Chapter Text
March 2009
"Darling, is that you?"
"Yes, Mother."
(Who else?)
Rick Rodgers sighs as he steps into the cramped but cozy kitchen of their shared flat. He'd just wanted to grab a snack, maybe get his brain going and break through his worst ever case of writer's block…but it's no use. He doesn't think the spark will ever come back. He's forever doomed to brood around in wrinkled boxers and stained t-shirts with unkempt hair.
"Oh, good. Would you mind making me some more tea?"
To his chagrin, his mother had become obsessed with tea ever since they'd moved to the UK last fall. Once the divorce with his ex-wife had been finalized, he'd used what savings he had left to leave New York, escape his terrible failures in life and love, and be closer to his daughter—the only thing he'd ever done right. Case in point: she's halfway through her second year of studying for an international law degree at Oxford (just an hour's train ride away), getting ready to change the world.
Back in New York, he'd been using his English degree to teach creative writing classes, but when Kevin Ryan—an old college buddy—had convinced him Notting Hill was the place to be, Rick had hopped on board and never looked back.
Kevin, who had been kind enough to help Rick find an old bookstore to run, was working on opening an Irish pub down the street with another expat friend of his.
Javier Esposito had once been a sniper in the American army; formerly stationed out of a base near London. He'd met Kevin at a sports bar one day and they'd become fast friends—the kind of immediate bond forged from the solidarity of being possibly the only Knicks fans in the whole country.
Rick drops a tea bag into a mug, grabs the kettle with freshly-boiled water, and fills the mug almost to the brim. After a couple minutes of steeping, he adds a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar and brings it to his mother in the living room, where she's cocooned in a comfy chair watching some trashy celebrity show on their tiny TV box, a relic from the 90s.
"Thanks, kiddo."
His eyes are pulled to the bright screen as the word orphan unceremoniously flashes by, and Rick gets the feeling this is not going to be the kind of BBC3 exposé that follows any shred of decorum.
You've heard the story. Haven't we all? A decade ago 19-year-old Katherine "Kate" Beckett was involved in a horrific car crash while heading home from her Christmas holiday in northern New York. Both of her parents were instantly killed and she—the sole survivor; without a scratch. But with no other immediate family, the young girl had to drop out of her schooling at the prestigious Stanford University and secure a waitressing job at Remy's Diner in New York City to make ends meet. That's where she was discovered by fashion mogul Matilda King, who famously told her—"I'd kill for those cheekbones." And after appearing in a spread of Modern Fashion's January '99 issue, Kate Beckett skyrocketed to fame.
God. His daughter is 19. Rick can't imagine her going through that. He used to be so convinced that Meredith's absence was the worst thing that could happen. But losing both parents like that and not having anyone to turn to?
"Won't you sit down? You're hovering," his mother tuts.
He drops into the other comfy chair, entranced. He's aware that basically everyone in the world is a little bit in love with Kate Beckett, but it's impossible not to be. She's beautiful and charming, and he's always thought so, ever since he first saw her starring on those episodes of that soap he used to watch with Alexis when she was sick.
Soon enough—Kate Beckett bagged a handful of commercial spots and quickly ascended to a career in the spotlight. All too soon, however, the young model fell down the rabbit hole of illicit vices and spent a stint in rehab before being cast in the renowned soap opera, Temptation Lane, where she made waves with her showstopping good looks, comedic timing, and raw dramatic chops.
"Almost just like me," Martha quips, exactly as Rick expects her to. "I was on a career trajectory like hers before you came along, you know."
Oh, he knows. She never lets him forget it.
Kate made her debut on the huge silver screen as a Bond girl—but her big breakout role was as Lieutenant Chloe in the sci-fi flick and instant box office success, Nebula-9. She went on to star in two more franchise sequels.
He remembers those movies were kind of cheesy, but she's the only thing that made them worth watching. (Not that he'd ever admit to being a Nebula-9 fan.)
Wanting to branch out, Kate scored a leading role in the remake of the 1950s movie musical classic, Annie Get Your Gun, where she garnered her first Oscar nomination at twenty-five for her portrayal of the gun-slinging Annie Oakley.
A clip of her singing plays—she sounds like a siren. She should've won the Oscar. Totally robbed.
