A.N.: This little piece (well, two little pieces, actually, but only in a way like the two sides of a coin are two different things) takes place right before 1x01 (Flowers for your grave)... nothing much happens, but that is also not the point here. Hope you enjoy it!
(p.s.: all reviews are welcome, but please, keep in mind that my intention is not to impress, but to process my own feelings. Also, English is not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes! You've been warned. Now go, entertain yourselves!)
Detective Kate Beckett had a long day behind her at work but she had not even noticed how overwhelming it was until she got home and went straight to her kitchen to grab some bites to eat. She had closed a case that day which normally would have meant she felt like she got a little piece of closure, therefore she would let herself loose a little – probably meaning a not-too-long cocktail night with her friend Lanie. Nothing much, just a few hours of chit-chat, giving Lanie the opportunity to comment on her basically non-existent romantic life, and then she would go home, so she could start the next day at the precinct relatively freshly.
Today was different, though. For one, she had another case on her mind, one from weeks ago which she still couldn't make any sense of. No reasonable suspects, no motives, no…anything. She hated these cases – the ones that had a tendency to go cold, and the colder they got, the more she felt the inside need to obsess over them, to solve them and give justice to the victims nobody seemed to be able to. She knew she wouldn't get any closer to closing this particular one sitting alone at home at night, but she didn't really feel like going out. Or having a friend over.
The other reason was more fun, and equally nerdy. She wanted to read. She left the kitchen counter for her bathroom; she turned the hot water tap, found some candles and lit them, then walked out to her living room to get her hand on the book she'd been reading the past few nights. It was a mystery novel (once a cop, always a cop) by Richard Castle, the last Derrick Storm book that came out about a year before, to be exact, and this was definitely not the first time she was enjoying it. This was her reading project for the month – another obsession of hers; she'd been (and was) determined to re-read the whole series through until the new book was published soon. Very soon, she said to herself, though truth be told, she couldn't wait.
She knew this was going to be the last piece of the series, and she was way too excited to finally get her hands on it. Good kind of excited, that was something needed to be mentioned, after all, critics were already at Castle's throat, speculating what turn his career would take after this sudden bold move of getting rid of his most successful character and bestseller series. Kate Beckett was not afraid of a down spiral of his work. She had trust in her favorite author. His characters, complex, well-developed, heroes but flawed, had never stopped fighting for what they thought was right, they always wanted to understand the core of things. They weren't as shallow as many characters in the genre, and that didn't only stand for the Storm series. Richard Castle had never disappointed her.
She poured a glass of wine and climbed into the tub. Hot water burned her skin and made her feel the blood in her veins (a little later the wine would help with that, too), and she breathed the vanilla-scented, heavy air in as she opened up the cardboard cover of the book.
Two pages into another world buzzing reached her ears, then her brain. She carefully put down the book, and half-climbed out of the tub to grab her phone. Yeah, the precinct. Murder. Damn…all she wanted was one night within the action-packed but, at the end, always fair world of Richard Castle's.
She felt robbed, but by the time she had a towel on and was looking for some clothes, she was already in full cop mode. Somebody died, and she had to make sure the one responsible payed for it.
Richard Castle was lying on the couch, staring at the muted TV, though having no idea what was on. He didn't care. He'd been ignoring the jovial chaos caused by the ladies of the house preparing for the book party, as well.
His book party.
Well, he couldn't care less. He wanted nothing but to stay there, alone, wallowing in the scary possibility of losing his storyteller skills. (No, it CAN'T be a simple writer's block. That he always imagined to be just an excuse. This must be something more drastic.) His pajamas were way more comfortable than anything that was appropriate for an event like this, anyway.
"Richard, darling, shouldn't you start to get ready, too?"
Her mother's voice was coming from upstairs, but with a blink of an eye a colorful cyclone was already wandering around the living room, signing Martha had arrived to talk to his better self and make him do his obligations. Middle school all over again… why again had he let her live with them...?
"Yes, Mother, in a minute", he said with a strange mixture of apathy and frustration.
"You could learn a lot from your daughter, kiddo. She was ready half an hour ago."
Rick raised an eyebrow.
"What is she doing now?"
"Studying, of course." Martha rolled her eyes theatrically. "For a test next week."
"Of course." He threw his head back. "I don't wanna go."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Richard, just stop wearing that two-week-old sweaty awfulness and let's not be late from a beautiful opportunity to use your charm you so love to shine on others!"
Rick grumbled and closed his eyes. He wasn't in the mood. He hadn't been for a while now.
It was all boring. The same, all the time. He smiled, women sighed. He told a mediocre joke, everybody laughed. And the questions. Of him. Of his novels. Of… Derrick Storm. Storm had nothing to offer anymore. He'd become a shell of himself. He was boring. And he was boring. And bored. No excitement. No new stories. No… challenges.
"Come on, Dad, if I have to go, you have to as well!", he heard Alexis. She'd come down, and now she was placing his chosen pants, shirt, and jacket on the armrest at his feet. "You only have to change into these and we can go"
"Thank you, sweetie", he forced out a smile. For her, he sat up. "In a minute", he repeated. His fingers rubbed his cheeks, then he rested his forehead in his palms.
In a minute, he would put on his clothes, as well as the face he used to wear in public. Self-irony flooded him.
Here comes Richard Castle, bestselling author and not-so-unattainable dream of women.