Disclaimer: All things "Castle" belong to ABC and Andrew Marlowe & co.

Author's Note: An AU for 2x5 "When the Bough Breaks," in which Alexis and Castle didn't have the conversation about boys not apologizing so Castle never returned to the precinct to apologize to Beckett at the end of 2x1 "Deep in Death," so that was his last case.

Because You Were Gone

Chapter 1

What was the matter with him?

Castle surveyed himself in the mirror with a rather jaundiced eye. He was freshly shaved, his hair styled just so, and wearing one of his nicer suits. He looked ruggedly handsome, if he did say so himself, like the suave, successful millionaire that he was.

Or at least, he would have looked like the suave, successful millionaire that he was if it weren't for the fact that his expression could best be described as glum.

He pasted on his best insouciant smirk, trying it on. He was Richard Castle, damn it, living the dream and all that, and he still had game. Really.

The smirk wavered and then fell off entirely as he grimaced. He really needed to get better about lying to himself. Or not lying since lying was such a harsh word, acting. Yes, he needed to get better at acting like he wasn't, erm, feeling down.

He couldn't seem to shake off the nagging feeling of discontent, of ennui even. And not even the prospect of writing James Bond had prodded him out of it.

It was ridiculous. He was basically on top of the world, living the sort of life most men could only dream of, the sort of life he had dreamed of certainly.

And still he wasn't happy.

Oh, who was he kidding, he was moping.

Damn it. There was no reason for him to mope. Absolutely none.

He'd been giving himself this sort of pep talk in varying iterations for maybe six weeks now (he tried to tell himself he had no idea what had brought this mood on) in the hope that repetition might brainwash him into believing it. But right on cue, just as had happened every time, he heard her voice in his head, the one that had taken to practically haunting him these past weeks (and really, even he hadn't believed it was possible before to be haunted by someone who not only was neither dead nor imaginary but was very much alive—and possibly hated him.) You dredged up my past for you, Castle, not for me, and you're too selfish to even see it. The case is closed, Castle. We had a deal and I expect you to honor it.

He sighed.

He'd honored it. It had quite possibly been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, to walk away from her knowing it was for the last time but he'd done it. And in the weeks since (okay, fine, 7 weeks and 2 days but who was counting?), he'd still honored it. He'd resisted every urge to contact Bob Weldon and just happen to mention how useful and informative his time working with the NYPD had been and he would hate for Nikki Heat to be a one-hit wonder heroine and…

More directly, he'd resisted every urge (which meant about a hundred times every day) to contact Beckett directly. Resisted the urge to explain himself (again), or wheedle or cajole, or ply her with his charm and wit (not that she'd ever shown any propensity to be charmed by him but he ignored that). His only contact with Beckett since walking out of the precinct had been to send her an advance copy of the book (to which she'd sent him a terse text saying only Thanks for the book and he'd responded with equal brevity You're welcome, not daring to send more and not knowing what he'd say anyway) and then he'd sent her a personal invitation to the book launch party tonight (to which she hadn't responded at all).

She really might hate him now. He sighed again. (He'd probably sighed more in the last month than he had in the last decade.)

And what might have made it worse was that he couldn't tell himself anymore that it wasn't his own fault. Too selfish to even see it.

He had tried in the weeks since then to justify himself, engaged in more mental arguments with her voice that had taken up residence in his head than he cared to admit to, reasons, justifications. Excuses.

But with every day that passed, his reasons seemed to get lamer.

He could tell himself—and he had—that he'd only had the best intentions, that all he'd wanted was to help her, use the connections he had to try to help her, give Beckett some of the peace she gave to others every day. It was even true.

It just wasn't the entire truth.

Because the real truth was that at first, when he'd asked (and semi-bribed through a promise of permission to borrow his Ferrari) Esposito into showing him Johanna Beckett's case file, he hadn't had any real plan in mind. It had started as curiosity, that ever-nagging wish to know more about everything and about Beckett in particular. Seeing the sheen of tears in Beckett's eyes, having her share the story of the life she lost and the life she saved (as brief as it was), had turned his usual curiosity into a need to know more, know the rest of the story.

It had been curiosity.

And even when he'd decided to call up Clark Murray to have him look into the file, it had still been curiosity, mixed in with a healthy dose of… ego… That was what it was, low be it spoken. He'd wanted to prove to Beckett that he could be useful, that just because he wasn't a cop didn't mean he couldn't help her solve cases and he'd figured what better way to show that and get her gratitude—face it, Rick, you were showing off and wanted to impress her—than by solving her mother's case.

