Wrong Number

Sometimes the wrong number can actually be the right one. Caskett One-Shot. FFYG Semi-AU

Sitting on her couch with her feet tucked underneath her, Kate Beckett balanced a hard-back novel between her leg and the arm of her sofa while cradling a glass of wine. She tipped her head back, finished off the rest of the merlot, and then rearranged herself so her back pressed against the sofa arm and she could rest the book against her thighs. Nothing was more relaxing to her after a stressful day than a glass of wine and a good book.

At the end of the chapter she was reading, Kate took a bathroom break, and on the way back to the couch heard her phone chime signaling an incoming text message. She groaned under her breath, praying it wasn't work alerting her to the discovery of another dead body. When she picked up her phone, she saw that it was not an NYPD number, but one from an unknown mobile device. She swiped her thumb across the screen and read the brief inquiring message.

Do you ever wonder what it's all about?

Shaking her head slightly, Kate typed back, You have the wrong number.

The reply was almost instant: No, I don't.

Kate's brow wrinkled with confusion. She looked at the phone number once again, but while it began with one of the New York City area codes, she did not recognize it. You do; I don't know you, she replied. Then, she placed the phone back down on the coffee table and returned to her seat on the couch.

Her butt had barely connected with the fabric when her phone chimed again.

Grumbling, she picked up the device, ready to block the number, but the message she received halted her progress.

That's the point. I typed a random number into my phone before I sent that message.

Against her better judgement, she engaged the stranger; the curiosity was simply too great. Why?

Because I'm taking a survey, so again I ask: do you ever wonder what it's all about?

"Survey?" she questioned out loud to herself, but then shook her head and began to type. What what's all about?

Life.

Rolling her eyes at such an esoteric inquiry, Kate responded with a definitive, No. Goodbye.

Hang on! The reply came before she placed the phone back on the table so her eyes were drawn to the screen. You never wonder what our purpose here is?

I know my purpose

Fascinating. What is it?

To help others by stopping criminals

Are you a superhero

Cop, she replied, not sure why she was bothering to tell a complete stranger anything about her life

Oh well in that case thank you for all that you do.

Kate's lips curled ever so slightly at their edges. Whoever this possibly crazy stranger was, at least he or she had been kind enough to thank her. Still, she was more than done with their interruption of her relaxing evening, so she merely responded with, Bye. She placed the phone down on the coffee table only to have it chime again a moment later. That time as she picked it up, she growled audibly.

Wait-are you male or female? I need it for my survey

Kate sighed, not wanting to ruin a poor student's evening with her own frustration, so she said, female.

Thank you for your time. Have a great evening, officer.

"It's detective," she said while looking at the phone screen. Then, with one more glance over the strange conversation, she tossed the phone towards the opposite side of the couch, picked up her book, and continued reading.

Five days later at almost the exact same time of day, Kate sat at her desk at the Twelfth Precinct, her eyes once again skimming over a page. That time, however, her reading was not for pleasure, but part of her job. She would have much rather been at home on her couch wearing comfortable pants and an oversized sweater, but instead she was at her desk proofreading an arrest report and the affiliated paperwork from the homicide investigation she had closed earlier that day.

Once she felt everything in the report was accurate, Kate printed the necessary documents, signed the cover page, and turned the packet in to the bin outside her captain's office (someday the NYPD would go paperless…someday…). When she returned to her desk, she saw that her phone notification light was blinking signaling an unread text message. She unlocked the device and stared down at the message from an unknown number.

Do you believe that everyone has a purpose?

For a moment, she stared down at the message with confusion, but then the 7171 pattern at the end of the local number caught her eye and she remembered—they survey taker! He (or she, but most likely a he) was back!

Groaning to herself, Kate casually tossed her phone back onto her desk. She was not going to get roped into another survey—no way. She was polite once—thinking she'd throw the poor student a bone—but the longer she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. What was the purpose of that kind of survey? Surely, it could not be scientifically quantifiable and thus probably not for a graduate level psychology class. It could have been the whim of a high-schooler, but what kind of high schooler would be asking that type of question? More than likely, they would be caught doing a survey about bra cup size.

