Chapter 9: In Too Deep
Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.
Calling this the morning after felt anachronistic, but technically he supposed the term applied. And god knows, he felt like it. After a simple phone call, he had no right to feel as languorous, buoyant, and persistently cheerful as he was, but he did. Because he had talked to Kate Beckett, had basked in the mellow wash of her voice, had traded words and thoughts with thoughtless ease, had listened as her voice grew soporific and husky as she fought sleep. Intimacy. That had been the conversational undercurrent, and he found himself combating the urge to read false motives, distorted meaning into the brief—nearly perfunctory, really—exchange that had taken place the night before. Despite the nebulous state of…whatever this was, the stretch and staying power of his sideways grin was making it difficult to finish his cereal, as did the infernal humming he couldn't quite seem to stifle—Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin. Happy, sappy, nostalgic tunes that spread through his veins, pouring out of him unbidden and unconsciously, keeping company with his happy, sappy, nostalgic thoughts. With Alexis still on the couch, heavily slumbering under the effects of some highly effective pharmaceutical cocktail, the loft felt abnormally tranquil. Milky ribbons of sunlight streamed in through the window panes, illuminating dust motes, catching the iridescent flecks and variegated striations in the granite island. Swinging his feet out, letting his heels thud back against the barstool's metal structural bar, he shoveled in another mouthful of softening, candied corn flakes, listening in hazy satisfaction as his spoon rebounded tinnily off of his porcelain bowl, pleasantly breaking the placid still. It was a good morning, he decided, despite the pandemonium of the night before.
Spoon halfway to his mouth, a knock issued from the front door, and he strode to his entryway, surprised to see his mother at the door. "It's a little early for you to be up and about," he remarked faintly, shushing her as she swept into the loft. Suddenly aware of his state of semi-disarray, he smoothed back his unkempt hair, and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, wicking away any lingering remnants of his cereal.
"Yes, well," Martha equivocated, voice equally subdued, the flutter of her hands jingling a suffusion of gaudy bangles as she lifted a polka dotted gift bag, "I brought a little something for Alexis. Several items in fact. Just various trivialities that I suspect may go a long way to lifting her beleaguered spirits."
"That's a thoughtful gesture," he conceded, throwing her a smile, nodding in the direction of the sofa as he drifted back to the island and his stagnating cereal. "She's not up yet. Out cold on the couch from the pain meds and the trauma of last night, I suspect. Hasn't stirred a bit this morning. But you're welcome to wait around. There's coffee made and orange juice in the fridge."
Breezing delicately around him in a flurry of fluttering sleeves and kaleidoscopic colors, she poured and fastidiously doctored a mug of steaming Colombian. "How's she faring, poor thing?"
"After a generous helping of ice cream last night, she seemed much improved," he muttered around his spoon, "and when she drifted off out here, I didn't have the heart to move her. Risk waking her."
Taking a leisurely sip, Martha regarded him imperiously, a singular eyebrow rising skyward in displeasure. "Those sugar flakes will rot your teeth out, Richard," she groused, "I don't care if they are magically delicious."
"Duly noted, though you're alluding to that delightful cereal of Gaelic descent—Lucky Charms—while these are Frosted Flakes, mother. Entirely different. The manufacturers make no holistic claims in their endorsement of the product, though I have it on good authority they're wholly incapable of harming me physically. Says right here on the box that they're 'great'. With three R's!" He shimmied his eyebrows meaningfully, contrarily shoveled in another spoonful.
"How reassuring," she scoffed petulantly, "but ringing endorsements aside, I still wish you wouldn't. Heaven knows what that detritus is doing to you internally." Treating her to a rebellious grin, he took another mouthful in a wordless taunt.
"Your sophomoric charms are profound, darling," she commented wryly, leaning her hip against the island, her vivid acrylic nails clicking out a rhythmic staccato on her glazed mug.
"Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my puerile internal cries, all proclaiming 'I'm an adult and I do what I want'," he teased genially, his smile thinning out at his mother's shrewd look of perusal. "What?"
"It's just…you're very cheerful this morning, darling," she remarked bemusedly, seemingly nonplussed by his good humor, "I don't think I've seen you this happy in…well, in quite a while now."
"Considering you only ever see me in the chaotic aftermath of one of your stage productions or as I'm hurriedly handing off Alexis, I hardly think that's a significant observation," he bristled slightly, feeling unaccountably criticized—and maybe a little cornered, even—by his mother's statement. Martha's forehead knitted together, nettled by his cool dismissal, and she opened her mouth for what he suspected to be a moderately blistering retort, before fall silent as Alexis stirred on the couch, waiting to continue until her movement subsided.
"Well, I'm sorry if you're offended by my appraisal of the impression you have given over the last few months," she allowed, sotto voce, "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I'm your mother. I know you, despite your claims to the contrary. Lately you've been dragging around the loft with a kicked puppy expression on your face—and don't you look at me that way, Richard. Your daughter has noticed it, too, so don't even think of ascribing this to my paranoia or tendency for histrionics, and—" she halted her reproof suddenly, narrowing her eyes sagaciously, sweeping him with a measuring look. "Do you have a woman here?"
"Why would I have a woman here, mother? It's the morning after a medical incident involving stitches took place and you think I took up with some woman after my kid knocked out on the couch? Really?" He huffed, indignant.
