A/N - Betcha' wrote this one off. No and never think I won't finish any of my stories.

I'm not going to apologize or explain about life. I will remind you all that I won't post until I'm satisfied that the chapter advances the story I hope to convey. I hope you find it was worth the wait.

Enjoy,

~GeekMom

Assets

Chapter 4

Divesting and Investing

Warm.

Warm and tingly, if the truth was told. Even the wind tunnels created by the high-rise canyons funneling the April breezes, which, if judging by his fellow pedestrians' level of bundling; of their hands jammed in pockets, red noses and blue lips. Despite all of that doggedly recalled and validated resonances of March's lions' roar, he was warm. He remained blissfully oblivious through the coldest part of his walk home – that blast of artic air you encounter after emerging from the subway; the one that stole your breath – couldn't cool the incubated bubble he'd occupied since their kiss.

He opened the door of his apartment and it burst.

"You're home later than I anticipated. Are you all right? I thought you were meeting a client." Martha craned her neck around the pillar next to the armchair to see her son come through the front door.

"You didn't have to wait up." He checked the time on his watch: just after eleven, and then shivered, the tremor a solid five on the Richter scale.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "After the events of yesterday?" She eyed his neck, her tone incredulous.

He continued, as she knew he would. "I did meet a client," he explained and held his briefcase up as evidence. He walked toward his home office. "And I'm fine, Mother. I told you last night, my injuries, if you could call them that, were merely superficial."

"Injuries, nonetheless," she argued. He sighed and continued his escape. "I kept a plate warm for you: it's in the oven," she called to his retreating back.

Rick cringed and turned back to face her. "I'm sorry, Mother. I should have told you, this was a dinner meeting."

"You don't usually mix business with pleasure."

"No…" he paused and closed his eyes. "Dinner not pleasure," he corrected, "and this was different. This…tonight was the only the time that the client could meet."

"Who is this client who gets this special treatment?"

His mother's nosiness was only exceeded by her meddling. He pursed his lips and debated upon telling her to mind her own business or lie.

"It's the lady detective," his accommodating daughter added as she bounced down the stairs, crashing into him. "Hi, Daddy," she grinned.

"Hey Pumpkin," he answered, sending his daughter a glare and then jerking his head over his shoulder at his mother. He probably should not have sought her alliance against his mother's meddling when Alexis had been a kid, but he had and it had been the two of them, united in a common cause: to limit the effects of the Martha Rodgers practice of unreserved and unasked for interference, which had multiplied exponentially since she had moved in with them. There was safety in numbers.

"But it was the detective, wasn't it?" She stretched up on her tiptoe and kissed his cheek with a not so innocent or repentant look in her eye.

He exaggeratedly checked his watch and narrowed his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Mel told me when she sent your schedule to let me know when she would need me," she said sweetly.

Rick frowned. Why were the women in his life conspiring against him? He sighed and hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward his office, figuring that a tactical retreat would be the best option. "I've got some files to look over before tomorrow morning. Good night, Mother." He paused and shook his head. Raising an accusatory eyebrow at Alexis as she slid in next to her grandmother, he compressed his lips against his tightly clenched teeth. "Good night, Benedict."

"Oh Richard, don't be so theatrical," Martha waved him away as Alexis sheepishly smiled, folding herself into the cove of her grandmother's arms and self-righteousness.

As he closed his door, he heard his mother's undaunted whisper to his daughter, "So tell me about this lady detective."

Tax King Castle leaned back in his chair and reaching up he perched his glasses on the top of his head and rubbed his eyes. He squinted at his phone: a few blurry minutes after midnight on April the sixteenth. Done. Well, he was done in the sense of the normal filers, not with the procrastinators who had needed extensions and other special circumstances that would cost the taxpayer both, in penalties, and in his fees. His magic cost money.