Just as Kate was turning back to her email inbox, her phone screen lit up to signal another incoming message. In the preview window she saw the text, I mean, how terrible would it be if we didn't?

Uttering out a half-sigh, half-grumble, Kate scooped up the phone and asked, Is this another survey?

No, it's a conversation

I think it takes two willing participants to have a conversation

The reply was shockingly quick given how many words were typed. Agreed—and this is still a conversation so again I ask: do you believe everyone has a purpose?

Kate bit down on her lower lip as she gazed at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the button that would delete the messages from her phone, but she couldn't bring herself to press down on it. Something about the mysterious stranger text messaging her was too intriguing too ignore; she couldn't stop herself from engaging.

I guess I never really thought about it.

How about something easier: do you believe you have a purpose?

I don't know. Maybe. Not a purpose, exactly, but I believe my work is the thing I should be doing. Staring down at the screen, Kate gave it an affirming nod; she really did believe that. In the wake of her mother's unsolved murder, she had wrestled with her future for months, even years, but she felt confident in her decision. Then, as the years wore on and her passion grew, she knew with certainty there was nothing she would rather be doing but thinking about her job in terms of a "purpose" was once again too esoteric a question; she had never thought about it in that way before.

Interesting. By the way, I don't think I ever got your name.

I thought you survey was anonymous.

But now this is a conversation :)

Kate rolled her eyes at the emoji in his message and pushed the phone to the side of her desk. She had only read two emails when she received another message.

I find it interesting that you combined your career with your purpose, but I suppose that making one's life work the thing that makes one the most passionate is the easiest way to happiness

Narrowing her eyes slightly at his method of speech, she asked, Are you a philosophy major or something?

No. Thankfully I am no longer in school.

Kate's jaw dropped slightly. Not in school!? But who else would be taking surveys but a student? Then why did you survey me?

I'm a writer doing research

Still confused, Kate asked, So do you write philosophy?

mystery novels

"What? Are you kidding?" she asked the phone aloud, then quickly typed out, Then how is this research?

Everything is research

Kate rolled her eyes and sharply tapped out, Then I hope you've done enough, writer boy. Goodbye.

She put her phone aside and turned it over so that she would not be distracted by any more incoming messages. She sat that way for half an hour—the time it took her to clean up her inbox—before turning off her computer and calling it a night. She pocketed her phone, briefly tidied her work station, picked up her bag, and then walked out of the precinct. It wasn't until she was seated on the subway that she looked at her phone again to find several messages from the mysterious mystery writer.

Oh come on—don't be like that.

Haven't you ever wanted to have an anonymous conversation with a stranger? You could be any cop; I could be any writer. It's the mystery that makes it fun

How about this: you can ask me any random question you like

Well, anyway, thanks for your time.

Looking at the incoming messages, Kate saw that the last one came fifteen minutes after the previous, clearly a sign that he had decided to accept her termination of their messages. She pressed her lips together as she slipped the phone in her bag, silently telling herself she would never think about the anonymous texter again.

Sitting sideways at the bar with one arm resting on the faux wooden top and the other in his lap, Richard Castle surveyed the scene before him. He should have been happy—thrilled, even. After all, the party was for him—well, for one of his books. The entire evening had been spent with him accepting congratulations from well-wishers and with reporters practically climbing over each other to get a direct quote from him for their articles. Despite all this attention, Castle felt nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. He felt…hollow.

In the past and evening like that one would have been a real highlight that stroked his ego in all the right ways. After all, who didn't want to be continually praised by surrounded with beautiful women? While he could have his moments, Castle liked to think he wasn't a total narcissist. He didn't need to be the center of attention all the time—or even with regularity. Still, when those book release parties came around, he looked forward to them. He'd even looked forward to that one until he arrived, looked around and saw all the indicators of the shallow life he seemed to be building for himself. As he made the rounds and forced out polite smiles, all he could think was, "Is this all? Is this what my purpose is?"

He didn't hate his life; he loved it. He had the career he always wanted, a daughter that brought him joy every day, and more money than he knew what to do with. True, his passion for writing had waned as of late, which was why he'd decided to kill off his main character in hopes of finding inspiration elsewhere, but he fully expected it to return. Maybe that was his problem—he was having trouble enjoying an evening about his writing because his writing was troubling him at the moment.

