Author's notes:

Thank you to the ever gracious and supportive ebfiddler, my wonderful beta! Without your help this chapter would not be anywhere near what it should be (note: any remaining errors or issues are mine). Thank you!ebfiddler is also an awesome writer (wow, I just can't believe she has offered to look over this fic for me. So humbled.) and has terrific work posted here on .Please look her up, read and love as I have done.

Secondly, I am SO sorry for this taking so long to be posted (family illness and writer's block to blame). I hope to post the next chapter before Christmas, but will have to see how that goes.

Then: I have taken some liberties creating fictional figures in the entertainment world (André , Natasha and Sarah Ma) and also a fictional entertainment program called: Entertainment! - all of which do not exist in the real world.I have looked online and not found any such people or program.If anyone knows better, please PM me or leave a comment in the reviews and I will correct it here.

And in one last note: I have needed to change a small thing in the previous chapter.The chapter doesn't have to be reread to read this one.The small change is that rather than not hearing at all from Castle that day, Beckett says that she has had very brief contact with him.

In the last chapter, chapter 12, Beckett receives a phone call from Alexis and ends with her leaving the precinct to head to the loft. This chapter begins the morning of the same day and sheds some light on why Alexis has asked Beckett for help.

Chapter 13

Earlier that morning...

Rick woke with a start, a sharp indrawn breath and the hazy sensation that he had just bolted out of a really unpleasant dream. One that had evaporated the instant he had woken, leaving only the tugging sensation of something lost. Though by the feel of his heart rabbiting against his ribs, his hard grip on the pillow punched into a lump under his head, and the strong desire still burning through his limbs that he should be running, running, it seemed his mind was the only thing that didn't remember. He took a moment to breathe out the tension and was disconcerted to feel the exhalation rush through him in a weakened tremor.

Fuck.

He hadn't had felt the echo of a dream like that in years-

-but, it was just a dream. A dream.

And it would pass.

It would. It always did.

He forced his hand to unclench from the pillow and rub the last clinging remnants of the lost dream from his face, felt sweat on his skin, and yelped as muscle and bone were forced to shift; as his knuckles pressed carelessly into bruises. Oh my god! Ow!Pain in his face, ribs, both hands, and his head, oh god his head. It welled and roiled inside him as suddenly adrenalin kicked in. What the hell had he done to himself? He rolled onto his back and looked at the hand that had touched his face and took in the bruises, swollen knuckles, and the stiffness in his fingers. The other hand was strapped up, but he could see bruises peeking out from under the molded support and bandages. He stared, holding his hands out in front of him. What the hell-? And there was more! He looked down, lifted the bed sheet, and saw the same heavy stain of bruising down his ribs. And along with it a sharp cramping pain with every inhalation. What-? There was a blurry memory there of struggling with a t-shirt, before giving up and gingerly crawling shirtless into the bed. Feeling drugged -

Oh.

He looked towards the bedside table. There, like little signal fires by his cell phone, stood two orange bottles with prescriptions labels, along with half a glass of water and his hearing aids. The pained fog thinned away and he remembered. Everything. With a groan, he remembered. Oh no. No. No wonder he was dreaming about running away.

And something pressed on his knee.

"What? Ale-" He started, yanking up the bed sheets and trying to push himself upright instinct driving him to cover what injuries he could from his daughter's sight, but - he blinked, head aching - Alexis had her left index finger pressed to her lips and her right hand raised in a fist, fingers and thumb facing him. He felt so dull it took him a long second to realize what she was doing. Wait a moment. He looked again, reading: quiet, don't move! He nodded at her and tried to force stiff fingers into a thumbs up:understood. Alexis pointed at the door then lowered her eyebrows, mock glowered at him and tapped her wrist watch: Gina out there, in the loft.

He glanced at the door, suddenly feeling the intrusion of his ex-wife and the weight of the world she was bringing with her right through the solid wood. Rick gave Alexis a questioning look: really? Just wishing he had read her wrongly, really. Knowing he hadn't.

Alexis nodded, eyebrows raised: really. And Rick scowled, thinking on some choice language he couldn't vent without alerting Gina that he was awake and therefore available. His daughter grinned a small grin at him, then pressed a hand over her ear looking comically alarmed: language! And his glare, and his souring mood, dissolved into something softer. That sign was one of Alexis' first creations and it never failed to make him smile. Guiltily. Maybe a bit gleefully too. If he was honest.

Oh, but it was so long now since they had used this silent code! It had started out as a game when Alexis had turned three and discovered that whispering behind her hand was a very useful way of circumventing and annoying her father. Not that it had been all that easy finding and hanging onto that adorable little girl voice at the best of times, even when she was facing him, but once she started that hidden hushed talking it was completely impossible. And she knew it. That fiery little girl, so determined to get what she wanted, had shrewdly ascertained her father's weak spot and had seized on it with both hands. He was so proud of her for being so clever. But then, after a week, it was less awesome than it was irritating and so he had hit on the idea of their own private silent language. Something to engage her quick mind and something that stopped the torment of whispering that was driving him around the bend.

