Chapter Four- As a Friend

October 2009

It was fashion week in New York and Kate Beckett was noticeably distracted. In the months Rick Castle had been shadowing her, he had rarely seen her be less than the consummate professional, not when working a murder anyway. And even then she had started to soften toward him. Gracing him with a wry joke here and there, even engaging in the verbal banter that had come naturally to them. But there had been two times he had seen her this far off kilter.

The first had been when she had finally opened up to him about her mother's murder, how Johanna Beckett had been stabbed and left in an alley. How the police had never found her killer— the reason Beckett had become a cop. He could still see it. A lock of short brown hair had fallen to shield her face as she looked down at the ring, housed on the necklace that lived around her neck. He had yearned to reach out, brush the curtain and whatever tears it sheltered from his sight out of the way.

Then the second was a couple months later when he had made the mistake of investigating Johanna's death behind her daughter's back. There had been no hiding, no tears, that time. The look on her face— it had started in her eyes, spreading to her brow, her lips, the crimson tinge on the tops of her ears. He never wanted to be the cause of that look again. It was one of complete disappointment and betrayal. He had almost lost Kate Beckett then for a second time. Luckily she had forgiven him, eventually.

She was still slow to allow him to see anything past the barrier of brick and mortar she had erected between herself and the rest of the world, rarely stating anything personal about herself or her parents. He had been edging in gently but had learned not to play with dynamite. They were still on shaky ground after his gaff with Johanna's case.

But now, here they were, and Beckett seemed to be more interested in watching the live models than investigating the murder of their dead one, and his curiosity and writer's imagination were getting the better of him.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Hmm?" Beckett turned to him, her eyes trailing behind, still trained on a group of women gathered in one corner of the staging area.

"Well, I just assumed that you were completely straight, because, well, you know, look at you, but if you swing both ways, I would totally be okay with that too." He punctuated the statement with a wiggle of his eyebrows, an attempt to cover up the sinking feeling in his gut that maybe he and Kate Beckett really would never be more than a drunken dalliance.

She replied with a soft laugh, shaking her head, causing her light brown hair, which she had recently dyed and begun to grow out, to bounce around her shoulders. The lighter color made her look more like the Kate he had met in Los Angeles. Part of him couldn't help but wonder if he was the reason for the sudden change.

"First of all," she started, bumping her shoulder into him as they continued through the crowd. "I take the comment about me 'looking straight' as an offense to lesbians and straight women everywhere, and second of all, Castle, I am definitely straight. Everybody knows college doesn't count."

Castle's eyebrow rose impossibly higher at the implication of her last words, the tension in his stomach unraveling. "I sense a story there, Detective. Do tell. Pretty please with a cherry on top. Or would that be two cherries?"

Her jaw dropped as her eyes made a patented Beckett roll. "In your dreams, Castle. And as for the models, I was just seeing if anything looks suspicious."

"Uh huh," Castle replied, his eyes scrutinizing the back of her head as her gaze wandered once more. She may not be checking the women out for their... assets, but she was definitely holding something back.

"So, what about you, Beckett, you ever think about delving into the unforgiving world of modeling? You definitely have the height and look for it."

"And have to give up Remy's burgers? Please."

"Really? Never?"

Kate sighed. He knew that sigh. He was getting to her. "I was recruited once in high school but it wasn't for me. I was never that good at being told what to do and blindly following direction. I did a couple of shoots and that was it. Did make for a good paying summer job, though."

"Good." He nodded. Normally he would find the idea of a model hot, hell he had been thoroughly enjoying working this case if only for the view, but Kate Beckett deserved more than this world.

"Really, Castle? After six months of your comments and innuendo, I would have thought you would find the idea of me walking down the runway in strappy heels and lacy lingerie a dream come true."

"Well, I don't find it unappealing, and yes, that combination has been the star of a couple dreams..."

Castle!"

"You brought it up!"

He could hear the whine in his own voice and silently he cheered as she shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. Her attention fully focused on him instead of the women surrounding them and whatever she was looking for.

"Come on, Castle let's get out of here. Looking at all these emaciated women is making me hungry."

Castle nodded, allowing the change of topic without hesitation. He had learned quickly not to push Kate Beckett. It had been a couple months since she had accepted his apology from his last overstep and he had reclaimed his worn brown seat beside her desk, but he could still hear her silence and see the eerie clarity in her eye. The words were low off of her lips, no threats, no yelling, just calm.

