Monday, October 27th, 2011
9:12 AM, near Manorville, NY.

Excitement elicited by their reunion was tempered by the drive back to the city. It was like wandering through the grand set piece for a post-apocalyptic film. They were alone on the road for long stretches at a time. Cars and trucks of myriad type sat abandoned on the shoulder of the westbound lane and central median. Others were parked along intermittent service roads that paralleled the highway. The lack of damage implied a mere absence of fuel in most cases, but there were dozens within the first half of the trip back to the city. They stood in grim testament to the past two days of a long, gridlocked exodus of evacuees from Long Island's north and south shores.

Initial rain bands from Harbinger were still hours away, but the shadow of expectation cast by the superstorm had been spurring frenzied preparations for the past several days. Officially, it was named Hurricane Rita. Social media had redubbed the monster owing to a tropical storm poised to strike in its wake. The moniker stuck.

"I heard about this on the news," Beckett murmured as she drove, eying the unmoving vehicles. Lowering her voice occurred without forethought amidst the disquieting scenery. "It was still dark coming out here this morning though; I had no idea how bad it was."

Castle didn't reply, but his posture and attention upon their surrounds suggested agreement.

They drove in silence for a time. A few other cars appeared in the interim headed misguidedly east. Since evacuation was voluntary in most areas there was nothing to be done about stragglers. The determination to stay behind, even in dangerously low-lying areas, was thankfully as rare as it was ill-advised. Even so, some were. Their obstinacy was owed to expectations for widespread looting. In examples of near-astounding apathy, online clubs had formed and were organizing multiple gangs of would-be plunderers. A thin veneer of web-based anonymity wasn't stopping almost two hundred people from preparing to take advantage of the chaos. The brazenness and scope of impending mischief were unprecedented. So was the potential destruction headed the city's way.

"By the way, Dina asked me to pass along her gratitude."

Castle stirred where he sat as if coming back from elsewhere within his mind. In place of a question, he fixed her with an inquisitive lift of his eyebrows at their peaks.

"Kally's friend?"

"Who?"

Stellar answer. Kate smiled briefly and explained, "Those girls on the beach earlier."

"Oh."

Beckett waited for an elaboration, but he had nothing to add. "You were a little rough on Boomer."

"Do you think so?" He didn't wait long for an answer that Kate deemed unnecessary to give by repeating herself. "It can be a rough scene. Snaking a wave like that kook did with me is no small breach of etiquette. As rules go, that one is fundamental. I've seen more than broken boards doled out over it."

"Kook?"

"The equivalent to a wanna-be, or in this case, a beginner tackling swells he probably shouldn't. On one hand, you want newbies to be able to attempt waves beyond their skill level. You want them to be excited about improving. On the other hand, it's kind of considered poor form to claim waves that could be taken by people who're actually capable of enjoying them. There were only three of us," Rick continued with a shrug of one shoulder, "so I didn't mind really, except for the fact that I had to babysit them."

Beckett stifled a laugh, quivering in the driver's seat. "You're such a snob. Or a bully. Both?"

Rick chuckled, shrugged. "It's dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. I'm talking about the etiquette as much as surfing itself. If he pulls that kind of attitude somewhere else he could get into real trouble. A broken board seems pretty tame by comparison. As for that, it'll be a reminder for him to reconsider his actions every time he looks at the pieces or otherwise recalls our run-in from now on. Maybe I've spared him from a worse encounter somewhere down the road."

It was compelling logic at face value, cunning even. It was also uncharacteristically cold.

"You could've told him that," she proposed with a slight furrow of her brow. "I'm surprised is all. I would expect you to try reasoning with someone before forcing a lesson like that on them."

"You know better than most: bandying words is only as useful as the audience is receptive."

Surprised went right out the window. Hearing him say that, a writer—no, the writer who had unknowingly helped bring her through so many dark corridors as a younger woman was downright dismaying. Replies whirled through her mind but fluttered, fell, and died without being granted flight.

I did this to you, didn't I? Technically, one might blame her would-be assassin with whom there was not and could never have been any negotiation or attempts of reasoning. But I pushed it to that point and thereby brought you to this.

Beckett filed away his comment for later debate, cleared her throat. "They, er, called you 'Sway'."

Castle sipped from his travel mug and nodded once. While tucking it back into the cup holder her passenger said, "Surfing is ancient. Even before some manner of a vessel was utilized, people are said to have been drawn to being swept along by the sea. Heʻe nalu—that's what Hawaiians call it. Wave sliding. Several cultures embraced the sport in their own ways throughout its long history but to most people Hawaii is where it transcended its origins and became an art form. Surfing permeates many aspects of their culture, even religion. Its modern manifestation in the continental States sort of pales by comparison but it's surrounded by an interesting sub-culture nonetheless."

