AU. Romance/Drama/Angst.
Special thanks to bravevulnerability for her inspiring story, 'Believing is Seeing'.
She gasps when she recognizes the person stepping off the elevator, hobbling in her direction.
Honestly, the last person she ever expected to see.
Someone who has been occupying her thoughts for the past year.
Twelve months of wondering if he's okay, wondering why he's disappeared from off the face of the earth as you can't find a single article written about him, or picture taken, since he killed off his lucrative Derrick Storm character.
Richard Edgar Castle.
His arm is linked through an effervescent, flamboyantly dressed, older red-head's and anyone who's a true Richard Castle fan would recognize her as his mother. He leans into her for support and must say something witty because she turns to him with a familiar smile, thin hand patting his lovingly.
Kate's indescribably drawn to him, honing in on his frame and even though she knows she's outwardly, rudely staring, she can't bring herself to look away.
He's an extremely good looking man, all six foot two of him, with eyes the color of the South Pacific ocean, but he's obviously changed... The expensive dress clothes hang a little loose on his large frame. The bigger-than-life vibrance which the tabloids portray is missing, the Casanova light dim. He favors his left leg, a brace encompassing it from thigh to ankle, leaning on his mother heavily.
As she watches him limp down the hall, lacking the cocky, brash nature he used to be so famous for, she can't help wondering for the hundredth time what trouble or tragedy befell him.
Her breath hitches when she realizes they're approaching her desk, his mother talking to him in dulcet tones. His hair is much longer than the photo on his book jackets, tendrils curling at the nape of his neck. The dark stubble smattering his face is thick, enhancing his dashing looks, but the Detective in her senses he just can't be bothered with grooming right now.
His eyes find hers for a brief moment and rapidly flit away, as if uncomfortable with his surroundings, - uncomfortable with her. The emptiness in their depths surprises and saddens her, a mix of emotions she's not used to feeling, - that damn wall of hers so high she wonders if she'll ever feel normal again.
The next moment he's standing in front of her, looking like a lost-little-boy, bereft, a man who's obviously hurting and in need of some help. His enormous blues reflecting something she can't quite decipher.
Her heart squeezes within her chest and she has to refrain from reaching out and touching him, trying to instill some of her inner confidence and light into him, an instinct to comfort him enveloping her.
God, what the hell happened to her favorite author?
His mother's voice, light and cheery, pulls her from the author, demanding the actress' attention.
"There's no possible way you can be Detective Beckett," she says with dramatic flair. "You're far too young for that title, dear."
Beckett isn't sure whether to be flattered or offended, but a blooming blush breaks free as Martha continues, "And might I add, far too beautiful to be relegated to the middle of the bull pen."
"Excuse me?" she chokes at the same moment Castle drones, "Mo - ther," in a chiding voice which reflects his embarrassment.
"Pardon my mother, Detective. She doesn't know the definition of tact."
She wasn't expecting his voice to be so deep or plainly dripping with sexual undertones, but she can't dwell on it because Martha quickly retorts, "I most certainly do. I just happen to be speaking the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Very fitting for a Precinct, don't you think?"
Kate likes her already. The outrageous, pumpkin-colored dress which screams, 'notice me' with every swish of movement and the painted blue eyes which reflect such pride and love for her son.
"Yes, I do," Beckett stands from the computer chair, holding her gaze. "I appreciate a forthright, honest person. Thank you for the compliment. Now, how can I help you, Mrs - ?"
"Just Miss. Miss Martha Rodgers and this is my son, Richard. I'm certainly hoping you can help us." Martha places Rick's hand on the back of the wooden chair sitting across from her desk. "My son has something very important to ask you and I believe it's best done in private. I'll leave you two alone. Richard, I'll wait for you downstairs in the lobby."
"Alright," he replies and after Martha turns away from them, he says in hushed tones, "You've been recommended, Detective Beckett, as the person I need to see."
"Please, have a seat," and she motions for him to sit down, but there's a commotion just outside the break room and he startles when the door slams shut, drawing his attention away from her.
His fingers nervously drum the back of the chair as he glances around at the hub-bub of the bull pen, eyes glazing over apprehensively.
She already knows what he's going to ask before the words even leave his mouth.
"I'd prefer to speak with you somewhere quiet... Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"
As she tugs on her lower lip in contemplation, he rushes on, "If now's a bad time, I can certainly come back later or set up an appointment for another day."