He stretched and cracked his neck and back before he stood and out of habit, grabbed for his coffee cup, but hesitated. He should close up, go home, and get some much-needed rest, but either the caffeine or adrenaline from his last second wind had him wanting to stay. He'd been good; he'd been disciplined and he had refrained, with difficulty, from opening the word file for nearly two weeks. His writing had doggedly remained mute for years, but now it called to him like a rekindled love affair and he could no longer ignore its seduction.

He stepped into the break room and fixed himself a latte and, while he steamed and stirred, he finally gave himself permission to immerse himself in her world, imagining dialogue and scenes, descriptions and plot: the imagined scenes as real to him as his espresso machine. He grabbed the coffee mug and headed back to his office, stopping short at the end of the hallway that led to the reception area.

The lights were off but the blue green glow of a computer screen remained. Thinking his assistant must have left her monitor on, he swung his head around the doorframe.

"Mel?" He scrunched his forehead in a scowl. "What are you still –"

"Doing here?"

He couldn't help but grin. Melissa James, his assistant and lifesaver, had been with him since he opened his doors, indeed before then, truthfully. She literally hung up his shingle, against his objections when he caught her on the very top of a stepladder. She took it upon herself to hang it up after she'd found the workman crying over his wife who had passed away only a week earlier, but had to continue to work because he had two small children to support. Mel had given him his fee plus enough so he could stay home with his kids for another week. She convinced Castle that they needed an on-call handyman and Lem had been with them, part-time and on-call, ever since.

Once Castle realized that she had given Lem everything that she had, and so to preserve her pride, he had asked her to work overtime, thereby, he in turn could make sure she had what she needed. Mel watched out for him as well. She made sure he ate during the long hours he'd worked, had become a pseudo-mother figure to Alexis, a sounding board for Castle, and the glue that kept the place together. He wouldn't have remembered to pay the utility bills without her and would have been running his business from a castle of cardboard boxes on skid row instead of a modest, but comfortable, office space on the Upper West Side.

"Yeah," he flipped his left wrist. "You need to go home. Filings been done and there's nothing that you're doing now that won't wait until –"

"Waiting for you, boss."

"Waiting? For me? Waiting for what?"

She sighed. "Your mother asked me to lookout–"

His brows furrowed as he narrowed his eyes. "My mother?"

She had sense enough to look chastised at his tone, but lifted her hands in surrender as she continued her defense. "Yes, she's concerned about you ever since the incident." Castle rolled his eyes: 'the incident' had been what his mother had dramatically dubbed when Castle had been held hostage in the park.

"I'm a grown man and don't call it that. It just validates her histrionics and compulsion to be over-protective."

"Yes, you are a grown man with a mother who loves you." He scoffed. "She does, you know. She may love you in a smothering, over-bearing way, but she loves you." Despite the dim light, he could see her eyes twinkle. She stood then and, much in the same way Rick had, stretched and cracked her settled, stiff bones and joints. "Look, she's worried about you. She says that since the park, you've been secretive, stand-offish, and getting home late–"

He sneered. "Tax season," he reminded as he spread his arms and indicated their office space.

"Later than that…or, um…not at all?" She had the good taste to look embarrassed. Mel was a friend, but still his employee.

"Jesus." He rubbed his hand down over his face. "Grown…man," he repeated.

Ignoring him, she persevered, "She said that she feels left out of your life, Rick, like she doesn't know you anymore. She's concerned that the inci…" She smiled and having caught herself, continued, "Concerned that since the park, it has changed you."

