Chapter 2

The first thing Richard Castle was aware of when he woke up was a searing pain radiating from his left shoulder socket all the way down his arm and across his upper back. This was not an unusual or new sensation for him; over the prior nine months he could barely recall a time when he didn't wake up in some degree of discomfort. Pain had merely become a part of his existence, but this pain was a bit more than he usually cared to tolerate.

Grunting and groaning, Castle forced himself into consciousness as he rolled over onto his right side and curled his body inward while cradling his left arm against his chest. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and blew it out through his nostrils while the burning pain lessened into a pulsating throb. He had been doing so well not sleeping on his left side, which always made the pain so much worse, but he could not control the way his body moved around during sleep as much as he wished he could.

Sighing out now that the throbbing was dissipating into the joint-encompassing ache he was used to, Castle rolled into a seated position and gazed down at the clock beside the bed; it was shortly before 7. While that was far earlier than he wished to be up, it certainly wasn't the worst hour to be awake, particularly not when he had therapy that morning in a little over an hour.

Castle slithered out from beneath the bedcovers and shuffled his way towards the bathroom while rolling his left shoulder in its socket. After using the toilet and washing his hands, he reached for the bottle of Aleve sitting on the counter and snagged it with his right hand—the only hand he could grip with. Trapping the bottle against his chest with the flat of his left palm, he struggled with the pill bottle's cap for a few moments even though it was one of the easy-open ones designed for someone with arthritis. With it open, he shook two pills into his palm, tossed them onto the back of his tongue, and leaned over to gulp water from the tap.

With the pill bottle back in its place Castle stood in the bathroom for another moment considering his next course of action. Normally he showered when he awoke, but if he was doing PT there was no point to that; he'd only need to clean up again after working up a sweat. No shower, however, meant he'd need to double-down on the coffee in order to wake up. Thankfully, Juanita would be arriving shortly.

Shuffling back through his bedroom and out into the main living space of the apartment, Castle flopped down on the sofa to wait for the arrival of his aid. Though in the early years of his writing career he often dreamed about being rich enough to hire a butler to cater to his every whim, prepare meals, and wait on him continuously, in that moment Castle would have given a large portion of his fortune to have full use of his hands once more in lieu of an employee willing to deliver him whatever food or drink he desired—assuming she was present. Somehow the fantasy just wasn't as fun when he was physically incapable of making his own coffee and egg-and-toast breakfast. Well, perhaps the toast he could manage but only if the bread bag wasn't sealed—and then who would want the bread inside?

"Good morning, Mr. Castle!"

Castle startled awake to the voice of Juanita; evidently he'd dozed off while waiting for her to arrive. His shoulder feeling much better now that the pain killers had kicked in, he gave her as cheerful a hello as he could muster with his stomach growling and eyes still heavy from sleep.

They fell into their regular routine of him sitting at the eat-at counter while she prepared his usual breakfast and, most importantly, the coffee. Typically, they did not speak very much during these early morning interactions. When Juanita first started she had tried to coax him into conversation many times while preparing meals for him or helping him shower, but after he snarled at or simply ignored most of her attempts, she slowly began to carry about her routine in near silence, speaking only when necessary. In years past Castle would have been the one chattering away about anything and everything, but he didn't much care about talking those days—what was there to talk about? As such, he was surprised when Juanita began speaking to him while she delivered his mug of coffee with the straw poking out.

"Will Miss Kate be coming this morning? Should I make her coffee too?"

"Who?" He grunted in between sips of coffee.

"Miss Kate; your new writing assistant."

Oh, he thought with very little care; her.

Despite having spent several hours with her the day before Castle hadn't really given Black Pawn's latest minion much thought. Kate—yes he did recall that was he name now that Juanita mentioned it—would just be another in a long line of writing assistants provided to him. The fourth, if he was not mistaken. Soon she would be driven away by his cursing and general unpleasantness, just like all the others. Even if she did manage to stay he would not enjoy their time together simply because he didn't enjoy telling stories anymore and were it not for Gina's instance he would have been more than willing to give up entirely.

