Chapter 19

A/N at end of chapter.

The city Rick had always called home had never in his recollection achieved anything remotely resembling a darkness worthy of being called 'night'. He knew that this was supposed to be a bad thing for all sorts of biological and psychological reasons, but he was grateful for it. There had only been one truly dark night in his life, and considering the hell that that forested nightmare had become, he had never been keen to experience another. Now, as he stood alone at the witching hour, he felt his usual relief rise at the sight of his city through the window with its amber orange sky-glow backlighting familiar mesa-like mountain ranges of buildings. The details of the buildings were smudged with darkness, but their light-pricked edifices were a reassurance of life, of the continuing act of living going on within each tiny lit window. It was a reminder that there were people all around him; that others were awake like him, living like him, going about their existence mere meters away. A reminder that he wasn't alone, in the dark.

He was thankful for his living city again tonight, because sleep was impossible and no words would come to banish that hated flashing cursor on his laptop screen. He felt like one giant mass of contusions (still a great word), and his muscles had stiffened painfully around each one of those hurts. Not just stiffened really, but cramped. Pinching and aching. It was too hard to ignore even when he had tried to force himself to do just that in bed earlier. After twenty minutes of breathing slowly, and fighting with himself to let go of the day, he gave up. He just couldn't relax. At least, not without cracking open those orange pill bottles with their tongue loosening, mind-melting, treacherous meds that would take away his physical pain and replace it with something much much worse. No. It was no good being well-rested if he had to trade his silence for it.

He looked down into his own street. There were cars down there. Cabs. A bus. People out walking, talking. What were they talking about? The weather? A movie they just saw? The secret whispers of lovers? Something much darker? He resisted the urge to open the window. A memory of Alexis complaining about his night watching surfaced. She had found him one evening with windows flung wide as he mulled over his cityscape and watched a distant column of smoke churn and writhe as it rose towards luminous clouds. According to his daughter the backed up traffic, the horns and sirens did not add colour to the night, but were as irritating as buzzing mosquitoes and it was ruining her sleep. She pouted at him, puffy-eyed and adorably sleep rumpled in that little girl way he rarely saw anymore, with her arms crossed over her chest. As he looked at her he suddenly realised, with an unexpectedly sharp stab of loss, that he couldn't remember what mosquitoes sounded like. Or flies. Or bees. Those sounds had somehow fallen out of his memory without his noticing or feeling their loss. Mother had joined them long enough to concur with her granddaughter that flying insects, and the noise coming in through the open windows, were indeed both incompatible with proper rest.

Close the window, Richard! It's 3am. For goodness sake, let the fire brigade do their work without an audience.

He had acquiesced, closed the window, and then retrieved his notepad from his bedside table and pestered both his mother and daughter to provide a detailed description of the sounds of buzzing insects until they had begged him to reopen the windows.

These days he kept the windows closed when his family was home.

He sighed, feeling the tiresome tug of pain around his ribs.

He could try meditation again, he supposed. Though he had never really succeeded with it. He had never been able to master any practice that required a calm and focussed mind. It was as if, just by thinking of serenity his brain immediately protested and fired scattered shots of ideas at him until he was tangled in bright sparking words and vivid images. An old girlfriend had brought him into her yoga class once, and after five minutes of silence he had apparently (though he couldn't remember it) shouted: yes, in the throat with an axe! His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend had not appreciated his moment of epiphany. Neither had the instructor. Nor the rest of the class. Though to be fair, it had not been a conscious act that he had slipped from focussing on his breathing, and plummeted straight into an awkward Storm scene that had been plaguing him for weeks. He figured he just wasn't built for the quiet of Emptiness. He was too full of words. Too full of the urge to create, to understand, to unravel and investigate. He felt his mind was not entirely his own most of the time anyway, and Derek Storm and all the others that lived and lurked within him, seemed to object to being deliberately silenced.

He probably should drop any notion of trying to stop himself from thinking. This was the first night since the fight with Baxter that he was somewhere near lucid, and since both sleep and his words had deserted him, he was left with these hours of quiet. And he should use them. So much had happened in the last few days, it didn't feel real and he desperately needed a moment to process it all, work it over in his mind and acknowledge it beyond just accepting the emergency response it had triggered. His thoughts immediately turned to his confession to Beckett. That she had listened and believed him was still so hard to accept as a fact. He had never thought he would ever speak those words to a willing ear, and certainly he had never thought anyone would react to them like Beckett. In the rare moments he had entertained the idea of telling, he had not considered that his words would not just be believed, but would give impetus to the possibility of help. Beckett had put the idea in his head that it could all end by his hand. Rick had never conceived going on the offensive. All of his plans were at best defensive: to protect, shield, shelter and hide. Were those childish ideas? Was he really stuck in a child-like state of mind like Beckett had suggested? He had always felt hunted. He had never considered becoming the hunter. He had never thought he would have a partner in that hunt.

