A/N: Can I just say at this point that I'm aware this story is a little like speed dating. It has to be faster than normal and a little beyond the scope of typical character behavior or we'd be here until next Christmas watching them fall in love. I guess, suspend your disbelief, if you have any, is what I'm saying.

Chapter 11 – The Cold Call

She has a nightmare of a week.

First off, she and Jurkowski get assigned to a special traffic-slash-crowd-control detail at the U.N., which is fine in itself, just mind-numbingly boring by the end of day one. The Climate Change Summit is due to last three days, and by day two Kate is coming down with a cold. The wind whips off the East River with a ferocity and relentlessness that is at the extreme end of "in-keeping with the time of year" but not with standing still for hours on end with only arm signals and commanding barks of "Move back, please," to keep you warm.

By night two she's shivering in her apartment with a blanket around her shoulders, a mug of hot tea dosed with lemon and honey cradled in her hands to keep her warm and a half-used packet of Tylenol lying beside her in bed. The book she's too exhausted and sniffly to even open plays mute companion to her; lying face down on the extra warm quilt she's added to weight the covers on top of her legs. Misery likes company, they say, and Kate Beckett chooses silence for hers.

Day three begins with an even bigger joy. Her period has arrived ahead of schedule, adding cramps and inconvenience to her shift in front of U.N. Headquarters, which basically means standing out on the street for most of the day waving blacked-out ministerial limousines through crowds of protesters, tourists and rubberneckers, hoping access to a bathroom will not become a major issue.

Jurkowski's a gem of a man, as partners go. He has a wife and a couple of daughters for starters, and seems attuned to things of a female nature that most men on the job are too thick-headed, unobservant, openly sexist or down right uncomfortable with to even notice, let alone acknowledge. He watches her struggle only briefly before suggesting she takes the first break; he brings her hot tea with lemon from the guard hut's tiny kitchen, knowing it will be better for her today that strong, bitter coffee; and he sends her fleeting little "chin up" smiles every now and then that get her through the eight and a half hour shift with her humanity and her sanity still intact. The burritos he brings them for lunch don't hurt either, and she resolves to pay him back for his kindness as soon as an opportunity opens up to allow her that chance. All-in-all it's a bad day, but not a terrible one as a cop's life goes.

She gets home around nine, dumps her bag and her jacket on a chair, and heads straight for the bathroom to begin filling the tub. Her bones ache, her skin is so tender that her clothes rasp over her body like sandpaper, and her head is pounding from the cold and the endless requirement to blow her nose. She feels like a wreck and looks even worse; this deep-held suspicion quickly confirmed by a wincing glance in her unhelpful mirror.

Steeping her achy, shivering self in hot water and a few cups of Epsom salt for half an hour really works wonders. She tops up the tub when the water cools, and then closes her eyes, resting her head and neck against a hand towel she has rolled up at one end of the bathtub. She's forgone a glass of wine tonight in favor of a Theraflu and some vitamin C. The sooner this cold is gone, the sooner she can indulge and feel more like herself again.

Slipping between fresh sheets feels magical; creamy cotton scented with vanilla and lavender from her dryer sheets has her drifting in no time. It's only ten when a chiming alert from her cell phone tugs her back to the surface, her eyes drooping, fingers clumsy over the keys as she tries to read the message.

It's from him.

She closes her eyes and then opens them again, slowly. The text envelope is still there, winking at her. She opens it carefully - like it's the Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory - and she holds her breath as she reads.

Hi, Kate. Just checking in. Hope your week's going well. Great to see you the other night. Any news on the chocolate thief? Rick.

She reads the message over several times, looking for something in the words (or even in the spaces in between) that will tell her what he's really thinking. She gave him time to settle back into a routine with his daughter after the other night. But truth be told, she's been hoping for a reason to get in touch with him ever since. His silence has been eating away at her, until now.

She sits up in bed, hugging the covers over her knees as she ponders a reasonable reply. Something that will convey her pleasure that he got in touch, while retaining at least some of her dignity as the cool girl; the slightly mysterious, self-contained, definitely not clingy, female cop he was attracted to as soon as they first met.

She types words – Hey, good to hear from you – that sound dull and pedestrian, and then she deletes. She growls at herself in the dark, her brain and wit stultified by cold medication. She types some more – How's Alexis? Chocolate thief still at large. Crappy week so far, want to make it better? – and then she deletes these achingly bad lines too, with her cheeks on fire and her face buried in a blanket.

