23. TwentyThree: Monday

Twenty-Three

That morning, when she steps out of the bedroom, she goes straight to the door, opens it after a glance through the peephole, stoops down to pick up the newspaper.

She had the weirdest dream. She dreamt that she was at the hairdresser, but she wasn't there to have her hair cut - in the dream the woman who owned the salon had shown her where to put her stuff, and then had asked her to start by washing the grey curls of an old lady who was already seated.

Hairdressing was never Kate Beckett's dream, not even when she was a little girl - she considered being a school teacher for a while, a princess of course, and a lawyer like Mom, but never a hair stylist.

Obviously, her jobless state must be bothering her more than she thought.

Kate locks the door carefully and comes back into the kitchen, sets the paper on the table as she goes to make coffee.

Some things come first.

She watches the dark liquid drip into the lower part of the coffee maker and leans against the counter in Castle's kitchen, pondering her life.

She's still surprisingly okay about not having a job, about not going into the 12th every day, not knowing what comes next. And she's usually such a sucker for control, for knowing, that she honestly wonders if she's only pretending to be okay. Hiding from herself.

Burke says she needs to stop over-thinking things.

Kate sighs, pours herself a cup of coffee, letting out a low moan when the smell envelops her, dark and rich and delicious. Castle's coffee is, she must admit, far superior to the one she keeps at her flat. Obscenely superior.

She loves it.

She tries a sip and burns her tongue, of course, so she sets the cup on the table and sinks down into the chair, grabbing the New York Times as she does.

But she doesn't open it immediately; for a while she just plays with the pages, her mind going back to that moment she shared with Castle at the precinct. What did little Kate Beckett want to be when she grew up?

At Stanford I was pre-law, she told him, but really, there's a lot more to the story. And yes, being the first female Chief Justice was a dream of hers, at the time, but she's not sure-

Ah, what does it matter?

Back then, she had meant to follow in her mother's footsteps. Before...everything.

Now? She'll never be a lawyer. Working as a detective has spoiled that for her. She doesn't want to see the other side of things; she wants to keep some illusions about what she might have accomplished as a cop.

She doesn't need to be shown how pointless it all was, how criminals walk and innocents are convicted just because one smooth guy has argued better than another.

No. The law is no longer an option.

Kate lets out a long sigh and takes a sip of hot, delicious coffee, her eyes wandering over the headlines, stopping at the journalists' names. Journalism, for some reason, was never something that appealed to her.

She used to love literature classes, and she rather enjoyed the few writing assignments she'd been given at the time (something she does not intend for Castle to ever find out about); but writing articles, providing people with nicely-wrapped information-

No. It's not her calling.

Kate suddenly finds herself thinking about Rook; she wonders whether Castle ever considered going into journalism, if it was a dream of sorts that he realized through the reporter's character. Huh. Funny, that she never thought before-

Her reflection is interrupted by the appearance of Richard Castle himself; he yawns widely, shuffles towards the kitchen in soft pajama pants and a deep blue t-shirt, rubs his sleep-rumpled face.

Cute.

He stops by the table and plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek; she catches his chin between two fingers before he can move away, staying him so she can brush their lips together, linger there for a second, do it right.

He hums, a hazy, drugged-up smile filling his face. "Morning," he sighs happily.

"Morning," she smirks back, letting him go.

She turns back to the paper, but to be honest, her interest is quickly waning. She doesn't know what to look for; she feels unequal to the task she's set for herself, feels like she's looking for a needle in a haystack.

And she's got no idea what the needle looks like.

"Ohhh, coffee," Castle exclaims somewhere behind her, sounding like Christmas and his birthday have somehow collided into a new sort of wonder.

Kate presses her lips around her smile, and gets to her feet stealthily. He's pouring himself a cup already, so much concentration in his stance, from his shoulders to his toes; she moves forward and slowly winds her arms around his waist, pressing her lips to his neck.

Castle shivers but doesn't falter; he sets down the coffee pot and his left hand comes over his smaller one, curls there, his thumb stroking lightly.

"Trying to make me spill," he murmurs, and she can hear the smile in his voice, the slow, dawning awareness. "Evil, Beckett."

She presses herself against him, smothers her grin into his shoulder. "But you didn't," she says.

He grunts, cranes his neck over his shoulder to look at her. His eyes are this deep, beautiful blue, twinkling.

"You're up early," she says to fill up the silence, surprised at the joy that spills in her heart when he regards her like this.

He snorts, twists into her embrace until he's facing her. His lips feather her forehead, the bridge of her nose. "Whose fault is that?" he breathes against her mouth.

"Not-uh, Castle," she replies playfully. "No shifting the blame. I'm not responsible for your getting out of bed."

"But you are responsible for luring me out of it," he answers, that wolfish curl to his lips, an eyebrow raised. She schools her features, tries not to look pleased; but it escapes anyway.

Castle turns to grab his cup from the counter, gives her that smug look he always has when he thinks he's so clever.

"I never could resist the smell of good coffee," he concludes, and damn him, she laughs.

She decides to go for a run after breakfast and he stares at her a little wistfully as she walks out the door, almost tempted to join her just because he wants to contemplate the smooth expanse of her legs a little longer.

But no, no.

Running is a solo sport, she said, and he really is a terrible runner; she would hate him after ten minutes, would be pondering ways to break up with him after fifteen.

He'll stay.

Castle goes back to the kitchen, picks up the remnants of their breakfast, a glass of orange juice, a butter-covered knife. The paper is on the table too, has been pushed to the side. He comes back for it after he's washed everything else, sinks into the couch with it, and notices that a page has been earmarked.

