80. 82: Thursday

82

Pink or white?

She successively holds the two shirts in front of her, head tilted as she considers. The white shirt looks more professional, she thinks, but she likes the pink one better. It makes her feel confident, makes her feel beautiful.

Because of the way Castle looks at her when she wears it?

Ugh.

Kate groans and hangs the pink shirt back in the closet, slams the door shut over it. It'll be white.

When she called Margaret Mason last night, she didn't expect the results to be quite so...immediate. But the Carney firm is presently looking for a researcher, which happens to be a job that Kate could actually envision herself doing, maybe working her way up, and so - interview today.

She wasn't going to say no.

Kate studies her hair in the mirror, her too-long, unmanageable hair that needs to get cut. She's been putting it off because of Castle, of course; he obviously loves it long, will play with it when they're in bed and she's turned away from him. And she-

sigh. She likes it.

Okay. She can do this. She can...braid her hair, pull it up into a bun? What does a bun say? That you're in control, on top of things. That you have a stick up your ass, Castle's playful voice murmurs in her head, and jeez, that's enough.

Seriously? How did she end up with Castle's voice in her head? That is so not okay. She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, does it again. Everything will be fine.

She doesn't even want this job. Right? She doesn't care if she gets it or not. This is - this is a test run, to get herself back in the game, give herself some perspective. Because she hasn't been to a job interview in over ten years.

She'll be fine.

Breathe, Kate.

Ultimately she gathers her hair into a loose bun at the back of her neck, not too strict but not careless either; she uses the same make-up that she wore when she worked at the 12th, only eyeshadow and mascara, a touch of eyeliner. No lipstick.

And before she can start doubting herself again, she slides her feet into a pair of ridiculous heels, grabs the purse that makes her feel about ten years older, and walks out of her bedroom.

She can do this.

There are already a few other people waiting in the anteroom she's shown into.

A man and two women, all younger than she is. Well, the man could be her age, actually, hard to tell. But one of the women, a tiny blonde who is impeccably dressed and made-up, looks like she is about twenty-two years old.

Kate takes a seat and tries to make her body relax. She involuntarily meets the eye of the other woman, a pretty redhead who's nervously twisting her hands; they exchange small smiles, which turns out to be a terrible mistake. The only thing Beckett can think about now is what this job means to that young woman, how she's maybe failed the bar a few times, doesn't know what else to do; she's on the verge of financial ruin and this is her last chance, her last-

Stop. Stop.

Who is she with these stupid stories - Castle?

Thank goodness, she's brought the last manuscript with her, shoved it in her bag on a hunch before she left. She pulls it out, lets her attention slip back to the written page, someone else's problems, someone else's life.

She's barely made it to page 5 when her name is called.

"Ms. Beckett?"

"Yes," she says, raising her eyes, getting to her feet with the manuscript still in her hand. Her insides are fluttering, but it's not as bad as it was while she was getting ready. She's got it under control, finally.

"Please, come in," the older woman says, not smiling but not hostile either, her face as bland as her grey, practical suit.

Kate obeys, draws in a small breath, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.

Good thing she went for the bun.

The office is rather small, but tastefully arranged, white walls with hints of color here and there, photo frames, exotic souvenirs. A potted plant next to the window seems to be thriving.

"Take a seat," the woman invites her, giving her a thin smile that doesn't reach her eyes behind the square, no-nonsense glasses. She shakes hands with Kate, though, and her grip is firm and cool, the kind Beckett likes. "I'm Monica White, and I'm in charge of HR here."

"It's nice to meet you," Kate says, wondering fleetingly how old Monica is. Her hair is a beautiful, shiny grey, but her face is surprisingly smooth, not many wrinkles there.

The woman sits down behind her desk, reaches for a folder.

"So. Ms. Beckett. Margaret Mason stopped by earlier explaining your connection with us."

Kate gives a brief nod, hopes this isn't a pity thing. Probably not, since Monica White seems too professional to care.

Monica White presses finger to a file folder. "This is - quite an interesting resume that you have."

Kate doesn't have an answer to that, so she remains silent, waiting.

"Ten years of working for the NYPD," Monica states slowly, "and suddenly you decide that you've had enough of it. Excuse my curiosity, but I'd like to know what pushed you to make that decision."

Right.

Keep it short, keep it vague. "Well - the captain I used to work with died last year. He was shot - he had a family, was about to retire. That kind of thing just...gets you thinking. Being a cop made sense when I was younger, because of some personal experiences that shaped me, made me want to see if I could make a difference, but-"

"You no longer feel that way?"

Yes. "No," she lies smoothly. "Or at least, I feel like there are other ways to bring about justice. Ways that don't involve me risking my life every day."

That's simplifying it, for sure, but there's absolutely no way that Kate will mention the sniper and the roof in a job interview. Or her previous obsession with her mother's case, for that matter.

White studies her for a moment, something like appreciation in her dark brown eyes. "So you'd be interested in a job that's a little more...secure. I can understand that," she says. And then, after a pause: "I won't lie to you, Kate: your profile is not exactly what I'm looking for here. But I'm - interested - nonetheless. So tell me. What makes you think you could be a good researcher for this firm?"

Beckett sits up straight in her chair, all of her relaxed now, poised and ready. This is the easy part; she's always been self-confident, always been very aware of her strengths and qualities. Being a detective is all about research - putting in the grunt work to make that connection.

Kate knows she can make Monica White see that.

Rick emerges from the ungrateful world of editing at the second knock on his front door, rubs a hand over his face as he stands up. Jeez, he hates this; he feels like a zombie, buried in his study all day, hardly aware of the time that passes.

But Gina's emails have reached the angry-threatening stage; he could no longer avoid them. He told Kate last night not to expect him, but the reward will be turning up early at her place tomorrow.

He's expecting Alexis back - or, um, he thinks he is? - but it turns out that Alexis isn't the one waiting on the other side of the door.

He grins at Kate, his heart lifting, and before he can say anything she steps into him, curls a hand around his neck and brings her mouth against his. Mmm. Oh, that is nice. He lets her play with his bottom lip before he opens up to the soft touch of her tongue, loses himself in her warm, wet mouth.

Oh, oh, he's missed this-

When she breaks the kiss he pursues her, can never quite get enough of her intoxicating taste, but she laughs quietly and offers him her cheek, brushes her lips over his cheekbone.

"You look like you need to get out of the house," she says, arching an eyebrow, reaching up to run her fingers through his messy hair. He's wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, too - not exactly his sexiest outfit.

Heh. Didn't keep her from kissing him like she wanted to jump his bones, did it?

"Come to rescue your prince from his tower?" he smirks, fisting a hand on the soft, white material of her shirt, inching her closer.

"Ha. I don't know about the prince part of that sentence," Kate teases, her mouth open in that gorgeous smile that shows him a glimpse of tongue. "But sure, Castle. I'll rescue you any time."

"My hero," he says, wriggling his eyebrows, leaning in to steal a kiss. Ohh, she's wearing the sexy heels, the ones that make her just as tall as he is. Hot.

"Wanna rescue me from the evil slippery tiles of my shower?" he suggests.

Kate bites her lip, looks at him from under her eyelashes. "I might be persuaded," she says after a second, her fingers hooking at the waistband of his pants, her eyes dark and delicious.

He sucks in a quick breath, can't quite believe his luck.

She's extraordinary. And she's his.

Wait, no, no. Not his. Her own woman. Kate Beckett is very much her own woman.

But she loves him.

And he staggers back into his study as she proceeds to show him how much.