A/N: The concept for this little story was inspired by one I remember reading a few years ago, and I thought it'd be fun to have a go at inserting our favorite duo into similar situations. This'll be 6 chapters plus a (likely) epilogue. Hope you guys enjoy the ride.

Ar •ri •viste (n.) — an ambitious or ruthlessly self-seeking person, especially one who has recently acquired wealth or social status

Newspapers with her face on the front page, gold medal clutched in her hands, find their way into every storefront in Europe. Olympic Upset, headlines read. Rigged?, it says beneath her name, a question mark as if that downplays the obvious opinions dripping from their words.

The stories will no doubt soon make their way onto the front pages of US newspapers.

Arriviste, they write, completely disregarding upwards of two decades of hard work, the blood, sweat and tears she's poured into her discipline. Their suspicions, no doubt, stem from her dethroning of their homegrown Olympic champion.

She couldn't possibly have risen in ranks so quickly; she must've lied, cheated, slept her way to the gold. Quickly, they say, as if she hasn't been training for this win since she was four years old.

Crude as they may be, she doesn't let the conspiracies get under her skin. It's what they want; they want her to break under the scrutiny, and she won't give them that satisfaction. She knows the truth, knows what she's gone through to get to this point in her career. Let the press, the public, the federation believe what they want.

The only people she reaches out to are her parents. They won't buy into any of their lies, of course, but they don't need to be reading them either.

"Don't read the papers," she tells her father firmly. "Tell Mom, too. If anything happens I'll let you guys know myself, all right?"

"Is everything okay, Katie?"

"Everything's great, Dad, just please ignore the press."

She's won gold, claimed it for the United States in her category for the first time in over a decade. Everything's perfect.

So she rises above the negativity and with a calculated, challenging smile, Kate Beckett clutches the shiny medal around her neck. She stands with the silver and bronze medalists, each turning their heads in practiced manners to let the photographers get their shots. Cameras flash, the white lights threatenening to blind her, but she doesn't flinch.

The newspapers are ruthless.

But she can be too.

A few days after she lands back on American soil, she finally turns her alarms off and allows herself a day of sleeping in. Of course, for Kate, sleeping in means 8:30 instead of the usual 5am she'd get up to train.

Her time is generally split between New York and California, her training keeping her on the West Coast a few months of the year. Seven days a week, an average of thirteen hours a day, is enough to exhaust even the hardest working athletes.

Sometime just after seven her phone goes off, the shrill ringing breaking her from what was, for the first time in too long, a peaceful sleep.

She lets out an audible groan as she reaches over, presses the offending object to her ear. "What."

"Hello to you too," her manager, Paige, muses in her ear. Her eyes are still closed.

"I'm sorry—hello, what," she amends on a sigh.

"Got an interesting call this morning," she's told, and the silence tells her Paige is expecting her to inquire about it, but Kate doesn't bother. She merely burrows herself deeper into her comforter and waits her manager out. It only takes a minute. "Dancing with the Stars."

Her brows wrinkle. "Okay."

"They called."

"They called you?"

Paige pauses. "Are you awake?"

Kate offers a hum in response. "More awake than I planned to be at seven o'clock today."

"Remind me to apologize later, but this is something you'll want to hear right now."

"Then cut to the chase before I hang up and go back to sleep."

"They want you, Kate." That gets her to open her eyes, roll onto her back. "For the next season."

"Me? They expect me to go on that show and dance on live television?" Kate asks incredulously. "Well that's a new one. I hope you told them thank you, but no." At Paige's silence, she sighs. "You said yes, didn't you."

"No, of course not. Not without your permission."

Kate considers her. "But you didn't say no either."

"No."

"And why not?"

Paige chuckles, but Kate doesn't see the humor in the situation. "Because, Kate, you should consider it. It's a popular show, millions watch each week, and it'd be some good press. Not to mention the pay's good."

"Those are all lovely points, but you do realize these shows rely on votes, right? Public votes. And last I checked, the public doesn't seem to be too pleased with me. 'Kate Beckett, ice queen, slept her way to the top, didn't deserve gold'."