She's screaming in frustration into her hypoallergenic, down alternative, medium density pillow when her cell phone chirps for a second time.

She freezes.

Sorry. Last message was total B.S. (forgive the language). Can't stop thinking about you. When can I call?

She's staring at the words, no ambiguity this time, when it chirps again.

Is now a good time? R

Kate blows her nose, wincing at the sting of tender, chapped skin around her nostrils, the lotion-infused, ultra soft, Kleenex facial tissues doing little to soothe her poor, abused flesh. She chews on her lip, worrying a piece of chapped skin while she weighs up her options. A part of her - the reserved, practical, slightly dark, very private, marginally uptight, exhausted part – has the urge to simply turn off her phone, roll over in bed and deal with the issue tomorrow. The other part – the intrigued, thoroughly wooed, slightly bewitched, playful, fangirl, risk-seeking part – wants to pull up her contacts and call him right now; just surprise the heck out of him and herself, have a late night conversation with someone completely out of her normal sphere, someone unconnected to the job or her small, grief-tainted circle of family and friends.

She jabs at a couple of buttons before she can debate with herself, and within seconds the phone is ringing on his end. His voice, when he answers, is like the balm she's been looking for all night. It's better than the bath or the cold meds or the hot drinks. It's familiar and yet excitingly new, and he's so sincere and unguarded in his pleasure at hearing from her that she forgets to apologize for her croaky voice or explain her snuffles and coughs until he brings it up.

"Hey," she says, smiling warmly in the hopes that he can hear it in her voice.

"Hey, yourself. So…this is a good time?"

"Apparently."

"You weren't…sleeping?"

"Kind of…well, dozing," she admits, drawing a tut-tut of disapproval from the other end of the line.

"Kate, I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry. I'd have got in touch earlier but Alexis has been taking longer to settle at night after the trip to L.A. and—"

"Hey, don't worry. It's fine," she assures him. "My day was kind of crappy anyway, so…so it's good to hear from you."

"It is?" he asks with a smile in his voice this time.

"Yes," she sings, before breaking off to cough.

"Are you okay? You sound a little…well, not like you."

"I have a stupid cold," she admits, blowing her nose after asking him to hang on for a second and putting the phone on mute.

"Oooo, you do sound a little rough, Officer Beckett. If I might be so bold."

"Yeah, well, I look even rougher," she replies, with a self-depreciating chuckle which leads to another fit of coughing.

"You poor thing. And I'm sure that's not true," Castle insists, once her coughing bout has died down to just the odd jag here and there. "How's your week been so far? Any more flak from the rank and file?"

"None, other than to ask why the gifts have suddenly stopped. They think you broke up with me."

Castle groans. "I apologize for that, but you did insist."

"And I'm still insistent. No gifts, means no teasing."

"Deal. And Halliday?"

"Giving me the evil eye since her supply of candy was cut off. It's like I was her dealer," laughs Kate. "But I'm sure she'll find some poor rookie to make her next project pretty soon. She did ask why you'd stopped visiting though."

"Really?"

"You like her, don't you?" teases Kate.

"No, but I appreciate the help she gave me in—"

He pauses, wondering how the hell to word this without annoying Kate.

"Think very carefully before you speak," warns Kate, enjoying his obvious struggle.

Castle laughs. "Oh, believe me, I am."

"If you say wooing, I'm hanging up right now."

"You don't like wooing?"

"No. I like wooing. I do. I just don't like talking about wooing. It's supposed to be…I don't know, some kind of art."

"An art? Really? The Art of Wooing," he announces in a booming, self-important voice. "Sounds like some kind of coffee table tome full of expensive black and white photographs. Or a self-help book. Pray tell, what makes wooing an art form, Ms Beckett?"

"You know…natural, almost invisible and maybe a little more…subtle?" she suggests, with a chesty chuckle.

This time Castle really laughs loudly, setting off a fit of coughing of his own. "My balloons weren't subtle enough for you?" he chokes out, laughing more when Kate joins in.

"I'm guessing subtle isn't one of your natural traits. You're a big statement kinda guy."

"I have my moments. What about you? What kind of woman is Kate Beckett?"

Silence, heavy as a fire blanket, smothers her words, rendering her mute for a moment or two.

Ah, the critical question, the one that makes her stomach drop and typically has her running for the nearest exit. But if she wants phone calls in the dark after work or any of the cheering up Rick Castle seems able to offer in abundance, then she needs to find a way past this question that is open and gives enough of herself that he might be satisfied with her answer and not be left feeling used.