Don't you ever come near me again.

He had complied and taken a silent vow to himself to never cross that line a second time. So, he would wait, and she would tell him when she was ready. He had faith in that, because whether she wanted to admit it or not, Kate Beckett had started to let him in.

It was stupid. So stupid. And yet Kate couldn't take her eyes off the models, searching every brown head, every gaunt face, looking for the one identical to hers. After six years of silence it was painfully obvious Grace didn't want anything to do with her, or their father, but still she looked. Grace was her family, her sister, her twin, and there was a weird cosmic connection between them that Kate couldn't bring herself to sever. Not yet.

Still, after so many years apart, every once in a while she would wake up in the middle of the night starving even after going to bed stuffed full of her favorite foods, and she couldn't help but wonder about the last time Grace had eaten. Other days she would wake up with a pounding headache and try to imagine how many martinis her sister had had for dinner the night before.

The martini had always been Grace's drink of choice, even when they were sixteen and Kate was chugging beer with the guys and kicking her legs up for keg stands, Grace would be mixing cocktails with her prim posse. She had always been the more glamorous of the two, more poised, proper. Grace had been the one to spend two hours in front of the mirror before school, making sure her hair and makeup were perfect, while Kate would roll out of bed five minutes before they had to leave, pull on a worn pair of jeans, Grateful Dead t-shirt and her favorite boots before running out the door.

It was amazing how two people with the same genetic makeup could be so universally different. But still the connection was there, so real, so tangible. Once, at a crime scene a year before, she had felt a pain like a dagger in her chest. It had been strong enough to knock her off balance, causing Esposito to reach out and catch her before she fell. It was a feeling she had felt once before in high school and Kate knew her sister had had her heart broken.

Here, now, she could feel it. Grace was there, somewhere in the sea of overly made up faces and fried hair, her sister had come home.

Kate laughed to herself, earning a sideways glance from the writer attempting to be inconspicuous beside her. This was ridiculous. She didn't even know what she would do if she came face to face with her sister after all these years. Even if she really was in the city, Grace had made it perfectly clear she never wanted to see Kate again.

None of them had handled Johanna's death with the grace the Beckett matriarch would have wanted. Jim had gotten lost in the bottle, Kate had fallen into her work and her obsessive desire for justice, and Grace had simply disappeared.

In the beginning Kate had thought she would come around. So she called every week, forced to leave a voicemail after the incessant ringing followed by a beep. Then the weeks turned into months and then to years, and she hadn't heard a peep in return. Their birthday was approaching in just over a month and Kate was already dreading those few second of anticipation and hope followed by the heartbreaking beep. But this was it; this was the year. They were turning 30, and this was the last time. They weren't children anymore and they would no longer be twenty-something's "in search of themselves". It was time to let go.

"You know, if you want to talk about it..."

Kate's eyes focused in on the white paper coffee cup that had magically appeared in front of her face, and a genuinely grateful smile flirted with her lips. She sighed as she reached out to accept the drink.

Somehow she had completely missed their entire walk from the depths of backstage to the lobby of the hall where they were currently stopped in front of the coffee cart.

She should probably tell him, he would find out eventually anyway. "It's a long story, Castle."

He perked up at that, and Beckett couldn't help it as her smile grew. He did have the uncanny ability to look like a curious puppy.

"I like long stories, it's why I chose novels over limericks and haikus."

"Katie!"

Kate froze, heart threatening to beat a hole in her chest in anticipation as she whipped around, eyes and smile wide, searching for the source of her name. Only her heart and smile faltered as a petite model brushed past her, letting out a squeal of excitement when she was pulled into an enthusiastic embrace by another woman.

"Let's get out of here, Castle," she said, silently berating herself for allowing her hopes up.

"Okay."

She couldn't bear to look at him, already hating the sympathy, which had replaced the curiosity in his voice. Beckett pressed her lips into a thin line as the bittersweet of the coffee washed over her tongue. The weight of her badge and gun, hidden under her jacket, tugged at her hip.

It would never be okay.

Grace rested against the brown brick wall, her back shielded from the harsh texture by the white leather of her jacket. She lifted the cup of black coffee to her lips, grimacing as the hot bitter liquid assaulted her taste buds. It was useless. The taste would never be less than abominable. Everyday for the past two years she had sipped the bold liquid hoping that today would be the day she would magically like it. 728 days later she was still waiting for that miracle.

