Hello everyone. Apologies and more apologies for the huge delay in posting the next chapter. I am feeling well enough to write again now so here it is!

I did say at the end of the last chapter that there would be no more secrets in this coming chapter, but the chapter got so huge that it's been broken into two parts. The next part won't be as delayed in posting as this one was so the second part of this mega chapter won't be far off (just have to tweak a few things and see what the lovely and talented ebfiddler can make of my muddle). Apologies though.

A note: there is some Chinese words used in this chapter and I have put their translation at the end.

Chapter 15

"... Richard..."

A familiar voice. Warm breath puffing over his ear. And a hand on his forehead: soft and cool. Fingers scraping through his hair, soothing and irritating at the same time, because it meant whoever it was wanted his attention; they wanted him awake. He could open his eyes to check who it was, but putting that thought into action felt like too much work. Doing anything more than breathing felt like too much work. And everything hurt already -

"... Richard..."

" 'm asleep."

"... something - I know - something- awa-e 'n there. -something- talking."

"Somn - Somniloquy."

"People who are sleep talking don't use four syllable words, Richard." His mother's voice drew closer, and he realized she had deliberately lowered her pitch and increased the volume to better touch upon the fringes of his hearing, and his mind automatically filled in the gaps. Damn it. It didn't always mean he got the entire content of the message when she did that, but his mother's extra effort always meant that nap time was over. Still...

"Do too. 'm doin' it now: obstinately," he groused.

"No, you're not kiddo. Now come on, it's time to wake up, Dr Bloom is here."

That grabbed his attention. Dr Bloom? He cracked open heavy sticky eyelids and nearly shrieked. His mother was inches from his face, the bouquet of her perfume descending like a gas cloud. He managed to rein in his jerk of surprise and gasped against the pain that shot across his torso. She moved back.

"Dr Bloom? Why's he here?" he breathed nice and shallow to avoid aggravating the hurt again, and blinked, trying to get some energy back into his eye lids. They just wanted to slam shut again. Every part of him was so heavy. But then his mother was pressing a cool glass of water into his hand and, yeah, that was good. He drank it down in one long swig. She took the glass back and as she put it down on his bedside table he took a moment to look at his mother.

He took in the carefully made up face, the coifed hair, large hooped earrings the same light tones of new spring buds as her wrap dress; and a burnished gold bib necklace. Weaponized perfume. He frowned. Something was off. And then he saw it, under the immaculate precision of a Broadway application of foundation: the slight charcoal smudges under the eyes that couldn't be concealed, the over bright shade of lipstick, the chemical bomb of pungent scent. He hadn't seen this since that time he had been out on his first all night stake out and had returned home to delightedly announce to anyone who was awake that he had been (temporarily) taken hostage by a suspect - in a darkened alley no less. He had been riding the tail of an adrenalin high, still thrilled with his near escape and how he had somehow held his nerve enough to slam his foot into the guy's instep and give Beckett a clear shot. He had filled half a note book on the ride back to the loft. Pages and pages of pure gold. It was going to go into his next novel! All of it. And the recipient of this ecstatic tirade, his mother, had stared owl-eyed at him from the kitchen island, her breakfast grapefruit forgotten. Until -

Richard Alexander Rogers!

What?

You do not waltz in the door at this ungodly hour of -

It's ten-

- ten in the morning and announce to your mother that you have been spent the night held at knife point by some drugged-up biker! Oh my god.

Oooh, yeah... Well, it wasn't all night, only maybe an hour, at most -

Oh, I think I am having a heart attack. Yes, this is it: the final curtain call. Call my agent!

And for the next week, there had been an extra layer of makeup and an even brighter flamboyance to her wardrobe. A bulwark of color and concealer; and perfume like mustard gas filling the loft with her fear and anxiety and making sure he couldn't escape the sledge-hammer signs that he should be guilt-stricken for his part in her suffering. Subtle his mother was not. So he had spent that week trying to make it up to her: staying home writing and taking Beckett's calls behind closed doors or by text; sneaking out to crime scenes and making it back home in time for dinners filled with edited PG- highlights of the time spent out of her sight.

And now here it was: again. And yes, even though he recognized what she was doing, he did still feel guilty. For so much. So much.

And there had evidently been some serious discussions going on over his unconscious body last night.

Shit.

"Are you seriously asking me why Dr Bloom is here? He is here because Alexis called him last night after she and Katherine found you on the floor of your office."