"Kate? Still there?"

"Uh…yeah. Still here. Sorry. I was thinking."

"I'm not asking for your number," he jokes.

Kate frowns, misunderstanding the teasing remark. "You already have my number."

"No, I meant—"

She smacks herself on the forehead in embarrassment the second the penny drops. "Ah…oh, shit! I'm such an idiot. You meant that number."

"I'm not being fair. You're sick and it's getting late. We should save this chat for some other time."

"How about coffee after work?" she asks, no idea where this urge to blurt things out at this man has been coming from lately.

"Really?" asks Castle, sounding so delighted by the invitation that she wonders if he misunderstood. "You want to meet?"

"For coffee," she repeats, in case some drug-induced psychosis means she just invited him over for sex. Not that she's ruling out sleeping with him. She'd just rather do it when her nose looks less like Rudolph's and she's had a chance to shave her legs. "We could go to Sal's. It's only a couple of blocks from the Precinct. Small, quiet… But only if you have time," she rushes to add.

"Kate, for you I will make time. Tomorrow?"

"Alexis will be okay?"

"My mother can look after Alexis."

"Your mom, right." She doesn't remember hearing about his mom. Even the concept of "mother" still stabs her through the heart, a pain like jealousy or resentment that other people, people even older than her, should still have mothers to care for them when she doesn't. But it's a concept and it passes eventually.

"You'll let me know if you call in sick."

Kate laughs. "Rick, I have a cold. Short of a gunshot wound to the chest, back or abdomen, I have no business calling in sick."

"Damn," he mutters, and she can tell that he means to be funny.

"Why? What were you plotting?"

"Oh...lots of things," he admits, cryptically, letting her hear him grin.

"Such as?"

"Are we playing fantasy here?"

Her heart begins to speed up. "Try me," she murmurs, daring them both.

"Okaaaay. And these are just random, top-of-the-head suggestions," he feels the need to clarify.

"Spit it out. I'm sick. Who knows how long I have left," she giggles.

"You are one tough crowd."

"This is nothing. You should see me heckle at the Comedy Cellar."

"I might just have to do that some time. Go there often?"

"I smell stalling, Mr. Castle."

"Okay, okay. Right," he clears his throat. "How about…a gourmet picnic in the park? We stuff ourselves with goodies from Dean and Deluca, and then we lie on the grass in the sunshine until we fall asleep. Once the weather gets better, of course."

"Mm," Kate hums thoughtfully, encouraging him to come up with more. "Like the sound of that."

"Or we could sneak in to an afternoon screening at the Ziegfeld Theater. We can hold hands and whisper in the dark, eat popcorn and chocolate until we feel sick?"

"Holding hands already?" teases Kate, her face flushed a deep shade of red. "You might have to ask my father about that."

"I'd be honored to consult with your dad," Castle counters boldly.

Kate can't help laughing. "Okay, what else you got?" she asks, snuggling deeper under the covers, as if he's telling her a bedtime story, and in his own way he is.

"Maybe a drive out to the Hamptons? We could hunt for shells on the beach…"

Castle pauses to gauge if she's uncomfortable with this level of forward planning, but Kate urges him on in a breathless whisper. "Keep going."

"So…we walk the beach, then maybe have lunch out on the deck at The Lobster Café."

"Yum."

"Oh, you like that idea. And after, we drink beer on the dunes while we watch the sun set?"

"Any more?" she asks, biting her lip, never wanting this flow of ideas to end, even if all they ever end up being are fairytales to make her forget herself and this rotten cold.

But Castle's pipeline seems pretty full, and the suggestions flood out relentlessly, getting more and more definite, less and less hesitant, and increasingly bold, as she gives him free reign.

"I'd like us to cook dinner together one weekend after shopping for ingredients at the Greenmarket in Union Square."

"Dinner. You…you have a menu in mind?"

"Let's just go with what's in season, then maybe we can—"

"What?" whispers Kate, when he falters.

"We could read in bed until we fall asleep."

Kate breaks the silence first with a bold repost. "Just reading?" she asks, faking innocence.

Castle laughs, delighted and scandalized. "Naughty, Beckett! Then how about breakfast in bed after I wake you with a kiss?"

The silence that drifts down to settle over them this time is heated enough to scorch; full of tension and dangerous potential. Kate can feel her face flushing and her skin prickling, her nipples tighten, and her cold seems to be improving rapidly, as she encourages him to paint these scenarios for her in greater and greater detail. A part of her knows that they're only being this forward with one another because this is a phone call - they don't have to look into each other's eyes, they can just lets the words go free and then forget them in the morning if regret or shame sets in.

