Castle is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.
Originally written for NaNoWriMo 2018. Revised in April 2022.
Paper Hearts
Chapter 1
Behind every picture hides the true story. You just have to be willing to look.
— Richard Castle, Heat Wave
He notices her the second she walks into the Academy training room.
It'd have been hard not to notice her, actually, and Esposito isn't the only one who does. She's tall and slender, her coloring golden brown with hazel eyes, tanned skin and sun-streaked hair. Gorgeous. And young. Fresh out of college, probably. Had a chance to spend one last summer goofing off before it was time to get a real job.
Probably won't make it past the first day or two.
But she strides into the room with a confidence he wouldn't expect from someone so wet behind the ears, looking neither right nor left before taking the empty seat next to him. She doesn't ask for permission first.
That's fine with him; it just means he won't have a seatmate after she washes out. Still, there's no need to be rude, so he sticks out a hand. "Javier Esposito."
There's a brief moment before she responds, a second when she seems to be blinking herself back to reality. Great. An airhead. But her handshake is firm without being crushing, which isn't anywhere near what he'd expected. "Kate Beckett."
"Just comin' out of school, Beckett?"
"Yeah," she answers, and her tone's clipped. He gets the message: she doesn't want to answer any questions. Later, he tells himself that was what made him take a second look at her, a longer one where he examines her face a little more closely. That second look is when he sees it: intensity hidden behind a carefully constructed poker face, a desire to keep eye contact as brief as possible.
She hides it well, but he saw it too many times in Iraq. Something is haunting her soul, putting far too many shadows into her eyes. She's young; he's not wrong about that. She still has a lot to learn. But she's neither naïve nor inexperienced, and she knows what she's getting into with the Academy.
That's when he knows she won't wash out.
He might've been the first to figure out Beckett wasn't some green, bright-eyed kid, but by the end of the first week everyone knows it. She asks pointed questions, challenging their instructors at every opportunity. She pushes herself almost to collapse during PT, but even when she's shaking and stumbling with exhaustion, pale underneath her tan, she forces herself to keep going and finish the course.
When she doesn't qualify with her weapon the first time around, she stays and practices, over and over, late into the night. The next day, she passes her second attempt with a near-perfect score.
Nobody's surprised, at the end of the week, to see her name at the top of the class rankings.
Nor is anyone really all that surprised when she politely declines the invitation to go out and decompress along Seventh Street. You don't get to be that good, that young, without being driven by something deep down inside. The kind of something that can't let you completely relax, not ever, not even for a moment.
But something about the way she does it catches Esposito's attention. There's more to her story than just not being interested in crawling through bars. Something's actually upsetting her.
That's why he stays behind, lingering in the classroom well after they've been dismissed, watching her start studying ahead so she can get on the next week's training.
She looks up after a while. "What." It's not a question.
"Is it the alcohol?" he asks. "Or the bars?"
Her eyes narrow. "I'm just not interested."
"Come on, Beckett. You can't just go home and pretend like this wasn't a hell of a week."
"Maybe you can't, but I can."
Esposito folds his arms. "You keep yourself wrapped up that tight, you'll implode sooner or later."
"Mind your own business."
"Not that simple."
"It is if I want it to be."
"No," he tells her. "It's not. Because if you're that wound up, you can't be trusted on the beat. Nobody wants a backup who's unstable and might blow up anytime over some small thing they don't even know is coming. You don't have to go out and drink, but if you don't do something to settle your system, you'll eat yourself alive." He leans over so she can't avoid his eyes. "So what's that going to be?"
"What do you care?"
It's a valid question, and at first, he's irritated because he can't answer it. Then he realizes what she's really trying to do. "Don't change the subject. Answer me. What are you doing tonight to wind yourself down?"
She sighs. "Checking on a relative. Then sleeping."
"Not good enough. You need to do more than that."
Perhaps it's because there's no one else in the classroom by now, but when her temper flares, she doesn't bother to rein it in. "Back the hell off, Esposito! Just because I'm young doesn't mean I need a freaking babysitter!"
"I didn't say you did!" he snaps back. "Just that you have to do something, something that actually demands your attention. At least eat a decent meal, for God's sake. There's a pretty good Italian place around the corner. We can grab some."
"I'll cook for my father."
"Let your mother do it."
That statement only makes her angrier. "I said back the hell off!"
"Fine. You can get them both some take-out, if your mother never learned how to cook or something."
Her hand hits the table hard, the sound echoing in the empty room. "My mother can't cook for us! She's dead!"
The moment it comes out of her mouth, her anger stops cold. She's breathing hard now, surprise and disgust plain in her expression. Her poker face is completely gone for several long moments, and any number of expressions show before she manages to regain it.
"I'm sorry," she finally says. Her tone is calm, controlled. Too steady. "But I do the cooking at home. And while I appreciate your interest —"
"Don't," he interrupts. "Your mother's not just dead, is she? She was murdered, and that's why you're here. Isn't it? How long ago did it happen?"
"That's not really any of your concern," she tells him.
"The hell it isn't! Look at me!" When she does, giving him too-bland eyes to match her too-even voice, he continues. "Post-traumatic stress is real, Beckett. If you're in the middle of that, it means we have a problem."
"I'm not."
"Denial."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to. You already did, with that outburst." Now that he's put the pieces together, the signs are obvious. "But it explains a lot. Why you're jumpy all the time, and push yourself so damn hard to be perfect. Why I've never seen you laugh, not even on Wednesday when D'Amico spilled that water all over himself."
"So? None of that means anything."
"You really think that?"
"What are you, a shrink? Or does it just take one to know one?"
"It takes one to know one," he answers, and she's so surprised to hear him admit it that her mouth snaps closed. "But I got help. Still getting it, in fact."
"I don't need help," she says. "I just need to be left alone."
"No."
Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. "Okay. Fine. This once."
"That's all I need," he tells her, and it is. The chink in her armor is exposed now, and he knows how to get through it if he needs to. He'll figure out why he cares later.