In their hands it had grown like a living thing, an unspoken but never silent chimera drawn from every part of their lives: from old army handbooks, historical texts from the public library (who didn't love ancient ninja hand signs?), Alexis' nursery rhymes, the Discovery Channel, Star Trek, Chinese number signs, from watching the birds and animals in the park, actual sign language, and of course, what they created themselves. Like Gina's call sign: all impatience and deadlines captured in a frown and a tap of an invisible wristwatch. That had been one of his. And if she ever found out he was a dead man.

It was wonderful though. It was fun. It was like playing spies. And it was more than a bit silly most of the time. But it was theirs. Theirs.

How long was it since they had talked to each other this way now? Not since Alexis started high school maybe? When he had discovered, painfully and too slowly, that hanging out with Dad and doing secret hand signs was just not cool. Oh wow. Where did that time go? He took a moment to take in the sight of his growing daughter now as she sat by his knee. A teenager. A beautiful strong young woman. He could see her mother in her, her hair of course, but sometimes it was there in a less tangible ways: a look, a movement, a passing attitude. And there was his own mother too: the shape of her jaw, the laugh in her eyes. And him. His eyes, the same shade, though she had a much wiser pair than he. And there were others there too. Where did she get that serious intellect, that driving need to discover and conquer every challenge that came her way? Was it a legacy from his father? It certainly didn't have its roots in his mother's or Meredith's flighty family lines. But if his mother knew, she had never spoken of it-

His reverie was cut short by Alexis' grip on his knee again. She tapped her forehead with her thumb, her fingers fanned, her eyes sharpened with concern: Daddy?

I'm ok. He smiled again, stiff fingers curling into the right shape. She frowned at him, clearly not convinced. Diversion needed. Coffee? He signed awkwardly (it was hard to twist his hands together when one was strapped up tight) suddenly realizing he could smell a delicious aroma coming from somewhere nearby. Alexis nodded, smiled excitedly, and produced a tray of hot steaming pancakes with whipped cream (so much whipped cream! God, his arteries were clogging just looking at it) and a foaming latte on the side. She plunked it onto his lap as he pulled himself further into a sitting position. Oh! The smell was divine and he felt his headache ease just with the aroma. He kissed his fingertips and flicked his fingers outwards: Bellissimo! Then touched his fingers to his chin and pulled them away with a grateful smile: thank you.

"Thank you." He chanced a whisper. His wonderful clever kind daughter who had somehow managed to make him this wondrous breakfast and sneak it into his bedroom without alerting Gina! His wonderful worried girl, looking at him now with such a bright smile that almost, but not quite, covered the furtive pensive flick of her gaze in the area of the bruises on his face, the splint on his hand. "Breakfast of the gods!" He whispered, this time grabbing hold of her gaze as it brushed by his on its way to another circuit his face and hands (he was so glad he had thought to pull the bed sheet up). He reached over the tray and grasped her hands where they lay twisting tightly in her lap. It threw him for a moment how easily his one hand engulfed both of hers; how slender and delicate her fingers were under his. She might be growing up, but it was poignant moments like these that kept her so young in his heart. A new surge of protectiveness rose in his chest. "It's fine, Pumpkin. It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is going to be ok." She shook her head, doubt all over her face, and waved a curved hand downwards through the air, painting over the painful contour of his face, and then her two hands hovered for a moment over his hands: bruises. Yeah, that wasn't helping his case any. He watched her touch her ears and grab onto an imaginary megaphone and he got the message: his secret was out, their secret was out. And yeah, that wasn't helping him either. He sighed and set the tray aside with a small grunt of pain. "Come here." He put out his arms and pulled her into his embrace.

"It will be ok Alexis," he said into her hair. "It will." And it would be. He would make sure it was. He would protect her. He would protect them. They would get through this. Then she said something against his chest, undoubtedly knowing he wouldn't hear it, and he took his moment. "Yes, yes you're right young padawan: you should listen to your father, he is after all wise and all knowing, and always right." A small puff of air against his skin let him know he had managed to make her laugh. Then she was pushing against him and sitting up. They regarded one another for a long moment and he could see her weighing things in that sharp mind. Then she stuck out her hand, pinky raised: promise? He grabbed it with his own little finger, hooking her in tight: promise.

CastleCastleCastleCastle

Rick and Alexis carried on their hushed, partly signed, partly whispered conversation as he worked through his pancakes and latte with a pain pill chaser. And as his daughter revealed the nature of Gina's early morning incursion and what she had brought with her, the ache in his head sliced deeper and became harder to ignore. Gina was effective in her role, but there was a line between effective and fanatical - or at least there ought to be. In any sane world. But, well, to quote a better writer than he was: there's the rub!

His and Alexis' signing wasn't really up for an involved adult conversation (note: correct this deficit), but with some additional lip reading and knowing the just how his ex-wife thought he now had a pretty clear picture of himself in his bed sleeping away the morning while his mother and daughter held the line against Gina in full flight. He did his best not to let the growing ire show on his face. Alexis had enough to deal with on any regular day between his mother and him, and growing up in the sometimes intrusive chaos of their public lives. But he had always, always, worked hard to keep his daughter out of the prying eye of the press and the pressure that it could sometimes bring to bear. It hadn't been that hard to do really. It wasn't like he was an actor or some sort of reality show or sports star, the likes of which filled the gossip rags and tabloid headlines on a daily basis. He was an author, and for most of his fans, it was about his writing first and last and all through the middle, which helped to keep the press at bay. Mostly. Except when he wanted more. Mostly. But now-? Now he had messed up so badly that everything but certainly about to change. In all the worst ways. And Gina was bringing that consequence into his house like she was on fire.