She was right and so had his mother been for that sake. He had changed, but it was neither the park nor the incident at the park. He and Kate, although they hadn't seen each other since that first date, talked almost daily: a quick chat during her breaks or in between his client appointments, or, more often, a late night call, resulting in him sleeping on the couch in the break room instead of making the trek home during the witching hours in the city. They told each other about their days, although he knew he had been much more interested in her day, her battles as a detective with the scum of the streets, than she could ever be about his battles with the tax code despite the fact that she seemed rapt and fascinated by his mundane and uneventful life. She had laughed while twirling her hair and gave him all the gory details, but only when he shared gory details of his own. He'd taken to giving her a nightly laundry list of the things people tried to claim as deductions. From pole dancing classes to recreational drugs to therapeutic sex with prostitutes and as fun as that all seemed, none were deductible. His favorite from all his years' experience though, had to be the man who hired an arsonist to burn his failing furniture store down and received five hundred thousand dollars in insurance money as a result. Unsatisfied with his ill-gotten gain, the man went ahead and listed ten thousand dollars for 'consulting services' during his initial interview with Castle. When Rick pressed him for the details of the transaction, the truth came out that his 'consultant' turned out to be a paid arsonist.

"I've been busy and it has nothing to do with the incident." He mimicked air quotes by dipping his first and middle fingers as he spoke the last word. He added an eye roll in pure exasperation.

"Just–"

"Mel?"

"Well, I've noticed it, too. It's the only reason I agreed, Rick. You look like hell. You look like you're sick."

He pursed his lips, but sighed. He was exhausted, but no more so than any other year. Maybe he had been sacrificing his rest, but he couldn't ignore his attraction to Kate and if late night, sometimes all night, phone calls permitted him to keep talking to her, than that was a choice and sacrifice he had made. He'd purposefully left his mother and daughter in the dark about his late night activities. He hadn't told anyone except Kate that he'd been writing again.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, but as I have explained to my mother, I am fine. Now, go home before I wonder who is going to pay for the overtime: me or my mother."

He leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of him as she called her husband, gathered her things, and shot him looks waffling between properly chastised and concern. He shook his head and waved her off as she waved from the passenger seat of her husband's car. Her husband, Mitch, shot him an evil glare and he couldn't blame the man: being nearly one in the morning.

"Hey."

"Hey," he answered, blowing out a long breath.

She paused during which he could hear her sheets and blankets rustle. She twisted to see the clock. "Oh: it's late…well, later than usual.

"How…," he unsuccessfully suppressed a yawn. "Jeez." He inhaled and blew it out, creating a whistle through the phone. "How are you?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah," "Just tired, I guess. Did I wake you?"

"No, I was reading. Oh that's right: it's the fifteenth. So you're done then?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining her propped up in her bed, the sheet draped over her knees, her bedside table softly lighting her from the right. He had never seen her bedroom or her apartment, for that matter. He inhaled and opened his eyes, curbing the fantasy. "Not done, but with the bulk of it, yeah. I'm not going to complain about my job. It's secured a comfortable living for me and my daughter, and her education is taken care of, unless she ends up at Oxford or MIT or something like that."

"And it affords you the opportunity to take care of your mom."

He sighed again.

"Rick?"

"Yeah, my mom. It affords her the opportunity to meddle in my life whenever she likes."

Kate sat up. "Are you all right? Seriously?"

He could almost picture her frown, the crease between her eyes gaining prominence, adorably. It showed up when she felt concern, exasperation, frustration, or when she intensely concentrated.

He sat up and leaned forward, jostling his mouse. His computer screen came back to life, brighter than he recalled and he squinted, sliding his glasses from the top of his head back into place, and wincing as the nose pads settled on the callouses on the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine, but I am about to be better, I think. You know what?"

"What?"

"It's the sixteenth of April. I want to see you again. When are you off?"

"I'm supposed to work the early shift tomorrow…well, today," she amended as she arched her neck to double check the clock on her bedside table. "At seven, so I should be home by five – if we don't catch a case."

He pulled up his calendar and a reminder popped onto the screen, flashing in neon colors, telling him to go home. Startled, it made him jump and slosh his coffee. "Jesus," he cried, mopping the tan liquid rapidly seeping into his blotter. He muttered a few choice curses.

"Rick?"