"You've never talked about it before."

"Mm," he confirmed wordlessly.

"Why not?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "It's more of a hobby for me these days."

"Suggesting there was a time it was more?"

Rick smiled humorlessly. "I suppose you could say that. The ocean unnerves me."

Beckett's eyebrows lifted sharply. "What? Then why do you subject yourself to it?" The question was barely out of her mouth before implications of his troubled past began associating themselves to the subject. A hazy image of self-flagellation began to coalesce and she winced in trepidation.

The concern must have been apparent because Castle exhaled a breath of dim amusement and shook his head. "Don't make too much of it. I started surfing back when Meredith was pregnant with Alexis. Fatherhood was a singularly frightening confrontation. You can never know what a mind will cling to, good or bad. The most innocuous moments can help shape us into who we become. The thought of inflicting lasting, lifelong impacts on a child, Intentionally or otherwise, terrified me. There are so many ways things could've gone wrong for Alexis. I used to lay awake at night worrying about it."

Beckett said nothing. A strange surge of jealousy was evoked by the subject. She imagined herself lying next to his sleepless form in bed, her belly swollen with life between them, sharing both their fears and attempting to pacify them together on their budding family's behalf. It was an unexpectedly powerful series of images. Her throat closed so that no interruption was manageable even if she'd had one to make. Jeez, Katie. Slow your roll.

"I'm not thalassophobic in the true sense of the term," Rick went on evenly. "The ocean simply unnerves me, as I said. The deep, I mean, not so much the shore. When I was young, I went on a deep-sea fishing trip. Far enough out that land had vanished from every horizon. As we drifted out there, I remember the feeling that overcame me. It wasn't a sense of hostility. What I felt was…" He paused a beat and wet his lips. "Pure indifference. I knew with seamless certainty that if I fell in and drowned, the ocean wouldn't care. It would eat what remained and that would be my story. It was, uh, the first time that I realized I was a vulnerable and temporary part of this world. It chilled me to the bone."

According to the timeline of his life that Kate was familiar with, Rick would have been five years old in the described scenario. Maybe as young as four, but likely five. For what that difference is worth. She could hardly stand listening to him talk about it, such was the ardency of her desire to fix something beyond her ability to mend. The leather of the steering wheel creaked beneath the abuse of her clenched and dully aching grips.

"I couldn't see much past the water's surface, which only inspired wondering what might be down there. I pictured an ocean floor littered with the bones of other little boys like me. I imagined skeletal limbs waving and swirling ineffectively and gaping eye sockets trained upwards on the belly of our boat. They were down there," he murmured, eyes glazed with distance, breathing short and clipped. The words tumbled after each other like he was reciting a litany which, once begun, must be completed. "So many. I could almost hear the clattering of their little bodies clambering atop one another, forming a massive pyramid of struggling dead, ascending inch-by-inch up from the cold anonymity of the uncaring sea until their bony fingers were scraping desperately against the hull. It's strange. I wasn't afraid they would hurt us. They just needed to be in our thoughts. Mourned maybe. Remembered—that's what they wanted. Even if inducing our terror was the only means by which they can make that happen, it'd be worth that price if they could only be thought about again."

"Castle," Beckett hissed, soft but sharp.

Mercifully, he shut the fuck up. It took several long seconds before the gaping of his eyes released their hold on something that only he could see. The man turned away with a clearing of his throat to face the view out the passenger window. Another full minute passed, time in which the woman gradually relaxed her grasps upon the wheel. The illusory sensation of her heart being clenched around what he'd said did not relent so easily.

"Silly," her companion lofted succinctly above the hum of tires against the blacktop.

The detective softly replied, "Not really. Fear is the price for your imagination. If I'd thought about it beforehand, I guess I would've assumed that was always true."

Witnessing her grief on his behalf disturbed the other. He shifted where he sat and frowned. "Uh, anyway… I, ah, couldn't get a grip on being worried about becoming a father. That lasted right up until the moment Alexis was in my arms for the first time. Leading up to that, however, the ocean became a kind of surrogate enemy that I tried to confront and overcome. Surfing was merely the mechanism of the contest. That wasn't my specific intent at the time, of course. I never stood on the shore and determined that one fear should relate to the other. The behavior just kind of happened. Only in retrospect is the motivation apparent. So, uh, yeah, other surfers call me 'Sway'. They think I'm being gentle with the waves—going with the flow as it were. The truth is: some irrational part of me will always be tentative out there, mindful of disturbing the imagined, watery graves of those other little boys."

Fuckin'. Hell.