"No, no. Now's a good time. Follow me," and she spins in the opposite direction, heading towards the interrogation rooms.
After taking five steps away from him, her Armani heels clacking loudly on the precinct tile, she stops when she notices he's not following her. She glances back over her right shoulder, teasing, "You afraid to be alone with me?"
His quirky, over-the-top, I-can't-believe-that-just-happened smile causes her heart to bounce around in her chest.
"Afraid to be alone with a big, bad, beautiful cop?" he chuckles and his fingers curl around the top of the chair. "Not in a million years...I just... Must be a better actor than I originally thought if I can convince a Detective of your calibre that I can actually see."
Holy shit, and her eyes open wide with the realization... Richard Castle is blind.
It's obvious now when she thinks back on the signs, the way his arm was linked through his mother's, walking slightly behind her as she guided him, - his reaction to the sudden, obnoxious slamming of the break room door, - the way his eyes don't quite meet hers, his head tilted slightly to the side, the emptiness that lies within their depths, surrounded by shards of sharp intelligence and undoubtedly trauma.
No longer being able to see definitely counts as a traumatic event, especially for someone who's an author, but the Detective in her screams there's something more, - and possibly the reason he came to see her today.
She's quick on the uptake with her response, not missing a beat. "Must have been distracted by your famous mother and that exquisitely tailored $5,000.00 suit."
"Oh, really?" he teases. "You weren't distracted by my bum leg or rugged good looks?"
"Nothing of the sort," she quips. "I never even noticed your pretty-boy features."
He laughs then, choked and unnatural, like he hasn't laughed in a very long time. "Good thing because right now, primping is impossible and I have no way of knowing how I'm perceived by the opposite sex."
"Hmm. I have a feeling you know exactly how you affect the female population," and then she's reaching for his hand, placing it on her elbow, leading him away from her desk.
"Ahh, there's the Detective I've heard so much about... Intuitive and witty... You had me worried there for a minute." His voice oozes charm as he continues, "How good of a Detective are you if you didn't even notice that I'm blind?"
"Well, I wouldn't have missed it if you'd come in with a cane... By the way, do you have one or just prefer to keep others guessing, blind man?"
As his mouth blooms into a sexy-as-hell smile, she's thrilled she pegged him correctly, as the type of man who likes to keep it real, prefers dark humor over blatant sympathy.
"I do have one," he chuckles, "but that's a story for another day. One I'll tell you about if you agree to help me."
For a man with an injured leg, he surprises her when he's able to keep up with her long strides, and Jesus, it should be illegal for someone to smell that good, his edgy, with-just-a-hint-of-danger cologne infiltrating her senses.
"Agree to help an obviously wealthy invalid? Hmm, that might be a tough sale."
"I do like challenges," he huffs.
"You look like a man who thrives on them."
His next step falters and his hip bumps into hers, his fingers squeezing around her bicep reflexively. The jolt of electricity that passes between them unnerves her, makes her sound breathy, "I'm taking you into interrogation room three."
"Ooo," he chides, "I've never been interrogated before."
"I highly doubt that," she chuckles and then strolls him through the interrogation room. Her fingers trickle over his before releasing them from her elbow. She says smartly, "The chair's right in front of you," knowing inherently he prefers his independence and can't tolerate being 'babied'.
A blanket of guilt shrouds her as she can happily observe him unhindered, appreciate his masculinity without him knowing, - appreciate the thick, sandy, wavy, hair, (No, her fingers aren't itching to run through those touchable strands) notices the hawk like nose, the large lips that look as if they specialize in bringing pleasure to a woman, the fine, chiseled jaw, and combined with his killer-bedroom voice and every-woman-would-die-for-the-color-of-his-azure eyes, the man is seriously one hot package.
A damaged, hot package at that.
She fights down the thought, Damaged, just like you, Kate.
As she stares at his stoic nature, broad shoulders and straight back, she wonders if beneath the controlled, but fractured persona, hints of Casanova are longing to break free.
She finds it difficult to smother the fan girl as teenage Katie Beckett lurks just beneath the surface, hundreds of butterflies jumping in her abdomen as she sits across from the hunky author whose novels got her through the horrific loss of her mother.
More than words or just a story, his books became a lifeline to get her through those terrible years of disappointment, when all leads turned up dead end after dead end.
The butterflies still and diminish as she looks into the crystalline-blue depths of his eyes and there's only one word she can use to describe them.
Haunted.