"Precisely! It's the morning after a traumatic incident in which Alexis received stitches, and you're…well, you're perplexingly chipper. Admittedly, a woman may not be the most valid supposition given the circumstances, but your behavior seems…well, it wouldn't be wholly unexpected. You do have rather a notorious reputation with the ladies, darling." Her lips tipped in a mollifying smile and she lifted her shoulders in an insouciant shrug, seemingly apologetic. Sighing, he pushed away the soggy, inedible remnants of his breakfast, teetering on the verge of indulgent understanding and affronted sensibility, though the former prevailed. Slightly overbearing and prying though she might be, she was still his mother, and he didn't doubt that this rather insulting discourse was well-intentioned. It just…chafed. And it served as a discomfiting reminder of who he was, reanimated those less-than-positive personal facets he was in the midst of revising, exchanging for more favorable constituents. Yeah, he could concede that, if only to himself. He just resented the forcible unearthing of what he considered his erstwhile self when he had broken new ground—though, granted, this transformation was fairly recent. So how could his mother know? She was operating on a limited understanding, a historical concept of who he was, and he couldn't necessarily fault her for that.
"Yes, well…no. I don't have a woman here, past predilections notwithstanding. And I'm…in the process of…turning over a proverbial new leaf. In regard to relationships, specifically," he admitted candidly, albeit stiltingly, "I think for my own sake, and for Alexis' sake, it's time to find something genuine. Somebody genuine."
Tilting her head, she considered him with warm eyes, lifting her mug to cradle it against her polychromatic chest. "I'm glad to hear it," she granted, her voice startled, and then after a beat proceeded in wry tones, "at the rate you were going, only an infectious disease, identity theft, or a severely misguided second marriage would have stopped you from man-whoring your way across all of Manhattan—upper and lower."
"Your confidence in my integrity is inspiring, mother," he snipped back, glowering.
"Warranted, you mean. Your integrity has long been specious, darling."
"Not anymore," he maintained stubbornly. "But just because I'm changing gears, so to speak, don't expect me to entirely write off romance."
"Of course not," she scoffed, taking another draw of her tepid coffee.
"Someday, when something, someone comes along, when fate intervenes and the universe conspires to bring me to the right woman, or the right woman to me…" he trailed off imprecisely, continuing the line of thought internally—the letters will prove the foundation of the relationship I was always meant to have. Oh, he startled at that, frowning, because…damnit. That was unanticipated. By him. Though clearly Weldon had astutely seen through his embarrassingly thin emotional smokescreen.
"Speaking of writing, and romance, and fate," Martha hummed, abruptly pulling him from his musings, her gaze sharply perceptive, "this new leaf wouldn't have anything to do with your mysterious pen pal, would it?"
Pinned beneath all of that keen, maternal perusal, he had an unsettling flash of insight into the panic hooked bait worms must experience. Exerting all his will to keep from squirming in discomfort, he shifted his gaze evasively, hedgingly. "My new leaf is independent of all postal influences. Or, mostly. I mean…the effect is nominal at best."
"How convincing," she sniffed, rolling her eyes at his weak prevarications. Yeah, not his finest attempt.
"Would it be so bad if it was? Due in part to Kate and the letters, I mean?" He demanded, trying not to let his defensiveness bleed through.
"No," she allowed, "but, as I said before, I just want you to be…careful sounds so patronizing."
"Then let's just skip the impending relational lecture."
"Wise. That's the word," she stated, firmly ignoring his attempted diversions. "I'm sure she's a lovely person, and if it's propelling you, helping you to turn leaves, then by all means, continue the correspondence. But I'm hoping you're not reading more into this than exists. At least on her end. I just don't want you to pigeonhole yourself. To turn up your nose at available, agreeable women because one day, something may or may not happen with your pen pal. It's the romantic equivalent of…Schroedinger's Cat, darling."
"Available. Agreeable. What scintillating recommendations." Standing, he took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it out with a surly sigh.
"Surely there must be a woman you know—and personally, in the real world, I mean—that struck your fancy at some point," she straightened, pivoted to face him, brows raising in exasperation.
"And I wish your certainty was the deciding factor in my relational prospects, but I've been in a rut lately, if I'm being honest."
"What about that delightful woman you met at the gala? Your editor—Gina, was it? She seemed like quite a catch, and interested to boot. Why not ask her out to lunch, see where things lead?" Oh, god. Matchmaking. Not only did he not need this added complication, but his mother was categorically lamentable as a matchmaker. In regards to her own love life as well as others she deigned needful of assistance.
"No," he replied flatly, cutting off the faucet's flow.
"For heaven's sake, why not?"
"Professionally, she's precisely what I need—controlling, regimented, horrifyingly meticulous. But personally? No, she…she hits all the wrong notes for me. Too…frigid." His mouth twisted in mild distaste at the recollection of their work related interactions, and he busied himself with wiping down the counter to avoid facing his mother.
"Frigid?" She exclaimed, taken aback. "Richard, the woman is stunning, has a flourishing career, and an IQ well out of the double digits—which is worlds better than your former paramours."
"Be that as it may, mother," he sighed, turning to confront her, soggy sponge still in hand, "she's not the woman for me."
"Alright, alright," she lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender, "it's your life, it's your choice. I just…if she's what you need professionally, despite your claims to the contrary, she may be an ideal romantic counterpart, darling. Opposites attract for a reason. Sameness in romance is tiresome, redundant even. But if you hold similar interests and want the same things out of life, approaching them from different angles is simply…complementary. It can be an asset, not a detriment."