"Sorry – just more unsought and unwanted support, advice, interference – whatever," he rubbed his eyes and then reset his password. "So," he continued, "tomorrow night? Have dinner with me?"

"Dinner…okay: where?"

"Do you like Italian?"

She grinned and realized she had been twirling a lock of her hair around her index finger. Capturing her lower lip to prevent a girlish giggle, she nodded. During a previous late night phone call, earlier that week, he'd made her laugh and giggle like a schoolgirl. He'd been relentless in teasing her ever since.

"Kate?"

Realizing that he couldn't see her nod, she answered, "Almost as much as I like Chinese," while slapping her palm to her face.

"That will be the night after next, then."

His voice had taken on the quality and timber she had begun to crave. Dark and soft like rich melted chocolate or a luxurious silk scarf gently kissing her shoulders. She settled back on her pillow after a moment's hesitation, relinquishing the guilt and accepting the pleasure he gave her simply by speaking. She felt lifted and supported like Pocahontas in the musical number 'Colors of the Wind.' Letting the warmth of his words wrap around her much the same way his writing had. She relaxed and trusted that he would keep her afloat and realized that he trusted her completely, as well, when Castle had sent a copy of his published book along with the other two manuscripts after, he confessed, an entire day and night of debate on whether or not he should. His writing had been rejected by many people, publishers, his own mother, and it hurt him more than he let on, but Kate's opinion, Kate's opinion mattered.

She closed her eyes and sighed, "I'm working the night after."

He could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Well, then it will be the next time you can make it."

Grinning, but with her eyes still closed, she imagined him sitting in his bed, no shirt, a soft light profiling one side of his strong jaw and nose while leaving the rest in shadows.

"You sound pretty self-assured that there will be a next time after tomorrow night, Mr. Castle," she teased.

"About some things…" His voice rumbled in his chest – the very reason Meredith had nicknamed him 'Kitten.' He shook the uninvited image of his ex from his head. Clearing his throat, he added, "I'll admit self-assurance." He leaned back and kicked out his feet under his desk, oscillating in his office chair. It squeaked, softly.

Her eyes sprung open. "Are you still at your office?"

"Uh–"

"Oh my God, Rick. You need to go home."

"But, I wanted to talk to you," he whined.

"We'll talk tomorrow or tomorrow night," she said reluctantly. Swallowing, she sat up and shook her head. "I have to get some sleep anyway. You don't want me falling asleep in my pasta, do you?"

"As adorable as that sounds, I think that my date face-planting into her pasta during my witty repartee and best wooing would, beyond any doubt, damage my self-assurance and take with it all hope of restoration."

"Really, go home. I'll worry that you're out on the streets this late."

"Afraid I'll get sucked into the dark dealings of the seedy underbelly of this city? The mean streets?

"Oh; good grief," she muttered. She really tried to keep her smile out of her voice. If he knew he was amusing her, it would only encourage him. "Not quite that melodramatic, but…yes."

He spun his chair in a circle. "Maybe I'll get kidnapped and forced to work in the sweat shops in China Town. Oo! Or I could be drafted as a dancing fighter in the Sharks."

"You're ineligible for the Sharks; you'd have to be a Jet. You're more Tony than Bernardo."

He began to sing, "Boy, boy, crazy boy –"

"You're the only crazy one. Go home, Rick."

"Get cool, boy!"

"Oh my God."

"Got a rocket in your pocket –"

"A rocket? I thought that meant you were happy to see me."

"Wha – what?" He sputtered.

"Stop the revue, Bernstein and go home. It's too late to mess around."

"Why, Detective Beckett – that almost sounds like you care about me. I'm touched, truly."

Kate smirked. "You're touched all right. Go home."

He had begun closing up at her first admonition. "Locking the door now." She heard the click and snick of his deadbolt. "Heading for the subway…"

"Rick, I don't need a play by play. Just get home in one piece." She rolled her eyes when she identified what he hummed while walking the streets: a medley beginning with 'Tonight' and ending with 'Officer Krupke' with what she was sure was 'I Feel Pretty' squeezed in between.

