oxymoron

oxymoron: (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

There's something about school assemblies that drive her crazy. Which is stupid, really, because she knows she's one of the teachers who's a big stickler for the rules. And these assemblies are like seventy-five percent about the rules. And she knows she probably annoys her students just as much as these stupid assemblies annoy her. But, really, the assemblies are stupid and they do drive her crazy and there's nothing that will change that.

The school's principal is a charismatic man who has a way with being in front of crowds. He has a bald head and a slightly plump face, a graying mustache across his upper-lip. He always wears well tailored suits that she imagines, based on the cost of her own jackets, cost a fortune. While he speaks, he walks back and forth across the wide stage of the school's huge auditorium, addressing himself to one group of the student body and then to another.

The student body president also sits on stage, along with the four representatives for the grade—since the assemblies are done for times every day, once for each grade. They're the kind of students that look like they belong to a school with uniforms even though they don't. The kind that wear sweatervests because they like them and blouses because they make them look more mature.

They're the exact opposite of what she was as a teenager, that's for sure.

She feels a sigh fill her chest, and then escape it through her nose, an angry, annoyed sigh that has her running her fingers through her loose hair and digging the heel of her shoe into the auditorium's carpeted floor. Her shoulder blades press against one of the wide columns that dot the room and she tries to swallow back a yawn at the speech they're all getting for the third time this year.

When it comes to these things, she had the same attention span as her students, which is to say, none.

She waits a few more seconds before slipping out of one of the auditorium's many doors, making her way to the girls' bathroom just down the hall. It's blissfully silent in the middle of class, and she takes the moment she can spare to lean against the counter in the room, to splash some of the ice cold water across her face. Her first course students are the most rambunctious of her day, the only class she teaches that isn't an advanced course and she almost always watches them leave with a headache.

Not having to spend an hour in class watching them is perhaps the only good thing out of the damn assemblies.

She lets herself yawn before leaving the room, walking down the hall and back to the auditorium. She easily finds her spot next to the column, leans against it again. The principal is still talking, rambling about the rule concerning coarse language that no teenager will ever follow, especially not because a so-called old man told them that their vocabulary was crass. She rolls her eyes, the action concealed by the darkness of the room.

She's settled for tuning out the principal and running over her lesson plan for next course when she feels a nudge against her shoulder. Not that you were falling asleep and I wanted to wake you kind of nudge, but the I don't want to talk and really want your attention kind. Not that that makes anything better. She really hates both kinds.

And yet it's not like she can ignore the person stubbornly pressing his shoulder against hers, so she slides her gaze towards him. Curses internally when she sees who it is.

"What do you want?" she asks in a hushed whisper, careful not to disturb the silence that surrounds the bored students of the principal's speech.

His grin is that stupidly charming I know I'm annoying you and I really like it kind that she always wants to wipe off his face one way or another. "Just wanted to let you know that a few of your students were talking and I made sure they were quiet. Considering your such a, you know, stickler for the rules, I figured you wouldn't want your students talking during the assembly." He shrugs, and his shoulder brushes hers again.

She takes a step away from him, tempted to tell him that she doesn't give a crap about the assembly. That the students obviously don't listen anyway. But she also doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of…however that would satisfy him. So she turns away from him, stares at the principal when she answers curtly.

"Thank you. I'm sure Principal Montgomery would appreciate it."

She expects him to leave. Well, not really. More like hopes he'll leave her alone and go find somewhere else to stand to watch his own class instead of hers. Except he doesn't leave. Doesn't add an inch of space between them. And she's about to ask him why he's still next to her when she remembers, fuck, that his class sits right next to hers.

So he has the perfect goddamn excuse for staying close, even though he wasn't this close before.

He eyes slide closed and she drops her head against the column again, ignoring his playful nudge and whisper of "Pay attention, Ms. Beckett," in exchange for Principal Montgomery's long, boring, redundant speech.