At that moment, to his resounding relief, Alexis roused from her blanketed nest, raising up to peer owlishly at them over a surfeit of cushions. Affection surged up in him, drowning out the vestiges of consternation his mother had stirred up. Her bright hair protruded in a frowzy halo and the tender skin beneath her chin looked puffy, swollen around the edges of the gauze. "Morning," she greeted blearily, "what're you doing here, Grams?"
"I brought you some surprises!" Martha declared brightly, gathering her gift and floating over to the sofa, conversation fortunately adjourned for the moment.
Before she left, Martha came to stand in the threshold of his office, leaning against the door jamb, wearing an inscrutable expression. "I'm sorry," she murmured kindly, eyes penitent now, "if I pry overmuch, if I'm too pushy. I just…worry for you."
Fingers relaxing against the keyboard, he pushed away from the desk, from the engrossing snare of his latest Storm manuscript and gave her his full attention. "I know," he acknowledged, appreciating the apology, softening under her regard. "I know, and I feel like I should…explain a little more about Kate? About this really unconventional thing we have going on. We…talk. Actually talk, not just about trivial things. Deep subjects, dark personal divulgences. We…talk. And I feel understood. By her. In a way I haven't since…" since Kyra, he didn't say. "In a long time. And I hold no illusions that this is more than it is, we're just friends. Socially speaking, we're hardly acquainted. But in all the ways that count, we know each other."
He paused, flicked his eyes up to meet Martha's striking gaze, gave her a half smile. "She called me last night. That's why I was so sickeningly happy. And the conversation flowed as easily as the discourse in our letters. It was all seamless, this great, effortless verbal exchange. She was funny and intuitive and intelligent and…well, she could probably make a living doing voiceovers or commentating for audio books, her tone and timbre are smooth and rich—the audible equivalent of a smoky red blend. I mean…I don't know what to tell you, mother. Except for, I like her. Genuinely, profoundly like her. She—her words, the shape of her thoughts, it all—fascinates me."
"I truly understand that. I do," she responded, canting her head to one side in contemplation. "Just…make sure that it's her, who she is, that fascinates you. And not simply the mystery she embodies. I know how you love secrecy, the thrill of the discovery, but just think long and hard before continuing this. Make certain that the eventual discovery won't stamp out the bulk of your interest. You would never do it knowingly, I realize that. Your heart is good and you always mean well, darling. But…" you can be mercurial, you struggle to commit, you flit from woman to woman, he could almost hear all of the concerns she tactfully withheld.
"It's her, mother. I swear. Not the idea of her, not the enigma. Her. And I couldn't…I won't be the one to walk away from this," he insisted lowly, fervidly.
After a few charged beats of mutually tense scrutiny, she nodded once, tapped the doorframe with her nails, beamed at him, her eyes warm and soft. "Well, then. Look at you turning over leaves."
He spent the next two days in the throes of equivocation—to call or not to call. They hadn't discussed their successive communications, the form and fashion of them, what the boundaries were and where they lay. Was her midnight phone call an impulsive, independent occurrence, or had she intended it to establish new relational parameters, to set the tone of their future method of contact? Yeah, he kind of hated this. The uncertainty, this infernal dread that he, inevitably, would misstep and wreck it all to the sixth or seventh circle of hell. Given the way his most recent relationships had devolved, it seemed a predictable outcome—screwing up royally. New leaf, he coached himself, resolved that this time would be different, regardless of the direction their relationship took. Friendship, romance, or other, he was determined that this, that she, would remain in his life, an unshakeable source of permanence. At least, if he had anything to say about it. The fluidity and profundity of their conversations, the ease with which they clicked, it was a rarity. She was such a real thing in a world riddled with artifice.
Which he was all too reminded of as he mindlessly worked his way through a bland garden salad, enduring yet another long-winded lunch meeting with Gina in which he was struggling to retain any semblance of focus. With alarming enthusiasm, Gina reiterated the submission deadlines detailed in the exhaustive binder of Black Pawn materials displayed on the table, and he dully identified the different lettuces remaining in his bowl to while away the time—Romaine, Green Chard, Mizuna, Lollo Rosa, Radicchio. Oh, Arugula! Bitter, but refreshing, and so often regrettably eschewed in favor of milder counterparts like Butter Lettuce or Baby Spinach. A shame really.
"So we're in agreement? You're on track to have the final installment in for edits before then?" Gina's voice faded back in. Oh, shit. He had nothing intelligible to contribute, barring the identification of greens.
"Um…so, run that date by me one more time if you will? And maybe just start from the top to make sure I got it all," he enjoined with a sheepish, crooked grin.
Which apparently had an antithetical effect, because all his feeble attempt at charm earned him was a scathing look. Sighing, she pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her perfect, patrician nose, shook her head until her burnished curls swayed pendulously. "Rick, I know you hate the technicalities and esoteric, editorial details. I get it. But the sooner we get through this, the sooner you can get out of here, away from me, and back to writing. Or stalling, depending on the day."
He stiffened at the trace of accusation in her tone, features tightening. "I don't…want to get away from you, you realize. Just the pedantic nature of this." He gestured loosely at the documentation that littered their tabletop.