He didn't know who to be more angry with right now: himself or his ex-wife.

He tried not to squint too obviously against the pain in his temples.

Then Alexis suddenly signed: shush, don't move, for the second time that morning and looked at the door. He followed her gaze expectantly before remembering that that was not going to help. Instead he watched his daughter's face as she listened to something beyond his bedroom. Uh oh. She patted his knee and suddenly smiled with all her teeth, fanning her hands either side of her face as if she was some vaudeville starlet: Grams, and a grimace and fingers tapping her imaginary watch: Gina; she pointed repeatedly at the door: incoming!

Shit!

He heard the muffled thump of a hand on his door. Then again. Then a voice. And his door was opening.

"Rick?" Gina said as stepped into the room as she called out for him. She took in the entire space, from Linus to his bed to the bookshelves, in one efficient sweep, and if she was perturbed to find Alexis there and him with an empty breakfast plate, she didn't show it. "Ah. Awake at last I see. And with breakfast out of the way! Good. Good. That will get things back on track." Behind her, looking exasperated and apologetic, his mother threw up her hands to let him know she had lost the battle with the unstoppable force that was his ex-wife. Rick nodded at her, a thank you and an acceptance of the pass to him all in one motion, then gave his attention to the problem that had just interrupted his breakfast. Gina had her ever ready tablet in her hand and consulted it as she spoke. "Rick, you have your first interview with André and his midday crew in an hour. Then Natasha at two this afternoon." As Gina continued her spiel, Rick felt a movement at his side and glanced at Alexis, noting the fire starting in her eyes and the grim set of her lips as she watched her former step mother reading from her tablet. He gripped her arm and shook his head, don't, raised and wafted his left hand like a stage hypnotist, remember, and crooked his pinkie finger, the promise. It will be ok, he let his eyes do the talking and Alexis reluctantly looked away from Gina.

"Gina." Rick's interruption pulled his publicist's gaze from her screen and she blinked expectantly at him. "This is a conversation for the office. Give me 10 minutes. I need a shower."

"We can talk while you do that."

"Gina-"

"What? Oh, Rick. We were married remember?"

"Were being the operative word."

"I promise not to look then, how's that?" He gave her a sour look and she lowered the tablet. "Look, while you have been lying in and Martha and Alexis have been doing a terrific job keeping me from doing mine, the tabloid rags and the rest have been running with this story unchecked." She sighed, looking put upon. And impatient.

" ... something!" That was Alexis. He was too slow to see what she was talking about.

"Yes, the story," Gina retorted, but without anger or reproach in her voice. "Alexis, right now that is what it is. And it's hot. And it's not ours."

"Gina. 10 minutes," Rick interjected again. More firmly this time. No messing around.

"Fine. But we'll have to talk on the way to the studio. Have you thought about what you are going to say today? To any of the press?" She paused, waiting for him. Clearly she assumed that he hadn't. And she was mostly correct. He watched her face crease into that look he had become too familiar with in the last months of their marriage. "Maybe you had better give that some thought while you are in the shower. This isn't something you can just wing. Ten minutes Rick."

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

The driver taking them to the interview with André wasn't his usual guy. Mohammad Aziz, fellow father to a teenage daughter in the big city, was off sick and so the car service had sent another driver that they swore was just as discreet. Rick wasn't so sure. He wasn't in the most trusting of moods right now. The new guy, Jean, was short and broad with a thick Queens accent and a sprinkle of cement dust in his short black hair, and when he swiveled in his seat to greet them as they slid onto the long bench seat in back, Rick had seen the same fine dust packed into Jean's blunt finger nails. Yet the man's dark blue shirt was spotlessly clean, even if it was veined with innumerate and interwoven creases from being kept in a some sort of cramped space like a drawer, or basket. So, he had come on shift in a hurry after working with concrete and was too rushed to do more than snatch clean clothes on his way to pick them up. Speculation: he was working two jobs; a man with two masters. Split loyalties. Could he be trusted? The car service said so, but did that mean anything?

Did the guy even know who he had in the backseat of his ride? Did he care? Was he trying to listen in and run to the press with a story for sale? Or was this just another job? There was nothing Rick could see around the guy that would shed any light on what sort of man he was. What was he into? What part of the world did he fit? His gaze fell on the driver's hands, their broad span and short heavy knuckled fingers with their cement dust nail polish, as they clutched the wheel. Were they the hands of a mucker? A puddler? A brickie? Did he work building sites during the day and drive by night (figuratively speaking)? Or was he just a home renovations guy, getting in some grouting between shifts driving for the car service? Or perhaps something more devious? Burying a body in fresh concrete? Too paranoid? The man in question was giving away no clues, just driving in silence. A big plain unrevealing silence. Rick's eyes narrowed-

Headache. He squeezed his eyes tight shut against it. Damn pain pills not doing their damn job. He had cut the dose by half to make sure he wasn't sedated during the interview, but he'd had to sacrifice a bit of comfort. Still the painful interruption had stopped his unraveling calm.

