opia

(n.) the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable

She's there when he swings back the door after the first knock. Standing unannounced in front of him for the second time in just a couple of days. Just like last time her hair is up in a messy knot at the back of her head and she looks somewhat shy, a little like a deer caught in headlights. Her eyes big and uncertain, almost shy.

A few hours ago she looked fine when she told him to go home – after he brought her a variation of dinner options and the promise to vanish from her life, to stop making a mess out of everything and she declined with the smallest smile on her lips and the sweetest words coming out of her mouth, dancing like music around his ears, warming him from the inside.

If you tell anyone what I'm about to say, there's going to be another shooting. But... I've gotten used to you pulling my pigtails. I have a hard job, Castle, and having you around makes it a little more fun.

On the inside he knew she wasn't as fine as she pretended to be, mere hours after killing the person who stabbed her mother and left her bleeding to die in a dirty ally ten years ago. But she promised him with a smile that she was fine, finishing up paperwork before she'd go home.

She's still dressed in her precinct clothes. The ones she took from her locker when she disappeared into the rest rooms with dried blood on her hands and the look of loss in her eyes.

"Come in," he says and steps out of the way, lets her walk past him into the loft.

She stopped by his place a handful of times in the year since he met her at his book party and almost every time it's a surprise to see her at his door, and somehow she always carries that bewildered look on her face. Like she's fighting an internal battle she's not sure she wants him to be part of. But on the same time like she wants him to see the vulnerability that she hides somewhere deep inside that strong exterior, beneath the surface of a woman who takes this world on her own without even blinking. A part of her – he's sure of that – not many get to see.

"Did something happen?" He asks when he leads her into his office with a hand at the small of her back and she yet has to say a word, verbalize the way she's looking at him, because even thought he is a writer and he prides him with the fact that he can read her pretty well, she's still a mystery, a novel like the ones he writes. But she's not a book, he can't flash forward to the last page and see what it's all about without discovering the story first.

She stops in front of the large window in his office, follows the city with her eyes for a few moments before she turns around, arms crossed in front of her body in a protective hold. He wants to step closer, invade her space, shows her that whatever this is about, she's not alone. But he stays on the other side of the room, props his hip at the corner of his desk, just watches her from a distance she allows.

She gnaws on her bottom lip before before she shakes her head slightly, her eyes finally searching his face until they land on his. "Nothing happened," she murmurs, clears her throat and tries to muster a small smile for him which doesn't help to lessen his concern for her. "I'm just... sorry for the money, our technicians try everything to get it back, but if not I will pay you, I just need some-"

He breakes her off with the shake of his head and a small smile in her direction, she barely meets his eyes and he is sure that this is not the entire reason she is here. "No, Beckett, I told you, it was my part in helping you solve your moms case. Yes, it is a lot of money but it was worth it."

Her teeth sink into the flesh of her lip when she nods. "Okay," her voice is small. "I still don't feel comfortable, let me do something."

"All right," he thinks about if for a few moments before a smile splits across his face and she stares at him in something close to wonder. "You can invite me to dinner next week."

She rolls her eyes but it doesn't help to hide the small smirk that plasters her lips. "Deal."

She keeps sending glances around the room, her chest heaving underneath her shirt and he's not sure if he can read her at that moment but he senses she doesn't want leave right now, stick around for maybe some more. But she is Kate Beckett and she never asks for help, not if there is any way that she can do it on her own. Especially when it's about her, her life and her feelings, when there is even the slightest possibility that she'd get hurt. He might not know much about her, but he knows that.

"You wanna stay for a while, I could make some dinner." The laugh that leaves her the moment he speaks those words is beautiful.

"Castle, we've just had a five course dinner at the precinct," she keeps laughing quietly, the shadow behind her eyes that has been there since she found out that Jack Coonan was killed by the same person who killed her mother a tad lighter.

"Right," he murmurs. "You could still stay a while, I could make us some hot chocolate."

/

"I went to see my dad," she murmurs when their cups are empty, his on the table and hers still in her hands, cradled to her chest. They are on the couch in his office and her gaze is on him. It's dark outside and the light from the city reflects in her eyes, a gold shimmers rich with a pain lingering behind her orbs he only sees when she talks about her mothers case. "After work, I went to see him," her eyes flicker up to his. "Tell him about everything that happened today. That I... that I got her killer. What we found out." She trails off at the end.

He's always a little lost when she talks about her family, especially her father. He doesn't know much about Jim Beckett, except for the snippets she let him see and it's not much. He doesn't know much about the man who lost the love of his live and drowned himself in the bottle afterwards, who built himself up gain, regained his life. But he doesn't know that man, he can imagine how it feels, to learn after a decade of suffering and grieving who killed your wife and still not getting any justice.