"Please," she snorted, flicked her eyes to him, quelling the weak denials that sat heavy in his mouth. "The blonde hair lulls people into a sense of complacency, but I'm no idiot. For whatever reason, you…dislike me. And that chafes, I won't lie. But above all I'm a professional. I can overlook it, but only if you can do me the courtesy of respecting my time and expertise, personal feelings aside."
Well, damn, he blinked. That had been painfully succinct, and, he acceded, grudgingly admirable. Until this conversation, Gina presented as little more than a polished cog in the Black Pawn corporate machine—cool, effective, superficial, vaguely obsequious. But that little flash of pain at her admission, that stiff-necked pride, her professional tenacity…it lent an edge of sincerity to her otherwise frigid repose. And now, as she surveyed him aloofly, he felt a pang of guilt. At having undervalued her humanity, her feelings. Being remote and perfectly coiffed didn't make her a bad person. But judging her so harshly for those traits did make him something of an ass.
Wincing, he cleared his throat, folded his hands and listed toward her. "I'm sorry seems a feeble expression, and I've been told by a reliable source that as a phrase it's practically lost all meaning for most people. But mine isn't an empty apology. I…truly am sorry for being such a jerk, and if you're willing, could we just…falling back on a tired aphorism, turn over a new leaf? I've been doing that a lot lately, and it seems to be playing out nicely so far."
An uncomfortable silence ensued as she drained the remnants of her white wine, gingerly set the long stemmed crystalware back on the tabletop, and gave a little sigh. "I'm not averse to the idea," she dipped her head in concession, paused, and then turned a smug smile on him. "But I do have several conditions."
"Okay, shoot," he shrugged, the picture of cool nonchalance, but inwardly fortified himself for whatever terms she laid out. God knows what creative literary punishments she had in store.
"First, as I mentioned before, you show me the proper level of respect—that befitting an associate who has nothing but your best interests and the perpetuity of your career in mind."
"Done. Absolutely," he acquiesced, "what else?"
"Two, you firmly, sans complaints, adhere to the schedule for chapter drafts and final submissions as well as the itinerary for in-state book readings and signings."
"Agreed, with the proviso that if a truly justifiable delay arises, you will be understanding enough to provide an extension."
"That's perfectly reasonable," she deferred, waiting a beat before forging ahead in something of a rush. "Third. You accompany me to the annual PEN Literary gala. Black Pawn politely, resolutely compelled me to attend, and I'm too busy to actively look for a date, frankly. So it's either you or I'm flying solo, Rick. What do you say?"
He stared at her, a little dazed by the request. "Do I…have a say? Or will a refusal ensure our professional relationship bears an unsettling resemblance to a Stephen King novel?"
"Well, no," she shrugged, huffing a little laugh, "I'm not stooping to blackmail. Yet. Consider the third condition more…request than stipulation."
"Gracious of you," he muttered, mentally turning the situation this way and that, examining it from various angles, mulling over his limited options. On the one hand, he had no interest in attending a third gala in as many months. In spending an entire evening with Gina, whose company he tolerated but failed to truly appreciate. In having to disinter his itchy tux from the back of his closet. In having to make potentially complicated—not to mention costly—babysitting arrangements for Alexis. It just…held no appeal, the idea. But conversely, he recognized the reparative potential of the night in question. Escorting Gina could go a long way toward smoothing over the relational snags he'd inflicted, like it or not, which would pave the way for far more tractable professional interactions. And his mother's concerned counsel played loop-like through his mind—differences could be a complement, not a detriment. If nothing more, it would be a relief to call her an ally, to cultivate a tenuous, albeit complementary, friendship. He could do that, he surmised.
"Okay. Yes, I'll accompany you," he finally assented, surprising himself, his tone gracious if not somewhat reserved.
"Excellent," she returned briskly, giving him a brief but brilliant smile, "I'll forward you all the information this evening. Black tie, of course. A little more than three weeks from today. And I'll inform Black Pawn that you plan on attending—tickets run rather extortionate, and I doubt they'll balk at footing the bill for Richard Castle. It's excellent representation, after all."
"Thank you," he said simply, and she raised her water glass in mute response.
Upon returning to the loft, he summarily paid Rina's quieter, but equally reliable childcare counterpart Annabeth, and indulged in a moment of decompression, ducking into his office to settle at his desk, to internally sift through the events of the meeting. Mid-mental-recap, Alexis appeared in his doorway, made her way over to him and wordlessly climbed into his lap, the featherlight weight of her head coming to rest against his chest. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and cherry Bonnebell lipgloss, and his heart clenched as he sought to capture the moment, etch it into his mind. "What did you and Annabeth do while I was gone?" He murmured against her French braid, clasping one of her sticky, diminutive hands in the broad expanse of his own.
"Well," she sighed, her slender shoulders knocking against his ribs, "we made grilled cheeses—she used the pepper jack cheese and banana peppers just like I asked. They were pretty good, but yours are better. And then we drew for a while and Annabeth showed me how to make better flowers—she's really good at drawing, dad. Said she wants to go to school for art one day. And then after that, I went to my room and read some of Peter Pan."
"Ah, the venerable Mr. Barrie," he smiled, feeling his anxieties unspool as she hummed inanely, as the sound resonated purr-like against his chest. "He made a beautiful world, didn't he. One comprised of faith, and trust, and pixie dust."
"Wish it were real," she groused and he huffed at that, hand coming up to cup the back of her head.
