he had been sitting, and wearing a jacket, and she has to swallow to keep from drooling as he reaches out to clasp her hand between both of his massive palms.
"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Beckett. I'm so sorry I'm late. I should have known better than to bring two redheads to LA with me. Don't even get me started on the one who lives here."
His blue eyes sparkle with mischief.
Womanizing reputation, confirmed.
Exactly how does he plan to juggle not one but three women and learn a ballroom routine worthy of airing on national TV? Professionalism wins out over more inventive comebacks.
"It's no problem, really. I was just warming up."
His smile grows wider, if that is even possible, and her treacherous body reacts, heat blooming across her skin. The way the fluorescents play off the cuts and angles of his arms as he lifts his gear is not helping matters.
Shifting her focus back to his face, she finds his lips curved, one eyebrow arching up indulgently. Caught staring. Scrunching her brows, she huffs out a breath and turns on her heel, taking one sharp step toward the sound system.
And that is when she trips.
Not just a little catch of her toe that she can hide with an exaggerated step - no - this full-fledged flying leap sends her sprawling, a yelp of surprise escaping her throat as she hits the floor.
Before her brain can take stock of her mostly undamaged limbs and right them, he is at her side, chiseled arms reaching around her to lift her gently back to her feet, all the while repeatedly asking if she is okay.
The tips of her ears are on fire as she brushes his hands away and scurries the rest of the distance to the electronics bay on the wall, all the while spouting nonsense about warps in the flooring and how useful it is to practice her landings in this line of work.
A few button punches and one palm pressed flat to the ice-cold mirror later, and Kate has her heart rate under full control. The opening beats of Rihanna's "SOS" blare at full volume, the speakers sending out a bassline she registers in her lungs, and Kate's lips quirk up at one corner.
The philandering, overly gallant ass can play Hugh Hefner on his own time; she is here to teach him to dance. And if he happens have that ass soundly kicked by the turbo version of her warm-up, it will not be her problem.
Twenty minutes later, she nearly collapses on her back after their 300th crunch, breaths coming hot and fast, heart racing as she uses the rough cotton hem of her shirt to smear away the sweat collecting at the intersection of her collarbones.
Her student, cocky bastard, has barely a sheen of perspiration painting his brow as he finishes an extra set of 10 reverse crunches after the playlist has ended.
They both rise to seek their water bottles, with varying levels of breathlessness. The writer breaks the silence.
"You know, when my agent first called me to ask if I wanted to be on the show, I thought 'Why would I want to dance on TV? That's for Broadway hopefuls and Hollywood has-beens.' But I'm really glad my mother pushed. She always told me I could have been the next Fred Astaire, if I had only applied myself." He scrubbed a hand through his thick chestnut hair, setting its manicured tousle into unruly spikes.
There has been very little talking up to now, thanks to the music and exertion, except for his repeated mentions of Mindy, his "very bendy" and blond personal trainer back in New York. Kate carefully regulates her breathing to lower her heart rate before she answers, turning to the wall to conceal her eye roll.
"And you should always listen to your mother."
He mutters something that sounds like: "I wouldn't go that far," but it fades out as he bends over to reach into his bag.
Mopping as much of herself as she can with a subtle swipe of her towel, she turns the music off. Fine, the man is gorgeous. Grecian marble material. And strong. Able to hack her most brutal warm-up. But no amateur can charm his way across her dance floor.
Form, technique, and style: these are the pillars of her profession, and she is not about to let an amateur belittle it.
Gene Kelly? Fred Astaire? Pushovers.
Richard Castle will cry like a baby before this day is through.
"I want to work on basics today: frame, posture, rhythm. We have a few weeks before the first show, but everything we'll do from here on begins with those 3 things."
Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her current favorite leather-soled rehearsal heels and steps into them.
"Oh, I should put on my shoes, too," he says from his corner.
Kate nearly sprains her eye muscles but manages to inject some enthusiasm into her reply.
"Oh, great, yeah, put them on."
Flash Greggson had brought brand new patent leather tap shoes to his first lesson with her. Undoubtedly, this chucklehead will produce something to beat Twinkle Toes, as she unaffectionately refers to her least favorite NFL running back.
Engrossed in arranging and buckling the crisscrossing black leather straps around her ankles, Kate looks up to find Castle already standing in the center of the dance floor, subtly-worn black men's ballroom shoes already neatly tied.
Her look as she joins him must be quizzical, because he tips his head and raises an eyebrow, then points at his feet.
"These okay?"
Maybe he bought a used pair, or wore them around the house, or something...
"Sure, perfect," she says, stepping up to stand before him, her body offset slightly to the left.
Even with the 3-inch heels, she is forced to look up to meet his eyes. She blinks, hard.
Sapphire.
Clearing her throat, she assumes her pose, right palm raised at her eye level, left arm miming resting on his right biceps, but with about two feet of space still between them.
"So the foxtrot uses a standard closed position, which establishes a steadfast frame from which all movements are referenced."
Castle mimes the man's position, maintaining the distance she has established between them.
"Got it."
His form is spot on. Her eyes narrow.
"Yes, and your right hand will come around my back," that gets an eyebrow waggle from him, and she fights to contain her groan, "-beneath my left shoulder blade."
Dropping her arms and stepping back slightly, she shakes out her limbs to reset, and he mimics her.
"But to get there, the gentleman must invite…" Castle shifts forward extending his left arm to offer his hand, "... the lady in."
Kate accepts the offered hand and steps in. As his wide palm settles firmly but gently just below the tip of her scapula, a ripple of awareness shimmers outward from every point of contact. At the same time, recognition sparks when their gazes meet, hers edged with red, and the realization erupts from her lips in a low growl before her filter kicks in.
"You've done this before."
# * # * # * #
Happy CastleFanficMonday, everyone! Thanks to Alex and Dia for team beta on this one, E, who made the gorgeous cover art, and especially the tumblr anon who prompted it: "AU Dancing with the stars! Kate is the professional dancer, Castle is her celebrity partner! Any direction you wanna go :D"
This should be fun.
Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com
Twitter: Kate_Christie_