"Dad? What are you doing over here?"

Castle smiled when his daughter approached. Her tone rung with concern that was unnecessary. She was already too often the parent in their relationship and he didn't need to encourage that role-reversal. "I'm fine, pumpkin; just needed a breath."

She tilted her head to the side and studied him with a gaze far too wise for her fourteen years, but then gave a little shrug and a nod. "Okay, just don't hide out for too long—this party is for you after all!" She gave his arm a quick squeeze and then walked back towards the small table at which she set up camp, so she could study instead of mingling.

Castle watched her go with no small amount of adoration. Whether or not his books were remembered in fifty years didn't matter as long as he did right by Alexis. He had dedicated his life to raising her right—with absolutely no complaints. She was his shining star, but as he sat and watched her, his brain still asked: but shouldn't there be more.

As he often did when his mind wandered, Castle pulled his phone out of his pocket. When it came to life's great unanswerable questions, one person came to mind first: his mysterious cop companion. Well, not companion; that was too strong of a word for someone whose name he didn't know and whose face he'd never seen. They had been texting for three months, though, so calling her merely someone he knew didn't quite seem strong enough.

Castle thought about the night that he texted his mysterious inquiry to several different random numbers with amusement. Honestly, he'd never expected much of a response; the whole idea had been a lark. Yet, somehow, out of a whim that was never supposed to be anything, something blossomed. It wasn't a friendship quite yet but given that their chats morphed from being weekly to bi-weekly, and now seemingly every few days, he kept the possibility alive in his mind. If nothing else, it was a fun escape; a distraction. And, maybe even a way to find answers.

After opening his text message chain simply labeled "Female Cop," Castle typed, some days I really feel like I should be doing more; that I should be doing something more meaningful

He sent the message and then stared at the screen for several moments, hoping for an instant reply, though she almost never responded that quickly. After a full minute, he gave up, pocketed the phone, and stood from his seat. He'd barely taken two steps away from the bar when he was intercepted by a woman with cropped maroon hair and expression that made it very clear she wasn't interested in being offered a drink or any canapés.

"Richard Castle?"

"Ah—yes." He hesitated a bit, caught off-guard by her directness and lack of smile. "Can—can I help you?"

Level with her face the woman held up a shiny badge and announced herself as, "Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD; I'm going to need you to come with me."

Seated in a random conference room at the twelfth precinct surrounded by dozens of his fan letters, Richard Castle was having the time of his life. True, it was unfortunate that two people had to die in murders inspired by his written works, but the whole experience could not have been more fascinating to him—particularly since it provided him the opportunity to work with one of the NYPD's finest detectives, Kate Beckett. She was intriguing, mysterious, and gorgeous—three of his favorite qualities.

The prior night he'd felt utterly perplexed when he'd been thrown into an interrogation room with very little details. Then Beckett had showed up and really thrown him for a loop when she showed him photos of two murder scenes ripped from the pages of his novels. He'd been equal parts intrigued and horrified by the discovery, but quite willing to help in any way he could. Though he did not know either victim, he did volunteer to sort through some of his more disturbing fan mail to determine if the killer could be an obsessed fan.

While Castle had plenty of things he could be doing that Wednesday morning, he truly did not mind helping the NYPD—especially when it meant being shut in a room with Kate Beckett as she was quickly becoming his new favorite mystery. Of course, after he'd pegged a dark twist in her past as her motivation to become a cop instead of choosing a fancier career path, the chill from her end of the table was palpable, but he was certain the more than he helped her with the case and the more time they spent together that he would be able to win her over. He wasn't yet sure what he wanted to win, but in his mind the possibilities were endless.

When yet another letter seemed just as run-of-the-mill crazy as the others, Castle shoved it aside and reached for a new envelope to open. In doing so, he noticed that his cell phone notification light was blinking, so he picked up the device, unlocked the screen, and read the message from his other favorite person of the moment—Female Cop.

You ever have one of those days when nothing seems to be going your way?

He smiled softly down at the phone as he certainly had been in the place she was—many times. As he continued to gaze at the screen, he read over her message from the night before—well, technically from very early that morning.