Oh god, he remembered that. Oh hell. His left hand wandered to his forehead. But he didn't remember Dr Bloom. And Beckett and Alexis had seen him like that! Had they put him to bed? Called the doctor? Oh god, this couldn't get much worse. "Oh," he managed.

"Yes, 'oh'," his mother was fussing with the light blanket covering him, smoothing it lightly across his chest. She sat down on the bed by his hip. "Care to tell me what that fight with Gina was about?"

"Not really," he said automatically, and winced as his mother's face fell, even as her lacquered lips made a thin determined line that promised imminent guilt-arrows to be slung his way. He didn't think he could stand that right now. He reached for her hand, cradling it in his own. "It's nothing mother, really. It's ok. Gina and I just disagreed with how this whole thing should be handled. That's all. It got out of hand. It won't happen again."

"Oh darling-" His mother chided him. She turned their joined hands until his rested within the span of her out stretched fingers. She brought her other hand to rest over the top taking care not to touch his bruised knuckles. "I know this has been so hard on you. We can all see it. But I think, no I know, that a burden shared is a burden halved."

"I've always thought Steinback said it better: Don' go burdenin' other people with your sins. That ain't decent. "

"And since when have you ever been confined by what's decent?" His mother huffed, and in that sparring Rick felt them heading back to solidly glib ground. The tension in his body began to ease. "Well, I didn't think you were going to be sensible, so I took action of my own and called Gina this morning." He hadn't expected that! And his sore muscles tightened again.

"Mother!"

"Well what did you expect me to do? I am not about to stand idly by while my only son falls apart in front of me."

"I am not falling apar-"

"Don't keep lying to me, Richard. I know you. I know all your tells." OK, now he was really in trouble. His mother rarely slipped out of character, and when she did it usually meant she had just received another of his school expulsion letters, he had drunk too much and done something too stupid even for page six, married the wrong woman... She wasn't about to let this go. And that was a problem, because he wasn't about to let go either. "Gina told me about Sarah Ma."

"We are not doing a Sarah Ma interview -" He snapped. The mention of Sarah Ma and her probing interviews sent a shivery surge of adrenalin through his body that started a vicious competition with his tightened muscles to see just how uncomfortable he could get. There was no way on this earth that he could even think about having his family laid out on Ma's famous red couch like so much smorgasbord, to be picked over, torn apart and consumed for the amusement of viewers. And Ma would not stop until she had stripped them all back to the bare bones of his deafness; back to the beginning ... Even thinking about thinking about it was making him sick to his marrow.

"Oh, I agree. I put a stop to the interview," his mother said, and he stared at her. OK, now he was scrambling to keep up with his mother's turns and switchbacks and blows out of nowhere. "Close your mouth Richard, you'll catch a fly."

"You. Put a stop. To a TV interview. Who are you and where is my mother?" She had put a stop to Gina pursuing the Sarah Ma interview? But wait - she had stopped it. It was stopped. He didn't have to spend the morning in anticipation of a round two with Gina over that damned interview. It was not going to happen. He had time. He had space. The relief nearly made him swoon.

"Richard, really," she admonished him. "I am capable of resisting the limelight -"

"Ah, you are awake. Good." Dr Bloom's clipped voice interrupted his mother as the small man entered the room. "Alright Martha, I will take it from here."

"Very well," his mother said, making Rick's eyes widen in shock once again. He stared as she acquiesced to the command with all the gracious deference of a Victorian chambermaid ordered from her lady's chamber. What was she doing? This was Dr 'The Angry Ferret' Bloom (he knew she laughed when he called their doctor that, though she denied it) and his mother never, ever let him just order her around like that. Even more than the armor plating of makeup and perfume, this utter perversity of his mother's behavior grabbed Rick's attention. He watched her walk towards the door. Was she that worried? That scared? He swallowed thickly; he had to put an end to this. He had to get his head together and think. "Richard, behave and listen to Dr Bloom."

But, wait -

"Mother. Alexis? She didn't go to school today, did she?"

"She's here darling. Don't worry. Now you co-operate with Dr Bloom." And she was gone.

"Humph!" Dr Bloom groused as he stepped aside for Rick's mother to exit, and dumped his case and hat on the bedside table. He cast a critical gaze over his patient, then pointed a hard finger at the table. "Right then: put them in." Rick didn't need to turn to know that someone had found his hearing aids and put them on the table for him - Dr Bloom wouldn't tolerate his not having them in when in his presence, "and then we'll see what the damage is."