"Kate, please, that's not true," Paige tries. It's simple placation, but she has to give the woman an A for effort. "Besides, if you're so worried about the public's perception that's even more reason to do it. Any press is good press, right? Let America see the softer side of Kate Beckett."

Stretching her legs, she points her toes into the mattress, lets her eyes fall closed.

She shouldn't even be considering this.

She has far more important things to be focusing on: the post-Olympic interviews and talk shows she'll have to make her way through, other odd appearances to show off her medal and talk reactions, brand deals. On top of that, Worlds is coming up, and she could go right back out and win another medal.

At least that's something she knows she's good at, something she can do.

Stars on Ice is right around the corner, too, and she'll have to be in top shape—a medalist going out and faltering so soon after a win is bad, ten fold when that medalist is her, who's already being heavily criticized. If she were to go and flounder out on the ice, it'd only be proving to the naysayers that she somehow rigged her programs.

Validating them is not on her to-do list.

But...

Any press is good press, as they say, and well—she could use some good press.

Kate scoffs. "What soft side? Cold as ice, Paige."

Her manager simply laughs. "Play into it all you want, honey, but I'm not buying."

"Everyone else is."

"So change their minds." There's a brief silence, and she can't believe she's moments away from accepting. "Execs say they already have the perfect partner picked for you."

"Who is it?" she asks, racking her brain to remember any of the professionals. She doesn't actually watch the show; her limited knowledge comes from bits and pieces she hears within the skating circles. A few of the professional dancers tend to come in and choreograph for some of the skaters. "Derek Hough? Or one of the brothers? Italian or something, were they?"

"Russian, and no on both accounts. Richard Castle." The name doesn't ring a bell. "It's his second season as pro, got knocked out after the first week last time."

She huffs. "Sounds promising."

"No one gets a ringer their first season, Kate. They assure me that he'd be perfect for you. Said they really think he could go all the way with the right partner—that'd be you."

This is ridiculous.

This is absolutely ridiculous and she can't believe she's about to agree to it.

Richard Castle is somehow nothing and everything she was expecting.

She had, of course, looked him up beforehand, wanted to at least see what she was dealing with. The small screen of her tablet didn't do him justice. He's tall, hair brown and a little unruly in the most styled way possible, and eyes a piercing blue. His smile is bright, and there's a genuine upturn of his lips when he greets her in the rink.

Apparently they record the pairs' first meetings on the celebrity's home turf, so for her, naturally, it's on the ice.

His handshake is firm, his palm soft against hers. "Rick Castle."

"Kate Beckett," she introduces herself.

Watching his reaction, she can't tell whether or not he knows who she is. It doesn't take a genius to deduct that she's a skater—the rink's kind of a dead give away—and her face has been plastered all over the place for the past month, but she's curious. The producers and professionals alike swear up and down that they genuinely don't know who their partners are until they meet them, but she wonders if that's actually true. Some of them must have some idea.

"Looks like I've hit the jackpot this season," he says happily, eyes locked on hers.

The camera men inch closer. They zoom in to capture her reaction, but she's no stranger to the attention; she's been in front of enough cameras to know how to keep herself in check. They don't intimidate her. No, if anything they motivate her to perfection.

She hums. "You haven't even seen me dance. I could be horrible."

"I don't have to. I've seen you skate," he returns, and she supposes she has the answer to her question. "You have this really nice ferocity while remaining graceful—that'll definitely work to our advantage. And, well, you have rhythm."

He tacks on the end comment with no malice, though she can presume it's directed at his first partner. No rhythm would be an understatement for the poor girl. She'd looked up videos after she agreed, after Paige confirmed he would actually be her partner. She wanted to get a feel for his dancing, see how he moved, and she stumbled upon his first and only week of competition.

It was... sad, really. Painful to watch.

Kate bites at the inside of her cheek. "Well, thank you. Hopefully I'm as graceful on the dance floor as I am on the ice."

"I don't think we'll have a problem with that."

Her cheeks flush a light tinge of pink, not enough to be picked up by the cameras but enough to have her feeling the heat rush to her skin.

"I have a good feeling about this season, Kate Beckett," he grins, extending his hand. "You ready to tango?"

It's too late to turn back now.

Sliding her palm in his, she gives a curt nod. "Let's do this."