Sometimes the detective doesn't know what to do with this man. What to say or even think. At such moments, he was a pure ache at her core which could not be eased by any method she'd found. And goodness how she wished such knowledge existed. She wanted so badly to quiet the disturbances in his mind and heart. Soothe him.

Castle was his own worst enemy. There was no changing that.

"Thanks," Beckett issued quietly. "For explaining."

The author bestowed a radiant smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, looking like anything but a haunted man.

In the wake of that exchange her partner plugged a USB cable into the sedan's console and set his iPad into place against the gear shifter at a viewable angle for both of them. A bit of prodding with his index finger brought up the latest news coverage on the approaching storm. Harbinger had angled back out to sea where it was gathering renewed momentum. It was back to a category two hurricane. Initial rainfall was predicted within a few hours. The main event was slated to strike the New Jersey shore in the mid afternoon and lash the New York metropolitan area over the following forty-eight hours.

"Look'it the size of that thing," Kate said with a brief glance at the associated radar image. Harbinger's swirling breadth encompassed almost the entire eastern seaboard of the United States.

"Aptly named. From what I've seen and heard, leadership across the city and state has responded to the threat accordingly. We're probably as close to ready as can be reasonably expected."

"I guess," the detective returned dubiously. "The whole city is poised for closure. The MTA has shut down the subways and is trying to secure accesses to prevent major flooding. Bridges are closing this evening. Tunnels are slated for the same, but there's an afternoon advisory in effect for them too depending on the rainfall."

"Manhattan is about to start feeling like the island it actually is."

"Yep. We're getting strapped for personnel at the 12th. Most emergency services are. Dets like me and the boys are going to be reassigned as needed to help out with public safety."

"Oh? If there's no active case, why were you sent to retrieve me?"

"That's a great question," Beckett muttered.

"They didn't tell you?"

"No. It wasn't for lack of asking. I've been riding a desk for the past five days while waiting for my paperwork to come through. Gates approached me last night to let me know I was cleared for duty and that my first order of business was bringing you in to consult on a new case." She glanced aside at him again and grinned with sudden breadth. "No complaints on that point."

"None," he agreed, "but I'm puzzled by the secrecy. I was coming back to the city anyway, but I wasn't planning on being tapped by the precinct."

"Well, that's what they want, but if you need to be with Alexis and Martha…" She trailed off upon noting the small shake of his head being given. Rather, the sternness of demeanor that accompanied it.

"Alexis is at Stanford," Castle reported. "She took early admission."

"Oh." The softness of the clipped reply was all that emerged past Kate's surprise. Into its wake crept several moments of quiet, a span that seemed to imply her partner was less than pleased by the circumstances.

"I'm happy for her," he said as if privy to her musings. "It was sudden, that's all."

"I remember you saying that she wanted to. It's where Ashley went, right?"

"Yes. It began as a gambit of young love. For a while there it seemed like she'd changed her mind. Right up until it changed unequivocally back." He looked away to his right again, watching as the blur of passing residential neighborhoods yielded to intermingled blotches of industry and commerce. "Your father keeps reminding me that they all leave the nest sooner or later." The thought of Rick being counseled by Jim Beckett garnered some surprise from the lawyer's daughter. "This feels more like a push by my own hands."

Kate stared at the road ahead while only half aware of it. She had no idea what to say.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told her about my past—about Montauk. I wouldn't have if I'd known the trauma that lay ahead at that time."

"Rick," she began but hesitated before the words were orderly enough in her mind to emerge from her lips. "You came back last summer…different. You said so yourself. I don't think telling her was a mistake. Alexis deserved to know what was going on with you."

"She did, yeah, but she deserves to be happy too. Her life is only just beginning in the grand scheme of things. College is an exciting crossroads. I want her focused on that."

"Admission to Stanford is no easy feat to manage even with a full four years of high school. She's focused, babe" He looked sharply askance at her in the wake of the term of endearment and she felt a lick of heat in her cheeks when he smiled. Meh. No regrets. "She wouldn't have gotten in if she wasn't."

He sighed mutely, all mirth erased. "The only thing she might've lacked beforehand was the proper motivation to go through with it. I sure as hell gave her that."

"Stop," the detective grit. "Don't do that. Not to yourself or to her." The author turned to focus bemusedly on her. He was receptive to her thoughts even then. Never a closed door or forbidding wall, not with her. Beckett couldn't let herself linger on that detail, but soldiered on, "Alexis earned it for herself, whatever motivations might be driving her. You're relevant to her decision, of course, and maybe there are some sad reasons in addition to the good ones you've given her, but I guarantee you she has others all her own. Let her have the accomplishment, okay? Don't—ah… Sorry, jeez, this sounds bad even in my head, but: don't tarnish what she's accomplished by making it about you."

