words that heal.
She once again thumbs through the pages of the book in her hands, her nails catching on the pages, making the soft sound of paper meeting paper sound so quietly she's positive she's the only one that hears it over the noise of the room.
Women are everywhere, only a handful of men dotting the crowd with almost completely bald heads or hairstyles that make them look totally gay. She's not judging them, really, she reminds herself when she feels bad for assuming such things. She's just doing what the academy is training her to do, to read people's body language, to learn what different things meant.
It's also keeping her mind off the fact that she's here to get a book signed for her mother, meeting her mother's favorite author, thumbing through her mother's favorite book, and that her mom should be the one doing all this. But some psychopath took this opportunity, along with so many others, away from her.
Two women. There's two women in front of her and then she can leave and go back to studying...or reading. She'll probably read, and she knows it.
She wants to finish the book, just like her mom did. She wants to feel close to the woman so cruelly taken away from her, and this book helps her do that. So, she wants to curl up on the couch of her newly-rented apartment in a warm, wool blanket her mother used to love, grab a glass of water—she used to read with a glass of wine, until her father became an alcoholic—and finish reading Storm Warning.
So, there's two women in front of her. The first is a busty blond, wearing a V-neck button that showed way too much for her personal taste. She stands in a way that not only pushes her chest out towards him, but her ass out towards the other lady standing behind her. It was a posture that radiated arrogancy, but Kate knew better. She's stood like that before, not because she was arrogant or a snob or full of herself, but because she was insecure and trying to make sure nobody knew.
The second woman, the one standing right in front of her, is young, tall and thin. She's wearing a short dress, way too short, that she's pretty sure would her a nice view of her lack of underwear if she bent down. Her hair is a dark, chocolate brown, and tied up in an overly puffy, voluminous and tousled hair that gives off the impression that she just tied it up quickly after getting out of bed after a rather eventful night. From the one time she turned around to let her eyes scan over the crowd behind her, looking at everyone like they were inferior, she knows that the woman's makeup is overwhelming, too much foundation, too much blush, a dark smokey eye and blood red lipstick, a sheer contrast to the pearly white teeth she's showing off.
She feels out of place in this crowd. She's wearing almost no makeup, a thin line of black eyeliner and a little mascara and that's it. She's wearing a dark, burgundy button down that only has one button undone, the one right at the top, because tying it up practically chokes her. Her legs are covered in simple black slacks that don't off her shape at all, a sharp contrast to the skirt of the chocolate-haired woman's dress. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, the way she threw it up this morning before heading to the academy where the group of men don't care how her hair's done. The only that makes her feel half-normal in this crowd of...bimbos…is the fact that she, like practically everyone else in the room, is wearing stiletto heels.
She doesn't really care about what she looks like anymore. Her whole life is now dedicated to making detective, finding justice for her mom, getting her dad out of the bottom of the bottle and somehow staying connected to the woman she so suddenly lost.
She feels a tear trickling down her cheek and wipes it away quickly with the back of her hand. She might not care about her appearance...look wise, that is...but one thing Kate Beckett hates is looking weak, especially in front of people who don't know her...for some unexplainable reason.
Just as her hand fall back to her side, the woman behind her—another bimbo dressed like she's going clubbing as soon as she gets out of here—clears her throat. She looks back and then forward again to find that the busty blond is gone and the chocolate-hair is now talking to the one, the only Richard Castle, her mom's favorite author, the one man that unknowingly is getting her through the hardest moments of her life.
She groans as another tear slips her eye, trying to keep herself quiet to keep any bimbo's eyes off of her. She came here to cheer herself up, she's waited in line for...fifty minutes...to cheer herself up by doing something for her mom, and now she's crying. Nothing makes her happy these days, apparently. Here she is, meeting a best selling author, and she's still crying. And yet, this author and his books are probably the only thing keeping her alive right now.
She tries to not watch as Chocolate-Hair leans down exaggeratedly over the desk-like table where Richard Castle sits, her ass almost poking out of her short dress, her chest practically in his face. These women are desperate, she knows, she's been there, done that, but that doesn't stop her from wishing she still had even a sliver of confidence that would allow her to wear a dress like that, the self-confidence that left her life at the exact same time as her mother. She tries not to watch as he grins smugly and raises his black Sharpie to the woman's revealed chest, whispering something inaudible to her as he does so.
She rolls her eyes in the way her mother always told her was exclusively her. It might be stupid, might reek of desperation, might be the dead opposite of her, but it's a distraction and it's keeping the tears at bay. So, she watches, half in amusement, half in disgust.