It's not good. But it's better. But still…

She really hates these assemblies.

Fourth period comes slower than it usually does. Maybe it's the assembly, and the lack of actual teaching that came with the first period. And then the whining that came with his second period because "Your first class didn't have to do work today, Mr. Castle." And then his stupid preparation period and the fact that he already had the lesson plans for the next week and a half done. Which left him staring at that God-forsaken blank document for an hour before the bell for fourth period finally, finally rang.

Or maybe it's the memory of her clipped voice and angry glares that have been haunting him since this morning.

No. It's definitely not that. It has to be that progress-less book.

But it's not.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut to get rid of the blooming headache he can feel behind them, to eliminate the pressure before it bubbles into something that requires pain pills and a day without writing to soothe.

Then again, a day without writing sounds pretty good.

"You okay, Mr Castle?" he hears suddenly, and he looks up to find Lucas standing there, fingers holding tightly onto the straps of his backpack. "Do you have a headache? It could be all that time you spend on your computer. Artificial light is known to cause migraines."

He smiles. "No, Lucas, I'm fine," he dismisses. "Why don't you go sit down? Class will begin soon."

Lucas nods and heads for his seat in the far corner of the room, drops his bag onto the tiled floor and quickly tugs the zippers open only to pull out his big English binder and set it on his desk. He watches from where he stands near the door as Lucas grabs a pencil from his pencil case and starts writing on a piece of paper. He's a good student, always a step ahead of everyone, including him.

He swallows back a second sigh and turns away from the door as the second bell rings, his hand gently pushing it shut. He makes his way to the front of the room, in front of the students, between them and his messy desk. His palms find the only areas of actually flat, bare surface and he uses them to support his body as he leans back and settles against the desk's edge.

"How about we start today off with a story, considering that's what I did with the other two classes?" he asks the students, smiling at their smiles and nods. "Okay, then, let me think of a story that's, uh, appropriate to tell you guys." A few of the students chuckle, oblivious to the fact that, really, there's many stories he could tell that would definitely get him in trouble with Principal Montgomery. Or their parents. Or both.

Like the story about the police horse. That's a good one. It's also an inappropriate one.

"Okay," he repeats, to gain the teens' attention, "I was at the book launch party for the last Derrick Storm novel when somebody taps on my shoulder. Of course, I automatically think it's a fan who wants my autograph. So what do I do? I turn around and ask the woman: "Where would you like it?" You know what she does? She holds up a badge and tells me that she's a detective for the NYPD and wants to question me about a murder that took place earlier that day."

He pushes himself up off his desk and smiles. "I followed her, of course. She was a cop. And she was hot," he tells his class, watching as some students roll their eyes, others grinning at nodding. "She interrogated me. I would tell you guys all about that, but, lets just say it's not all that appropriate for the classroom. Some of the, uh, conversation, I mean. All you guys need to know is that I was a person of interest in her case because their killer was mirroring crime scenes from my books. Isn't that cool?"

The handful of snickers from students make him smile. And he realizes his headache is fading.

"I managed to convince that hot detective to let me help. You know, something had happened to her. In her past. Well, not to her, but to someone she loved. I found that out while we were going through my fan mail—yes, I get fan mail. Anyway, she wouldn't tell me what. But she was wounded."

He can picture it in his head. A tall woman with chiseled features, wearing a more...masculine suit but stiletto heels that could easily be turned into weapons. Long, curly hair that was always pulled back and a glare that could kill, an eyeroll that spoke volumes. He shakes his head to eliminate the picture when a student not-so-subtly clears her throat.

"Right," he says. "Anyway, we were going through my fan mail when we finally found a clue. I used my many connections to get them the lab work they needed as soon as possible. She wasn't very…happy with that, but her team was impressed. Sadly, before we can catch the killer, our next leave comes in the form of a third body, once again mirroring a crime scene from one of my books.