Pupil check; temperature check; bruises prodded, poked and pressed; pulse taken; knuckle check; broken hand examined and re-strapped; cold stethoscope every-damn-where. Verdict: it will live.

"Right, now one last thing," Dr Bloom said as he packed away the stethoscope, "your breathing."

"In and out, right? I think I've got that covered."

"Don't give me cheek young man: you're heading for pneumonia. I can hear it coming."

"What? But I feel fine. Well, not fine, but - I thought you said I was going to be ok!"

"You will be. If you stop taking those shallow breaths."

"It hurts if I don't."

"Pneumonia will hurt worse. Now, do you have that new timer on your wrist watch? The one that vibrates? Good. Set it hourly. Each time it goes off I want you to take ten deep breaths to keep your lungs clear. Sit up, you can start now."

"Now?"

"Up!" The doctor stood back, balled hands on his hips, brows drawn in irritation as Rick awkwardly got himself into a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed. Ow. "Right now, go on: show me you've got this covered."

"Are you sure you were never in the military?"

"Breathe!"

"The marines?"

"Richard!"

So he breathed.

He did. And it hurt. And The Angry Ferret counted off like an experienced drill instructor. Rick was sure he'd been in some sort of armed forces, though the small dour man would never answer him whenever he pestered him about it. So Rick pestered him. A lot. The mystery of the man's back story was just sitting there, taunting him. For years. How could he be expected to leave that alone?

"Ten," the doctor said, snapping out the word like a bullet. Fuck, that had hurt. He felt dizzy, spacey through the tremendous ache that was now wrapped around his entire rib cage. So much so he almost missed the other man's next words: "I met your Detective last night. She tells me you were in some sort of fist fight." He sounded thoughtful, or perhaps thoughtfully amused given the familiar trace of a curl to the other man's lips. Rick grimaced at the mention of Beckett and what circumstances had lead to her meeting the doctor.

"Well, fist fight might be a bit of a generous description," Rick replied. He wasn't feeling much like sharing with Dr Bloom right now. Sharing with the good doctor too often turned into sparring and left him feeling like a sullen adolescent being shown his place in the male pecking order - once again. That wasn't a feeling he wanted to add to his load. Not today.

But instead of his usual return volley, the Doctor was silent. Then -

"Stand up. Up boy! Come on." Perplexed, Rick stood up, hugging his aching ribs. "Give me your hands. Both of them. Right," the Doctor looked them over, took his wrists and turned his hands over and back again. "All right. Now. You see here, this is where you've broken the bone in your hand. It's called a Boxer's Fracture and has three main causes: weak wrists and poor grip, neither of which apply to you, or improper form." The Doctor let go and Rick couldn't help but stare in something close to shock. What was going on? What did the Angry Ferret want? Was this some sort of build up to a put down? "Show me. A swing."

"What?"

"Show me how you hit that fellow. Show me your form, Richard." Form? He didn't have form. What he had was instinct, adrenaline, memories of the Indestructibles and Hard Kill, and a bucket load of luck; and most of what he had done in that house was lost in a red haze of anger and terror - and a concussion. But he did it, suspicion or no. He was too curious to stop himself from falling into this trap - too fascinated by this weirdness not to follow through. So he curled the fingers of his unbroken hand into the best fist he could given the state of his knuckles, and took a token swing at the doctor. The smaller man didn't move as the fist travelled past his face.

"Where on earth did you get that from?"

"That's how Brock Harmon does it?"

"Who is that? It's not some film actor is it? That's not one of your super hero movie people is it? Oh, Lord save us! I'm surprised you didn't break every bone in your hand. That will not do. Here, this is how it's done."

And The Angry Ferret was suddenly taking up Rick's unbroken hand and forming it into a fist for him -

"Keep your wrist straight! Thumb here, fist good and tight. Now keep it like that and make your strike from your toes up - put your whole body into it. Like this, watch me. Straight and clean, and for gods sake do not make a show of it like they do in those films you watch. No drawback on the swing, no stopping to get in position - this is real life, not the theatre. You want the other fellow down, not getting ready to defend himself. OK, show me again. Here: strike my hand, best as you can - under the circumstances."

"Dr Bloom, I-"

"Come on!"

And he did. And accidentally struck the Doctor's hand a little harder than he intended.