She went on to become America's Sweetheart by starring in several more smash hits—Nancy Meyer rom-coms like Love Me Dead and The Fifth Bullet, where she played an amnesiac who falls in love with her husband all over again. Most recently, she wrapped up filming for her newest movie, a noir thriller The Blue Butterfly, where she stars as a gangster's moll that falls for an undercover FBI agent, who helps rescue her kidnapped daughter from a rival mob outfit. He's portrayed by the "Hunk of Hollywood"—Will Sorenson.
Martha lets out a low, appreciative whistle when his picture pops onto the screen. "He can arrest me anytime."
"Right," Rick says, rolling his eyes. "And that's enough for me. Goodnight, Mother."
Her eyes stay glued to the screen as she sips from her tea and waves at him with a hum of night.
Rick heaves a sigh as he pulls open a box filled with his recent order of the new Patterson thriller. He knows it's childish—there was always going to be a lot of Patterson in this place…he's the one who decided to sell only mystery novels in his bookstore, after all—but he's admittedly getting a little sick of the sight of the famous author.
Mysteries were his favorite as a kid. He was always tucked away in some corner reading The Hardy Boys or hot on the trail of something with Sherlock and Watson. He went as Encyclopedia Brown for Halloween three years in a row, despite Martha's insistence that he should try dressing up as something else for a change. She had so many other costumes he could wear and wouldn't he like to be her Toto?
"Jesus, I think you might be more dramatic than I am," his mother quips.
"It's just…this guy keeps churning out hit after hit and I can't even get one book published. I mean, my ex-wife was a publisher for Chrissake and some of my old students have already made it on the New York Times Bestseller List. How embarrassing is that? And now, because I apparently can't write a book to save my life, the best I can do is sell them." He gestures at her. "At least you have community theater to pursue your passion."
His mother balks. "Good lord, you're maudlin this morning. Why don't I grab us some cappuccinos from across the street? Ease the pain."
He sighs heavily. "Sure." As she whirls out the door in a billow of colorful scarves, bells clanging loudly in her wake, he hollers, "Can you get it with whipped cream, please?"
She throws up her thumbs and calls back to him. "Coming right up!"
Another clang of the shop bells as a customer makes their way in a few moments later.
He glances up, takes stock, and glances back down at the store's balance sheets.
And then, with as much subtlety as he can possibly manage, Rick does a double take. Because holy shit—it's Kate Beckett. Katherine Beckett. Hollywood's biggest star just wandered into his little store on a random Monday.
There's no way…what are the odds?
She's gorgeous—obviously, always—and somehow even more stunning in person than she is on screen. Kate moves with this careful, leonine grace, something almost preternatural in how steadily she holds herself. A certified dame.
Her outfit is a clear shot at anonymity: a fashionable beret slung low over dark sunglasses, tasteful but unassuming, the kind of thing a 90s starlet might wear, along with a vintage leather jacket that's effortlessly cool. He wants to write it down. All of it, all of her. For the first time since New York, Rick feels that calling, the surge of energy into his fingertips. To open a notebook and start writing.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice mercifully measured.
She browses the shelves, running slim fingers along the spines of books, a faint smile on her face. "Yeah, actually. Do you have the new Patterson?"
He holds it up from his stack on the counter. "Are you sure? You'd be wasting your money."
Amusement crooks the corner of her mouth. "Really?"
He's about to explain further when he spies something afoot on his security camera feed. He holds up a finger. "If you could just give me a second."
He heads to the back of the store and clears his throat. "Excuse me."
A greasy-looking guy turns to face him, feigning nonchalance. "Yes?"
"Bad news."
"What?"
Rick points toward a ceiling corner. "We have a security camera in this part of the store."
The man bristles. "So?"
"So, I saw you put that book down your pants. Trousers. Whatever you call 'em."
The man tries to play dumb. "What book?"
(Seriously, dude?) "The one down your pants."
"I haven't got a book down my trousers."
"Right. Well, then…I'm afraid we're at an impasse." Rick shifts on his feet. "But tell you what, I'll call the police and—" he throws a casual hand to the side, "if I'm wrong about the whole book-down-the-pants thing, I apologize."
The would-be thief considers this. "Okay. What if I did have a book down my trousers?"
