A/N - Hi all!

Not much to say this time, except thanks for sticking with me. I have the next chapter written, it just needs a little polish. Thanks for all of your kind words and comments in the reviews.

Please enjoy!

~GeekMom

Dedicated to all the Castle Fan Fiction Authors taking part in the second Castle Fic Stream Con, but especially Griever11.

Assets

Chapter 2

Net Unrealized and Realized Appreciation

Sitting at his breakfast bar, he read his email and double checked his schedule while eating what had begun mere moments earlier as corn flakes, but were rapidly becoming a substance tackier than concrete.

Alexis skipped down the stairs and planted a kiss on his cheek as she sped by. "Morning, Dad." She drew back and rubbed both her palms on either side of his face. "Hmm…weird: skipped shaving today?" She called over her shoulder as she moved toward the refrigerator.

Rick raised his head from his iPad, dropped his spoon, and felt his cheek. "Huh," he mumbled at the beginning of a yawn he didn't bother to stifle, "must have forgotten."

Alexis spun in her spot and scowled at her father. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah…why?"

"I have never known you to skip shaving, even when we're camping. And you just forgot?" She walked back across the kitchen to him, her eyes full of concern. "Dad, are you sick, really — you look tired: really tired."

He assured, "I'm fine, Pumpkin. Just a little sleepy."

She tilted her head, assessing him. Sometimes life was hard, befuddling even, when your teenager wanted to parent you. "When did you get home last night?" Her eyes widened and she gripped the edge of the granite countertop. "Oh god, did that terrifying woman keep you up at work all night?"

Rick smiled inwardly. Yes, she kept him up, but not at work and definitely not in ways he could tell his fifteen-year-old. Alexis would be thrilled to hear that he was writing…anything, she was his biggest fan, but some of the things he wrote about the detective would never be published even if he could, against odds, get anything in print again.

"She left my office around nine thirty or so. I stayed to finish up the notes, you know."

"You didn't make the police detective mad, did you? You were able to help her?"

"Yes, I was able to help and no, I didn't make her mad." He allowed himself a small-satisfied smile. Realizing his daughter was watching him, hawk-like, he tempered his schoolboy crush face. Clearing his throat, he added, "She has some complications concerning an inheritance, but nothing I can't handle."

Alexis raised an eyebrow in an uncomfortably knowing way and opened her mouth to respond but was preempted by an announcement from the staircase. "That's because you are the Tax King Castle."

Rick closed his eyes and inhaled. He felt the sympathetic squeeze of his daughter's hand over his. Opening his eyes, he pivoted his body to watch his mother descend the last few steps in a caftan that would put the vibrant denizens of the rain forest to shame.

"Good morning, Mother." He lifted a spoonful of the corn glop, made a face, and let it plop back into the bowl. Reaching across the counter he opted for an apple instead.

"Oh goodness, Richard! You look positively dreadful."

"Thank you, Mother. That was the look I was going for this morning."

"No really," she said as she reached for his forehead.

He ducked away from her ministrations. "I was up late," he explained around a chunk of apple in his mouth. After swallowing, he explained, "Writing." He grinned at Alexis who clapped her hands once excitedly.

Martha stopped stirring her coffee and watching the swirl of cream meld into the black creating a familiar tan, she asked, "Writing what?" still facing the cabinets.

He sat up, clearly thrilled. "A character…I had an idea for a character and I wanted to get some things down on the paper."

Martha raised an eyebrow as she turned to face him. "How many words?"

"Mother…" he warned. His mother could be his biggest, staunchest supporter, but she was also the one who consoled him after his numerous rejections and urged him to make good use of his other degree, the backup which became his primary somewhere along the way.

"Just wondering. It's a hell of a time of year to get that itch," she commented blithely. "I hope it's scratched good enough for now."

"Maybe…" he smiled wistfully. "I just…I haven't felt the need or want to write like this in years. It feels really good. It's also nice to know that this part of me hasn't completely died, just laid dormant."

Martha bit her lip. After the critical acclaim and promising income he'd earned from his first book, he'd been overwhelmed by an unending series of disappointments and rejections, blow after blow: his marriage and subsequent divorce, until finally his writing: his creativity stifled and snuffed out by the harsh realities and responsibilities of single handedly raising a child. And when he finally did produce something, in between the rest of the upheaval that was his life for a time, his former publishers and editors were brutal and refused publication. She didn't want to see him get his hopes up only to be dashed by some unfeeling, bottle-blonde shrew with a red pen, if he even got that far.