He had a long, ignominious track record of doing stupid things in order to show off and impress a pretty woman—but he had the gnawing feeling that this was the absolute worst thing. (And if anything was going to cure him of impulsively doing things to impress a woman, this might have done it.)

Yes, he'd wanted to help her—but again, as she'd said, he'd then gone about helping in the way he wanted to help without a thought for Beckett herself and what she wanted. Pried into the most personal, painful part of her past without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Helping" someone who didn't want to be helped was little better than forcing them to do what you wanted.

It was an ugly thought. An ugly truth.

But in these last weeks, he'd had to face up to it. The weeks since Beckett had sent him away had given him a little too much time to think about his own actions where Beckett was concerned, too much time to take a good look at himself in the stark light of Beckett's words.

It wasn't that getting into trouble was new to him but he'd been largely insulated from the consequences of his own impulsivity and mistakes, able to buy (not to say bribe, unofficially) or persuade or generally charm his way out of trouble. That was the reality of the world he'd lived in. It had spoiled him, made him more thoughtless than he was already inclined to be.

But then he'd met Beckett. Beckett, who could not have been more removed from the world of careless money and celebrity starlets. Beckett, who was real—and in the months of working with her, he'd started to want to be real too, want to be more than the façade of the devil-may-care playboy author that he'd lived for so long.

He had, he realized, gotten out of practice at dealing with people (women) who didn't want anything from him, whether it was his money, his fame, his connections, or his body. Beckett didn't care about—not to say, actively disliked—his money, his fame, and his connections, and she was too strong-minded to fall for his looks or his charm. He liked and respected her all the more for it—but ironically, it was this very strength of character that was making things harder for him now because it stripped him of his usual methods of getting out of trouble. Beckett had shown him—what was the line from Austen?—how insufficient all his pretensions were to please a woman worthy of being pleased.

And so, he'd finally made a mistake he couldn't throw money at to fix or wheedle or charm his way out of. And he'd woken up to an emotion he generally didn't allow himself to feel: shame. And remorse. And loss, as if he'd lost something he hadn't even realized was so precious to him until it was gone.

Enough of this!

He might be a writer and writers were allowed, even expected, to brood, but this had gone past brooding and tipped well into wallowing territory.

And he flat out refused to do that.

He was Richard freaking Castle, living out all his boyhood dreams, really. He had an amazing daughter (as always, he felt a flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of Alexis), a loving (if melodramatic and overwhelming) mother, a successful career (about to be capped off, knock on wood, by an official offer to write the major re-launch of the most well-known British secret agent and one of the coolest fictional characters ever), a great loft, more money than he could spend in a lifetime, and if he wanted, he could have almost any one of the city's most beautiful women on his arm and possibly warming his bed.

It was her loss if one particular beautiful woman in the NYPD didn't want anything to do with him. Really.

He wasn't going to pine for her. He wasn't.

Never mind that she was brilliant and funny and kind and challenging in the best way. And compassionate and driven and tenacious and so strong it was awe-inspiring. Oh, and well-read and insightful and a crack shot. To say nothing of being gorgeous and sexy and the hottest woman he'd set eyes on in quite some time.

But that was it.

Oh, shit.

No no no no. He absolutely, flatly refused to fall in love with Kate Beckett.

He wouldn't. He wasn't.

Anyway, she probably hated him.

And he might never see her again since he had no idea if she'd show up to tonight's launch party. Possibly—probably?—not since it wasn't as if she'd disguised her distinct lack of pleasure at the fame that came with being known as the inspiration for Nikki Heat.

He couldn't love her. He refused to be in love with her.

(Too late, Rick. After all, the heart wants what the heart wants.)

Shut up. No no no. He was absolutely not in love with Beckett. Not at all.

Besides, she was stubborn and emotionally reticent and frustrating and slow to trust and she drove him crazy a lot of the time. (He tried very hard to convince himself that those were deal-breaker character flaws on par with hating Alexis and torturing puppies and kittens.)

He just… missed her. Or not her so much as missed working in the precinct, that feeling of accomplishment, of contributing to a worthy cause, the camaraderie of the other cops. Yeah, that was what he missed. And her. A little.

A lot. (Shut up.)

Castle pushed any and all musings related to stubborn, infuriating NYPD detectives out of his head by force of will and focused on his own image in the mirror again, glancing back and forth between it and his open closet.

