Castle & Beckett Soulmate-AU

Richard Castle hated soulmates.

Not his soul mate—he did not know who she was or if she even existed—but the basic concept of soulmates. And that was saying something because, in general, Richard Castle was not a man who hated much.

Ever since he was old enough to read, the concept screamed at him from every outlet of media, every source of information. Television ads, newspaper clippings, radio spots and the billboards—oh, the billboards. Find your soulmate here! Soulmate search—accuracy guaranteed! Soulmate palm readings—we'll get you one step closer!

The commercialization of it all made him sick. He wondered what it was like back in the old days—fifteen, twenty, forty years earlier. Back when you actually had to search for your soulmate and not use a service that guaranteed—guaranteed!—for the low, low price of $99.99 they'd find your soulmate in thirty days or less or your money back!

What was it like, he wondered, to meet someone and feel that spark, that chemistry and wonder could this be them? There had to have been a time when finding out involved dating—actual dating and not going out for wine and then to a tarot card reader to determine whether the odds were stacked in your favor or against. There was no romance to that, but then again maybe romance was dead. Maybe it had died out long ago.

"…all I'm saying is: why would I ever pay some crazy lady in a purple turban to tell me all these vague bullshit things about how to find my soulmate; I'd rather be single forever."

"Here, here!" Castle could not help but chime in to the conversation he overheard behind him at the bar that evening. Turning around in his seat, he saw a trio—two men and a woman—standing at a high top table just a few feet away. The woman, who had chin length hair in a color too dark and harsh for her skin tone—it reflected an eggplant tone even in the dim bar light, though she would have been much better suited with honey-brown, perhaps auburn—gazed over at him as though he'd offended her ancestors.

"Ah, sorry." He muttered out, flashing a dopey smile to her and her companions. "Didn't mean to intrude into your conversation."

"No, no, this is good." The shorter of the two males with bright blue eyes, a square jaw, and sandy brown hair, agreed. "This way it'll be two against one."

"Yeah, you won't be the only romantic cynic, Beckett," said the taller man, a Latino with a haircut indicative of time spent in the military added.

Castle slid off his seat and took the two steps needed to meet the group at their table. At the high top they stood elbow-to-elbow, which was all right. Flanagan's was so crowded that night, he would not have been able to hear them over the rumble of various conversations had they stood any further apart.

Seeing as he had purposely come to the cop bar in hopes of some inspiration, it was not hard for him to guess the profession of the threesome, though catching a glimpse of the badge on the female's hip was a nice confirmation. He gazed across the table at her, brown eyes flecked with green observing him as though they were seated at a table in an interrogation room rather than a chipped Formica table top littered with cracked peanut shells. For the first time in a long time Castle felt chills traveling down his spine; he simply had to know more about her.

"What's your name, man?" the smaller man asked.

Beckett brought her tumbler full of amber liquid up to her lips and said in a bored voice, "He's Richard Castle."

Castle's brow arched. Oh, and she was a fan, too? Color him one hundred percent more intrigued. "She's right. Richard Castle, novelist." He shook the hands of the two men and learned the shorter was called Ryan, the taller Esposito. Finally, the woman extended her hand and she said in a clipped tone, "Detective Kate Beckett."

"Detective Beckett." He repeated, enjoying the way the name felt on his lips. "May I ask what division you're part of? Robbery? Major crimes?"

"Homicide."

Perfect.

"So back to our discussion: I'm telling you that palm reader is absolutely right about Jenny and me; no question in my mind."

Castle practically snorted into his drink glass. He didn't want to judge too harshly a man he did not know well—particularly not one who wore a loaded weapon on his hip—but there was just no way; practicality was against him. "You actually called one of those nine hundred numbers?"

Ryan shook his head. "No, it was a sweet lady with a storefront down in Chinatown; Jenny found her. She said we were a ninety-nine percent match. We're already planning our trip to Venus; hopefully we can go sometime next month."

The female detective clicked her tongue with disbelief and proclaimed, "Kev, you cannot be serious. How long have you guys been together again? Two months?"

"It's not about time, Beckett. When you know, you know. Right Javi?"

"He has a point." To illustrate this, the man tugged up the left sleeve of his olive green Henley shirt to reveal the shadowed print of the name Angela Rodriguez on the inside of his wrist. To the newcomer, the detective explained, "Met her the first day of basic and I knew right away. Used our first leave to go to Venus."