No, he was better off playing it safe. Besides, he had a talent for accounting. He wasn't wasted in that career. He enjoyed helping people. She knew she couldn't come right out and tell him to grow up, that he'd come too far to go back to something so uncertain, so destructive. No, she just had to remind him that dreams were for the young and unburdened.

"You know, I understand that Morty has received quite a few inquiries regarding your commercial."

Rick shook his head vehemently. "It wasn't my commercial," he denied. "And Morty…really? You never told me that was who… Didn't he steal…?"

"Ah, ah, ah," his mother tut-tutted while wagging her finger in the air.

"Fine…" he rolled his eyes, "didn't he invest most of your savings…?" he sighed, "as a surprise, but lost it, instead?"

They danced this dance every few weeks. He'd been hurt when his mother withdrew her lifesavings from his diligent care and given it to Morty, her live-in mooching, boyfriend to make a so-called investment on her behalf. He didn't speak to her for weeks after the resulting argument which she ended by telling him to mind his own business. Several months later, he found out from a friend of hers that she was sleeping in her salon, Martha's Broadway Beauties, after having been evicted from her apartment. Morty was nowhere in sight.

"Anyway, he's got a real talent for shooting commercials. He said I might be in one."

Rick watched the wistful gleam coat his mother's eyes and felt the familiar yoke of guilt settle down on his shoulders. She'd given up her dream of acting on Broadway when she'd found out that she was pregnant with him.

"Hmm. If you were, you'd be terrific," he offered quietly, the culpability he carried for ruining his mother's dreams couched and buttressed his quiet encouragement and reminded him that her sacrifices gave him a steady home just as his own had for his daughter.

"Oh my son," she said as she spun and palmed his rough cheek. "You do know what to say to make me feel better." She leaned into him and brushed a kiss on his cheek. "Now, no more writing into the wee hours, at least until the season is over. You need your rest, Darling and even though you've done well for yourself," she hugged her granddaughter, "your girl here won't be going to a cut-rate college; you need to save for that."

He inhaled and managed a smile for her. "You're right, of course," he agreed, even though Alexis' college fund was set. He looked at his watch. "I'd better be off then. Have a good day, Mother." He kissed her cheek and turned to fill up his travel mug. "Pumpkin? I'll see you after school?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said, the return to her designation she used for him as a little girl confirmed her concern. "I'll come right after practice." She hugged him.

"You'll let me know…"

She rolled her eyes: he made the same request every day after school. "When I get on the subway," she cut him off, somewhat long-suffering and melodramatic. His mother may have given up her dream, but the acting genes were still present.

"I love you, bug. Have a good day."

"You, too," she waved him out the door. "Love you, too."

Alexis turned back around to her grandmother and her half-eaten cereal. "Gram?"

"Yes, Darling," Martha answered from behind the paper.

The girl scowled into her orange juice. "Do you think Dad is all right? He looked…"

"Tired, Baby: he's just tired. You know how hard he works, the long hours…especially now. He needs to not worry about the writing nonsense and get his rest. He'll get a break in a couple of weeks and he'll feel better. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess…"

As Richard 'Tax King' Castle made his way to the subway that morning through the human throng that occupied New York City, he made eye contact, smiled, helped a wary mother of an unhappy toddler by retrieving a discarded pacifier, and, while everyone else grumbled, he practically danced down the out-of-order escalator to the platform on Spring Street, skipping steps and allowing other riders to board the train before he did. His behavior wasn't any different on any other day, but it was spring, it was warm…ish and despite his mother's best attempts to ground him, he was floating.

He'd dodged the question about word counts, since he hadn't begun a true story. He actually developed the character and a couple of other characters as well. He still had a lot of holes to fill like background, family, history, and daily habits that made a character real. For instance, he knew how she liked her coffee, how she gained and then conquered her adversaries' attention, and that she could be soft, self-effacing, and almost shy: details like that complete a character. In essence, he either spent the evening with Kate Beckett or the ethereal version that invaded his brain and stimulated his creativity both the PG and X versions. It had been a long time since he was moved to fantasize about a woman he hardly knew. The last time, it was Meredith and he was a miserable excuse for a person, still wallowing in his breakup from Kyra, and high on something or drunk, as he often was after Kyra. This time, the only drug was her alluring, hypnotic scent, whatever it was that was drenched in cherries, her unrepentant confidence, and the way she shyly waved and smiled at him as she left his office.