"Tie or no tie," he muttered, one hand reaching in to grasp one, no, two, ties and pulling them off the rack to hold them up against himself. "Tie or no tie."

"I vote for no tie."

Alexis's voice had him twisting to look at his daughter as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom. She was already dressed up for the launch party, looking scarily grown up in a dark maroon dress that ended inches above her knee (modest enough not to give him a coronary but still way too high for his preference—had she cut a couple inches off the hem? Not that she would but really, when had teenage girl's dresses started to be so damn short?) Not wanting to be killed, he opted not to question this, only smiled, "You look beautiful, Alexis."

She dimpled at him. "Thanks, Dad. I wanted to see if you were ready and let you know that Grams should be ready on time for once. I stopped her when she was dithering over which dress to wear."

"You have my eternal gratitude, daughter."

She smirked at him. "Yeah, I'll remind you of that next time I want to go out on a date."

He pretended to scowl at her. "I can still put you in a convent, you know."

"No, you can't."

Damn it, she was right. This threatening thing had been so much easier when she was little and didn't know so much about the world. Also, he'd been able to wheedle and bribe through things like more dessert or more books or a later bedtime, which didn't work so well now that she was in high school.

He made a face at her and turned back to the mirror and the question at hand. "So, no tie, you think?"

She came to stand beside him. "Nah, you look all stuffy when you wear a tie and you know you don't really like wearing ties, Dad."

"Fair point. Very well, I defer to your expertise, oh child of mine," he quipped and put the ties back.

She didn't laugh, only studied him soberly. "Dad, will she be at the party?"

"Will who be at the party?" he parried, playing dumb. He didn't need to make it so obvious that he knew immediately who Alexis was asking about, as if Beckett were the only other "she" in existence. It might be the truth as far as he was con—no, no, it was not. He wasn't thinking like that.

Predictably, Alexis saw right through him, giving him one of her silly-Dad looks. "Beckett, Dad. Will Detective Beckett be at the party?"

He bit back a sigh. "I, uh, don't know, pumpkin. I sent her an invitation." He'd also sent a personal invitation to Captain Montgomery, Esposito, Ryan, and Lanie, and a more general invitation to everyone at the 12th. He expected the Captain and the boys would be there and it would be nice to see them, at least.

Alexis gave him a reassuring smile. "She'll probably come. I mean, she's the inspiration for Nikki Heat. It wouldn't look right if she isn't at the launch party."

He put on a smile for her benefit. "Of course you're right." Admittedly, Beckett wasn't much for artificiality and she didn't like publicity. But he was an optimist. Beckett was polite and it'd be rude to turn down a personal invitation to a book launch party about a character inspired by her. Right?

"And Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"When you see Beckett again, maybe you could try just apologizing?"

"I don't think it's going to be quite that simple, sweetie," he said gently.

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Don't patronize me, Dad. I'm not 5 anymore. I'm just saying, I know you and you don't like to admit you did anything wrong, you try to crack a joke or justify it and then move on."

He opened his mouth and then closed it, feeling a little uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. She wasn't wrong. But it was lowering to be scolded so soundly by your own daughter.

"But you always used to tell me that it was good to apologize when you've hurt someone's feelings even if you didn't mean to. And you were right about that. It shows you care more about that person's feelings than you do about your own pride."

He stilled, struck by the wisdom of the words. Why was it so much easier to be clear-eyed when it came to giving advice and not when it was time to act on it?

After a moment, he slid his arm around his daughter's shoulders, hugging her to him as he pressed a kiss to her hair. "Thank you, sweetie. How did you get to be so smart?"

"I think it's a hereditary anomaly since I know I didn't get it from you," she deadpanned.

He made a face at her in the mirror. "Hey!" he pretended to grumble. "That's not fair since you said it was advice I used to give you."

Alexis smirked. "You're sort of like Alice. You give very good advice but you very seldom follow it."

He had to laugh. "Point taken, oh cheeky one. I'll apologize to Beckett at the party if she's there," he promised. And even if she wasn't at the party, he would find a way to apologize to her, for real, the way he probably should have done earlier.

"Good." Alexis rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, rather as she had used to when she was little. "I don't like it when you mope around the way you have been."

Great, even Alexis thought he'd been moping. "I'll do better, I promise, pumpkin." He released Alexis and gave her a gentle nudge. "Now go run up and see if Grams is about ready."

"Right. After all, we can't keep your adoring fans waiting," Alexis quipped as she left.