Their conversation took place five months earlier, once he was finally back in New York after convalescing in the spa-slash-rehab-facility he'd escaped to after leaving the hospital. "Make an effort, Rick. Please—for me," she had said to him showing a rare moment of genuine emotion towards him. Considering his accident had been the reason that their marriage had managed to dive from "rocky" to "imploding" in a matter of weeks, he did feel that he owed her the effort and he had made one. Kind of. He simply didn't want to write anymore and that was the problem. Writing—crafting and nurturing a story—involved a great deal of want. Without it, the story was hopeless, so why bother continuing? Soon enough Gina would realize that and, yes, he would lose that million dollar advance Black Pawn had given him, but he had enough money; he'd recover.

"She seems like a very nice lady," Juanita said as she set his plate of eggs and toast down in front of him. A minute later she handed over the fork that was equipped with the extra wide, soft-grip handle he needed in order to feed himself—a thirty-five-year-old man. Pathetic.

"Perhaps she'll be able to help you finish your book."

"Right." He scoffed before scooping up a forkful of eggs and shoveling them into his mouth. He set down his fork and reached out for one of the toast triangles at the edge of the plate, but failed to grasp it on the first try. He shook out his hand, tried again, failed and cursed under his breath. The grasping abilities on his right hand really had been getting better, but his hand didn't always like to cooperate, especially with something that required a tight grip, like picking up a small piece of buttered toast. With perhaps a bit more force than necessary, he stabbed the toast triangle with his fork and used it to bring the item to his mouth for a bite.

Stupid hand.

Castle continued to eat in silence for a few minutes before Juanita reminded him, "Your therapist will be here at eight-fifteen."

"I know."

"And Miss Kate will be here at nine."

"What the—but I—I told her noon! Noon!" he emphasized. Though he didn't really give a shit about the speech she gave to him about being willing to help and something about a background in law, he did distinctly remember the argument they had when she asked when to arrive the next day and he'd told her twelve. She'd evidently been concerned that her eight hour work day would begin at noon and thus end sometime after dark, but he assured her that was not the case. She could feel free to leave at any time she deemed necessary in the afternoon. She'd rebutted stubbornly, asking how they would make progress on his book if they only worked a few hours, to which he'd callously responded, "I don't care."

They'd gone back and forth a few times before he'd shouted to her that she'd still get the same salary no matter if they worked one or eight hours in a day and he didn't want her there before noon. Then, he'd dismissed her in a way that he knew to be rude but he couldn't bring himself to care about and she'd stormed out of his office looking rather heated.

He really didn't care what she thought about their schedule so long as he wasn't keeping her unreasonably late (which he did not intend to). In a roundabout way he was paying her salary which made her his employee and if he didn't want to start before noon then they weren't going to start before noon; end of discussion!

"If she gets here at nine, send her away and tell her to come back at noon. NOON!" he nearly shouted as he pushed himself away from the counter.

Juanita responded with the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes. "Yes, of course, Mr. Castle."

Stepping out from his glass shower, Castle groped for the two towels hanging on the wall hooks nearby. He tugged one around his waist, and the other he draped over his head and shoulders like a nun's habit. He placed both hands atop his head and attempted to smash the towel around against his hair to dry it, but felt immediate pain and tightness in his left hand. He hissed discomfort and pulled it down against his chest, clutching it there for a few moments, before holding it out in front of him to see that his fingers were still trembling. He cursed to himself.

The stress and overexertion in his muscles and tendons after therapy was something Castle had grown used to in the prior months. As it was more or less the only exercise he regularly had, he didn't always mind it—particularly not in his body. In the early days of his therapy nearly every muscle group was worked by one or sometimes two therapists. As all his broken bones and soft tissue injuries healed, the therapy became more intense and though it was painful, back then he'd been motivated. He wanted to walk again, wanted to move on his own again, wanted to be independent. With therapy on his legs he was able to regain his walking ability with little difficulty. His back and shoulders took a bit more time, but the progress was steady and promising enough. And then there were his damn hands.

Groaning to himself as he tried to towel off the rest of his body, Castle cursed his decision to let the therapist talk him into the extra round of grip strength exercises. Normally, he didn't even bother to work his left hand—what was the point? His right had its good days and bad and might have been better if he did therapy more religiously, but what did it really matter? Therapy just meant pain and pain meant a long, miserable day when he could do little more than stare at a television screen.