She probably didn't do it consciously.

His stomach flips when he realizes that it's the page where jobs and positions are advertised. They've discussed this, and of course he knows that she quit, is relieved that she seems to be okay with it, but-

It's still weird.

He cannot imagine Kate Beckett working anywhere else than in the 12th precinct. He has no doubt she'll be great at whatever she sets her mind to; it's not about that.

She's just...so good at it. At being a detective. She's smart and strong and caring, and yes, she might have landed at the 12th by accident - she might have never intended to get there, might have been lead there by her mother's death - but she belongs there.

He can feel it down to his bones.

Doesn't matter what he feels, though. He's not going to make this about himself; it's about Kate, all about her. He'll support her no matter what, if she finds her way back to the precinct, if she doesn't - so long as he has her, she can do whatever she wants.

Maybe she needs to try her hand at other things in order to realize what being a cop means to her. Castle smirks. Try her hand at other things. Oh, and now he knows where he's taking her today.

They wait until the end of the afternoon to go out, until the burning heat has subsided into that sun-filled, lovely warmth that makes Kate want to curl and purr like a cat. She slides her hand inside Castle's, relishes the soft skin of his palm.

It's a good day.

She doesn't even try to make him talk, seduce him into sharing their destination; she's content to just walk at his side and enjoy the bright, animated afternoon. There are a lot of people shuffling around, tourists with their maps and hats and glasses, men in suits coming out of work, a woman with a baby in a sling, that same guy in the baseball hat again. On a normal day - a precinct day - she might be annoyed by this, might want to move faster than the crowd allows.

But today she's fine with letting the ebb and flow of people guide their pace.

Castle leads her into a less populated street; the tall buildings provide the sidewalk with cool, delicious shade, but the sunlight catches in their top windows, shimmers like drops of water trapped in a spiderweb.

"We're almost there," he says, and Kate looks back to find him smiling, that quiet happiness that she loves so much radiating in his eyes.

She lifts their joined hands and brushes her lips to the back of his fingers, lingers for a second.

When she looks up, his eyes are dark and intense. He's stopped walking.

"Kate," he whispers.

She smiles, can't resist it, all this joy and beauty coiling tight in her chest; she leans into him and kisses his neck, the underside of his jaw.

"Come on, Castle," she nudges. "Show me this place of yours."

He sighs heavily against her. "And then we'll go back?" he murmurs, his voice rough.

Kate grins. "And then we'll go back."

The theater hasn't changed much; it's eerily similar to Castle's memories. Good, good. Makes him feel a little less old. How long has it been since he last came here?

He leads Kate through the door and into the lobby, breathing in the familiar scent, old wood and stage make-up and the perfumes of all the well-dressed ladies who attended last night's performance.

He remembers his eagerness as a young man, how he used to think that two eyes weren't enough to watch and memorize all of it, the colors and the voices and the accents, the gorgeous jewels and the stunning dresses, the drama.

They're stopped by a young woman who has just finished changing the posters; she has her blonde hair in a pony tail, is wearing the black and white clothes that must still be the ushers' uniforms.

She smiles brightly at them. "Tonight's performance isn't for another two hours, but would you like to buy tickets? We have a couple left, although tomorrow might be a better choice, because the seats tonight-"

"Actually," Castle says with a smile, "We're not here for the play. I used to work here in the eighties, as an usher, and I was wondering if we could possibly have a look inside? Just, you know. A little trip down memory lane."

"Oh, um..." the woman presses her lips together, glances undecidedly at the door. She seems willing to help though. "There's a dress rehearsal going on right now," she says, giving them a knowing little smile, "but I suppose if I just open the door for a minute, you can step in, have a look, and come back out?"

"That would be perfect." Castle beams at her. When he looks at Kate, her eyes are bright with interest, her lips parted as she crowds at his back while the woman opens the door.

Stage lights are on in the theatre, and the audience is shrouded in darkness; they don't have to worry about anyone seeing them. He steps in, Kate's hand in his, inhaling and exhaling slowly to appreciate the peculiar atmosphere.

On stage, a thirty-something actor is delivering his lines confidently, his deep, beautiful voice echoing against the old walls, caressing the dark wood, the velvet of the seats. Kate swirls towards him, her face tilted up, looking enchanted.

"You worked here?" she whispers.

He steps closer, puts his hands on her waist; the kid who worked here, who still lives inside him, can't quite believe his luck.

"When I was about fifteen, only for one summer. Mother was acting in a play called Nunsense; I remember, because at the time I thought it was a pretty clever pun."

Kate laughs softly, winds an arm around his neck.

"So you were the cute usher showing the ladies their seats, huh? I bet you must have gotten pretty large tips."

She's so beautiful.

"Believe it or not, I was uh, rather shy at the time. But some of the women were pretty generous, I must say."

Kate's lips quirk, but then her eyes grow more serious.

"Did you ever think of following in your mother's footsteps? Being an actor, working in the theatre?"

Mm, good question, Kate. "Well, I gave it a shot, of course. It quickly became obvious that my acting abilities were somewhat - limited - and to be honest, although I loved that world, it was always...my mother's. Not mine."

She nods slowly, understanding suffusing her face. "You wanted to find your own thing. Make your own way."

He smiles, as mesmerized as ever by her wonderful mind. "Yeah."

And then he leans in, presses his lips to hers, firm and gentle. She's warm against him.

"And so will you, Kate," he whispers against her mouth. "You will find your own way."