By the time Castle had arrived home from the Twelfth Predict the night before, his mind had only been focused on the copycat murders; he had completely forgot about the text he'd sent to Female Cop just before Detective Beckett showed up at his party. He spent two hours in his office reviewing notes from books he'd written years prior before finally dragging his exhausted body to bed and falling instantly to sleep. The next morning, as he sipped his coffee and waited for Black Pawn's diligent interns to collect his fan mail, he'd finally seen her response, which had come through just before two in the morning.

What you do is meaningful. Sometimes, the escape a book can provide is exactly what someone needs. It can give hope or desperately needed answers. I'm sure your books mean a lot more than you'll ever know.

Her words had moved him unexpectedly. Not only were they kind and sweet, but they rung with an air of intimacy that made him think that she herself had once been touched or influenced by the written word. He greatly appreciated what she had said and wanted to dedicate himself to a proper response that expressed such gratitude, but had not felt in the correct headspace that morning. Now, with her latest message, he felt compelled to respond, but also knew he could not do so without acknowledging her response from early that morning.

Definitely been there. I'm sorry to hear that. anything I can do to make it better?

Castle reached for another letter while keeping a close eye on his phone. When the screen lit with an incoming message, he snatched the device up so he could read what Female Cop had to say.

No I just need this case to end quickly, that's all

Well, I hope it does. While we're talking: I need to thank you, for what you said before. I'm sorry I didn't respond, but I'm actually in the middle of something myself. Perhaps you've heard - Someone is copying the murders in my books; I'm helping the NYPD find the killer.

As he did not know in which borough Female Cop worked, it was entirely possible that she had not, in fact, heard of the killings. Selfishly, he hoped that when she read his message she would be able to look into the killings and thusly determine his identity. He could have told her outright, of course; he'd had ample opportunities to do so, but the writer in him craved the drama of a reveal that wasn't so-

"Castle!"

From across the table, the detective barked his name with such aggression the writer actually jumped. Turning his head towards her, he saw her eyes were wide and a bit wild, which made his brow furrow. "What's wrong?"

She held up her phone with the display facing him and said, "You're the mystery writer who won't stop texting me?"

Castle's jaw dropped towards the center of his chest as he looked between the phone and detective. "Wha—oh my god are you serious?" Unable to help himself, he snatched the phone from her grasp and scrolled through to see a text message chain identical to the one on his phone. Looking back to his phone and seeing the "Female Cop" header to the chain, his brow furrowed a bit deeper. "But...you said you were just an officer."

"No, you assumed."

"Why didn't you correct me?"

"Because you're annoying!"

"Oh!" He half-laughed, half-sighed. It was seemingly improbable, yet completely undeniable. The woman with whom he'd been intrigued over the prior few months was the same intriguing one sitting before him. Talk about a dramatic reveal! "Oh Beckett, this is-"

"No. Stop. And give me back my phone!" She snatched for it, but her arms weren't quite long enough to reach to where he sat gazing down at the screen to see that she had put him under her address book as Mystery Writer. It could not have been more perfect!

"Castle! Phone!" she snarled and he finally gave in and handed it back.

"This is just so incredible! To think that-"

"The case, Castle." She corrected harshly while putting her phone on the complete opposite side of the table from him. "We are here to work on the case."

His jaw dropped again as he felt downright offended that she expected him to focus on reading boring (and frankly creepy) letters when something a thousand times more interesting had just fallen into his lap. "But-"

"No. Help with the letters or you'll have to go."

"Wha…But…" He stammered for a moment, completely unsure of how to continue on. Yes, he understood that finding the murderer was her job, but it wasn't as though someone had written a letter to him confessing to the killings. Well, he supposed that was possible, but unlikely to the point where it was virtually impossible, meaning they would not find the killer in the next five minutes, so where was the harm in discussing this amazing coincidence? Clearly, the stern-faced detective saw harm, so he presented a counter offer.

"Can we please talk about this after the case?"

Her eyes briefly flicked in his direction before returning to the letter she held in her hand. "Fine."