"Ow!"

"Better?"

"Uh, yeah. Actually, yeah." Despite his knuckles protesting, it really did feel better, Rick realized. Even without being able to put much effort into the movement, he could feel the increased power of the swing, and when he bumped the older man's palm the reason for the straight wrist was immediately clear. He looked down at his fist. A-maz-ing! A big grin broke out onto his face. Wow! He needed to write this down. But then a thought occurred: would this have made a difference? If he had known how to do this, back then, would it have helped? The notion sapped his delight and he sobered rapidly. And he remembered his manners. "Uh, thank you."

"You are welcome. something something something, " the grumbles didn't register properly. "- something should have done something about this - something- something- state of the world - something - string of useless blow-ins - humph. No! Don't sit down Richard. Alexis has something for you to eat in the kitchen and you need to move around when you aren't resting. It will help your lungs stay clear.

"Then after you eat you will take your medication and give your mother your damn cell phone."

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Rick showered before going to investigate Alexis' brunch (because somehow it was nearly 11am). It gave him a small window of time to himself and he used it to try to pull himself together; to clear his thinking. He did feel better than he had yesterday and the dream forest, if it featured in his dreams, did not become the nightmare that forced him awake like it had yesterday. Or maybe his mother had woken him before it had the chance to appear? Thinking about his mother quickly lead to thinking about his daughter, then Beckett—and that stopped his wandering thoughts with a slap of reality. Oh, he had screwed up so badly; so badly. And they had found him in pieces on his office floor! His daughter and his partner picked him up and put him to bed. They called the doctor... Oh shit... He was the one that was supposed to be protecting them. How could he have just collapsed like that? How could he have crumpled so quickly? He had put his mind to so many different possibilities over the years, and planned for what he might have to do to protect his family, but he had never once considered his own incapacity as something that he needed to factor in to the equation. But now he knew better. And the shock and shame of this complication burned and ached worse than Baxter's bruises.

Things had gotten so messed up.

Everything had seemed so simple when he was a boy. Terrifying, but simple. The police were no use because there was no proof of what had happened, and so all that was left was him: a child. And with a child's certainty, he had armored himself and prepared for a battle he was sure he had a chance of winning. It was such a naïve way of thinking. But back then he had been just that: a naïve child. A skinny, goofy unremarkable kid with only the vaguest hints of the man he would become. Even back, though, then he knew he could think, he could learn, he could be observant, he could deduce, and he could plan. And so, with that same direct and uncluttered childish thinking, he did just that. He had no idea what the doctors, the specialists, even Dr Bloom had thought of his change in attitude, but he felt he couldn't spare the energy to take notice. He had his mission. He had no time for anything else. He had to armor himself. He had to be ready.

Most important of all, he just couldn't take the chance that the thing in the woods had realized that he hadn't heard its threats. If it came to check up on him, lurking unseen somewhere one day, he didn't want it to think he wasn't following orders and was some sort of loose end that needed tidying up. So he had to lay low, he had to be alert and able, and he had to appear to be doing what he thought it must have wanted of him: to never tell anyone what he had seen, and to go about his business as usual. And so he had worked hard to cover up his weakness. He set himself to mastering lip-reading to capture what his ears could not, and he put in the hard yards on his speech. What these skills could not cover The Great Detective's methods of deduction and observation were able to mask - mostly. And when all else failed, he turned on the charm. Basically, his early Indestructables-inspired, Sherlock Holmes-tempered plans depended pretty much entirely upon his ability to fool the world that he had all his faculties intact.

But he still made sure the doors and windows were locked.

Every night.

And he still nagged his mother for a baseball bat, which he then pushed under his bed and never soiled with the strike of a baseball or the sweat and dirt of his hands on the grip.

And everywhere they went he still made sure to get to know the mailmen, the storekeepers, the local beat cops, and the kids in the street in all the streets he lived in. And he always kept an eye on the male visitors his mother brought home from time to time; always asking too many questions and getting underfoot trying to find out who they were and what their intentions might be - beyond the overnight stay that was. Even if it ended in his mother's embarrassment and anger, followed by banishment to his bedroom, those guests were left in no doubt (or so he believed at the time) that this boy was onto them and would not tolerate any monkey business.

And he did have some victories. Like the second time they moved house after it happened, he had managed to get around his mother and change their paperwork to leave the wrong forwarding mail address and phone number. She might have lost a few calls for jobs, might have missed out on a few important letters, but he had made it much harder for anyone to find them. He felt he had broken the chain.