Got to get it together Ricky.

He forced himself to look down at the screen that Gina had pushed into his hands as soon as he sat down in the cab. It was full of images, gossip and scandal mongering headlines that he didn't want to see, and after a moment his gaze drifted to his own fingers clutching the edges of the tablet. What could anyone tell about a person by their hands anyway? His own were incongruous with his line of work, he had always thought. Large hands with broad palms, thick fingers, and a mostly indelicate grip. Not really the hands one would imagine for someone who lived by something so fragile as words on a page. How had his mother's father so graciously put it? The hands of a blacksmith.

Oh, his grandfather had been so frustrated with him the day that he declared in disgust that his grandson had the hands of manual laborer. Back so long ago when he had tried and failed and tried and failed to get that wallet out of his cousin's pocket, his grandfather had thrown up his hands in defeat and declared that it was just as well that his teenage grandson had the Rogers' patter because he would starve to death working the crowds with sleight of hand or a fiddle. It was true. There was no denying it. But it still cut at him in his raw pubescent state when he was already feeling the weight the damage to his ears was forcing upon him. And at that rare family gathering, full of redheads and blonds with their long clever fingers and graceful walks, he already felt like an alien. At 17 he was taller and darker, broader and heavier in the shoulders, than his cousins and most of the rest of them too. And he had those hands: those damn clumsy hands. He was a cuckoo. A blacksmith amongst the lords and ladies of stage, tent and street corner.

He sighed and spanned his palm against his forehead to reach and massage both aching temples at once.

He shouldn't be thinking like this. Not now. It wasn't like him to dwell on the negative spaces, to poke around in the long shadows. But he wasn't so un-self-aware that he didn't have some understanding that the unexpected and violent revelation of his deafness was rattling around inside him, knocking against old skeletons and working life back into them. Last night's drug fuddled dream was clear proof of that. But no, he had to stop thinking like this. He had work to do. He had Alexis to protect. His mother. Beckett. His friends at the 12th. He pursed his lips. He also had to remember that the day he failed to become the next Artful Dodger hadn't been all painful. He might have annoyed his grandfather, but he had regained ground when he had turned the tables and entertained the small crowd gathered for his humiliating turn with the wallet, with an elaborate deduction and Holmesian accounting of the older man's entire morning before arriving at the Rogers family reunion. His grandfather had regarded him solemnly, shrewdly, for a long time afterward as the bunch of relatives around them laughed and gawped. Not a blacksmith, his grandfather had finally declared, a wordsmith! Didn't I say that he had the Rogers' patter?Didn't I just say that?Just like Uncle Reuben, god rest his clever wicked soul.Just like him. We'll put you front of house-

He always could turn it around.

And he would do that now. And the first step would be to leave Jean and his dusty hands alone and concentrate on the looming interview with André . Oh god, he didn't want to do this. Even with André it was just so - like poking at an old bruise with sharp stick. In front of an audience. That's what it was. But at least it was André , and he had to hang on to that positive. Gina had been good to her word in how she had gone about taking back control of his story. She had found the two friendliest faces to start getting his voice out there and he was grateful for it. Maybe if he weren't so damn tired he wouldn't have to work so hard at seeing the positive? Maybe if he couldn't still feel the pressing ache of Baxter's big fists (now there was a pair of blunt instruments worthy of the name) so that all he wanted to do was hide and write Nikki Heat until the world dropped away and he merged with the story and disappeared. But thinking of Baxter just started him thinking of the 12th. Of Carmichael and the huge huge case that must be unfurling right now, while he was stuck doing damage control all day. And it pulled his mind back to Beckett.

Rick reached for his cell, noted the appalling number of texts and missed calls he had glowing at him, and typed.

RC: How's the case coming?

Beckett was quick to respond. Very quick. Curious.

KB: Making progress.Slowly.

RC: Details?

KB: By text?Don't think so.How are you?From your messages last night looks like they gave you the good drugs.

Oh crap. Texts? Last night?

RC: I deny everything! You can't prove a thing.

KB: I am a Detective, I have the proof right here. Pretty damning too.And embarrassing.And saved on my cell.

RC: OMG! What? Wait a minute.

Rick quickly scanned his text history. Oh. Embarrassing drunk talk. But not too embarrassing. No declarations of lust or love. And she had said good night to him. Night Castle. For a fleeting moment his mind provided him an image, a feeling, of Beckett saying those words to him like she had done innumerate times before. She had a kind way of saying it no matter how he had riled her that particular time, no matter how their day had unfolded; closing with those little throwaway words like they were dipped in honey and they never failed to make him feel warm all over. He smiled at his cell.

But that didn't mean she was going to get away with teasing like that. Even if he was thoroughly pleased she was sparring with him.

RC: Don't you have a case to solve?

Whiny, but irritated. A good mix to divert Detective Beckett. He could imagine the quirk of her lips as she read his text and found himself waiting expectantly for her response.

KB: I had you there for a minute.And you interrupted me remember.

RC: You answered right away. You're missing me. Can tell.

KB: Aren't you supposed to be busy doing press today?

RC: Doing it now.

He paused, considering, then typed:

RC: rather be at the 12th. Murder preferable.