He inhaled as the train approached Columbus Circle, ready to disembark. Normally, from there, he would have caught the Red line to Ninety-Sixth, but he decided to walk the final three and a half miles through the tentative sunshine and budding trees of Central Park, welcoming the warmth and newness of spring. 'God,' he thought at his sappiness, 'I've got it bad.'

Stopping near Strawberry Fields at a food truck for a bottle of water, he first heard the sirens, which wasn't an out of the ordinary occurrence in the middle of Central Park West on any given day, but what was extraordinary was the fact that he turned as the sirens got closer and was knocked down by a man running full tilt through the park. Rick sat up and was checking himself over when another man, a cop, his badge hanging around his neck ran by, followed by another, who slowed long enough to ask Rick if he was okay.

He nodded and stood. Rick peered around the bend on the path to make sure it was clear before he continued walking to work. He bent to brush off any detritus clinging to his suit and noticed a rip where his knee had collided with the pavement. "Damn it," he cursed, but after a moment his irritation and the excitement caused by the chase had dissipated in favor of enjoying the semi-warm breeze ruffling his hair.

He walked a little further and saw the cops who had been in the chase. They were standing with other uniformed police. Rick checked his watch and knowing that his first client wasn't due until eleven, he decided to take a break and watch the drama. He wiped the faint dusting of buttery pollen off a green-slatted bench dedicated to 'Gregory, the best Yorkie ever,' and sat down.

The plain-clothed men were quite animated as they conferred with the cops in uniforms. It looked to Rick as if they might have lost the guy. He smiled as he thought of synonyms: perp, thug, dirt bag, hood, criminal, ruffian. He leaned forward to try and catch any details.

He heard the sounds of the morning in the park, joggers: their sneakers metronomically slapping the asphalt, the grate and whine of the wheels of the people on roller skates or skateboards, vendors shouting their commodities, and the small but hardy cadre of city animals that called the park their home: the true thieves of the park. The breeze carried an occasional expletive from the cops to his ears that made Castle chuckle. He wanted justice done just as much as the next guy did, but honestly, the cops were a little comical, or maybe they seemed amusing because of his fantastic mood. Either way, he enjoyed the show.

An acorn plummeted to the ground in front of the bench, prompting Rick to search the branches above his head for the little beasty that had thrown it. Central Park squirrels could be cunning, brave, and daring, but also obnoxious. He heard one scamper around the boulder behind him and turned to catch a glimpse of the grayish-brown rogue, eager to revel in its cavorting, right up until he heard the damn rodent cock a gun. Rick froze.

"Do not turn around," a man warned. Rick was relatively certain that it was not a squirrel, no matter how obnoxious.

He started to lift his arms. "Oh…okay. Um…I don't carry any cash…"

"Put your damn arms down." A sweatshirt-clad arm came around and pushed his forearm back down against his chest. "I'm not going to rob you," the man's voice was uncomfortably close to Rick's ear. "You and I just became old friends who haven't seen each other in years."

"Oh…um, how do I recognize you if I haven't ever seen you?"

"What? Are you stupid or something?"

"No, no, no, just…it goes to credibility. You want to tell a story in which you and I are acquainted, I'm assuming for the cops over there. If you want it believable, then we need more particulars. For instance, my name is Rick. I'm an accountant. Now, you know a little background on me. It will be easier to convince uh, anyone you're trying to convince," his eyes darted to the police presence, not a hundred yards away, "that we truly know each other."

The man sneered, "You and I will greet each other, loudly enough to get the peripheral attention of those cops over there, and then we'll walk out of the park together. Got it?"

"Oh," Rick said nodding his head keenly, but fighting the admiration he felt for the simple plan. "Hide in plain sight. They're looking for a guy, one man and you'll hide in a group of two."

"Yeah, genius. Let's go." Rick remained on the seat. "Now," the man ordered. Castle heard him un-cock the gun. "Okay, the gun is away, but don't ever forget it's in my pocket or the blade up my sleeve, understand?"

"Yeah," Castle glumly agreed. Only his life, he mused, could go from everything great to everything shit in the space of a moment.

He did as he was told and embraced the man who literally held his life in his pocket. He was saddened to find out that his old friend who couldn't be thirty yet, held a lifetime of disappointment and regret in his eyes. He nudged Castle south on the path.

"So, couldn't decide how to accessorize, huh: a gun to a knife fight or vice versa, right…" he paused and scowled at his newest old friend, "…um what do I call you?"

"What?" The man scowled, obviously lost.