The cup dropped to her side, hanging loosely from her fingertips as she stared at the building across the street. The 12th Precinct loomed over her, not that she had any intention of actually going in. Quite the opposite in fact, she didn't even know why she was here. Her mind wandered as she watched the uniform-clad officers hurry in and out the doors, some serious, others laughing, some leading perps in handcuffs in front of them. Despite herself, she searched every single face for one she recognized.

Lifting the coffee to her lips unconsciously, she spluttered when she took another sip. Her head lolled back against the wall. She really should just drop the habit altogether. The thought of real cream and sugar was sacrilege in her profession and their nutritionist, or den mother, as they called her, did not condone any form of artificial flavorings. This left the models with black coffee as their only source to satisfy their caffeine frenzy. And, unfortunately, running on little sleep and limited caloric intake, caffeine was a necessity.

With a sigh she pushed herself off the building and tossed the still half-full cup into a nearby trash bin. She really needed to leave. There was no reason for her to be here. She dreaded the idea of running into Kate and the longer she stayed, the higher the chances she would be spotted. Sparing the building one more glance, Grace turned to walk back down the road toward the convention hall, her meaningful strides showing more confidence than she felt.

Modern Fashion had offered her a permanent position in New York. It was a dream come true for any model, especially one who was inching closer and closer to her expiration date and therefore expulsion from the glossy pages of the magazine. Luckily she had been gifted with a "classic look" the photographers fawned over. But that would buy her a couple more years at most in the spotlight. A position behind the scenes was a dream come true, the only hope for a washed up model with nothing beyond a high school education. It was either that or a Hail Mary for a reality show in Japan.

But accepting the position meant moving back to New York, and that was impossible. She had tried to negotiate Los Angeles or Milan. Paris. Tokyo. Anywhere else. But Matilda King, queen of the Modern Fashion empire, had been unrelenting. She needed Grace at headquarters in The City or no deal. Part of Grace was flattered. King, a woman she had looked up to for years, wanted to be her mentor, but New York housed the ghosts that haunted her dreams. In the week she had been there they had only gotten worse. The other women had started to look at her, worry painting their expressions as she sat in a daze day after day in front of the mirror.

She was due to go back to Italy in two days time. She had never had a problem sleeping in Tuscany. She already knew she would be asleep the minute the train started to chug and sway through the fields of sunflowers, but until then she might have to break down and buy a couple of Tanya's sleeping pills. The woman was a walking pharmacy: drugs for any occasion.

Her phone vibrated as she turned the corner of the block, and she looked down to read the message. Wedge-clad feet worked on memory, nearing the entrance of the hall, as her fingers flew, typing her reply to Lisette's invitation to a party that night for one of the major designers. Marc Jacobs, Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein. One of them. It didn't matter. She made a mental note to herself to stop by the corner store for condoms. She needed to lose herself in something, someone.

She pushed through the rotating door, her attention still focused down, smirking at Lisette's crude reply.

"Grace?"

Grace's head shot up at the sound of her name. She knew that voice, but still her eyes grew wide as she took in the face identical to her own.

"Kate!" It seemed almost laughable now that she thought she could spend an entire week in New York City and not accidentally run into her sister, especially when she had heard about that poor model from Teddy Farrow's line. So, of course Kate was standing in front of her in heels that rivaled her own, with badge and gun on her hip, a hesitant smile on her face and Rick Castle at her side.

Wait.

"Rick?"

"Huh?"

The writer's stunned response came slightly delayed. Saucer-round eyes topped by ever-rising brows were complemented by the slow, steady drop of his jaw as his mouth opened to form a perfect "O." Only then did he blink, raising one hand to point first at Kate, then at Grace, then back at Kate.

Grace's mind tilted. Memories of slamming back against a hotel room door, Richard Castle's body pressed against hers, unrelenting as her knees threatened to give out. Drinking champagne from the bottle before he pried it from her fingers, pooling it in her navel, sipping it as her giggles mingled with his own drunken laughter, before he followed the path down.

She was never supposed to see him again, either of them. That was the point. Move forward; leave the past behind. But now they were both here. Standing in front of her. With each other. And she had…

Kate, my name is Kate.

"Shit."

A/N: And this is where it gets interesting. As always, thank you all for the kind words and support in reviews, Twitter and Tumblr. I appreciate every single one of you. Thank you to KC for the attention to detail and her diligent use of (not red) ink.