Castle's lips curled into a smile as he watched the detective's face closely for any sign of joy or excitement, but he found none, so he simply had to accept the arrangement, even though he knew not discussing what was going on would absolutely kill him. Then again, it was great motivation for him to help in finding the killer, so he picked up another letter and began to read with renewed focus.

After making sure her latest killer was safely in the back of a squad car headed towards central booking, Kate turned to return to her vehicle. Just a few feet down the sidewalk she spotted Castle leaning casually against the brick exterior of a building, a charming if not slightly goofy smile on his face. Despite the flutter she felt in her heart, Kate made sure her expression displayed nothing close to amusement or enjoyment as she approached him.

When she was within a few feet, he pushed himself away from the wall and approached. "Let me be the first to congratulate you on another case closed, Detective Beckett."

She hummed beneath her breath. "Well, despite the obvious danger you put yourself in I…I suppose I do owe you a thank you for your assistance."

He grinned. "Well I was all too happy to bring this case to a close. Speaking of—now that it is over I think its time you and I went to dinner."

"No."

His expression faltered at her response as he had clearly been expecting the opposite. "Wha—why!?"

"Because I have no interest in being one of your conquests." She responded simply. As someone familiar with Castle's works, she was also quite familiar with the man—and the reputation he possessed. As of late, one could hardly open Page Six without seeing a photo of him with yet another blonde, large breasted companion. Seeing as she had no interest in being just another notch on his bedpost, she was all too happy to end their relationship before it ever began.

It appeared her response did not cause him to stumble at all, because he almost immediately returned, "What if I was one of yours?" adding a not-so-subtle wink at the end that made her stomach clench.

Again, she said, "No."

"But this is fate!"

Her brow wrinkled. "Fate?"

"Yes, fate. Of all the random numbers in New York—in the world—I could have chosen to type in, I chose yours."

Kate rolled her eyes at his assessment. Was it unlikely that the mystery writer texting her was the same to pop up in her murder case? Of course, but that did not make it fate. Actually, nothing did, because she didn't believe in fate. It was a coincidence and nothing more. Besides, if he played his little question game with her, she had to assume he had done it to many others as well. "I'm sure I wasn't the only one to respond to your little 'survey,'" she said with air quotes.

"True, but you're the only one I kept talking to."

"Uh huh," she said with little care.

"You are! Besides, the odds of us finding each other like this. Fate."

"Murder," she countered.

"Well, now we've solved that and technically you did agree that we could talk about our texting conversations after the case was closed." He pointed out proudly. Then, taking a step closer to her, he lowered his voice and gave her a sultry gaze. "C'mon Kate. One date. How bad could it be?"

"You asked me to dinner, not on a date," she pointed out. He shrugged, indicating he saw them as one in the same. Kate then folded her arms over her chest and considered.

When it came right down to it, Kate hadn't minded chatting with the man she'd dubbed Mystery Writer for the prior few months. While he'd been annoying at first, she grew to appreciate his humor and the distraction he provided. The more they talked, the more she realized they actually had some similar viewpoints on topics she believed to be important. Still, she thought of their relationship as more like pen pals and never really had any intention of taking it any further.

Finding out that Richard Castle and the Mystery Writer were one in the same had been utterly shocking. The Castle she had seen to that point was annoying and immature—just as she would have anticipated given what she'd read and seen about him. It didn't seem possible that he could be the same man that had been texting her and helping her get through her more difficult shifts, but strangely it was. Perhaps, given that, she did owe him the discussion she had promised.

"Okay, one dinner but it is not a date."

He smiled broadly. "We'll see."

With that, she turned on her heel and said, "Goodbye, Castle," as she continued to walk towards her vehicle. He scurried after her.

"Wait—when are we going to dinner?"

Fighting to keep the smile from her face as he looked absolutely flabbergasted by the fact that she was walking away from him, Kate said with utmost casualty, "I have to look at my schedule."

"But!" he began with a squeak, but she didn't let him get any more words out.

"Don't worry, Castle," she threw back over her shoulder just as she reached the driver's side door of her car, "I've got your number."

A/N: thanks so much for reading. this outline has been partially done sitting in my drafts for probably 2 years but i could never figure out how to make it come together until just a few weeks ago so i'm quite pleased with this - hope you enjoyed it too :)