"Rick." Gina touched her hand to his thigh, letting him know she was talking to him and he looked up to see her regarding him with sharp eyes. "Are you ready? We'll be arriving in a few minutes."

RC: Got to go.Into the Valley-

KB: Dramatic much?

RC: well, I ama writer. Got to go.

KB: Break a leg!

Rick dropped the cell back into his pocket, feeling a bit more buoyed, but also now longing for the bustle of the 12th.

"Ready as I'll ever be." He said to Gina. And that was true. They had had a brief discussion in the elevator on the way to the cab about what needed to be said, and how Gina had prepped André and Natasha, but they hadn't talked much on the ride to the studio. Perhaps Gina didn't trust Jean either? In any case, they were in agreement with what had to be done and it was something he could handle. He could. And it would be over in no time so he could go home. As the cab pulled into the curb, Rick ran his hands down his pant covered thighs and tried to ignore that his palms were sweating.

"Hey Jean." He leaned forward, unable to stop his curiosity despite his anxiety. "So, do you grout for work or play?"

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

André poked his head into Makeup as Rick was wincing through the artist's attempts to smooth over the dark bruising and unshaved skin along the side of his face. The other man was already made up and looking his usual dapper self in a tailored suit and an immorally expensive pink shirt.

"Jeez, Rick! Holy cow that looks bad! Does it hurt?" André 's eyes were round, his slight lisp becoming more exaggerated as he stared at the bruises that the makeup just wasn't covering properly. "Oh my god! Oh Gina, darling, how are you? What's happened to our man here?" The anchorman air kissed Gina's cheeks as they briefly air hugged. Mustn't smear the makeup. Rick was relieved to have the attention diverted from him. Ow! The makeup artist at least had the decency to look guilty as he winced for the millionth time.

"André!" Gina said. "So glad it's you we're working with today. I can't think of a better person to break the story with. Our story. And our man here decided to take on a human freight train."

"Madre de Dios! Gina, you didn't mention a fight!" André peered into the mirror from behind him, studying Rick's reflection with some horror and a lot of excitement. André ... "You gotta find a better way to do your book research! Ouch. And don't think you are getting out of explaining to me why you didn't tell me about your hearing, man. But that's going to have to wait: we're on in ten and I have to go find my angle. Those camera guys never get it right." He looked at Gina again. "Don't worry, I'll look after him."

"I know you will André ."

As interviews went, this one started well. André was polished and slick and asking all the right questions that would leave the floor open for his guest to answer with some control. And Rick was so fucking grateful for any control he could get right now. He had sat down in the interviewee's chair with his heart beginning to race, and his palms still sweating. And there was nothing, no amount of positive thinking or diversion that was making a blind bit of difference to stop it. It was as though his body were not connected to his mind, like it knew something he did not. Shit. Worst timing ever. So he was left to swallow around it and try to keep what control he had; try to keep his smile from looking sick. And it was working. Until André went off script.

"... We've known each other for a long time now, Rick, and I have never made a secret, not even in this interview, how much I love your books. I am a Richard Castle fan!"

"Thanks André . It means a lot to me that people enjoy my work. Like we've talked about, I am a story teller at heart. It's not just what I do, it's who I am. And it's what I hope people get out of my books: a good story told well." And André had nodded at him, but then cocked his head, leaning forward like he did whenever he was going poke at something. But he wasn't supposed to be poking at anything. Castle felt his heart thud against his aching ribs.

"So I'm curious," André said. "After all we have talked over today, I feel I have to ask this: when are we going to hear your story?"

"I'm sorry?" Rick blurted out before he could stop himself. Wasn't that what they were doing right now: giving his story? What the hell was André playing at? They had already covered the cause of his hearing loss; how being deaf was part of him, but didn't describe him anymore than any other part of his life; and how the story was what mattered. He had apologized to his readers, to everyone, including André . He had talked about the bust and his altercation with Baxter in terms not likely to impact the case. He had taken ownership of his decision to accompany the police officers in the raid and to become involved beyond his observer status without embarrassing Beckett. He had touched on the Mayor's award without gritting his teeth (for which Gina would be relieved). He had done it all to script. Exhaustingly, exactingly and painfully, all on message. And André had set it up for him. So what the hell was he doing now?

"Your story. The Richard Castle story. You must have thought about it. About the right time to tell all."

"Tell all?" Rick repeated. His brain was not processing. Get a grip! He scolded himself. This wasn't hard. It wasn't like he had never had a question sprung on him before in his career. Get a grip!

"Yeah!" André nodded, obviously excited by his serendipitous idea and oblivious to his guest's reaction. "There's so much to tell, so much we don't know and so much you have had to deal with to achieve such heights. And you'll tell it well, we all know! Richard Castle: a memoir! What a story!" André was warming to his topic. Shit, he had to stop this. Now!

"Maybe I will André . Maybe I'll do just that - after Nikki gets done with me!" He said, deliberately feeding them a line to wrap on, and forced a grin, heart thrumming in his chest. The air felt close, too thick to breathe properly. And André's grin widened, eyes gleaming with pleasure.