"Well," he drawled with the patience of a man explaining life, love and the universe to a toddler. "We're supposed to be old friends, but not that old, I'm guessing." He winked, more to himself than to his compatriot. "We should have some sort of conversation…you know to add to the realism." He inhaled and straightened his tie. "I'm Rick," he paused and shook his head slightly. "And…what should I call you?"

"Jesus…"

"Nah…isn't there some sort of rule against that?"

"What?"

Rick inhaled, impatiently and placed his hands on his hips.

His long-lost friend pursed his lips and glancing at the cops, agreed, "Okay, okay…you can call me Dennis."

"Dennis?" he chuckled and repeated, "Dennis. Is that really the best you can come up with? Or," he exclaimed turning to his would be buddy or killer, "That's your real name, isn't it?" He elbowed Dennis in the ribs. "Not much of an imagination up there, huh…Dennis?"

He pushed Rick away. "Look, I may just shoot you because you're annoying me, so shut up."

"But," he glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, the younger of the two detectives was watching them. "We need to be more convincing. I don't think they're buying it."

"Who?" Dennis began, but Rick used his momentum as Dennis looked over his shoulder and spun the man toward the ground. Dennis double-backed and swung himself from under the accountant and said accountant vowed to make time for the gym even during tax season as he hit the asphalt pathway hard. "You stupid…" he heard Dennis begin.

"Down on the ground! NYPD! Drop it!"

"Back off or mister superhero gets it," Dennis taunted as he grabbed Rick, hauling him up onto his knees, the now, unconcealed knife near his throat.

"NYPD! Drop it or we drop you," the Hispanic cop roared. Castle decided he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that voice.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

It took Castle a second to realize that the younger cop was asking him. "Oh, me…yeah," he swallowed. "I'm okay. Although, Dennis here could use a refresher course in personal hygiene."

"Hey!" Dennis jerked Castle's head back by the hold on his jacket.

Castle grimaced and felt the blade under his ear. "Okay, okay…I'm sorry." He held his hands up. "I get nervous and I joke."

"Well, this ain't funny."

"No, no it's not," he agreed.

Castle watched as more uniformed officers arrived, weapons drawn, pointing at him, well not at him per se, but at Dennis: his old buddy Dennis. Castle reckoned it was a fine, but important distinction. Dennis held tightly to Castle's collar. If the knife didn't kill him his Windsor knot would. He was sweating and could feel his pulse pounding through the constricting fabric. He pulled away slightly.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Dennis snarled, as he pulled tighter on Castle's collar.

Castle used the anticipated jerk, the pull on his neck, not Dennis, to his advantage, when he gagged and made other choking noises, most were authentic, but some exaggerated thanks to that acting gene. His eyes bugged out and then, without warning, he went completely limp: deadweight. Castle figured he had a good fifty pounds on the guy and hoped that he wouldn't be able to support his weight and still hold off the cops as well.

"What the hell?" Dennis did his best to hang onto his human shield, however, as the bigger man of the two; Castle's weight dragged his arm down with him until Dennis was bent over. "Shit…shit…god damn…"

"Hold it right there and drop it."

Castle resisted the urge to open his eyes, but he'd heard that snarky voice before. He liked it much better when it wasn't directed at him.

"I said to drop it and get on your knees, away from the…Castle?"

"My what?"

"On your knees, dirt bag!"

Castle heard the other cops close in and then, after an eternity in playing-possum years, he finally heard the knife clank on the black top. He opened his eyes and immediately looked up into Kate Beckett's face. "Hey," he offered with a tentative grin.

"Are you all right?" She holstered her weapon as the other plain clothed cops dragged his assailant up and off of Castle, and took Dennis into custody. Leaning down, she helped him sit up.

"Um…" He patted his chest, legs, and arms as he shakily stood, only to be redirected to sit back on Gregory, the Yorkie's bench. "No, I'm fine, I'm fine," he protested as the adrenaline backed color drained from his face.

"It's okay, man," a kindly looking uniformed cop said as he kept his hand on Castle's shoulder. "It's just the rush wearing off. Take deep breaths."

"Castle? I have to go over there for a minute and talk to my team. I'll be right back." She squeezed his forearm and was gone.

"Here, mister?" The cop handed him a bottle of water and a piece of gauze. He motioned to Castle's neck which had been pricked and a small trickle of blood soaked into his collar. "Did Detective Beckett call you Castle?"

"Yeah, yes. That's my name. Rick…um, Richard Castle," he clarified between breaths.

"Yeah man, just breathe through it. And you know Detective Beckett?"

"Um…" he paused unsure if he should just say he was her tax advisor or elaborate to include their budding relationship. "I'm…uh…I'm doing her taxes. I'm her advisor."