"Okay: getting on the number one now."

"Rick!"

He grinned, "Until tomorrow, Kate."

"Good night, Rick."

"Have you seen Dad?" Alexis asked as she walked out of his home office.

Martha scowled. "Not sleeping late?" As long as he'd been a tax accountant, he would sleep late, or later than his normal time, for at least a week after tax day, a petulant throwback to his less rigidly scheduled artistic days.

"No and it looks like he's been gone a while."

"Hmm," Martha hummed. "Well maybe he had an appointment," she dismissed as she waved her hand and folded the newspaper she had been reading.

"It's weird," Alexis said as she put her and her grandmother's breakfast dishes in the sink.

Martha glanced in the direction of her son's bedroom. "I agree," she murmured and upon turning back, clapped her hands together. "Come on: let's get you to school. I need to get to the shop."

"I – almost – there. Kate, is it in?" He wiped the sweat from his eye with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, well…there! Oh God, yes: right there!"

"Jeez," he panted. "Next time I'm paying for installation."

"Next time?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Okay: you've a point. Hopefully, we won't have to install another espresso machine. Who knew they were so heavy, huh?"

"I think it's because you got this super dooper, fancy schmancy, extra deluxe version."

He stared at her for a moment, leaning on the broom he had grabbed from the corner. "Hyperbole looks good on you, Detective – or should I say great? I might go so far as to say stupendous." He waggled his eyebrows and began to sweep up the coffee grounds they'd spilled, jockeying for room on the counter earlier. "It's the same model I have at the office, besides, I've gotta take care of my favorite detective and all her caffeine addicted cronies."

"Well, on behalf of all the addicts in blue, we commend you." She snapped her heels together and saluted. "But right now it's only a shiny paper weight. Let's see some action, Castle."

He shook his head. "I've heard about how mean people can be if they don't get their fix." He gave the hot water connection another tug of his wrench and tossed it in his toolbox. Grinning, he flipped the machine's power switch and hearing it bubble to life, he too, percolated, "Okay, Beckett, pick your poison."

"What poison?" Esposito asked as he entered the break room, heading for the sludge they laughingly described as coffee, but stopped short, screwing up his face as he snapped his fingers in Castle's direction. "Um, uh…"

Rick turned from his latte creation and held out a hand. "Rick Castle…the park…a couple of–"

"Weeks ago – yeah, yeah: what are you doing here?"

"Mr. Castle is here learning the ways of the force."

His eyes snapped to Beckett's. "That is so cool," he said as his whole face sparked glee.

"You like that?"

"Well, duh?"

"What do you mean, the ways of–"

"He'll be following me – my shadow," she winked at Castle. "In addition to his excellent accounting skills and tax magic, he is also an author and allegedly, a barista extraordinaire, but I've yet to see evidence of the latter."

All kidding aside, he gazed at her with a modest, unpretentious smile and simultaneously felt warmth for her emanating from deep inside and cold excitement trickling down his spine and dashing through his extremities.

She grinned at his awe-struck stare. "How's that super coffee coming there?"

He came back from orbit. "Um, good." His smile widened. "It's all good."

"Stop staring at me."

"Oh…sorry," he mumbled and dropped his eyes to the notebook open on his lap, pretending to reread his notes on the more mundane aspects of her job. She'd called him an author. Truly, the group who had actually published his book or his editor had never called him that. He was aspiring. Alexis had, until recently when she'd fallen under the sway of his mother, had said that someday he could be, but in the same way that she thought that someday he could be an astronaut or a circus ringmaster, and his mother flatly dismissed the notion, as usual, endorsing the more practical, safe route, and quashing any notions of the written word as a sustainable method of employment or fulfillment.