"How did he take it?" He's not sure if it's the right thing to ask when a sad smile appears on her lips, a small shake of her head and the whisper that leaves her lips is low and raw, emotions bleeding from her tongue he can't take away from her. Oh, how he wishes he could wipe that look off her face.

"Hard. He always knew that what they told us wasn't true but he decided to live with it. He's been doing fine, getting better for five years and now this," she deposits the mug next to his, her hands fiddling in her lap and he just wishes he could grab them, hold them between his fingers, soothe the slight tremble she so intensely tries to conceal.

"He's not-," she shudders when she breathes but still not breaking, ever so strong. The closest he's ever seen her to breaking was a few hours ago, in the middle of the precinct, trying to save the man who killed her mother. "I know he is strong, he won't- He said he's going upstate to his cabin for a few days, he always does when it gets hard." She shakes her head, doesn't look at him and his heart hurts for her. But she is here, with him, after everything he's done, after it's his fault that they are in this situation in the first place. She came to him... because she doesn't want to be alone right now.

"I don't know your father, but from what you've told me about him he's a strong man," he says. "And from what I've seen so far of the Beckett family, I'm pretty sure when I say you're a tough team."

Part of the sadness disappears with his words and the smile she gives him is not as clouded anymore and he is glad that he can do that for her.

"I know, I know. Sometimes I wish he would just talk to me, you know? He always holds back, doesn't want anyone to see when he's hurt."

His eyebrows shoot up, not necessarily amused, more sympathetic but with a spark of mischief behind his eyes. "Well, I do know another Beckett who that description applies to." At least he knows now whom she got that from.

"You're right," her forehead knits into a small frown between her brows when she thinks about his words. And then she smiles and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's that smile he's only seen a handful of times before. It's intimate, just a small lift of her lips, eyes like stars. She always carries that smile when she talks about her family – when she tells him about all the good memories, not the darkness that ended her carefree teenage life.

"My mom said that too," she chuckles and lifts her legs up onto the couch, hugs them to her chest comfortably. Her shoes on the floor. "She always said, 'Katie, you're just like your father. You know, sometimes it's good to actually talk about what's going in inside of you.' You know, Castle, people used to say I'm just like her."

It's not a statement ridden with sadness but he itches to touch her, comfort her in any way. He knows she won't let him – letting him sit next to her, listening to her stories about her past, making her laugh when he knows she feels like breaking, it's the closest she lets him get to her.

"I wish I could have met her." He's not sure if its the right thing to stay until the smile stretches wider across her face.

"Me too, she would have liked you, Castle," she states and he's wonderstruck, pretty sure he looks just like that. He wishes he knew what to say. He's the author, the one with the words but she and her confessions make him speechless.

"You sure?" He finally gets out.

"I am, I mean what's not to like there?" She closes her eyes the moment the words leave her mouth, embarrassment creeps up her neck, settles deep pink in her cheeks and she shakes her head. He gulps the confusion of her words down and starts laughing when she starts to threaten him. "If you ever tell anyone I said that I kill you, Castle."

Her anger isn't real, he sees it in the way her eyes laugh with him as she slaps him, not nearly as hard as he knows she could if she wanted to.

"So you like me, Beckett, no need to be embarrassed, I'm liked by a lot of people." His laugh is more like a chuckle now and the smile finally cracks across her face.

/

He feels this sinking feeling in his guts when he walks her to the door. After her confession they talked for some more, he made them a cup of tea and brought some leftover cheese cake from the fridge. He couldn't keep her from leaving forever, he knows that but he still wishes she could stay for longer. He likes having her in his place.

"You could stay," he says when they reach the door. She turns around, pins her bottom lip between her teeth when her eyes meet his. "I have a guest room."

"I have my own bed, Castle," she answers.

He knew she wouldn't say yes, would never stay at his place if she wasn't forced to and no one could force Kate Beckett to stay somewhere she doesn't want to. It was worth a try, at least because he could make her smile one more time.

"Thank you, Rick," she says after she opens the door, stands between the loft and his hallway, lingers for one moment more.

"What for?" He asks and takes just a step closer into her direction, still more than a foot away.

"For today," she shrugs her shoulders, lets her gaze fall to her feet for a moment. "For bringing me dinner and making me hot chocolate, for being there." She whispers the last part and just for a few seconds he gives into what he wanted to do since that case started. He squeezes her fingers in his hand, just a few seconds.

"Always."

End