Castle smiled at the man. Though he didn't necessarily agree with the institution, he could not be unhappy for those who had found their match. "That's great; how nice for you guys."

The female detective snorted and made a snide comment about niceness under her breath. When the writer's brow wrinkled, Esposito explained. "She was killed during her second tour in Iraq."

Castle winced and apologized to the man, who nodded stoically. "That's the reason I can't buy in to it—it condemns too many to loneliness."

One person out of six billion? It just didn't make sense. What if your soulmate—your singular match on the planet—lived in a remote part of the world where you could never meet them? You'd search and search all your life and never find that one person—your other half. If you did find a person you thought was the one and used your one and only trip to Venus, you'd both end up disappointed and then what kind of life would you lead? Sure, there were those that chose to never go and he suspected he would ultimately be one of them, but still—the wonder would always be there.

Oppositely, there was Detective Esposito scenario. He found his one true match and had been happy for how long? Months? Years? Surely no more than several given that he appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties and the war had been over for some time. He would know for certain any woman he met from then on was not his match. Of course this did not condemn him to a life of unhappiness—at least, not in Castle's mind—but it was a complication, a sadness that in his opinion no one needed.

Much to Castle's surprise, the female detective gestured towards him with her glass and said, "Agreed."

Ryan scoffed. "And here I thought an author would be more of a romantic."

"I write murder mysteries."

The detective's face fell.

"Other than Espo do you know anyone who's made a successful trip to Venus?" Beckett asked her colleague.

"Sure—of course. Admittedly, it's not everyone I meet, but there are people. My parents and, if memory serves, your parents as well, Kate."

"And look how well that turned out." She muttered behind her glass before finishing the liquid in one gulp.

Castle's eyes grazed over her, intrigued. If her parents had been soulmate matched it was unlikely that they had divorced—possible, but unlikely. This lead him to assume they'd suffered the same fate as Esposito and one of them had died. Instantly, he was curious as to which and how that parent had met their end. Of course, he knew better than to ask or mention it, but the thought was still there; he was, as always, victim of his macabre subconscious.

"What about you, Castle? Your parents matched?"

"I honestly don't know. My mother squandered her Venus trip on a foolish youthful tryst—her words, not mine. I never knew my father, so for all I know they could have been, though I doubt it." No, in his mind, Martha Rodgers' soulmate fell into one of two categories. Either he was a flamboyant actor like her who had met his tragic end by reenacting a Shakespearean play using real poison just for the drama of it all, or he was a boring actuary, punching numbers somewhere in a New York City high-rise and upon encountering the illustrious actress would find her initially more terrifying than intriguing and scurry away before they ever had the chance to interact.

"Well, that's not going to stop us." Ryan continued. "Jenny and I are still going to Venus."

"Then may I wish you the best of luck?" Castle said, clinking his beer glass against the smaller man's. Then, he turned towards the other two occupants of the table. "I won't take up any more of your time this evening, detectives, but thanks for the conversation; it's been interesting."

Though he expected a limited response from the strikingly beautiful detective, he instead received a head nod. "Thanks for the backup, Castle."

He nodded back. "Any time, Detective."

Three weeks after their initial meeting, Castle stood behind the two-way glass mirror of an interrogation room watching Detective Kate Beckett in action, unable to believe his luck.

Watching her was like witnessing a highly choreographed dance. She knew exactly when to settle in and wait, make her suspect sweat, when to ply him for a weak point, searching for an opportunity, and, finally, when to strike, ready for the kill. Pulling the confession from the sniveling twenty-something low level dealer turned murderer took her less than fifteen minutes; it had been fascinating and, as it happened, quite inspirational.

She was it; she was the one who would get him out of his Post-Derrick-Storm writing funk. He had been struggling—floundering, really. Jotting down notes, trying to outline—which, in of itself was a joke; when did he ever outline? He was desperate to get words on a page after a six month drought. Quite frankly, so was his publisher.

Just a few days shadowing Beckett and her team had him jotting notes on napkins and stolen stickie notes from her desk. Nothing concrete, just ideas for cases and cool cop lingo he stole from Ryan and Esposito. He wanted to focus on a homicide detective team, but was that enough?