But all in all, it had been exhausting, and looking back: hopelessly naïve.

Now, though, things were different. They should have been different, anyway. He had been more successful in hiding his hearing loss than he had ever thought possible. He had money, resources, contacts. His home was secure, with trusted people on the door around the clock. And he had enough fame, enough people looking their way, that he and his family would be troublesome to get to without witnesses, but not so much attention that he hadn't been able to keep interest in his life beyond his books under control - so far. It couldn't be helped that it was known that he had a daughter, but he could keep public interest in Alexis to a minimum. She was not involved in his public life; she attended a well regarded, very discreet, private school; and he did not permit family photographs to be made available for public consumption. And, on top of that he had his mother come live with him as soon as the opportunity arose - as frustrating and awkward as that could be at times.

He even had a different damn name.

He had done everything in his power to protect his family, short of destroying their lives in some doomed attempt to hide them all away. Not that he hadn't considered hiding them all away. He had tried in those first few months after the forest to persuade his mother that California might be a great move, but that had been dismissed with an absent wave of a hand and an 'Oh Richard'. To be honest though, he couldn't imagine a scenario that would convince his mother to leave the theatre or New York. His mother was the immovable object when it came to her beloved craft and adored city, and to have forced his daughter to run or to hide would have ruined her life. He couldn't bear the thought.

What if he had laid everything out in all its horror? What then? He couldn't decide what would be a worse outcome: their believing him or not. If they did believe him, would it have made them agreeable to running? Or would they have been determined to stay and walk through the city, through their lives, with the same quiet fear that slunk around the edges of his every day, like some hungry predatory thing always waiting, waiting. And if they didn't believe him, what then? Would they think he was crazy? Pity him? Would they realize all that he had surreptitiously done to protect them that had also made their lives that bit more complicated, that bit more burdensome, and discarded it all like the delusion they thought it was? The thought made him shudder.

So instead he followed them. And wove his quiet protection around them as they moved through their lives; he threaded that care through their home, guarding it with everything he had. He was a permanent sentinel to his own life.

So he should have been ready. He ought to have been prepared.

But he hadn't been.

He had never expected his cover to be so violently and suddenly blown. And certainly not as the result of a police raid gone awry and a subsequent mayoral award (oh god, don't think about that), but still... He should have thought of an explosive reveal as a possibility. He was a writer after all, and the unexpected was his specialty... Rick sighed into the roar of the shower. That wasn't true though, was it? Not the real reason. He knew what had caused him to mess up so badly.

He had become complacent. He had relaxed his guard, because in all the years that followed that night in the forest, the feared visit from that thing in the woods had never happened, and that non-event had clearly, slowly, invited him to lose focus. And he had, without realizing it, accepted that invitation to relax his guard. That had to change, now, or everything he had ever worked for would be at risk. His family, his friends - everyone. So he just had to pull himself together. He had to. With the revelation of his hearing loss, there was now the risk that someone (Sarah Ma sprang to mind) would want to dig further into the sudden mystery that was Richard Castle. And if they did, and if they somehow followed the trail that led them back into those woods... No. He couldn't allow that to happen. So he had to act to stop it. There was no one else to do what had to be done, and maybe, if he was quick enough he wouldn't be too late.

He could do this because... because he just had to. The consequences of not stepping up were just unthinkable.

Now that his mother had somehow stopped the runaway freight train called Gina, and her insane idea to subject them all to a Sarah Ma grilling, he had his moment to step up and seize upon that reprieve and do what needed to be done. And the first thing to do was to try to restore his house to the safe refuge that he had worked so hard to create. Right now, everything else could wait.

So, he cleaned up as best as he could, putting himself back together into recognizable form as father and son, and writer in residence. As the third member of their ensemble. He purposely dressed in his oldest sweats, a grey t-shirt and his worn out old ink- and coffee- stained robe that slipped easily over the strapping on his hand. His writing garb. One look at this get-up on any usual day would immediately let his family know that the author was in and the hearing aids were out. He checked his reflection in the steamy mirror: scruffy, a bit tired and bruised, hair combed reasonably given he was using his left hand. Final touch: test driving a smirk. Oh yeah. Satisfied, and feeling more sure and sturdy in his author's chainmail, Rick followed his nose from his bedroom to the kitchen. The scent of coffee, bacon, peppered eggs and hot toast was like a siren's call. He was helpless to resist.