In truth the only reason he agreed to hand therapy at all that day was because he wanted a distraction; an outlet for his frustration. Stupid Gina. Why couldn't she just let him wither into the hermit he so desperately wished to be? He'd driven away his mother and his daughter, so why the hell couldn't his ex-wife let him be? No, she had to show up with the annoyingly studious and dedicated Kate.

Grumbling to himself at the notion of spending the rest of the afternoon with her, explaining his novel to someone who probably cared only about her paycheck or making a good enough impression to acquire a positive recommendation letter for her portfolio, Castle returned his hands to his head, mushed the towel around a few more times, and then dragged it off, dropping it to the floor without second thought. He then made to do the same with the second towel around his waist, but was disrupted when a few chilly droplets of water fell from the ends of his hair, landed on his shoulders, and began tracing racing lines down his back. Ugh. The water retention really was the worst part of the mop of hair he'd been growing. Yet, at the same time, he didn't feel the need to leave his apartment to get a haircut, so he'd simply accept the droplets.

Now naked, he returned to his bedroom to dress. He reached out to grab the bright orange foam handle jury-rigged to the smaller handles on his dresser, which were too small for him to grip, and retrieved boxers, sweat pants, and a t-shirt from their respective spots with his right hand and tossed all three onto the bed. After bumping the drawer shut with his backside, Castle stepped over to the bed to begin the arduous task of getting dressed.

Though he was forced to accept aid when preparing meals and completing more complicated tasks, Castle had decided early on in his recovery that no matter how difficult it was for him or how much he struggled he needed to learn how to dress and undress himself, for without that skill he would not be able to use the bathroom by himself and, after being forced to wear adult diapers for several humiliating weeks thanks to his fractured pelvis, that was something he desired greatly.

To say learning to put on a shirt and pants was a monumental task would have been an understatement. Since at that point he still only had limited strength in his right hand (the left, meanwhile, was borderline nonfunctional), he had to mostly rely on his only undamaged digit: his right thumb. Using a creative method of pinching the pant waistband between his thumb and the rest of his hand in a lobster claw-like fashion he was able to functionally work pants with elastic waistbands, though shirts were still a struggle for a while.

By that point, three-quarters of a year after the accident, he had use of both thumbs and a few fingers on his right hand if it was a good day. Fortunately, that soon after therapy his right hand was not very stiff so he was able to put his shirt and bottoms on with little difficulty. He knew getting undressed that night would be even more challenging than usual, but he'd deal with that later.

Raking his right hand through his still-wet hair, Castle walked through his bedroom to his office, but stopped when he saw a brunette woman sitting just as casually as ever on one of the chairs just in front of his oversized desk. "What the hell are you doing?" he bellowed to the woman who visibly jumped.

"I, ah, waiting for you." She replied as she slowly stood clutching her oversized purse beneath one arm. "It's nearly ten o'clock."

"I told Juanita to send you away—Juanita!" He called out, walking towards the main living area, but the woman stopped him.

"She ran to the store and told me I could wait in here for you to be out of the shower."

Not believing the woman's explanation, the writer stalked out towards the kitchen where he found, much to his annoyance, that Juanita wasn't in sight. Well, they'd definitely be having that discussion when she returned from the store, but for now he just wanted to sit in peace while holding a bag of ice in his left hand. "I told you yesterday I didn't want you here before noon!" He shouted as he made his way to the kitchen, wrenched open the freezer door, and plucked out one of the ice packs waiting for him. Turning around, he saw the woman now hovered at the office door with a furrowed brow. "Go!" He dismissed her, flinging one arm out towards the door. "Come back in two hours."

"But I'm already here, Mr. Castle, if you just-"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I said so!"

She blinked a few times, clearly growing flustered. "Look if you're not ready to work yet, that's fine; just let me-"

"What part of 'no' are you not getting, lady? I don't want you here until noon. If you have a problem with that, send your resignation letter to Gina." He snarled at her and he could see her cheeks flushing with color. For a moment she looked as though she was going to yell back at him, but instead she turned on her heel and stalked towards the apartment exit where she slammed the door behind her.

Castle muttered various curses beneath his breath as he returned to his office, roughly yanked the glass stopper out of his whisky bottle and carried it over to his desk where his lukewarm coffee awaited him. While he topped off the last inch of the mug with liquor he glared towards his apartment door and decided he didn't care whether or not he ever saw Kate Beckett again.

A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews/follows. Hope you continue to enjoy this story!