Kate had devoured his published book and had insisted on seeing the other two manuscripts as well. At first he thought she was just being nice, after all, his writing had been rejected too many times to count, although he was sure his mother could and would remind him of the number, if given the opportunity.

Beckett shot him a sideways glance and regretted chastising him. It continued a mystery to her how a self-made man, one very successful in his field, could, at times, seem so unsure of himself.

She leaned over toward his chair. "Let's take a break, hm?"

Castle, slow to come back from his silent musings, checked his phone. "It's a little early for lunch."

"So coffee then: there's a great place down the street called Ground Control." She quirked an eyebrow as if she was encouraging a straight 'A' student to truancy as she reached for her bag.

"What about…" he gestured toward the break room where his gift to the twelfth precinct, homicide floor resided.

Tilting her head, she confided, "Sometimes you simply need to get out."

"Okay," he said as he rose and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, holding it for her. Beckett grinned: she could get used to that.

She unnecessarily tousled her short hair free from her collar. Castle, after he began to breathe again, surmised that the short, funky cut and probably the color, as well, were new-ish to the detective.

"Let's go," she gestured to the elevator. "Going for coffee, guys. Call if we get a drop."

"You got it, boss," Ryan answered. Beckett caught the grin he flashed at his partner; a type of look she hadn't seen since middle school. She rolled her eyes, but soon forgot all about her pre-pubescent partners when Castle reached for and engulfed her hand within his as soon as the elevator doors shut.

Reciprocating, she threaded her fingers between his and squeezed. "See? There are advantages to getting out every once in a while."

"I need more!"

His girlfriend crashed into him when she opened her door. She wound her arms around his neck and a leg locked around his thigh. He balanced the take-out, a small bouquet of blush peonies, and her, as she kissed him and hauled him into her apartment.

Smiling out of the scorching kiss, he drunkenly swore, "Whatever you want, anything…everything." Castle put the food and flowers on the counter only to turn and act as her airbag again.

"Your writing, Rick, I can't figure out why they didn't want to publish this." She stepped back, allowing him to breathe, and grabbed one of his manuscripts.

He frowned, glancing sideways; he recognized his second, 'A Rose for Everafter,' which elicited a myriad of conflicting emotions in him: pride, insecurity, melancholy, and joy. He stared at her as he processed, waiting for the inevitable shoe to drop, the 'just kidding, they were right: this sucks.'

"Are…" He inhaled and went a different route. "Have you been sampling the wine without me, Kate? Your judgement is obviously suspect." Self-deprecation: could be taken seriously, could be taken as a joke: generally a safe option. He reached for the bottle next to the flowers.

"Stop that."

"Stop –"

"Stop putting yourself down."

He swallowed. "I wasn't serious," he scoffed with an eye roll and a sideways grin, the one he used to deflect hurt.

Kate regarded him; or rather her emotion seeking scanners – known, in most humans, as eyes – sought the truth. He understood why she was so good at her job. Nobody could withstand that scrutiny and have their falsehoods remain unscathed; at any rate, he couldn't.

"Richard?" Martha cautiously opened the door to his study and smiled. There sat her industrious, responsible son, hard at work. Probably inventing a new economy or working diligently for a client. In fact, he was so engrossed that he hadn't heard her; hadn't stopped typing or so much as raised his head or broken his cadence.

"Darling? I'm going to take Alexis shopping, she needs some school supplies." With no response other than an ambiguous grunt, Martha walked up to his desk and narrowed her eyes. "What are you working on?" She peered at his laptop but couldn't see it clearly from her point of view. Martha harrumphed and knocked on his desk, finally breaking him out of his concentration.

"Oh!" he said coming back to his own universe. "Muh, uh…Mother," he stammered, saving and closing his work like he had when he'd been caught watching pay per view when he was a teen. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing, really," he evaded, or attempted to, his cheeks recalcitrantly tinged themselves pink.

"You're not indulging in a little adult –"

"God," he groaned, "no, Mother."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together. "Are you going back for an advanced degree? Is that what all the secrecy and untoward schedules are about?"