"Dad!" Alexis was in the kitchen with a covered pan on the stovetop and a setting arranged on the kitchen island: cutlery, a steaming coffee mug and a single red rose in a slim crystal vase. It was the vase from her room. The one that he had bought her for Valentine's Day when she was ten; the one that she loved and that held pride of place on her window sill, never to be moved - even for dusting. Yet, here it was, placed by the empty plate on the countertop - moved for the first time, for him. His daughter was looking at him, taking in his writing uniform, with a huge brittle smile on her face. Rick's heart sank at the sight. He recognized this for what it was: fear and worry unsuccessfully hidden under too much cheer and all his favorite comfort foods. But even as he realized what he was seeing, he was already forcing a warm smile and opening his arms to his daughter. "You're up!" Alexis said, and rose up on her toes as he leaned down towards her to receive his morning kiss on his unshaven cheek. His daughter squeaked: "ow! Prickly."

"Sorry pumpkin," he smiled at her apologetically, rubbing a thumb over the scruff along his jaw. It was too painful to scrape a razor over his cheek just yet and it would just look weird if he only shaved the uninjured side. "I think I'm onto something here though: what do you think? A new look? Wolverine? John McClane? No, wait: Indiana Jones. The Temple of Doom. Yeah. Indy. Rugged manly man of action with no time to spare for the frivolous man-scaping of the adventureless city slicker."

"I dunno Dad." Alexis looked critically at him, distracted for the moment from her anxiety. "It might be more - Jack Sparrow?"

"Jack Sparrow?" He pouted, pulling her in further to his game. "This is not a Jack Sparrow beard! I admit, it's a bit patchy yet, but it's early days. And Captain Jack never had epic fightin' bruises like these."

"No, but - something - have syphilis. -something-something-something- " He put together the gist of the words as his mother, buoyed along by her guilt-perfume, sailed by him in profile. She glided into the harbor of the kitchen. And as she passed by, he stuck his lip out further, narrowing his eyes, remembering the syphilitic sores decorating Captain Sparrow's unshaven face. That was not even on the same planet as epically heroic bruises and she knew it.

"Oh Richard, you will always be ruggedly handsome to your mother," she rejoined with a familiar slice of condescension as she leaned over the kitchen island and pinched and released his scruffy cheek as if he were four years old. "Now, come and eat. You look positively dreadful."

"Yes, eat, Dad. Eat." That wasn't a hard order to follow: he was both starving and determined to keep this ball of upbeat distraction rolling. He sat awkwardly on a barstool at the island and Alexis served up his brunch with another kiss, to his forehead this time. He seized a fork and took a moment to relish the sight of one of his favorite morning feasts - glistening slices of crispy bacon (still sizzling, oh yeah), peppered eggs on toasted and buttered sourdough. Heaven help him but he loved bacon, eggs and butter and toast, and he paused to receive the usual noises of disapproval that inevitably accompanied such an indulgent breakfast, but when they didn't come he looked up from the plate. Oh no. They were staring at him. Alexis had her pinched expectant look back, and his mother wasn't even trying to hide her nervy agitation. It was clear he hadn't done as good a job of diverting things as he thought had.

OK.

The best defense was a good offence. So...

He took a breath.

"Look, about yesterday. That - I was tired and - and I messed up and scared you both. I am so sorry. I'll sort it all out, properly this time, and I won't let - yesterday- happen again."

"Dad," Alexis said, and there was a build up there behind that word, he could see it in her face. He could feel the pressure of it pushing out with his name. She was going to hit him with something. "What's this?" she asked, and he watched her pass her hand over her face from forehead to chin: mask. He flinched. Couldn't help it. And there was a sudden pressure in his chest and an inexplicable rise of a piece of memory - and he knew what was coming next. He tried to breathe against it, the inhalation hitching against his bruised ribs. Oh no. No. And his vision was tunneling, putting blinkers onto his field of vision until all he could see were her slim fingers rising to slide invisible tear tracks down each cheek. He blinked. The tunnel flickered and was gone.

