A/N - Thank you all very much for the warm and encouraging reception for this A/U. As always, you are wonderful. You've set a record: my stories generally get around 20 to 25 reviews and comments per chapter, but the first chapter for this universe garnered 64. I'm just...wow.

Thanks and enjoy!

~GeekMom

Another Auld Lang Syne

Chapter 2

Extinguished, Fully Past, and Gone

Stopping at the top of the steps and gripping the handrail, Rick let the slam of his door reverberate through the old speakeasy as he inhaled, trembling. He felt the shroud of silence drape over him and had never been more grateful for its protection and concealment. The room had indeed played host to a multitude of nefarious activities, which is why it sported soundproofing that would mask a nuclear blast. Well, maybe not a nuclear blast, but gunfire, most definitely, and certainly ghosts.

He stepped down into the darkness, not bothering to light the brass reproduction gas lamps along the staircase wall, nor the Tiffany lamp on his desk. He went straight to his private bar and took out a bottle of bourbon. Hesitating for only a second, he wiped the dust from the neck and poured a glass, sighed, and walked to his chair, taking the bottle with him. He sat it and the glass on his desk and stared at the darkness lurking within the amber liquid. His mind noting the difference in color in the absence of light, like the grayness of the otherwise vivid world in the dead of night. He pushed the curious side of his brain back down. He no longer indulged its fantasies of magic and love.

Reaching, he turned the lamp key gently, the antique Tiffany lamp was another relic and reminder of the place he so loved because of its history. He never lit it anymore, preferring the brighter, cheaper lights while working, no matter how harsh. The soft light cast muted colored shadows onto the walls through the stained glass shade, and brought the alcohol to life, making it even more inviting. He licked his lips like a predator about to catch its prey, but became distracted: his eyes turned from the glass and instead focused on the only pictures he kept on his desk here, now illuminated by the soft incandescent glow through the colored glass and his heart softened. The photograph of her face was almost as lovely in the kaleidoscopic patterns as it had been in person. He had pictures of his daughter and mother on his desk at home, but the old mahogany desk would only ever hold the reliquary he created of her, of them. This was their place. They met here. They found each other here. And he lost her here and then he lost himself. He grabbed the frame and brought it closer to his face in the low light to examine the photo once again. She looked over his shoulder, a hint of a smile on her lips and delight in her eyes. The same low light which cast the shadows now, illuminated her: she glowed. His hair was tussled, but he knew why. They had just made love. Rick hesitantly permitted the memories he normally kept locked up tight: let them out of the strongbox that his heart had become.

Six and a half years ago, she walked into the bar and caught the attention of nearly every man present including himself. Demanded it, really. Charlotte had tried her best to look cheap; to look like a good time which could be bought for the right price, but no matter the fake eyelashes or too much rouge or tattered, slinky too-short dresses, she looked out of place. There was intelligence and cunning behind those beautiful honeyed brown eyes that he'd discovered were flecked with green and gold. They noted everything and everyone around her.

He'd never seen her in there before that night, but that wasn't unusual. Every once in a while, women and men in her profession would wander inside looking for relief from the cold or be drawn to what he liked to call the old bar's allure, character, and sense of belonging it extended to its patrons. The ghosts of the place's past nefarious incarnations would always embrace the city's wayfarers and wanderers who only looked for hospitality, a sense of being in the right place, if only for an evening's worth of respite from their lives and livings, and an opportunity to forget their troubles and trials.

Generally, he would quietly and politely ask if they'd like a drink and something to eat, on the house, before they could begin to ply their trade inside the tavern. Just because the bar had once been a brothel, didn't mean he had to abide the profession now. He could lose his license and with a daughter to provide for, he couldn't afford it. His business dealings had always been legitimate if not always successful, despite his many notorious acquaintances.

As was his custom, he had given Charlotte a meal and a drink the first time she'd appeared at the end of the bar, coolly surveying his clientele. She ordered a salad and a club soda.

Castle slammed his eyes shut against the memories before it would hurt too much for him to cope, to remain strong.

She closed her eyes and shut out the world and the memories. The guilt. Breathing deeply, she clenched the steering wheel of her cruiser. She'd cut the boys loose to canvass and told them she'd meet them back at the twelfth with the promise that she was all right.

Someone insistently knocked on her window and stupidly, childishly she hoped he had emerged from the basement office, his anger dissipated with him ready to forgive and forget.

"What was that about?"

Kate sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She reached over and put the window down. "Lanie," she greeted apathetically. "Don't you have a corpse to examine?"

Her best friend raised an eyebrow. "Apparently, I'm looking at one now."

"Undercover. I was just undercover."

"Oh no, girlfriend. You're not just undercover when a civilian says he loved you. When that same civilian, a cool drink of water, by the way, says he mourned your fake death." Lanie could never hide her true feelings. The incredulousness in her tone was clear. "Come on Kate: spill."