In hindsight, he realized that he should have let her keep her illusion and her assumptions.

Sighing, possibly in exasperation or perhaps because he had grown weary of the dance, he answered, "No: I'm not getting my doctorate in tax accounting, Mother. Do they even offer that?" He gulped, not wanting to dredge up this fight, the age-old battle between his yearning to write and her iron-fisted opinion of how he should be spending his time, of her disapproval: her sacrifices, the reminders of his failures, his culpability for her lost dreams. He didn't want to, but it seemed that he had to. Something stirred in him. He steeled himself. "I'm…uh, I'm writing."

"Writing? Writing what?"

He bit his lip.

Martha rolled her eyes dramatically. "Richard–"

"I don't–"

"I can't believe that you've opened this old wound: that you're purposely looking to hurt yourself; to subject yourself to more pain. We've talked about this. This…obsession you have is unhealthy. And you must to deny your addiction."

Every sentence knocked him in the gut, as surely as if she were smacking him around. Corporally instilling manners and curbing unseemly, horrid conduct, as if he were a child, a badly behaved child.

"Don't you remember all those rejection letters? Do you really want to put yourself through that again? Sometimes, you're just a flash in the pan, Darling. You had a book published: one book. They didn't want the others."

"No," he said quietly, his eyes on his fingers.

"That's better, Dear." She condescendingly kissed his forehead as if he, her rebellious child, had repented. A stifled child destined to play it safe, stay on the sidelines, do what he is told and not ask questions, seek more…want more. A child who had been paying for his mother's lost dreams for his entire life.

Remaining quiet and motionless, he inhaled and repeated, "No…Mother. I'm…I won't stop…I won't stop writing this time."

"Oh Richard –"

"No! You do not get to dictate my life…not anymore. I've made a good life for Alexis and myself, and further, had the wherewithal to take you in when you needed me. I've worked hard, Mother, and made the sacrifices. I've made a great life, a secure and independent life. But Mother, I'm done. I want to take the chance. I've always crossed at the light, worn a seatbelt, watched my sodium intake and I still don't eat the red M and Ms. I'm safe, I've taken the safe way since Alexis was a baby. I can't play it safe any longer, watching from the sidelines. I need to take this chance and I hope you'll support my decision."

Kate, slowly but surely was sinking into the morass of her ever-growing pile of paperwork on her desk like how a forgotten, nameless rodent simply searching for a meal of a grub, sinks into the trap of overlooked quick sand, or at least that's how she believed that scenario would appear in her imagination. She pictured a pathetic opossum – because as everyone knows, the opossum would definitely be the paper pushers of the animal kingdom. They'd wear glasses in order to see the paperwork because the glasses sit on their long noses better than they would on any other rodent. She grinned. No doubt the unfortunate fate of the little woodland creature came about as a direct result of her boyfriend's influence, glasses and all. She heard the poor little guy, in Castle's voice whisper, 'Help me!'

She looked up from the boggy pit that was her desk when she heard the elevator doors open with hope, maybe hope or he would say it was their connection. Either way, catching a glimpse of Rick, she saw that he seemed…sad? The expression disappeared, however, as soon as he stepped onto the floor, a sunny, carefree, determined countenance in its place.

"Hey," he greeted as he placed a cardboard cup on an empty space on her blotter.

"Hey, back atcha," she tilted her head and studied him.

"What?" he asked nervously as he sank into his chair.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you kidding? I'm great."

Smiling, she reached for her cup. Her nose told her that he had splurged on the way too expensive café he sometimes patronized. "Mm, what's the occasion?"

"Well, I've…" He inhaled and exhaled before continuing. "I've made a decision."

"Really. What's that?" she asked, trying to pay him due attention, but also distracted by the warm, sweet, bold sensations running down her throat, vying for dominance.