"And if only that was all it took to live well—faith, trust, magical dust. Instead, we have to put in a lot of hard work, and even then, despite our best efforts, we sometimes manage to mess things up. But you know, I think apologies are the real world version of pixie dust. They make everything better, make you a little…lighter," he finished slowly, realizing even as he spoke that such abstract concepts were likely a little high flown for an eight-year-old.
After a moment, she shifted in his lap, turning to peer at him with preternatural wisdom, all wide blue eyes and shrewd insight. "Did you talk to your friend?"
"The one I've been writing?" He clarified, and she frowned, nodded in response. "Yeah, I did. And you were right, you know. I apologized, we talked it out, and now we're okay."
The shallow indent between her eyes smoothed out at his admission. "That's really good."
"It is," he remarked brightly, catching her up in his arms as he stood, ignoring her giggled protests. "Now, what do you say we pop in a movie? Make some popcorn and just kick back, you and me?"
"Ice cream, too?" She pleaded, lacing her arms around his neck.
"At this rate you're gonna turn into a cone, kid," he informed her with mock concern, wishing he could freeze this moment, enamored by the impish smile she turned on him. "Ah, I guess I'd love you either way."
"Yup," she dipped her head in response, popping the word brightly, smacking it out like a piece of pink gum. "I know."
They spent the remainder of their day building a sumptuous blanket fort—high thread count sheets and woven cotton coverlets comprised the walls and ceilings, thick down comforters and overstuffed pillows cushioned the floor—and then burrowed themselves in the fluffy expanse they had crafted. At Alexis' request, ensconced in their cocoon with bowls of white cheddar popcorn, they worked their way through two Star Wars movies before finally adjourning for dinner, a simple affair—baked chicken and rice with a side of broccoli. After eating, it was a rapid descent into leveling exhaustion for Alexis, who still seemed to be under the rather potent effects of her pain meds, her body sluggishly filtering out the sedatives. Walking her through her bedtime ablutions, he managed to get her into bed, dressed in fresh nightclothes, hair and teeth brushed, face still damp from the attentions of a warm washcloth, fresh gauze square in place. And then the residual evening hours were his to spend, he sighed relievedly, wending his way into the inviting recesses of his dim study.
Fingers hovering over keys shiny from overuse, he strained for a sentence, Derek hovering in his mind's eye, begging for words, but the character trajectory proving too blurry to write into definition. Excellent. Just what he needed. A literary roadblock. Pushing away from his desk with a groan, he swiveled to peer out the window, dully surveying the neon technicolor specks of signage in the distance, the tangerine glow of street lamps, the oscillating wash of headlights from below. Tonight's outlook for plot headway was looking far from auspicious, inspiration glaringly absent. Drowned out by his motley thoughts, no doubt—Kate, Gina, his mother, galas, letters, phone calls. They distracted him, clouded his minded, crowded out Storm and dampened the igniting energy that enabled him to breathe believable life into his characters.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned back to his desk, smoothed his palms over the cool wood, fingers tracing the minute rise and fall of the dark grain. What he really wanted was to talk to Kate, to let the honeyed alto of her voice wash over him again, to discuss inanities and complexities both until his voice grew husky from overuse. But she might not want that, he grimaced. Might not appreciate the intrusion of an unsolicited phone call. And he just…hesitated. To presume. So rather than call her up the way he wanted, he reached for a crisp sheet of stationary, and let his thoughts flow unhampered through a marble fountain pen.
Dear Kate,
Hearing from you the other day proved a much needed surprise—I'm not certain if you could infer my thoughts from our brief conversation, but I was, in a word, elated. That being said, never allow odd hours or lingering reservations to prevent you from calling. If circumstances permit, I'll always answer. And in regards to our titillating phone exchange, what does this all mean moving forward? If that request for clarification paints me in a clingy, needy light, that's truly unfortunate. It's less the junior high girl in me, and more the tentative, over-cautious man that wants to ensure I don't tread on your proverbial toes. If calling me was a one-time thing, if you simply needed the comfort of another human voice or to substantiate my existence, I understand and will refrain from reciprocating your call. But, I…enjoyed it. Which seems a lackluster term, I know. Far more than enjoyed it, really. Talking with you felt unaffected, startlingly effortless, as though I'd known you for years and not just weeks, as though we were picking up the threads of a previous conversation and not starting from relational ground zero. If you're amenable, let me know. I want to call, but more than that, I don't want to push.
In terms of what I've been up to lately—the pace of my life has always been rather breakneck, but over the past few days it's also increased in complication. My daughter had a relatively minor accident which required stitches, my mother is determined to direct the proceedings of my personal life, professionally I'm operating under some fairly strenuous deadlines, and my coworker—in whom I have no interest—artfully negotiated (i.e. coerced) my escort to a formal event. If it sounds like I'm complaining, it's because I am. My sincere apologies on that front—that you're on the receiving end of my whinging. When I'm certain you have far more constructive ways of investing your time! And far more serious personal matters to which you're attending. Speaking to that end, I hope it's not untoward to ask about your father. He often comes to mind—though, admittedly, you feature with greater frequency—and I hope he's improving. For his sake as well as your own.