The idea was terrifying.

But it was also exhilarating. Like suddenly glimpsing that tiny spot of light at the end of a long dark tunnel. A tunnel haunted by some unseen monster that slavered for the taste of human flesh. He wanted to drop everything and sprint towards that light, and throw himself back out into its promise of safety. But at the same time, there was the monster to consider. If he ran at the wrong time, if he left it too late or too early, it might take him before he got there...

A familiar hand suddenly pressed into his arm as a brightly coloured ghostly reflection overlaid itself upon the window pane. Mother.

"Penny for them?" she asked when he looked away from her image and down at the lady herself. She was dressed in a light green vintage style Hollywood Starlet- silk robe. Hair still coifed, perfume bomb still detonating, but fading now which meant she hadn't added anymore fuel to that scented fire. Wonder what that means? But she looked elegant. Glamorous. He recognized the robe as one she had bought after her first real stage success, before he was born. She had kept it, for superstitious reasons, as a good luck charm for the night before an audition. Its appearance now reminded him that she was off to the Theatre District tomorrow for just that purpose. He felt his stomach knot.

"Not worth a penny. Just thinking. Nothing important," he told her.

"I doubt that. After the week you've had kiddo, I sincerely doubt that." She turned away from him for a moment in a swirl of pale emerald, returning with a glass. "Here." She pushed it at him, waited until he took it, then retrieved her own. He looked down, noting the quantity of what was undoubtedly scotch. "Down the hatch, darling," and she paused, for effect he was sure, "no one should drink alone." He grinned slightly at that, recognizing the old line and feeling the warm weight of mostly sweet memories carried within it, and he responded as schooled:

"Good thing you aren't alone then." They clinked glasses and he took a sip as she did, feeling the smooth burn all the way to his stomach. This wasn't just scotch. This was his best scotch. He frowned.

"Yes, yes, I know this is your special stash, but if the last few days doesn't warrant the good stuff, I don't know what would." He hummed a little in response, realising that she was right. "Darling, are you sure you shouldn't have just taken that medication to help you rest?"

"No."

"Richard, you are stubborn. Always have been -"

"I'm ok, Mother." He saw her glower at him, lips pursed, and he relented in his bluntness. "OK, I'm not ok as such but - I have - a lot to think about."

"About those ghastly threats?" she prompted. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. That less than half truth that he had spun for his mother and daughter, the one that could partially explain his recent behaviour, was still fresh in the air. Not hours earlier he had sat his family down and told them about the threats coming in through all the possible channels the public had to reach him. About how Kate and the Twelfth would, come morning, have all the evidence sent to them and would start to sort out real from fantastical threats, and take the appropriate action. He had asked for more time, for Alexis to stay close, for his mother to take this seriously.

Alexis had called him on it immediately. He was proud of her. And annoyed. And guilty.

That's not all of it Dad. There's more to tell.

No, that's not all of it. But right now it's all I can give you. Can you trust me just a little longer pumpkin?

Dad... You know I do , and I will. Just... You will tell me everything right? Everything? And not sugar coat it, or try to protect me. I am not a little girl anymore.

You will always be that way to me.

Dad...

Ok. Ok. When the time comes, I will tell you as much as a father can tell the child he loves more than life itself. And yes, even when you look at me like that, I promise I will not change my mind. You have my word that I will tell you that much, and no less.

"Threats, yes." He paused; sipped from his glass. The alcohol was a long warm vein running through his body feeding into muscles that already did not feel quite so tight. He blinked. His mother nudged him, and he realised she had spoken and he had missed it.

"Alexis was right though, wasn't she? These threats aren't the whole story. Not by a long shot." Rick regarded his mother and thought: Beckett was right, they know more than I thought they did. Maybe they always have.

"Mother..." He admonished, but couldn't seem to find it in himself to deny it any longer, and the words died on his tongue.

"Richard," she said and shook her head, looking suddenly less the carefree starlet and more the imploring mother, pleading with her recalcitrant child. Not too far off the mark, he thought guiltily. "Did you at least talk to Katherine about it all this afternoon? You seemed... lighter, after she visited." She paused. "She's good people, that one."