It's not long before Chocolate-Hair is standing up straight again, turning away from the table with a little more sway to her hips than usual, obviously a final attempt at grasping his attention. At the same time, her eyes—hazel—lock on Kate's and she shoots her a smug smile, as if she had something to prove, even though they're total strangers. She smiles back, even though she knows that's not what Chocolate-Hair wants from her. She's not going to play into this little game the bimbo's playing and act all insecure. She doesn't need to satisfy anyone, anyway. No one really notices her anymore, and she'll be forgotten before the hour's up.
Her own heels click softly against the floor as she takes two steps forward, hating the way she's taller than him at this angle. She doesn't really like looking down at people, doesn't like having them look up at her. It makes her feel...odd. It's not exactly something she can explain, but she'd much rather look up at someone else, or look them straight in the eye. She feels less...watched, in some crazy way.
"Hello," he greets happily, taking in her attire as if it's some major shock that a woman shows up at these things in normal clothing. And yet he smiles, as if refreshed by the fact that she's not here to shove her boobs in his face and try and get him to sign them—even though he seems happy to oblige every single time.
She quickly glances over her shoulder and sees a young girl standing next to a busty blonde, the blonde looking to be extremely uncomfortable with the child. She can from watching the two that the blonde is no way the young girls mother. She can't help but wonder where the little girl's mother is, hopes for her sick that it's not in the same place as her own is.
"That's Alexis," he says softly, and she looks back down at him and forces a smile, willing her eyes to stay dry. "My daughter," he explains further and she nods slowly. His eyes widen slightly suddenly. "Sorry, you didn't come here to hear about my family. It's just that you were looking at her and you looked...never mind. Uh...to who can I make it out to?" he asks, fumbling with his black marker.
She sets the book in her hands down on the table and slides it over to him, still forcing a smile. The worst thing she could do now is cry, but hearing him talk about his daughter, the daughter that's standing over there looking miserable with the blonde that reminds her of the bimbos that show up at these things, it's hard. Because she was that little girl, and now she's not; her mom is dead, her dad is drunk and she's left to fend for herself.
"Jo- Johanna," she manages to answer, her voice cracking slightly as she says her mother's name, eyes threatening to brim with tears. He raises his eyebrow slightly, and she once again finds herself forcing a smile—she realizes now how absolutely used to forcing smiles to look normal.
"And...you're Johanna?" he asks. She finds herself wondering if he questions all his fans on the names they give, but doesn't really care. If he wants to know who Johanna Beckett is, she'll tell him. He mother deserves that.
"No, Johanna's my mom," she answers, barely managing to keep her voice steady. He nods thoughtfully and eyes her for a moment longer before looking down and scribbling a short message—that's longer than she expected—in the book. He then looks up at her and flashes a cheeky grin.
"Okay. Now, what's you name?" he asks. Her jaw almost hits the ground at his question and he laughs softly. "Relax. Goodness, you'd think I asked you for your address or to come over to my place and…" he trails and wriggles his eyebrows instead of finishing his sentence. She gasps. "I just asked your name." He's right. It's just her name. Even she doesn't know why she's so freaked out by this.
"K- Kate. My name is Kate," she tells him softly. He smiles as if in thanks and turns the page of her book to scribble down a second message on the dedication page. She finds herself smiling despite herself, watching as he closes the book and slips it back towards her.
"Have a nice day, Kate," he smiles and watches as she grabs the book and walks away, flustered in some crazy way. Meeting her favorite author was supposed to be about her mother, but now he's signed the book not only for her mother, but for her as well.
The clicking of her heels sounds softly behind her as she walks a couple dozen feet down the sidewalk before leaning against the brick wall of a clothing boutique. She takes a deep breath before opening the book to the first page, greeted with the sight of his curly, improper handwriting.
Johanna, I'm sorry I never got to meet you. I'm sure you were an amazing woman, it reads, followed by an incomprehensible sprawl that she assumes says Richard Castle, or something along those lines. She takes in a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears as she stares down at the page, wondering how in the world he knew that her mom had passed, how he could tell that from their two minute interaction.
Before she can over think it, over analyze it, she flips the page. She'll try and remember the details of their interaction later, analyze her every word and try and go back to the very moment it dawned on him. For now though, she wants to see what he wrote for her without her even asking him to. She wants to know why she suddenly thinks the playboy persona is all an act, what he wrote for her.
She gasps when she sees it. Little does he know how much this touches her, how important this is to her. It's just a signature and a short message from a man she'll never see again, and yet she feels her heart skip a beat. He's oblivious to how much he's helped her already, doesn't know that his words are the reason she's somewhat healed, strong enough to fight again, to want to live. Little does he know…
Kate, stay extraordinary. Stay strong. Richard Castle.
This is my entry for the first challenge of the Castle Theme Party: Beginnings.