Rick makes a show of weighing his options. "Well, ideally, when I go back to the desk counter, you'll remove The Murder on the Orient Express from your pants, and either wipe it and put it back or—buy it."
He returns to his spot at the cash register—to Kate, who watches him now with a new sheen of interest.
"Sorry 'bout that," he offers.
"No, that's fine. I was going to steal one myself but now I've changed my mind," she deadpans. He grins, a lopsided thing, as his heart does a funny flip. She picks up a John Grisham book on the counter. "Signed by the author, I see."
"Yeah, we couldn't stop him. If you can find an unsigned copy, it's worth an absolute fortune."
She smiles. (Charmed, maybe?) And suddenly the almost-thief appears right beside her. Uncomfortably close and staring pretty rudely. He's all stringy hair and weasel eyes, but, Rick notes with relief, at least there isn't a suspiciously book-shaped bulge down the front of his pants.
"Yes?" Kate prompts when the man fails to speak.
"Can I have your autograph?"
She stays blithely cool; doesn't miss a beat. "What's your name?"
"Harrison Tisdale."
She readily signs his scruffy piece of paper and Harrison tries to read it.
"What does it say?" he asks.
"Well, that's the signature...and above, it says—Dear Harrison—you belong in jail."
Rick smothers a laugh behind his knuckles.
"Nice one," Harrison says, unaffected. "Would you like my phone number?"
"Tempting," Kate pretends to consider. (She really is a good actress.) "But...no. Thank you."
The interloper leaves.
"You'd make a great cop, you know," Rick ventures. "Bet you could play the hell out of a detective character. Haunting good looks. Kind of slutty."
She laughs. (God, her laugh is divine.)
Picking up steam, he adds, "And like Nancy Drew, she solves every case. Except the one mystery she can never solve is herself—who she is and what she wants out of life."
She bites her lip and eyes him with curiosity, as if trying to figure him out.
"Oh, I get it. You don't just sell the books—you write 'em too, huh?"
He shrugs, a little bemused by how quickly she's managed to read him. (Cute trick.) "I've been known to dabble."
Her eyebrow arches. (Fuck, she's hot.) "Anything that I might know of?"
"Not yet," he hedges. "I'm sort of in the middle of an inspiration slump."
He probably sounds like a complete idiot. But she's not walking away just yet.
"Is that a fancy way of saying writer's block?" she teases.
He gasps and puts a hand to his chest in mock affront. "How dare you? That's like saying Macbeth in the theater. You've basically just cursed me." His hand raises to his forehead, as if afflicted. "I'll never be able to write again."
She grins her trademark megawatt grin. "I think I'll take the Patterson."
He sighs. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Though I will admit his book is very useful for lighting fires, wrapping fish, that sort of thing."
She smiles once more, soft and gentle, something incredibly intimate about it. His heart does another funny flip. And as she leaves with another tinkle of the bells, she winks.
"Break a leg, Writer Boy."
Martha returns at the same time, not noticing her as she squeezes past the star with her coffee tray.
"Cappuccino with whipped cream, as ordered," his mother announces with a flourish.
But he doesn't give a damn about the coffee, his skin buzzing and adrenaline coursing through him—fingertips tingling.
"I don't think you'll believe who was just in here."
"Who? Someone famous?"
"Uh…" He blinks. "Kate Beckett."
"Shut the front door!" Martha's gaze snaps toward the store entrance. "Do you think she's still close by?"
Still dazed, he blinks again. Manages, "Why?"
"Well, don't you want to follow her around?"
He huffs a laugh. As much as he would love to, maybe in another life— "I think that constitutes as stalking, Mother."
"Oh, pish-posh. I'm simply curious about where she shops for clothes. She has such great style." She shrugs. "We can call it research."
"I'm sure that'll hold up very well in court when they're issuing the restraining order," he jokes.
Without really thinking about it, Rick removes a brand-new Moleskine notebook from a nearby shelf and tears off the plastic packaging.
"What are you doing?" his mother asks with a quirk of her brow.
He grabs a pen from a cup on the check-out counter and starts scribbling down a rush of words.
"Nothing, uh…"
He scrubs a hand over his five o'clock shadow as he jots down the outline of a detective character, his mind alive with a million things.
"I have an idea."