Watching her Mirandize a suspect, he knew; the story simply unfolded before him. The book wouldn't be about the team—well, it would, but not specifically. No, it had to be about a central figure; her. Kate Beckett or a fictionalized version of her. Smart, strong, savvy, and sexy as hell.

He wanted—no, needed—to write about her; to know her story. God willing, she would continue to let him shadow her so he could learn more about her. He already found her incredible and knew his amazement would only grow the more he got to know about her. That was assuming she'd allow the shadowing to continue. It had, to that point, been going reasonably well. Granted, it had only been a few days, and she had yelled at him three times, but they were just beginning to feel each other out. They'd soon find their stride. They had to; he would make sure of it.

The first time he kissed her, he knew.

For Ryan and Jenny's wedding, they had decided to go without dates together, which in Castle's mind translated to: they were each other's dates. They sat together in the church and at the reception. They laughed, drank, and ate with their friends before hitting the dance floor. Beckett insisted she'd had enough and that her feet were too tired for another up-tempo beat, but when a ballad came on, he snuck an arm around her waist and insisted on just one more song.

They swayed together to the music, their faces so close they were a breath away from touching. As the song came to a close, he pressed his lips against the soft skin beneath her cheekbone as a silent thank you for the dance. She turned her head and, without hesitation, pressed her mouth against his. It was simple and sweet, but Castle felt his world flip upside down and so he knew; she was it; she was his match.

A little later on, when she smiled at him a little shy, a little drunk, and suggested her walk her to her room, he didn't hesitate. They held hands walking towards the elevator and when they had to crowd themselves in a back corner to allow other guests on, Castle's lips dusted gently across her forehead. Outside her fifteenth floor room, she gazed up at him from beneath her brow, her eyes dark and wanting, grabbed him by the tie and led him inside the unlocked door; he didn't hesitate to follow.

A night of making love only solidified Castle's feelings. In just twelve short hours he went from a man still skeptical of finding a soulmate despite the evidence etched on the left wrist of both bride and groom, to mentally reviewing just how quickly he could make his trip to Venus. In his mind, there was no question.

Kate Beckett was extraordinary. Kate Beckett was amazing. She was smart and savvy, strong and brave, beautiful and sexy as hell. The way she laughed and kissed him as they slipped naked beneath the sheets made his heart soar. And, when the sun's light began filtering in their room and he opened his eyes to see her still sleeping, curled in his embrace, he knew he wanted to wake up that way for the rest of his life. It was as though his heart had been struck by lightning. Or, more poetically, Cupid's arrow.

After showering, he made perhaps a quicker exit than he should have, kissing her forehead and telling her he'd see her later. He searched for flights to D.C. on his way back to the loft and paused for only one moment as his heart clenched and palms perspired before tapping the "Book Now" icon with the pad of his thumb. Yes it was scary, particularly as his revelation was newfound, but he was also a big believer in going with his gut, and at that moment his gut was screaming.

The early Monday morning flight was full of commuters hopping from one major metropolis to another, but Castle didn't think much of it. His viewpoint was singular. As he sat in his aisle seat for the hour and twenty minute flight, his leg bounced rhythmically up and down. He tried to focus on one of the seatback pocket magazine, but his reading ability failed him as his focus remained on finding the quickest route from the airport to his downtown destination.

Of course Venus wasn't the real name for the United States Soulmate Matching Bureau, merely its colloquial one. Each country contained only one soulmate matching location, generally in that nation's capital city. Castle had occasionally wondered how it had been done back seventy-plus years earlier when it was less official, less managed, but as he had little interest in it to that point, he had never included it with his other research.

Upon arrival, Castle wondered with just how many others he would be in line on that Monday morning. After all, one location needed to serve the country's three hundred million residents. He quickly found his worry to be unfounded; he was only in line with four other people. Upon further thought this made sense. Though three hundred million people could visit the USSMB, they could only do so once in their lifetime, and every single person choosing the same day would have been highly unlikely and unprecedented.

The reason for the one-and-done visit did not have an explanation, at least not officially. Any and all reasons were purely speculation and rumors. The most rumored reason bordered on being a myth or at least a folktale. The story was passed from generation to generation like many other bedtime stories. It spoke of the gods presenting this gift to the citizens of earth: one true soul mate. To enforce upon the people that their journey to find their mate should be arduous—thereby making it worthwhile—they applied the rule of one.