Rick swallowed. Yes. Beckett was that. And so much more. A memory of her in his arms just this very day came to him. He had been impulsive (but wasn't he always?); that hug had been a spur of the moment act. He just needed it. So he reached out and grabbed, hanging on to her like the lifeline he suddenly felt she was, and almost panicked when he realized just what he had done. This was Beckett. This was him. They didn't hug. Even their brief touches were so new they were almost too intense; each one still felt like a notable event. So when he felt her freeze tonight he took that as a sign that he really had messed up, and he froze himself, not knowing what to do about it, how to salvage the situation. But then she hugged him back. Oh my god. He thought his heart would burst out of his chest. She hugged him back. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her: all long slender lines, and soft waves of hair against his cheek. He was sure there was still a hint of cherries in the air... " *something* *something* Richard?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you talk to her? About the rest of it."

"Yes." He breathed out the word. His mother deserved to know that much. It was the most he had ever admitted to on the subject, and that one word refused to leave his lips except as a pathetic whisper. He cleared his throat, annoyed and tried again. "Yes, I did."

"And?" his mother persisted, eyes sharp and tone insistent. She was not going to let this lie. Shit. She deserved to know more, to be reassured further, but the weight of years of silence was heavy. He really did not want to have this conversation. He wanted to look out over his city and work through things in peace. Impetuously, Rick raised his glass and downed the scotch that remained. He coughed as the rush of so much alcohol burned on its way down.

"And, I can't... I can't discuss it right now," he said.

"But it helped?"

"Yes, it did," he nodded. And it had. He still couldn't quite grasp the full reach of it, but yes, he felt better than he had in years, come to think of it. But also probably more terrified. Beckett had given him the gift of her belief in him, yes, but she had also put an invitation out there to turn the tables on him (he had to get used to that pronoun): the killer, the murderer. And an invitation that they do it together.

"Good!" He blinked at the snap in his mother's declaration.

"Good?"

"Yes, good. You have needed to talk to someone for years, Richard. And it's good that the someone you chose is the calibre of your Detective Beckett." She leaned into him suddenly, curling her arm through his, hugging him close. "You know I have always considered your many failures with the fairer sex -" she waited for him to work through his splutter -" to be something baffling and incurable, but I am very happy to be proved wrong! At last. Katherine Beckett is a remarkable young woman. Classy. Smart. Talented. She'll go far. But more than that, she is kind, kiddo, and honest. All in all, a rare and precious combination." She patted the back of his hand and took a swig from her glass. "I see there is hope for you yet." And she came up, and he automatically leaned down, to receive a light smack of her lips against his cheek.

"Now," the starlet was back in the saddle, "I must away to bed. I have a big day tomorrow, and I can't show up with bags under my eyes, looking like I am 200 years old."

"Don't forget I am taking you to that audition," Rick told her.

"Not unless you get some sleep darling. The meeting is at 9:30 sharp! One cannot be fashionably late to an audition."

"You won't be."

"Ta ta, Richard. Don't stay up too late."

"I won't Mother." Rick watched her swirl away up the stairs, unfinished scotch still in hand. He looked down at his own glass, empty now, and felt the weight of it in his hand. His body was finally very tired, the alcohol had loosened knots and relaxed cramps. His mother was sneaky. He supposed he should be used to having her pull fast ones on him, but getting him to drink that scotch had relaxed him and numbed the sharp edges of his mind. When he returned to bed this time, in the few moments before the scotch completed its underhanded plan to knock him out, his thoughts turned to Beckett. He wondered what she was doing tonight. However much he might wish some fun for her, or some good sleep, he felt he knew her well enough to know that it was unlikely. There were too many loose threads, too many unsolved mysteries, right now. His own revelations notwithstanding, there was still the issue of Carmichael. And Baxter. Rick yawned. They were so alike in some ways: neither one of them could rest with a problem still to solve. He smiled at the thought. His last lucid moments were spent thinking that there was something they were both missing with Baxter. Something that was dangling right in front of their noses, but they couldn't see it. He needed to think on it. Just let his mind drift over the problem and -

He slept.

End of chapter

A/N A shortish chapter this time. And a quieter one than normal I think. Thank you once again to the amazing ebfiddler for all her hard work and support. Any remaining issues/grammar/spelling with this chapter is all on me. Hope you like it.

Back to the action again next chapter - Castle and Beckett have his revelation to deal with, but also the Carmichael and Baxter still to deal with.