"And that's a wrap!" A voice called, taking his cue, and shouting out the words Rick had never been so happy to hear in his life. But then he froze in his seat as a thought suddenly gripped him so hard he couldn't breathe: had he remembered to lock the door as he had left the loft?

Oh god.

He couldn't remember.

He needed to go home.

Now.

The rest of it was a blur. He got up. Walked. Down corridors. There were people in his way. They moved. Through a door. And somehow he was outside the studio. He was on the pavement. The sun was bright and painful, stabbing into his eyes, his head. His chest was aching fiercely from trying to control his breathing. And there was Jean the part-time construction worker/part-time driver with no interest in the literary world, waiting faithfully in his polished black car reading what looked from here like the sports pages. Rick locked his gaze onto the waiting vehicle and walked fast. Until someone was in front of him.

"Rick! What are you doing?" Gina was there. He tried to side step. She blocked him. "What are you doing? Where are you going? André is freaking out." He felt her hands on his biceps, pushing him back. "Rick? You're sweating. What's wrong? Should we go back to the hospital?"

"Did you do that?" He managed to get the words out through a tight jaw.

"Do what?"

"André . Did you add on some extra questions?"

"No! But it worked! It was brilliant. We should have done a memoir a long time ago. Or something like that."

"I'm going home."

"What? Look I know this is difficult, but you can do it, Rick. And we have Natasha in less than an hour."

"Cancel it." He snapped, and forced her to step aside as he pushed forwards. He had to get home.

"Rick! - something -something-" Her voice was getting lost in the noise of the city, but that didn't matter. He had to get home.

Had he locked the door?

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

The door was locked. It was. Of course it was locked. He always locked it. Why would he think he hadn't? It was ridiculous, but the relief was stupefying. Rick kept his hand on the knob and let his forehead come to rest against the cool heavy wood of the door, sagging there; feeling the full weight of his exhaustion pushing down on his shoulders. He breathed out. Long and slow.

Fuck.

How could Gina do that to him? He didn't for a moment doubt that she had encouraged André 's tangent, and the thought made his stomach burn. Damn it. Anger, at Gina, at André , at himself, at everything, tightened his chest and ran in shivers down his arms to his aching hands. How could she do it? Because she doesn't know. No, no he didn't want to think about that. Not now.

The ride from the studio back to the loft hadn't even put a dent in his agitation, and he had barreled through the front door of his building right through the reporters and camera crews without slowing down. God, he had no idea what, if anything, he had even said to them. But he was home now and he had to get it together. This was no burden of his family's to bear and he had no business adding to the weight they were already coming to carry because of what he had refused to reveal to the world. He took another deep breath, searching for calm, and when he felt something like it begin to approach he pushed his key into the door's lock, turned it, pushed the door and he was home.

"Dad!" Alexis bounced into sight as he shut the door behind him, and he gathered her into his arms for a hug, slipping back into the role of father. He was so relieved to see her. And he was so relieved she hadn't snuck out to school or the library. After a long moment, his daughter pulled back to look at him. "Gina rang. What happened? You look-"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Richard." His mother looked up from the kitchen island, the house's landline still in her hand. She rounded the table and approached him, elegantly shaped brows drawn in concern. "Gina called because she was worried about you. She said you walked out on the interview with André . What went wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing went wrong. And I didn't walk out, the interview was over."

"Then what was Gina talking about?" His mother was not going to be easily diverted from her questions, he could see that very clearly. And he didn't want to talk about it. He dragged his gaze across the space between them and took in her made up face, her going out on business face, the toned down coat over a colorful, but not sparkly blouse and skirt. Her hand bag was on the island. And her cell phone. That tugged on a memory.

"Shouldn't you be at your doctor's appointment mother?"

"Richard." She frowned at him, giving him an exasperated look.

"It's nothing ok? Gina is over reacting." He tossed his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, managing a steady throw. "Did Eduardo organize your exit?"

His mother didn't reply for a moment, then sighed, collecting her bag and cell from the bench top and walking back towards him. As she neared, her hand travelled to his face and rested there, a familiar cool pressure against his skin, and she regarded him with a quiet sort of kindness that was tinged with sadness. It was an old ache that he recognized well, but one that he was forever helpless to assuage. "It's quite all right to be finding this whole business difficult kiddo." She said. "It is also quite all right to admit that. I know that you have never wanted to discuss your hearing, and you know that I have never thought that was a good idea, but I have respected your wishes." He couldn't help his eyebrows rising. "All right, I respected them eventually. I am your mother! But my point is Richard, that you need to talk to someone; you need to let someone in. Now more than ever. And if that is not going to be your family, then find someone you can talk to." She sighed and patted his cheek. "Just think about it. Please. Now, go and put your feet up, you look like hell."

"Why thank you mother." He quipped and she pursued her lips. Chagrined, he grasped her hand gently and guided it down from his cheek. "I will. And you go down to the car with Eduardo please. No braving the cameras outside."

"Fine."

"I mean it." He watched her walk to the door. "And call when you get there."

"I will. Go and rest. The press can wait. I will be back before you know it."

When the door closed behind her, Alexis tugged on his hand and they walked further into the loft, towards his expensive dark leather couch with its new handmade burgundy cushions.