"Okay, but not here." Her eyes darted to the sunken entrance to the bar, now draped with crime scene tape. She wasn't sure if she was hoping he'd come out or hoping he wouldn't. Turning the key dangling from her ignition, she ensured a postponement of Lanie's interrogation.

"Fine," the medical examiner agreed petulantly, "but don't think I will forget or let you off the hook. We're having a girl's night. You pick the place."

"I really don't feel like going out. How about my place? I'll order in and you bring the wine?"

"I'll bring two: I don't think this will be a one bottle story."

Kate mustered a half of a smile, nodded, and pulled into traffic.

"I'm Rick and I own the place," he said as he sidled up next to her.

"I'm not interested."

He raised an eyebrow. It had been his experience that they were always interested. He slid onto the stool next to her, folded his hands, and inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Look, I've got no problem, no judgments. I just can't lose my license. I have obligations."

"What are you implying?"

He scoffed. "I'd really rather not play games. I'd like to buy you dinner and then ask you, nicely, without any fuss, to fish elsewhere."

She turned on the bar stool to face him and fixed him with a glare that he was sure had withered men before. The thought that maybe she was not just a call girl flitted across his mind along with safe words and fuzzy handcuffs. The thought of this woman with handcuffs seemed veracious: justifiable in his mind.

He watched her head whip up to turn toward him in the mirror behind the bar. "What?" she asked sharply.

"I, um, I didn't say anything else."

"You said apples."

He swallowed; realizing he had said that aloud, damn it. "Sorry, just going over my grocery list…multi-tasking… you know?" He rubbed his hands in concert and smacked his lips together tightly. After another full minute of silence, he prompted, "So, do you want something to eat?"

"I could eat," she allowed. "Does this crummy place have anything besides stale popcorn and over-salted pretzels?"

"We have a modest and select, but diverse tasty menu," he retorted indignantly as he unobtrusively pushed the basket of pretzels further down the bar.

The woman leaned and reached in front of him, snagging the basket, the front of her dress brushing his chest in the narrow space between and the bar, leaving the scent of cherries in her wake.

She plucked a pretzel from the basket and lifted it to her lips. A hint of pink tongue emerged and licked the salted treat before she popped it into her mouth.

Rick forgot how to breath. And then he remembered all at once. He sucked in air greedily. The woman smiled wickedly. She knew exactly what she did.

"God," he whispered and wiped the sweat, real or imaginary from his upper lip. He stood. "Um, just let us know what you want…from the menu," he added hastily when she grinned.

"Charlotte," she called at his fleeing back.

Rick turned. "My name is Charlotte. My friends call me Charlie and I'll have a salad and club soda, please Rick."

A smile spread slowly across his face. "You've got it, Charlie. Welcome to The Old Haunt."

He put down the photo and reached for the glass. His hand trembled as he sat it back down on the blotter. After closing his eyes and breathing for a moment, he pulled out his phone. A picture of Alexis graced the lock screen. He absently rubbed it with his thumb. She was his reason for holding on, for coming back. He swiped the screen and jabbed the second name on his favorites list.

The phone rang twice before he heard the familiar voice on the line.

"Rick? It's been awhile. How are you doing?"

Rick gathered his thoughts, his strength, but still felt like he was sliding, failing.

"Son? Is everything okay?"

He swallowed and licked his lips as he stared at the bourbon in the glass. Exhaling, he admitted, "No."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in my office. I…I've had…well the day has been pretty bad." A scathing chuckle retched from him.

"Is anyone with you?"

"Brian is upstairs."

"Do you want a drink?"

"That's why I'm fucking calling," he blasted. He closed his eyes. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I just…"

"I know."

"I don't think I'll make it through the night."

"How many years?" his sponsor asked, already knowing the answer.

"Fuck."

"Rick, you're strong enough to turn away. Hang on."

Castle stared at the glass as he heard the door slam and then street noises. He heard the man call, 'Taxi!' and then a slamming of a car door. He heard the bar's address rattled off.

"I'm on my way," he said. "Fifteen minutes. You can do this. You did it before. Think of your daughter."

He did, but Charlie's face kept swimming in front, pushing Alexis aside: obscuring his sight and resolve. Desperation finally leaked out onto his cheeks and all he wanted was to dull the pain. Just a little. Enough to make it through the rest of the day.

"Are you still with me?"

"Yeah…yeah, I'll meet you in the bar."

"Yeah that's good. Go up with people."

A gunshot of laughter erupted from Rick. "Bar's closed today. Some guy was apparently robbing the place and got himself killed in my freezer. Be careful of the crime scene tape when you get here."

"That sounds like a bad day." His breathing eased as he heard the younger man trudging up the steps he knew would take him back to the main floor.

"Jim, you don't know the half of it."