Chapter Two

"Everything broken can be replaced except for a child whose spirit breaks"

Etching by Derek Webb & Sandra McCracken

Even in sleep he's never seen Beckett look so alive.

Time gets away from him watching them slumbering. He's conflicted. Caught at a crossroads. His moral compass spinning wildly in all directions. So, he waits, poised at the threshold, desperately searching his mind for his centre, his true north. . . direction. He's always been indecisive, but in a good way, measured. He contemplates choices deeply before making a decision. Prides himself on his good judgement. He is a man devoid of weakness, indecision is a strength, it aids him in making the right decision. Rushed, spur of the moment, spontaneity will get you nowhere.

Beckett stirs, he's not sure how long he's been in the doorway mulling over his options. A glance to the window reassures him that it's still late – or early, perspective is a funny thing. They should sleep longer still, time is on his side. She moans in her sleep, thrashes a little. He steps back slightly, well-hidden by the darkness surrounding him. The shadows his constant companions in this line of work. He knows how to be discreet, how to slip through a crowd of people without being noticed, how to watch others without ever being watched himself. Her nightmare has roused the writer. He strokes her arm, the touch tentative but lingering. Adoration in his every movement.

"Kate, love, it's just a nightmare. You're okay," his words are tender, reassuring. She startles awake at the combination – his touch, his words, the very force of his love driving her to consciousness. Her eyes are unfocussed at first, she looks like she's about to vault from the bed, her sleepy mind struggling to deal with the unfamiliarity of her situation. She steadies herself, remembering, her gaze catching his and she is glowing. It's almost literal. The mix of the dull, dimly lit room combined with the shine in her eyes, it's breathtaking, Maddox isn't blind to the beauty of the moment.

"Castle," she breathes, twisting in his arms to press a gentle kiss to his chest, raising herself up so that they lay face to face on the pillow, breath swirling and mixing in the space between them.

"Are you okay?" he queries gently, an undercurrent of fear to his tone.

"More than okay, I'm with you," she murmurs, already drifting back to sleep, her body cocooned in his. Her words have the opposite effect on him, he's suddenly much more alert, his lips hungrily and reverently on hers. "Mmm, I love you. So much," she adds as his lips move from hers. He stills. The impact of her words evident. His eyes glisten, he looks close to tears. When he speaks, his voice is gruff, the emotion evidently close to overwhelming.

"Kate, I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. You mean everything to me," the sincerity behind his words rings true. She sleepily mumbles a response –

"Kiss me, Castle," and runs her hand along his jaw, tugging him closer. He accedes, without complaint or argument. His body obviously wants another round, but she is clearly exhausted. He kisses her soundly once again and hugs her tighter to him, allowing sleep to wash over them once again.

Maddox has stilled unconsciously, the pair before him have lost his attention. The writer's words run over and over in his mind. They whirl and churn and do the unthinkable – they dredge up memories from his forgotten childhood. The vault of his mind clearly cracked by words that eerily mirror ones spoken a past ago, words uttered in vastly different circumstances. Words that were better left forgotten…

The man Maddox calls his father waves the knife haphazardly again, narrowly missing the boy's face. The blade casts a glow, flickering and bouncing around the squalid room. It's almost beautiful in its own twisted way. Contrasted with the room itself and the events unfolding within it, the blade certainly holds the place of beauty. The slurred speech is continuing, Maddox regretfully drags his nine year old eyes away from the blade and wills himself to focus on the seemingly endless tirade –

"A common whore for a mother, boy, that's what you've got. Hell, I don't even know if I'm your father. I doubt it. But 'ere we are anyway and you know what, I'll teach ya' how to be a man 'cause I'm the only daddy you got." Maddox has heard the speech before, he's even seen the knife featured. His mother tied up whimpering in the corner, her dress torn, is relatively new though. Usually she cowers in front of him, ushers him from the room before swiftly locking the door, her screams muffled by the thick wood. It's the first time he's used the rope to restrain her. It's also the last. But young Maddox doesn't know that yet.

"Send the boy out," his mother pleads between sobs. "He doesn't need to see this."

"Oh no, I'm learnin' him how to be a man. He needs to see this," his father replies archly, brandishing the knife with flourish as if it adds momentum to his words. His mother subsides into a begging mess of tears. It is allowed for a moment, but eventually father's annoyance is clear. "Enough," he thunders. He trails the blade on the exposed skin of her quivering throat, adds pressure, just the right amount for a dark red line to form. As the blood spills over from her neck, pooling at her breasts, he moves to her arms. "One scar for each time you've cheated on me," he grins brashly.

"Please, please. I haven't," she chokes out, her skin pale and clammy apart from where the seeping blood is staining it forever red. "I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. You mean everything to me," she adds. His father freezes.

"Lies!" he hisses. "You love the boy more than you love me." He pauses, a plan forming, "I can fix that," it's just a muttering before Maddox' side stings and his little hands come away red. His mother moans low and guttural and he slips to the floor, feigning death as he listens to his mother bleed out and die above him. He waits until his father has finished and fallen into a drunken stupor before pulling himself from the grimy floor and stitching his wound best he can with his mother's weathered sewing kit.

Yes, Maddox knows that a life half lived is not a life at all.

AN: I am aware that this a tad dark. I'd just like to clarify that I am neither a serial killer, nor is this in any way a depiction of my childhood. I like knowing the story behind things; I think it takes something pretty devastating in someone's life for them to have an inclination towards professional hit man as a career is all…

As always, let me know what you think!