"Exactly. I must go to where adoration awaits me," he proclaimed dramatically just to make her laugh (and succeeding).

Launch party first. Apologize to Beckett second (or during). And having a concrete plan of action made him feel marginally better.

Besides, he enjoyed his book launch parties.

Or at least, he had, he found himself thinking a little more than an hour later. Not so much anymore.

He smiled, thanked people, posed for pictures, signed books (but nothing else—a last-minute decision he couldn't explain), flirted, joked, and generally played the role of Richard Castle, charming playboy author. But all the while, he was conscious that it was a role he was playing and one that he didn't particularly enjoy anymore.

He was reminded of this last spring, of what he'd said to Alexis at the Storm Fall launch party. He was tired of all this, bored with the parties, even the adulation, because it was so fake and so predictable. Oh, he could play the role just fine, it was practically second nature to him now. He could have responded to the gushes that he was their favorite author, that they'd read all his books, the questions of where he got his ideas and what he was working on next in his sleep. Which was the problem.

He wanted something real, something challenging.

He missed... the precinct. (He refused to think that he missed… someone more.) It was one place he'd found outside of his own home where he was valued for himself, for his own contributions, and not for his money or his fame or his connections.

At least Captain Montgomery was here, as were Esposito and Ryan. He'd exchanged smiles and waves with them but hadn't been able to escape the line of fans waiting for an autograph. Later, though. He knew from experience that the first rush of people would dwindle into a trickle soon enough, allowing him more time to actually socialize.

There was still no sign of her.

He suppressed a sigh and turned his smile to the next giggling fan.

It was a little while later that he heard a little increased buzz from outside. Maybe Bob Weldon had decided to stop by after all or—and he knew which one he was hoping for—the real "Nikki Heat" had arrived.

It was her.

She was here. She'd come after all.

He heard a flurry of whispers, saw a few pointing fingers, and forced himself not to turn his back on the fan whose clutches he was currently in until he'd given the fan the requisite minute or so of personal attention.

And then, finally, he was able to turn and see her.

Oh. Holy… Wow.

He froze and stared. She looked—well, she was always beautiful but tonight, in a skin-tight electric blue dress that left nothing to the imagination and made her legs look like they went on for miles… He practically felt every thought in his head that wasn't directly related to her drain out of his head and flop onto the ground at his feet.

She'd been talking to Montgomery but then she moved to the table stacked with copies of Heat Wave, picking one up, and he suddenly realized she wouldn't have seen the dedication yet.

The thought somehow allowed him to yank his feet from where they'd taken root and head towards her, as if she exerted a magnetic pull. (She honestly might.)

But before he'd managed to take more than two steps, he was waylaid by a hand grasping his arm and had to stop before he plowed right into the woman and he blinked before he belatedly recognized Paula.

Oh damn. He couldn't ignore his own agent.

"Paula."

"Rick, finally, you're free. I've got great news. You got the official offer!"

That got him to blink and tear his gaze and (some of) his attention off Beckett. "Really?"

"I had to wheedle them a little but they gave in so it's a three-book deal and I got them to throw in an option for another if the first two sell…"

Beckett read the dedication. He saw her expression change in a way he couldn't describe and Paula's voice faded away—to be fair, everything faded away from his consciousness except for Beckett.

"Yeah, yeah, that's great," he responded absently, not aware if Paula had actually paused or not but he needed to say something.

"Rick!" Paula snapped her fingers in front of his nose, making him blink and jerk his head back a little. "You're not even listening to me."

"Sorry," he managed perfunctorily. "Three book deal with an option for a fourth, I heard."

She gave an exasperated huff. "Never mind the other details. You aren't paying attention now anyway. Just go over there, do whatever you have to do to get her out of your system—"

"I don't think that's ever going to happen," he interrupted automatically, unthinkingly. "I'll—uh—get back to you on the offer, okay? Thanks. Bye."

He didn't wait for a response before he'd edged away from her, twisting his arm free of her grasp, and was heading towards Beckett again.

It occurred to him for the first time to wonder if Bond really was such a name to be reckoned with after all, if Bond really was the character he wanted to be writing about. Could any character possibly fascinate him as much as Nikki Heat?

Oh, who was he kidding, it wasn't Nikki Heat that fascinated him. It wasn't Nikki Heat he couldn't imagine walking away from.

He was never going to be ready to walk away from Beckett.

Because he loved her.

Oh, shit.

~To be continued…~