Only regret seems to be the last thing on Kate's mind.

"There's a lot of lying down going on in these imaginary setups of yours."

"Mm-hmm," hums Castle, smirking while he flirts some more. "You opposed to lying down? Some deep-seated objection to being prone you haven't shared with me yet? Are you demurring on religious, moral, legal or ethical grounds, Ms. Beckett, to ending up horizontal, flat...motionless?"

"You don't move if you're lying down…like…ever?" she teases back. "Just lay there dead as a fish, is that it?"

Castle seems surprised by her level of flirtation. He's enjoying it and he tells her so. "I like you like this. What cold medication are you taking?"

"Why?"

"So I can stock up for future use."

Kate's heart quickens at the implications of this straightforward explanation. "Theraflu."

"Flavor please?"

"Green Tea or…or I like the berry one too."

"Madam has made an excellent choice," he announces, in the style of a French sommelier.

Kate yawns loudly, unable to stifle the powerful reflex any longer, and suddenly suave, flirtatious Rick Castle turns into papa bear Castle without warning.

"Okay, time for you to sleep, young lady."

Kate is too exhausted to even protest. "I get off shift at four-thirty tomorrow. Give me time to change and get to Sal's. So, shall we say...meet up at five?"

"That's all the time you need?"

"Well, this isn't a date so…" she shrugs, teasing him, smiling as she awaits his reply to that particular challenge.

When he doesn't say anything at all she feels a sudden stab of anxiety, concern that she might have offended him or hurt his feelings after he's been so nice to her tonight.

"Rick, you there?"

"So…what should I wear for this non-date then?" he fires back.

This is Kate's turn to be speechless. Men have never consulted her on their choice of attire before, beyond maybe a tie for a job interview or color of shirt for a wedding. "Uh—"

"I'm just kidding," he lies, betraying some disappointment in his slightly hollow tone. But he soldiers on. "We can keep things casual as long as you like. No pressure. That's my new motto. I'm an older guy with a kid and you're—"

"Definitely interested in—" she interjects quickly, feeling the need to give him some grain of encouragement.

"What? Interested in what, Kate?" he presses, a little too eagerly.

"Spending time with you. Maybe seeing where this...yeah...that," she trails off, her courage failing her slightly at the last moment.

But Castle doesn't seem discouraged in the least. Kate imagines she hears him punching the air and the end of a smothered squeal of happiness that even has her grinning like crazy.

"You're pretty easy to please, you know that?" she tells him, highly amused.

"That's not what my ex-wife used to say."

"Yeah, well, her loss in my gain," admits Kate, again without thinking.

"That so?" grins Castle, calling her out of this unguarded slip of the tongue.

"God, I didn't quite think that through. Can I blame this entire conversation on the Theraflu?"

"I'd like to see you try. Did you not hear the recorded message at the start of the call?"

"What message?"

"Your call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance purposes," he parrots.

"Jackass," giggles Kate.

"Okay, maybe I made that last part up. But I'm not letting you off the hook entirely. You like me Kate Beckett and I like you. Tomorrow's little coffee klatch might not be a date, but—"

"I hear what you're saying. I'm just not fond of labels, okay? They tend to jinx stuff."

"What kind of labels?" asks Castle, truly intrigued.

Mother, mom, wife, daughter, thinks Kate, keeping these darker, heartbreaking thoughts to herself.

"I don't know. Just…like adding the word "date" to something brings some kind of pressure I'd rather not think about."

"I'm guessing you don't like boyfriend either."

"Or girlfriend."

"What about "other half"? Does that work for you?"

Kate can hear Castle giggling to himself after he says this, fully aware that he's out of order.

"Hanging up now," grins Kate, shaking her head.

"Sleep well, Officer Beckett. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow for our non-date date."

"You're pushing your luck, Rick Castle."

"Sweet dreams. And be safe out there."

"Night," Kate replies softly, finally ending the call with the biggest smile on her face.

She realizes, once she rolls onto her back, that she hasn't so much as sniffed in the last ten minutes. The guy just might be a miracle worker. He certainly has her looking forward to tomorrow with more enthusiasm and excitement than she has in a long, long time.

Sweet dreams indeed.

TBC...

Note: I case you hadn't guessed, I wrote this from the depths of a horrible cold. "Art" imitating life. If there are typos, blame the cold meds. :)