We're examining the crime scene when the lab work comes back. Turns out, there was a print that they matched to a Brooklyn resident named Kyle Cabot. We went over to his place. Despite the detective's orders, I went in, too. He was obsessed with me, and they arrest him for the three murders. He wasn't our killer, though."

"How did you know?"

He smiles. "Well, you see, at every crime scene there was an inconsistency, a detail that varied from the actual scene in my book," he explains. "Somebody who was obsessed with me would never make those mistakes. So I sneak into the precinct, get in a kiss to her cheek, and leave. Taking with me the pictures of their crime scenes.

She arrests me, of course, but I must get to her, as I continue investigating, we end up crossing paths at the second victim's father's office. We question him together, and somehow she misses that he has cancer. I tell her, of course. Anything to help enforce the law, right?" He grins. "That leads us to our real killer."

He leans back against his desk again. "It was the second victim's brother. He killed her so he could get all of his father's money when he died. We caught him destroying the evidence, managed to prove he had a second, illegal passport and arrested him for the three murders." He smiles at his class again, forgets the crime and once again imagines the hot detective with an intriguing past. "I asked her out, told her it would be great. She said no, told me I had no idea how great it would be. I didn't. I still don't. I never saw her again."

"What was the detective like, Mr. Castle?" asks Brandon.

So he tells the class all about the mental image he created. Long hair pulled back. Suit and stilettos. Jaded, wounded, but strong. Unable to keep the smile that crosses his face at bay.

Jess, one of the students sitting in the middle of the room, raises her hand, and he nods at her so she'll speak.

She smiles that mischievous smile that only teenagers are truly capable of. "You know, Mr. Castle, that detective you described sounds like Ms. Beckett."

He can do nothing but stare at her, and then force a laugh and then turn to the chalkboard and scribbled down the name of today's lesson, perhaps the easiest, least conspicuous way to change the subject.

Because, yes, the detective was fictional.

But no, she has nothing to do with Ms. Beckett from next door.

Absolutely nothing.

She closes the door once the last of the students disappear from the hallway, a bag slung over his shoulder, careful not to slam it. And then she walks over to her desk and all but collapses into her chair, fingers curling around the blue mug that sits by her keyboard.

It's cold and empty and fuck she has a pile a foot high of evaluations to correct for each class and there is no way she's getting any of it done without caffeine. Nothing. Nada.

She sighs into the empty classroom, stares at the base of her dark cup as though that will somehow make the silky golden liquid of her usual coffee appear within it. As stupid as that is. As much as she knows she's going to have to get up and walk all the way across the school just to refill her cup.

And socialize with some of the other members of the language department. Maybe. Hopefully not.

She pushes herself out of her chair, mug still in hand, and easily slips from the quiet room into the equally eerie halls. The lockers are all closed, the only signs of life being the teachers working in their classrooms, the few students lingering by the school's front doors, waiting for their rides home.

The clicks of her heels, which she usually revels in, echoes off the walls a little too loudly. Her fingers curl tightly around the cup, pressing it against her stomach, the handle digging into the bone of her sternum.

The door has a small window in it, a long vertical one that gives her a clear view of the room. Of Ryan, the English teacher who doubles as a religion teacher, Esposito, the Spanish teacher, and of him. A view clear enough to make her want to turn on her heel and sneak into the science ward and get her coffee there, where, worst comes to worst, she has to talk about her nonexistent love life with Lanie.

But he sees her before she can leave. He sees her and flashes that infuriating smile that he always has at the end of the day and motions for her to come in with an easy flick of his hand. And now she can't leave. Not without making it obvious she's avoiding them. Or, well, him.

She loosens her grip on her empty mug and slowly pulls the door open, letting it fall shut behind her as she easily makes her way to the espresso machine—perhaps the only advantage of having a millionaire teach in your department.

"Hey, Beckett," he greets.

She keeps her eyes locked intently on the coffee machine in front of her. "Hi, Mr. Castle. Ryan. Esposito."