On an off note, my daughter is in the midst of Neverland, reading about the escapades of the Lost Boys and their figurehead, the inimitable Peter Pan. I'm not certain if you know anything about the novel's author, J.M. Barrie, but his life was comprised of a series of tragic losses—his venerated older brother, his cuckolding wife, the cancer-stricken love of his life, several of his beloved wards, children who happened to be his inspiration for the Lost Boys. The man invested and lost, invested and lost, put his heart on the line time after time only to have it quashed beneath the heel of fate. And despite all of that, he managed to produce one of the most innocent, enchantingly childlike stories the world has seen to date. It inscribes its way into the hearts of readers because it represents everything we ever wanted and was lost to us—magic, the perpetuity of youth, hope, separation from the world. His emotional resilience astounds me, frankly, and I doubt if I could respond in the same way, with the same quiet forbearance. In regards to the title character of his paramount work, Barrie was once quoted as saying that "I made Peter by rubbing the five of you together, as savages with two sticks produce a flame", 'the five of you' being, of course, the Davies children, of whom he would one day acquire custody. Speaking for myself, i long for a similar inspiration, for a spark to reanimate my professional life. My daughter is a constant source of joy, of childish enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonderment. But that doesn't jive with the nature of my work. I trust that I'll find it one day, that spark. And I'll go so far as to say that I would classify you as a spark—a fresh, glimmering ember in the sameness that, until now, colored my personal life. It's all too easy to become disenchanted with our existence, and I want to…thank you. For reintroducing a sense of magic to mine. So, if I may, what's your spark? What ignites you? Drives you to pursue success, achieve your ambitions? What propelled you to Stanford, pushed you beyond, to where you are now?
It's hideously late, and I have a thing in the morning, so I'll cut this a bit short. But I'll leave you with a quote of appreciation, a reminder of how much I appreciate your friendship—your authenticity—especially in a sphere where prominence equates to personal worth, one that's filled with fawning, insincere individuals more interested in gaining a beneficial association than crafting a genuine relationship. It's an extract to which I relate, having a little more of the Pan in me than is healthy, and more recognition than I deserve. Or even desire.
"Stars are beautiful, but they may not take part in anything, they must just look on forever."
Fame isn't all its cut out to be, so thank you for grounding me. For providing some much needed normalcy. For forgiving me the concealment of my name. And for allowing me to take part in your life, even if remotely.
Yours,
Alex
P.S.
I'm not self-identifying as 'beautiful', so please, do me a favor? Don't take that statement of perceived vanity and run with it—I'm not excluded because I'm a vain, preening peacock, I swear.
After dropping the letter in the post the following morning, he spent the next several days busying himself—laboriously hammering out meager portions of the impending chapter draft, entertaining Alexis with day trips and exotic culinary creations, attending a promotional evening event arranged by Gina. And a week or so later, headed home from dropping Alexis at a play date, summarily collecting the mail, he finally got his response. Tamping down the thrill that swept through him, reserving his anticipation for later, he returned to the loft and poured himself into writing for the duration of the afternoon, only stopping to fetch his kid, who was abuzz with the glee of companionship and a popsicle-facilitated sugar rush belied by blue-ringed lips. Punctuating Alexis' narrative of her activities with outlandish questions and giggle-eliciting comments, they made swift time back to Broome St., and peremptorily ordered a double cheese with olives and pepperoni from Lombardi's. With Alexis languishing on the couch in the drowsy throes of an impending sugar coma, Rick gratefully seized his window, quietly palmed the unopened letter, and padded softly to his desk.
Flicking open the envelope flap, he sank into his chair and scanned the pithy response with a wry smile.
Dear Alex,
No one excludes people for being vain, preening peacocks, you know? They exclude people who falsely attest to being vain, preening peacocks. The other peacocks can see right through the pretense. Maybe you're not a peacock at all. Perhaps that's the issue at play. Wasn't it also Barrie that said "if you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing"? You've exercised authenticity with me—barring your name, of course—so rather than preening, or flying, as it were, why not try a different tack? Change the soundtrack to your life? Follow the beat of your own drum?
And as to my spark—as so mystifyingly inscribed in my long-lost book, it's truth. Justice. That's the spark that lights my way and drives me.
Renoir, Peter Pan, Rorschach, Peacock, R.A. Rodgers, Alex, or other—feel free to call me.
Kate
What a charge, he grinned. So forthright, a fantastic continuance of his references and motifs. Carefully refolding the paper, he stowed her response with the other missives, fighting to calm the surging cadence of his pulse. A rapid tempo instigated by the thought of tonight, of the second call.
Between the two of them, he and Alexis polished off all but a slice of the pizza—though, full disclosure, the preponderance of polishing had fallen to him. Sufficiently full of pizza, they played a game of Monopoly Jr. until Alexis' teary eyed, tremor-inducing yawns provided a natural conclusion to the evening. After ensconcing her sleepy, pajama-clad form in in the plush twin bed, Rick poured himself a tumbler of fragrant, amber scotch and settled in his office chair. He withdrew his cell from the soft, worn pocket of his jeans, and after a steadying draw of air, dialed her number. Waited tautly as the phone warbled, hand tightening on the phone at the telltale crackle, a shuffle on the other line, a sharp greeting, her warm tone honed to something fierce—"Beckett."
Oh, that was hot. All flagrant professionalism and heat. He liked it.
"I know," he rejoined, and the speed with which her energy shifted was nearly palpable.
"Alex," all breathy excitement, quietly pleased.
"Yeah, I'm—sorry it took me so long to make contact. With the letter, seesawing in regards to the phone call."
"No," she cut in, voice certain, "it's all—it's all good. You called. And the consideration you showed is nice."