She hummed again and he smiled. It amazed him how she took such pleasure in such a little thing. He wanted to learn to do that, to continue learning the ways of Beckett.

"I'm – uh – going to write again."

"I thought you were already writing." She frowned and dragging herself away from the coffee induced bliss, she considered him. She noted that troublesome sadness again, but also excitement. He could barely sit still. Placing her hand on his knee, she calmed the jiggling limb somewhat, and gave him her full attention. She leaned closer. "I thought you were writing about me."

"Oh, I am. I am, but…" He backed away, giving himself a cushion of space.

"But?"

"But, I'm just going to write. I mean I'm only going to write. I'm…I need to focus on one or the other. I can't run a business and concentrate on my…and give my best effort to my writing –"

Kate held up her hands. "Whoa! You don't have to convince me, babe." She reached across the corner of her desk and lifted his chin so he would look at her. "I love your writing and…" She grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, you're a grown man. If this is what you want then I say, go for it."

Rick studied her. When he tallied everything up, it all came back to her and due to her: her belief in him, her encouragement, her excitement. She inspired him to try, to rekindle a long dormant ember and God, now his passion for writing had exploded into a raging fire. She ignited that tinder; she kept the faith and the flame alive.

Unexpectedly feeling her cheeks heat under his scrutiny, she self-consciously asked "What?"

"I…just…thank you," he said softly. "Not everyone is as supportive as you are," he confessed, mainly to his lap.

Thinking about his shattered relationship with his mother, he inhaled to steady himself. There had been more pleading, more derision and more guilt heaped on top of all the doubt and anxiety he had already been carrying. He had yelled at her. Never had he yelled at his mother for anything before. After he got himself under control, he told her that he appreciated everything she had done for him and for Alexis, but if she couldn't support or at least accept this new path he planned on taking, there was no room for her there. He chiefly couldn't live with the constant reminders of his failures any longer. He already carried enough insecurity without relentless confirmation.

"Your mom?" He looked up at her, searching for the expected disapproval, but finding none, nodded. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Sighing, he granted, "I will be." He shook his head. "Alexis is gonna hate me."

"She's a teenager; she's supposed to hate you," Kate teased. She assessed him again, still. The sadness became more prominent, having mentioned his daughter. "Hey, let's get out of here."

"But, it's too early."

"I've got time. Let me check with the Captain."

Kate suggested that they take advantage of the warmer weather and their early evening, and walk through the city; they stopped to eat dinner, but took their ice cream dessert home with them.

She listened. He spoke of broken dreams and his renewed passion for writing, how it had been locked away for years, and, after much coaxing, he hesitantly relayed his fight with his mother to her.

She knew that they were an extraordinarily close family, both Rick with his daughter as well as his relationship with his mother. He was the first to acknowledge and appreciate his mother's sacrifices. She noticed that even as he told her about his mother's interference, he justified her actions.

"I don't know too many grown men who would invite their mothers to live with them," she remarked.

"She was in trouble. Her boyfriend had swindled her out of her savings and she lost her apartment. I couldn't ignore her situation."

"Yeah, but that still doesn't give her the right to try and run your life."

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of her couch. "She's worked hard all of her life. She was an ambitious ingénue who made some mistakes and ended up with me. She gave up everything for me, Kate. She let go of her dreams and opted instead for security, the same way I did, after Meredith left." He blew out a breath that caught in his throat.

Kate watched him as she threaded their fingers together. He still had his eyes closed, but his brow furrowed. She considered him. Rick Castle was a good man, a man who tried to honor everyone else's desires and even took care of their needs and wants. He spoiled the people he loved; she had already been the recipient of his efforts many times. He needed to indulge in a little selfishness or at the very least, let someone spoil him for a while.

Suddenly, he sat up. "Look, I'm terrible company, I'm going to go."

"Or," she said, letting her fingers wend their way up to his temple, massaging his headache, while her other hand gently pushed him back down. "You could stay."