- Desperation -

- Adrenalin -

What the hell happened yesterday? And then, just like that: he knew. He knew. And the horror, the self-recrimination, ignited inside. Those fucking drugs. They stripped him of what little brain-to-mouth filter he had, robbing him of his control, his dignity, and his memory. Usually it was funny and he bore its fallout with a degree of acceptance, like having to endure being told and then ribbed about what he had done during a drunken blackout, but now the betrayal was unforgivable. Those pills messed him up worse than anything he'd ever dabbled in during his worst indiscretions and as of right now he'd be damned if he'd take them again - ever.

"I - um," he scrambled. He took a breath. "I don't - That a new one? I thought you were too old for signing with your old man?" That sounded so lame, even to him.

"Dad-" Her tone was aggrieved. She knew he was covering; lying. No, not lying. Just not telling. Obfuscating. It wasn't the same thing.

Except he knew it really was.

"I - Alexis," he fumbled for words..

"You signed that to me yesterday. Over and over. You wanted me to know. You wanted me to understand." Her voice was pure determination. But oh god he just couldn't give her what she wanted. He just couldn't. His jaw was clamped over the confession so tightly his teeth were aching. "You couldn't tell me then so I'm asking you now: what does it mean?"

"Darling -" his mother prompted him when he let the room linger in silence too long. She knew too. Mother and Alexis had been talking a lot last night it seemed.

"Was I stoned on those pills when I signed it to you?" he asked, and their silence said everything. "It's just word salad then. Except instead of talking, I signed. You know what I get like when I take those pills." He took a breath. Get a grip, get a grip. Everything was feeling thin and taut, like overstretched rubber. "Like I said, I am sorry that I scared you both, and it won't happen again."

Not lying. Just not telling.

"Dad, please!" Alexis said. She knew he was lying and the pain of it was naked on her face. "You knew what you meant when you signed it. Beckett -"

"Beckett-?" Oh. God. She was there? She saw? He pushed off the stool in a single shove upwards. Adrenalin popped and fizzed. "No. Ok. No, I - ." His hands twitched, pain streaked through both, but regardless, he shoved the fingers of the left one through his hair.

Everything was coming unstuck in one great rush and he was going to fly apart right along with it. He jumped, flinched, as a hand suddenly landed on his forearm. He looked down, finding his mother had somehow appeared by his side.

"Darling?" His mother's lips made the word, the plea, but all the sound was gone. All he could hear was the blood in his ears as it rushed around his body. And this was it, wasn't it? The moment it could all come tumbling out. A large part of him, sick of the burden of it all, wanted to do it too. The thin end of the wedge, that mask sign, was already out there thanks to his stupid drugged brain and it wouldn't take much to slide that wedge further and open the door the rest of the way. But then Alexis was looking at him with such anguish on her face he felt himself growing fierce with protectiveness. No. He couldn't do it to her. He couldn't put this onto her just out of a desire to ease his own burden. How he could even think about doing so was suddenly so shameful...

"I -" he stopped and took a breath and the damn watch started vibrating on his wrist, telling him it was time for Dr Bloom's anti-pneumonia measures. He turned the irritating buzzing off. But the interruption had suddenly helped him get a grip on himself. Mostly. "I need some time. Can you give me that? Both of you. Please?"

They didn't want to. That was plain in both their faces.

"Dad - " Alexis said with something that looked less like the hurt of moments ago. "You can tell us -"

"Alexis. A day," he blurted out, standing firm under the searing headlight of her crestfallen face. Well, pretty much. "Please." He wasn't above begging.

"All right, darling, we'll give you your day, but," and his mother wagged a glittering finger at him, "remember: you can't keep us here forever. This isn't an ivory tower, Richard, and we," she indicated herself and her granddaughter, "are no delicate princesses to be locked away."

"I know," he said.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

After brunch, Rick took his coffee into his office. The books he had smashed to the floor were back in a neat stack by his desk and he ground to a halt next to it. Some of the books would never be the same. Their pages, once so crisply laid one upon the other, now bore the distinct distortions of violence; and he could see at least one with a torn dust cover. The remorse rose hot and painful. There was no excuse for damaging a book. Ever. He stared guiltily at the scarred volumes. Exhibit A in the case against Richard Castle handling things.

Rick dragged his eyes from the damaged books and sighed as he rounded his desk and sat down on his soft leather chair, feeling the painful resistance in his ribs with the inhalation. And he'd given himself one day! Why the hell did he ask for only one day? His stupid desperate, unthinking brain, that was why. Grimacing, he fished his hearing aids from his pocket and put them in - the writer was definitely out. And he should probably do Dr Bloom's breathing exercises. Then his cell phone suddenly buzzed in his robe pocket. He pulled it out. God, don't look at all those missed calls and texts.