"Unexpected, you mean," he laughed as she sputtered something inarticulate before harnessing her thoughts.
"Well, historically you've been the instigator in this whole…exchange. And it stood to reason the phone calls would be no different. I just—I just assumed. And I should have been more direct."
"So, this is okay, then? Carte blanche on phone calls?" He elucidated, sipping at his scotch, savoring the bloom of warmth that seared through his throat, his chest, his stomach. "'Cause I like the freedom it affords. And it's a sight more expedient than post—even if letters are the OG in regards to communication."
"There is a certain winsome quality to letter-writing," the purr of her voice ratcheted up the heat initiated by his Glenmorangie, and he swallowed convulsively.
"For sure," he concurred, tone suddenly a little husky, "and don't think simply because we've kicked off these phone conversations that I'll totally eliminate written correspondences. At least not on my part."
"Good. That's…I'm glad."
A beat of collective silence passed, comfortable for all it was wordless. "I…I didn't think to even ask," he began, shattering the still, "but is this a good time? Are you—did I interrupt anything?"
"I needed the break," she admitted following the sibilant roar of a heavy sigh. A pause, and then she pushed ahead. "The—the subject matter of the…case I'm currently working on has been…" she trailed off, and he delicately retrieved the threads.
"Difficult?" A weary hum of response followed his supposition.
"Harrowing," she refined tightly. "Not enough sleep, either, which you know…it amplifies everything. Exponentially increases your frustration, decreases your coping skills."
"You're clearly capable of shouldering whatever this is," he asserted, concerned for a moment she might bristle at the exhortation, and then relieved at her soft response, words laced with gratitude.
"Thanks for not saying sorry."
"We went over this. It's old hat, really. Kate 101. Buzzword numero uno. So, no, I won't say sorry, but I will say…I hope things improve for you."
"Me, too," she breathed out, her fatigue bleeding through the line now.
God, he wished they were conducting this discussion face-to-face. His enterprising author's mind was doing that inventive thing, filling in the gaps with substitutional provisions. Just like he'd done with Sherri. Words converging to involuntarily daub out a technicolor portrait of her face, her form. It was all hazy pastels, blurred at the edges like a diaphanous watercolor. But just from her voice, he envisioned dark hair and eyes, a prima ballerina with moto boots and smoky eyeliner, a captivating study in contradictions.
And before he could reconsider, he broached the niggling thought cautiously, though with far greater equanimity than he felt. "Is it…would you consider it forward if I asked for a physical description?"
"Alex, is that some covert way of asking what I'm wearing?" She tossed back coyly, the quick rejoinder pulling his lips into a smirk. He hadn't imagined this facet of her personality, hadn't anticipated it, but he savored it. Her voice was all sultry charm and flirtation, wreaking exquisite havoc on his calm.
"So, you're gonna play it that way, huh?"
"Play it what way?" She hedged teasingly, shamelessly baiting him.
"Well, then," he huffed a laugh, "allow me to lead by example. I'm…not bad. At least, not that I've been told. 'Ruggedly handsome' is the descriptor often bandied about. Tall." He added as an afterthought, because perplexingly, that trait seemed especially relevant for many women. Tall, hyperactive, and wordy—what a winning combination.
"Tall. How exotic."
The way that word fluidly rolled off her tongue—exotic—skidded along the length of his spine, dazed him a little, prompted words without forethought. "Like a giraffe?"
"What?" She snorted, and he felt a flush radiate from his neck to his hairline.
"Never mind," he recanted, flustered at his seeming inability to finesse his way through this exchange. Wondering where and when his verbal sophistication had deserted him. "Pinball brain—sometimes words just pop out and my mouth is too slow to keep pace with mind, and then I say things like 'giraffe'. Inexplicably. Just…one thought to the next to the next, you know? So, yeah. 'Tall', because…Giraffes have gotta—they've gotta be pretty damn tall to reach those Acacia trees. And 'exotic' because…Africa."
Damnit, Rick.
"Anyways. Tall," he repeated woodenly, fully aware he'd just exhibited all the conversational agility of a panda and fighting back a wave of self-loathing for it. "Tell me something. About yourself?"
"Also tall," she drawled amusedly, and he could hear her stretch of a grin in her words. "Also exotic. And…reasonably attractive."
"That's what you're going with? That's the glowing descriptor bandied about in connection with your name?" He inquired dryly, taking a generous mouthful of scotch to soothe his fraying nerves.
"Well, more often than not it's phrases like 'How long have you been modeling?' and 'Sweet Jesus, would you look at that hot piece of insert-crude-anatomical-term-here', but who's keeping track?"
"Me," he admitted hoarsely, ruefully considering the as-of-yet ineffectual liquor. Nothing. He was still red-faced, still fighting a stomachful of butterflies the size of pigeons.
Laughing at his confession, she justified her initial hesitation. "Repeating such ringing endorsements of my person seemed self-promoting. But I'm talking to Mr. Ruggedly Handsome, so I guess I shouldn't worry unduly about humbleness of spirit, huh?"
"Right," he barked laughingly, passed a clammy palm along the back of his feverish neck. "I just…was wondering. Since we talk. Frequently. And as I'm operating on the assumption that our talks will continue, it's just…nice to know something corporeal to solidify my very nebulous idea of you. The fuzzy image in my head."
"And what do you see?" She prompted quietly.