"Oh. Well, I'm going to need your name and address. Do you have a license or ID?" Castle leaned forward, dug his wallet out of his pants pocket, and handed it to the man. "Great," he said as he flipped open his notebook. "Broome Street, huh. Do you work around here?"

"Yeah," he chuckled and shook his head, "On ninety-sixth. I usually take the subway, but I just wanted to enjoy the spring day before work."

The officer tilted his head and looked at Castle slyly. "How's that working out for you?"

Castle loosened his tie and rubbed his abused neck. "Just great," he confirmed around clearing his throat.

"Thanks, L.T. I'll take care of his statement," Kate said kindly as she slid in next to the accountant.

"Yes, ma'am," he said and then to Castle he grinned, "Take it easy, man." L.T. bumped his shoulder as he stood.

"Seems like a nice guy," Castle mused, watching L.T. join the other uniforms on perimeter duty. He let his gaze wander back to the woman sitting next to him and he cringed at her glare. "What?"

"First, are you all right?" She surveyed him with worried, yet practiced eyes.

"Why Detective Beckett: were you concerned?"

She rolled her eyes and the worried part trundled out.

"Look, I didn't ask to be held hostage."

"Move your hand," she ordered as she applied a bandage to his neck. "No, but you took an awful chance."

"How do you know that I didn't actually pass out?"

She raised an eyebrow as her answer.

"Well…okay: I didn't, I'm not the actor in my family, but I figured the guy wouldn't be able to hold me up and I was done being a human shield."

She shook her head. "How about that first stunt?"

"What? When I expertly tackled him to the ground while simultaneously alerting the authorities of my predicament?" He blinked innocently.

"You could have gotten hurt. You can't play those percentages."

"Well if it makes you feel any better, when he knocked me down further up the path," he nodded south, "he tore my slacks and I think it'll be a while before I wear another tie." He rubbed at his neck again garnering Kate's attention.

"Jesus, Castle," she swore as she moved the collar of his shirt. In addition to the nick, his throat was red and mottled, like it had been strangled.

"What?" He swallowed and coughed self-consciously. He admitted to himself that his throat and neck were a little raw, now that she'd pointed it out.

She sighed, "You're going to the hospital."

"What, no," he protested and ducked out from under her arm.

She studied him and he could see the moment something in her mind clicked. "Fine, then come back with me to my precinct." His eyes lit up at her suggestion and then quickly narrowed. "I've just got a friend who can look you over and make sure the damage is merely superficial." She lowered her eyes, shyly. "Please? For me? I need to make sure you are healthy enough so you won't back out of our date tomorrow night."

He smiled, but tilted his head. "Seems like pretty selfish reasoning." He hummed, mulling it over, never taking his eyes from hers. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Okay, I guess…but only," he emphasized, "if it will make you feel better." He stood up and reached for her hand, but she pulled hers back and clasped both behind her back, well out of his reach. Her wide eyes scanned the whereabouts and attention of her coworkers.

Kate caught his puzzled look and then flicked her gaze to her co-workers. A slight headshake and he finally got the silent message.

"My cruiser is parked on West Seventy-Seventh. Are you okay to walk?"

"Yeah…um of course." He smiled and held his arm out. "Lead the way, Detective."

When they arrived at the precinct he smiled and greeted everyone, adding much to the detective's already overflowing exasperation. On the drive from the park to the precinct, he'd wanted her to use the siren and lights to cut through the traffic, he'd commented on the number of take-out coffee cups that littered her car (to be fair, there was an inordinate number) he'd asked to see her gun, badge, and summons book, as well as had to be admonished from playing with the Taser. She likened him to Randy, the younger brother in the film, 'A Christmas Story' on Christmas morning, rapidly tearing into a giant pile of presents under the overtaxed Christmas tree.

She'd never met anyone like 'Tax King' Castle. Most of the people she knew and associated with were serious and deferential, and had always been so. Her parents had both been attorneys and their friends were attorneys, as well. Except for a short period of time in high school when she rebelled, she was also reserved and then, after her mother died, she withdrew.

Rick Castle was something else, an entirely new creature in Kate Beckett's world. He liked to touch things, ask questions, really: who cares what the exact rate of rotation of the strobe lights are on the bubblegum. He made eye contact and said something to everyone who crossed their path, and even went out of his way to be chivalrous and helpful to most, including her.

He'd been wide-eyed as she guided him to the bullpen and sat him down in the chair next to her desk.