Was the very picture of discretion. As promised. M.

M: what -? Oh, Meredith? Discretion and Meredith? Those two things blended about as well as oil and water, or maybe gas and an open flame. His stomach pinched. What the hell had she been discreet about? He thumbed into the text history.

Is it true Kitten? I'm getting calls! M.

Calls? Oh god... The date was two days ago. Two days! What had Meredith done? What hadn't he stopped her doing? He scrolled down. There were some missed calls. No messages left. Then:

I am still getting calls. ET wants to talk. I can be discrete. Promise. Call me. M.

ET is still calling. You know what they say silence is a sign of, Kitten. M

And that was the last message until this morning. Oh my god, silence does not indicate consent, Meredith! But then she knew that. And she had gone and done it anyway: talked to Entertainment Tonight, when she knew that was the very last thing he would want. Oh my god... Frustration drew his lips tight, and his teeth clenched. There were not sufficient words in the whole English language to express his -

"Fèifèi de pìHYPERLINK " . 3"yǎn!"

"Richard!" His looked up from his phone as his mother appeared in his office doorway. "I don't know what you just said, but I feel I should be disapproving of it. What's wrong?"

"Meredith." He sighed, dropping his cell phone on the desk. His headache started a slow build in his temples. "She's gone and done a tell-all with Entertainment Tonight."

"Oh." They traded the same commiserating look born of many many years of shared history with his ex-wife. "Well, how bad can it be? What more does she know than the rest of us, Richard? You play your cards so close to your chest -" She stopped herself, pursed her lips and looked at him. "No, no. I'll stop there. I'm sorry Darling, I promised you your day." She sighed. "What are you going to do about Meredith's interview?"

"Watch it I suppose. Make sure she hasn't indulged in a little too much creative story telling." He shook his head. This was out of control. And he hadn't even begun to dig through all the missed messages that were clogging up his cell, his website, his twitter feed. "It will be ok mother. I'm going to fix everything." He drew in a measured breath. "What are you up to today?"

"Ah, well, I have an audition to prepare for."

"You do? I mean: yes, of course you do. What's the part?"

"I'm not sure yet. She's a new playwright. Not someone you know. But, she saw me in my last production and is interested in my involvement in her new play: A Madam on Broadway! So exciting."

"When is the audition?"

"Tomorrow, across town -"

"Tomorrow!" He almost yelped the word. "Across town!" Not here?

"Yes. I don't have long to prepare. I have to - "

"Can't you do the audition here? They can come over? Or maybe over the phone?"

"Over the- ? Richard. I am not even going to dignify that with a response. Now, you have work to do and so do I."

And, with a flourish, she was gone.

Oh hell. With a groan he slowly lowered his forehead to his desk. Ow. He didn't make the distance as the move put too much pressure on his bruised ribs. He straightened up again and saw the stack of papers and magazines Gina had left on his desk. God, he was still so angry with Gina too...

And there, on top of the stack, neatly folded to reveal the large black and white photograph snapped by some eager paparazzi: Beckett and he in the cruiser, trying to break through the crowd of media at the 12th. It was bizarre to see them both like that: from the outside looking in. And disturbing. He had to acknowledge that Gina was right: he did come across as some sort of guilty hunted criminal, and Beckett did look like his police guard. Shit. He stared, drawn to Beckett's face, her eyes: beautiful and fierce as she stared down the camera lens. It was a bit amazing that whoever had been wielding the camera, had held their nerve long enough to take the shot under that tiger sharp glare. And there he was, immortalized beside her in total mortifying freak out, breaking apart under the pressure like so much cracked glass, whilst the diamond that was Beckett just grew harder, sharper and shone all the brighter.

Beckett.

His partner.

Looking at that photo, he knew what he had to do. He didn't want to do it, he wasn't sure he was actually going to be able to do it. But he knew what he needed to do. His mother and daughter might have granted him his day (oh god, why did he give himself only one day!), but it was pretty damn clear that his current attempts to sort things out flying solo were not cutting it. He needed help. He needed his partner.

END CHAPTER

Translation:

Fèifèi de pìHYPERLINK " . 3"yǎn Baboon's ass

Note:

Somniloquy - from Castle Episode Number one fan, season 6 episode 4. I loved this word and had to pinch it and use it!