"Hmm…" his eyes drifted shut, conjuring up that pointillist vision from before, tracing the blowsy edges of his blind postulation. "How do I see you? Elegant. Clean lines and sophistication. A luminous presence despite your mysterious reserve, one that draws people magnetically. Moth-like to some inner flame. When you speak, you garner attention—your voice is…sonorous, French-cocoa-rich. Like a slow drip coffee or ribbons of caramel. But that's not why heads turn at your words, why ears perk, attuned to what you have to say. Your sentences are laden with no small measure of hard-won wisdom, an understanding that bespeaks pain. It's an undercurrent, it's just a trace, but it enables you to empathize. And others sense that, feel it in your parlance. I want to say you're beautiful—your words alone determined that identifier, at least for me—but physically, societally, I think you're beautiful, too. Despite your deftly humorous attempts at deflection, I think you know you're beautiful, but you don't capitalize on your looks. Not when the shape of your mind, the profile of your inner strength, the delicacy of your wit and resilience are rarer assets by far. And because you have too much pride in who you are to let that be your defining quality. All the same, I envision…dark eyes. Sad, but fervent. Full of that truth you chase. Your spark. And dark hair, to match the hue of your voice. Rich, shadowy. And…yeah. That's what I see. Who I see."
The line was severe in its silence, not even her breaths to pepper the still. As he started to form her name, make certain she was still there, her voice crackled to life. "You should be a writer," she murmured, subdued, and he swallowed back the admission that hung heavy in his throat.
"Kind of you," was the inanity he settled on, feeling the prickling edges of guilt meander lazily through his gut.
"It's always fascinating," she prevaricated, "seeing yourself through someone else's eyes. Or ears, in this case."
"True, that. Jumping back to that case you mentioned," he digressed, seizing on a stray thought, "is there any way you would…tell me more about the particulars of what it is you do? I think it's safe to assume law of some sort, though I can't determine which sub-branch—judicial or law enforcement. Anyways, it's all speculation. If you're not comfortable sharing—"
"Detective," she chimed in, the divulgence a little hushed but stunning him speechless all the same. "And that's all I'll say for now. No details on which department or precinct."
"That's—" he stammered, struggling to marshal his thoughts, "—well, it's hot. Is what I was going to say. But beyond that, it's—it's an impressive feat. You're…well, I'm speculating again, but you seem young for detective work." The noncommittal hum she returned for his remark merely served to pique his interest further, of course. "Fascinating. An unpresuming law enforcement wunderkind who rocketed from Stanford to…you know, I was never made privy to the nature of your departure. Graduation, matriculation…exasperation."
Only silence in response.
"Yet another mystery," he intoned appreciatively. "And let me just say, there's a spellbinding personal story somewhere in there—likely threaded through the entirety of your academic and professional vocations. Of why someone with your obvious intellect and ambition would choose law enforcement as opposed to a higher profile career, one with more visibility, more recognition."
For a long moment, he wasn't certain she'd even respond, but her voice finally issued through the earpiece, striated with that enigmatic edge he loved, "Stick around long enough and maybe you'll find out."
"Like I said, Kate—I'm still here. And fully planning on overstaying my welcome."
"I can live with that," he had to strain to catch the words, the hushed acceptance.
"Are you sure you don't want to know?" He inquired, fingers skimming the etched glass of his tumbler. "If you want to know my name, just…say the word."
"I can live without that." This statement came out more confident, tone bolder.
"But you'll let me know? When you can't? Without, I mean."
"Yes," she conceded, and he bit back a sigh, tried to smother the nervousness that always accompanied the thought of revealing his name. The diverse array of reactions it had the potential to inspire.
"Good. I'm…I didn't know how much I needed this. The conversation." You, his mind supplied, prompting a spike in his already thudding pulse.
"I needed this, too," she disclosed simply, and he then heard her shifting, shuffling on the other line, a man's gravelly voice muffled in the background. Kate responding. And then she was back, murmuring into the mouthpiece. "Hey, Alex, I've…work. I've gotta—"
"Go," he told her lightly, his words warm, "kick ass now and we'll pick this back up some other time."
"Until later," she assured coolly, a reserve in her tone that he knew she must employ in the workplace, a hint of steel where there'd only been informality, amity before. And then the line went dead, and a sigh shuddered through him, and he was left wishing inanely for a roadmap, for some certainty. Wishing that he knew where this wending, winding thing would lead.
Because damnit, he groaned, Weldon was right. He was already in so deep. Thoroughly subsumed in the idea of Kate Beckett. Far, far too deep.
Leagues and fathoms and chasms deep.
A/N:
Another long one! This took longer than anticipated—I'm in the midst of packing for an out-of-state move, and it tends to blot out the peripheral aspects of life! This installment is almost entirely pure fluff. Like, marshmallows have nothing on this chapter. But you guys suffer like champs through Kate's darker, angstier POVs, and I'm hoping this offsets the intensity of the other chapters.
If this update was a little ambling or slow, sorry about that! I had a bit of trouble determining where it should end up—again, not wholly satisfied, but I tend toward unhealthy levels of perfectionism, I know. Despite all that, I managed to find something of a stable plot-thread and semi-conclusion. Hallelujah. As always, you guys are amazing, and I appreciate every review, favorite, and follow. Thanks for adding to the joy of writing this story!
Up Next...Kate updates Lanie, makes contact with her father, works the case, talks more with Alex, and artfully dances around Sorenson's blatant interest.