To her surprise, a low chuckle toured the column of his throat. "That's spookily close to what Jim said." Jeez, Dad. Don't steal my thunder. "I'm keeping it in mind. Trying to, anyway. It's just difficult to watch her go in the wake of so much happening recently. None of us can delude ourselves into suggesting there's no connection."

"True enough. All I'm saying—well, all we Becketts' are saying, apparently—is not to let the bad blind you to the good. This is a wonderful opportunity. She's going to have an amazing time out there."

"The Becketts are wise."

Kate hummed briefly in amusement. "Exactly how much quality time have you and my dad been spending together?"

Her passenger considered the question with marked solemnity. When he answered, his tone was low and ponderous. "He's quite a remarkable man. The unexpected friendship we've discovered has been a real gift. At least, it has been for me."

Beckett frowned and said nothing. The potential correlations over which the two most prominent men in her life might bond were many. Some good. Others…

Peripherally, she was aware of him studying her. "Does the idea of he and I bonding disturb you?"

"Should it?"

Castle smiled aside at her. In the meager light his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian.

"Right. Great," she grumbled. "What could there possibly be to worry about?"

"May I ask you about something?" The fact that he sought permission beforehand set off warning claxons within her already tensed chest. Glancing away from the road revealed precious little of his intent. Seriousness alone belied the danger.

"You can ask," she replied, omitting the obvious caveat implied by her tone.

"On one of the occasions I was visiting, your father showed me a, uh, home movie of sorts."

"Was I bare-assed?"

Rick didn't smile. "You were singing. Freshman year, I think he said it was."

Oh. Oh shit…

"Uh." She stopped and for a full half-minute the unfurling road ahead was half-seen through a haze of recollection. "Initially, I'd considered minoring in music performance at Stanford. I took a women's studies class geared towards freshmen. It was mostly music history, but my group was kind of wild. We leaned more towards a practical approach." She started to smile. It swiftly waned. "Some of us started a, uh—you wouldn't call it a band really. It wasn't anything so organized. We did these crazy skits based on some of the different cultural styles that came up in class. Which one did he show you?"

"It was Christmas themed."

Beckett tisked in displeasure. "That's a lawyer for you: lunging straight for the jugular."

"He said that was the last time he's heard you sing."

"That's 'cause we don't shower together." Rick lurched with a spasm of surprised mirth. He shook his head afterward in playful admonishment. "I suppose that was the last time, yeah. Thing is… Singing was something I shared with Mom more than anyone else. She loved to sing. She made me love it too because of how much enthusiasm she always had for it. When she was taken from us..."

Castle was silent for what felt like miles. Then, barely audible over the hum of tires on the road, he said, "That's a shame. Truly. You have the voice of an angel."

The driver waited out the ache in her chest until she could speak normally. "You played the piano once upon a time. Martha told me you were considered a prodigy. Like, the real deal, deemed as much by a teacher who knew what he was talking about."

The other winced, paled slightly, and at length conceded quietly, "Touché, detective."

Beckett felt like an immediate ass. "N-no. I wasn't trying to be obtuse. I just meant that I agree, you know? In my own way, with you. It is a shame. But we both have our reasons."

On the horizon ahead, the slivered spikes and lofty pyramidic apexes of skyscrapers were becoming visible. Returning to where she enjoyed the home field advantage was galvanizing. Stabilizing even, for how it sealed what felt like chinks in her armor. Her thoughts leaned towards the Twelfth precinct and the proposed fresh case waiting for them there.

"Maybe one day we'll unearth our forgotten talents," Richard said. "Just between us."

It was a jarring step backward. With her brow furrowed, Beckett frowned aside at the author. Her first instinct was to deny him. Nope. No way, no how—not even for you.

She did sing at times, albeit in the privacy of her home or automobile. It was hardly a forbidden act. The impossible part was allowing someone to watch. Irrational though it was, Kate felt incapable of sharing that particular joy without also being agonizingly aware of the fact that she could never again share it with the woman who lovingly cultivated it.

Moreover, she didn't know if she was prepared to hear Castle touch the piano again. From what she'd gleaned from Martha—and, granted, some paternal exaggeration surely factored in—he'd been more gifted as a budding pianist than he was today as a mature, experienced, multiple best-selling author. The stories he's told were not easy tales. He wrote emotional rollercoasters. How much more damaging would that imagination be in the artform to which it was originally intended?

She issued a mild and equivocating, "Maybe," instead of the denial she wanted to hammer home. They rode in silence the rest of the way into Manhattan.