A citizen could only ask the gods one time to confirm the name of their soulmate. If you guessed wrong, you faced no punishment, but the opportunity for your mate's name to be imprinted on your inner wrist was lost forever. It was still possible to have confirmation of finding your soulmate—if, for instance, your partner had not yet made their pilgrimage to Venus, they could do so and you could see your name imprinted on them. Otherwise, they mystery would never be solved.

Despite being married twice and having numerous other relationships varying in seriousness, Castle had never been tempted to make his trip to Venus. Only once, during his college relationship with a woman named Kyra Blaine, had he suspected he may have found the illustrious "one," but then she left for Europe, he didn't follow, and such thoughts faded away. Now, he faced the well-worn stone doors with a different name in his heart. That of a woman with whom he'd barely shared more than a one night stand, but despite their lack of extensive romantic relationship, they were connected on a deeper level; he knew it in his bones.

Fingers tremoring with the slightest bit of nerves, Castle pushed open the door to find himself in a small alcove. His initial reaction was that every movie he had seen depicted this completely inaccurately, which, oddly, both annoyed him and amused him in that moment. Once alone in the room, Castle surveyed the set up before him. A stone table top with a slot opening just large enough for a hand sat centrally. The surrounding white walls were bare but for a very large sign with black block printed letters detailing the instructions of his encounter.

NOTICE: You may only request you soulmate match ONE time; chose carefully

1) Insert left hand into slot palm down; grasp handhold tightly. If you are wearing long sleeves, expose several inches of your wrist before doing so.

2) Speak the following words, "I, [your full name], believe my soulmate to be [the full name of your suspected mate], of [city and state]"

3) Please note, you must use the birth name of both yourself and your mate; no post-birth name changes will be accepted

4) Once you have done this, grasp the handhold for ten seconds. If you have spoken the name of your soulmate, you will feel the heat of the tattoo on your inner wrist. If you do not feel the tattoo after ten seconds, remove your hand

Castle read the instructions twice over, focusing finally on the note at the bottom. He was glad the instructions were printed on the wall, for he had not known about the name change restriction, and as he had changed his name that particular point pertained to him. He also considered the full name and location requirements. What if there was a second Katherine Beckett living in Manhattan? That was certainly plausible, but he had to hope the cosmos knew that and adjusted their algorithms accordingly.

Stepping up to the stone counter, Castle sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly past his lips. He would not have second thoughts. He would not second guess. He would go with his gut; it was now or never.

Gingerly, he slid his left hand into the slot and felt his fingers slip around the handhold described in the instructions; it had been worn glass-smooth from centuries of fellow humans mirroring his movements. He wondered briefly how many more could grip the handle before it wore through or broke off, but then shook off this question and cleared his throat. Reading from the sign, he spoke loudly, "I, Richard Alexander Rodgers, believe my soulmate to be Katherine Houghton Beckett, of Manhattan, New York, New York."

The fire against his wrist was instant. He gritted his teeth and closed his fingers painfully tight around the handhold. As quick as it came, it was over; he doubted it lasted more than several milliseconds.

With the heat gone, Castle decided to count to five slowly—just in case. Then, he released his grip on the handle and slid his hand carefully from the slot. When the sleeve of his shirt brushed against his wrist, he hissed out in discomfort. No one had warned him how painful it would be!

Turning his hand palm up, he pulled at the sleeve and found the words he'd hoped for. In the same barely-there almost skin-toned lettering he'd seen on Esposito and Ryan, two words were printed neatly on his wrist. Katherine Beckett.

So he had been right; his gut had been right. Beckett—Kate—was his soulmate. No questions existed; no uncertainty. It was there—quite literally—in print.

Delicately, he skimmed his index finger over the second word, testing the skin for sensitivity. It felt like a second-degree burn, like he'd brushed his wrist against the inside of the oven while removing dinner. The edges around the lettering were beginning to flare red. He glanced around to see if there were any after care instructions—like if he should cover the area in antiseptic cream—but there were none, so he figured it would be fine.

Soft smile on his face, he turned to leave the secluded room and nodded politely to the next person in line, a nervous looking twenty-something woman popping chewing gum between her lips. "Good luck," he said to her in a friendly tone.

"Were you right?" she asked as he skirted past her.

He paused, but only for a second. "Yeah, yeah I was."

A/N: The second, final part will be posted Saturday

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