"Sit down Dad. I'll make hot chocolate!" she said as skinned his coat from his arms, and lowered himself onto the soft surface with a tired sigh. She hesitated. "Dad? You - you know you can talk to me right? If- if you need to. Right? I mean, I don't really know what it's been like for you all these years, but I'm a good listener." The offer was so sincere, so guileless, so innocent, so clearly full of love that for a moment he had to pretend he was trying to find a comfortable place to settle himself to hide the lump in his throat. To burden her with this was unthinkable, but to have his little girl offer to take some of the weight of it from her father who should be protecting her, was difficult to hear. Almost impossible. He swallowed down the grief of it, and managed to get his smile back in place.

"Thank you pumpkin." He said, and watched her face transform from worry into an eager, happy misunderstanding. Oh no.

"And I can help with the press too. I know you think I'm too young, but I have been watching you and Grams-"

"No!" He barked. She stopped, startled, blue eyes widening, hurt pooling there. Oh God. He reached for her, finding her hands and holding on. "No, no, I mean, thank you, thank you. But no, Alexis, this is something that I have to do." He watched her take that in.

"But I can help." Earnest liquid eyes bored into his, determined and fierce. Oh Alexis.

"Come here." He pulled on her hands until she was down beside him on the couch, pressed in near and encircled by his arms. The position really hurt his ribs and both hands, but that pain was nothing compared to what was happening deeper in his chest. He looked down at her. "My wonderful girl. Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?"

"This morning Dad. Before you left with Gina." He watched her lips form the words while his ears picked up the soft sweet tone of her voice. He smiled.

"That long ago? I'm slipping. I know you want to help. I know. But this is something that I have to do. It's my mess-"

"But-"

"But, knowing that you are safe here at home with me is what I need more than anything else. OK?"

"Dad-"

"Yeah, that's what I am: your Dad. And protecting wonderful, kind, smart and awesome daughters is right up there on the list in the Guide to being a Kickass Dad didn't you know?" He said and she regarded him with a small fond exasperated smile.

"Dad," she admonished.

"It's true. Right up there on the top, just above: playing laser tag and providing a generous amount of pocket money." He gave her a squeeze. "It will be ok, Alexis. It will. Just having you here at home with me while this whole fiasco plays out and passes is the best help you could give me right now."

"OK." She said, clearly not liking having to take on what she considered a passive role. "But I am still going to make that hot chocolate. With marshmallows."

"Pink ones?"

"Sure."

"And whipped cream?"

"Dad! You'll ruin your lunch."

He tried to stay awake in the time it took for Alexis to make her hot chocolate, but he found himself starting to drift even as he watched his daughter reach the kitchen and pull down his extra large blue Star Wars mug from the shelf. The weight of the day, trying to stay ahead of the game and ignore the aching pain that just would not go away, was just too much. He just couldn't do it. So he blinked, and fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed he was still running, running through the cool dark of a moonlit forest.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Gina arrived sometime later, rousing him from an unrestful sleep, and within minutes they were inside his office (door closed for Alexis' sake) and he was on the edge of losing his mostly already frayed temper.

"You are being completely unreasonable Rick."

"No, I'm not. I told you I don't want Alexis or my mother involved in this."

"It's the only way. After André ! And I had to cancel Natasha. And I won't even begin to get into just what I had to promise her because of that. You told me to handle it -"

"Not like this!" Rick retorted, his words slashing the air between Gina and himself. The only way? What the hell?

"Not like-?" She glared at him. "You know yourself, you know all too well, that we have to take control of the story or others will. The interview with André went part of the way there, but we aren't clear yet!" She paused, but anger was knotting in his chest too tightly to give her any response, let alone the acquiescence she wanted. How could she do this to him? Again! "Rick, the tabloids are already running those god awful photos of you and your police muse. You've seen them. You both look like you are on the run. You look like a guilty man. And she looks like a damned police escort! " She held up a hand to ward off any retort, though right now he wasn't making any. He was too angry. Too angry that she was right about the god-awful images that were making headlines in the magazines and newspapers Gina had put on her tablet to shove under his nose in the cab this morning. Too angry that she was right that they needed to go beyond his usual running approach of non-committal silence in an effort not to feed the rumor mongers. She had been right back at the hospital, and she was still right. But not like this. "And don't insult either of us by telling me you don't know what I am talking about. This isn't about right or wrong. This isn't even really about you. It's about making headlines that sell, and who gets there first. And right now, that is not us. Not yet."

Rick tried to take a deep breath through the burn of hot feeling, but felt his ribs hitch instead, chest constricting painfully. Ow. He bit down on a choice expletive, and instead took a moment to slow his breathing down; make it more shallow. Better. A little. Despite taking another half dose of painkillers after waking on the couch and forcing down half a round of sandwiches, his bruised ribs, hands and face had become even more tender, which he didn't think should be possible. It certainly wasn'tfair. And it had made what rest he remembered getting, feel jagged and uneasy; full of half remembered shadowy silhouettes and unsettling shards of dreams that felt unformed, fractured and slightly ominous. He had woken in a miserable whole-body ache. So he had taken that half dose of the prescription meds, and followed it with a cool wet wash cloth over his face to get rid of the studio makeup, but he still felt like an old worn out arthritic. And it was making him irritable and short tempered when he could least afford to be so.