Holding up a hand as one would to train a puppy, she admonished, "Sit there and stay there…" She softened, "please. I'll be right back."

"Okay," he grinned, but she could tell it was difficult for him to stay seated. Luckily his phone rang and he was distracted by having to answer. She shook her head as she reported to her captain.

"Hello?" he whispered into his phone which was cupped in his hands. "Mother? What's wrong…Is Alexis…?"

Kate approached her desk a few moments later just as he ran a hand through his hair. She found herself wanting to do the same.

"No…I know. Yes…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. No…um…just...ask Mel to reschedule my immediate appointments, please. Yes, I'll let you know. I'm fine, I promise you. They just want to check me out." He raised his eyebrows at Kate's stare and then grinned cheekily. "I have to give a statement and maybe…um, press charges?" Castle looked for confirmation and Beckett nodded. "Yes, I will have to press charges. Are you able to collect Alexis before she goes uptown to the office?" He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, thank…thank you, Mother. I'll call you later…I have to go. Yes…no, no honestly I'm fine…" He paused, grimacing while he held his hand over the microphone. "Would you mind reassuring my mother, please Detective?"

Kate raised both eyebrows as he thrust the phone in her direction. "I…" She gulped as she raised the device to her ear. "Hello? Yes. This is Detective Kate Beckett. Yes, ma'am. I assure you he is only slightly…" She stopped abruptly at his frantic cutting off gesture across his throat. Castle then gave her the thumbs up sign. Beckett inhaled and continued, "Mr. Castle is uninjured and perfectly fine. Yes, yes I will. Yes. Goodbye."

Beckett handed him his phone. "Thanks," he sighed. "The absolute last thing you want is hurricane Martha here and she would be if she thought I was hurt."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "So, your mom is a little over-protective?" The tenor of her voice grew increasingly teasing by the end of the question.

"Little? Ha!" he erupted, shaking his head as he held up his hands, scooting forward on the chair. "No, she'd be down here in a minute," he affirmed, stabbing his finger on her desk in emphasis. "Even faster than the New York kind, fussing over me, and taking me home." He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No thanks." He sat back, abruptly aware that his reaction may have been a little excessive, if he could judge by the other officers in the room who were stealing peeks or outright staring in their direction.

Hunching down, he folded his tall frame in on itself, ducking his head. "Sorry."

Kate stared at him. "Do you…live? With. Your. Mother?"

Castle scowled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "No…no: not exactly," he scoffed, unconvincingly at the floor.

"Well, what does that mean?"

"It means she lives with me." He eyes climbed the paramount to hers. "It's a fine distinction in semantics."

"Beckett?" Someone called from the hall. "You do realize that all my regular patients are dead, right?"

The detective took her turn grimacing. "Lanie," she shushed the woman who had just entered the workspace.

"Oh. You're…"

Rick smiled the same smile she saw in the picture of Tax King Castle in the commercial, minus the cartoon crown. "Dr. Parish," he stood and shook her hand. "It's nice to see you again." He tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow in the detective's direction. "Thanks for the referral."

The smile spread across the doctor's face and she sighed, a pleasant mien decorating her features as she presented her hand to Castle. "Your majesty," Lanie articulated drolly with a wink and a head bow.

He squeezed gently and let it go. Castle became uncomfortable under the woman's licentious scrutiny. He ducked his head and smiled shyly, hopeful to be rescued once again by the detective. "Uh…I don't think we'll need your services, doctor. I really am fine," he reiterated the last to the detective.

"Damn…I'll say," Lanie drawled. She blinked after Beckett elbowed her. "Oh…shit, did I say that out loud?" Both of her stunned companions nodded in perfect synchronization.

Beckett blinked and became aware of other eyes watching the proceedings: her friend's palpable attraction to the accountant creating the sideshow without need of a barker.

"Lanie!" Beckett hissed. "Uh, Mr. Castle," she said loudly, "would you go into the break room so Dr. Parrish can check you out." She had never experienced anything instantaneously before: no instant gratification, nor love at first sight, nor immediate satisfaction, even her morning instant oatmeal packet fell short of that claim. She was immediately sorry for her word choice, however, and judging by the blush that had creeped up the accountant's face and the sly, but pleased countenance of her friend, it had not gone unnoticed. "Oh God. You know what I mean…medically."

Lanie grabbed him under his upper arm and yanked him up. "Kate? Um, Detective, I mean…You're coming too, right?" There was actual fear in his eyes.

"I'll be in in a moment," she assured. "Lanie be professional."