She gets twin greetings from Ryan and Espo, a chuckle from Castle.

"You can drop the Mister, Beckett. You're not one of my students," he says, and though she's still staring at the coffee machine, she's fairly certain he's grinning. Definitely smug. "In fact, you can call me whatever you want. Castle. Rick is good, too, if you're comfortable with that."

She frowns, hiding it behind a sip from her coffee cup. "Okay, Castle," she mumbles.

"Oh, good. We're making progress," he says. She hears the screeching of a chair's metal legs against the tile and winces. "Now, come on, Beckett, sit down. Talk."

She scowls. "I have papers to correct, Castle. The wide reading project won't correct itself."

He winces. "I know, right? That project is so long," he whines, sounding too much like one of her students for her taste. "Every level is like eight pages long. I'm surprised some of my students even bothered with the first one."

She shrugs. "I have a few who didn't do anything," she tells him. "The F they'll be getting will be completely their fault. All it means to me is that I have more free time."

"Oh? And what do you do with this free time, Beckett?" he asks. A grin comes across his face. "Hot boyfriend waiting at home? Or are you married? You know, it's kind of sad how little I know about you even though we spend like eight hours a day with only a wall between us."

Thank God for that wall.

"I mean, you could have a kid for all I know. Or live with your mom. Or be a criminal. We should really get to know each other better."

She frowns. "Why? It's not like we're friends or anything."

He smiles up at her, eyes sparkling with something that's…not mischief. It almost scares her.

"But we could be."

She feels herself gaping at him. Feels her mind screaming at her that being friends with Richard Castle is in no way plausible, possible.

"I really have to correct the wide reading project," she says, and then she turns on her heel and leaves the room, her cup of coffee in hand.

He watches her walk away, the ever so slight, unintentional sway of her hips and the tenseness in the muscles of her back. He listens to the clicking of her shoes until it fades, inaudible, and then he follows. Leaving a respectful distance between them, of course, so she doesn't accuse him of anything.

He does have the perfect excuse, though. His classroom is right next to hers. And as much as he hates to admit it, he also has some work to correct before he leaves for the night.

She disappears under the threshold of her classroom, fingers curling around it for the briefest of moments. Her shoulders loosen, that much he can tell even through her blazer. And he could swear he hears her sigh it what sounds too much like relief for his taste.

When he walks by her door, only about halfway open, she's sitting at her computer, head buried in her palms, weight resting on her elbows. Her fingers are tracing the lines of her eyebrows, stretching the skin. Her legs are crossed under the desk, one bouncing like she's anxious. Nervous.

And then she mumbles something. Almost inaudible and not at all meant for his ears.

"I knew I should have stayed in law school."

His jaw all but hits the ground and he has to swallow back any noise of surprise, any questions that threaten to come out at the newfound information. She looks back up at her computer screen then, and he darts into his classroom, closing the door behind him, and, like an idiot, stares at the wall between them for at least a minute or two.

Law school.

But he knows that's not what she majored in, knows she doesn't have a law or pre-law degree, because the school is elite. And you need an English degree to teach English. Which means she has one. Not a law degree.

But she would make an excellent lawyer. Buttoned-up. To the point. Argumentative. Convincing. Hot.

He shakes his head and looks away from the white brick wall he was staring at, turning back to his computer, dropping into his chair and pulling up the last of his wide reading projects to correct. He does it quickly, the work rather mediocre and not meeting the length requirements, and leaves it with a B- before opening up his own word document.

It's not so much a story that comes to him this time, not words to create an exposition or, well, any part of a novel. But a person. A character with no name that he labels as KB, for now. If anyone asks, he'll tell them it's after his ex-girlfriend.

But it's not her that he's thinking about when he scribbled down a few traits.

KB:
- buttoned-up
- to the point
- argumentative
- obedient
- strict
- real
- hot
…Something happened.

Oops. I totally meant to post this like a week ago. But, uh, yeah. Hope it was worth the wait.