"I did the interview with André , Gina. He didn't require my mother or daughter to be present."

"A puff piece Rick. André is an old friend and he went easy on you just like he always does, but as of this afternoon puff pieces aren't going to be enough." She paused, gathering her composure. "We need Entertainment! - we need Sarah Ma. And she has agreed to do the interview today, if we bring in Martha and Alexis."

Sarah Ma. The entertainment reporter who had built a reputation on blending her investigative journalism background with her celebrity interviews to devastating effect. He had seen more than one famous face reeling from a Ma blindside. And yes, he had to admit he'd been riveted to his TV watching more than a few of those live dissections himself, but hadn't considered that he might one day be the subject of one. The thought made him curl up inside. He ran a hand over his face in dread and winced as he connected with the bruising from Baxter's big fists.

André and Natasha's interviews were bright and shiny, easy and familiar; full of slick and obvious openings for his anecdotes and stories as he touted his books and tour dates. But they were public relations for hire and everyone in the industry knew it. Even if they were genuinely likeable and made him look good, and he considered Natasha a regular golfing buddy, their interviews were puff pieces and were not likely to stop the media's dissection of his subterfuge. Not after these photos today. Not after the tacky and piercing headlines that went with them. And it was not going to stop the swell of comments that were peppering his Twitter feed, his writer's blog, his website. A lot of which were not terribly supportive to put a word on it.

Still, there had to be another way. He could find one. He would find one. Didn't a recent review of his novels praise his ability to find creative and out-of-the-box ways for his protagonists to get themselves out of all manner of devious evils and devices? He could do this. He would find a way. He just needed time to think.

"Why are you being so resistant?" Gina spoke again and he almost jumped.

"Why am I-? Gina, its Sarah 'let me rip your insides out for all the world to see' Ma!"

"OK, now you are being resistant and melodramatic. You've already put the reasons for not telling people about your hearing out there with André. Having Sarah Ma ask the same questions is going to go a long way to stopping this" she gestured at the pile of papers and magazines that she had helpfully slapped onto his desk as he dragged her out of his daughter's earshot and into his office," from continuing. She has a reputation for a reason and no editor in his right mind will keep on authorizing scarce resources on pursuing something Sarah Ma has already-"

"Dissected." He almost yelled the word and Gina bristled.

"-investigated. You know I am right."

"No!"

"Rick!"

"No! Absolutely not. What part of no is difficult to understand? Fuck!" He yelled and raked his good, well better, hand through his hair as he swore and Gina flinched at his choice of word. But his ex-wife wasn't one to quail under any circumstances and a moment later was back in the fight.

"OK, Rick. OK. That's enough! What thehell is going on with you? So you're deaf. So what? Really. What's the big deal? Thousands of people have to deal with being deaf every single day in this country. And I am sure that at one time or another every single one of them has had to tell someone that they are deaf. Maybe a whole lot of people." She stalked towards him, finger raised. "But unlike most of them you are a successful multimillionaire, best-selling novelist with millions of fans who love you and your work. You have the support of your family, your friends. And, I might add, a publishing house that actually cares about you, and a lot of people in the entertainment industry who like you and want to help you. People like André and Natasha. And, I think, Sarah Ma if we play it right.

"But unlike your everyday John Q Citizen, you are also of interest to the press. And they do not care about you. They will chase you and Martha and Alexis, and run with this story until it's dead and the more negative they can make it, the more inches they will sell.

"Do you understand what I am telling you?" Gina was almost growling at him, but he was too angry, too tired, to back down even if what she was saying was the truth. As she understood it anyway. As anyone understood it.

"I will not involve Mother or Alexis. I will not put them crosshairs right next to me. They don't deserve it, and they aren't going to do it!" He did end up growling at his ex-wife after all, meeting her face to face, inches from her and not about to back down. They stared at one another in a fury.

"Do you think I would suggest they join this interview if I thought they would be put in some sort of danger Rick?" Gina fired back, shock and indignation taking the edge out of her anger. "Do you really think that?"

"I think you will do just about anything to sell this story how you think it should be sold Gina," he snapped, too angry to check himself.

"Well. Fuck you, Rick!" She hissed at him and took a step back. "Fuck you." And she snatched up her black leather satchel and yanked the door open. And she was gone. And he was left alone in his utter fury. It raced up and down his arms, legs, through his aching chest with nowhere to go, no place to escape. Everything was going to hell. Everything. All because of his fucking hearing. All because of his fucked up ears, his fucked up life...

In a haze of anger, Rick ripped his hearing aids from his ears and threw them at the wall. They struck the hard surface and pinged back towards him on untraceable angles to disappear somewhere in the stacks of dog eared books and notepads that clustered around his desk. And with that expulsion of energy, his legs suddenly gave out, and he fell back against the same stacks of books shoving them from their places onto the floor. He sat heavily onto the carpet, heart racing, head pounding. Fuck everything! He hit out at a nearby stack of books and they scattered across the floor.

SHIT.

Shit.

He dropped his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Shit. Everything was going to hell and he just couldn't stop himself from losing control. Not anymore. He raked his hair again.

And someone grabbed his forearm.

Oh no, Alexis- Oh god. Did she hear them? See him?

He raised his head, and found himself looking right at Beckett.