AN: I'm amazed by the amount of people who have added this story to their alerts – thank you! It seems that long chapters aren't really my thing, but I'm working on it, so bare with me. Also, a little bit of constructive criticism never hurt anyone ;)

Chapter Two

Rescue was not an option, it was far too embarrassing. He needed to escape.

Richard Castle was being held captive by a madwoman, not a madman, a madwoman, and he was deeply, deeply concerned about his fate. If the outfit she'd clothed him in was any indication, this woman did not plan on releasing him anytime soon. There was no way Beckett could see him like this. He clenched his teeth and gazed back down at his attire. He was in boxers and a t-shirt, not all that unusual (especially if he had been snatched from his slumber at home), but the boxers weren't his, and for that matter, neither was the t-shirt. Not good, so not good. If the pattern on the boxers and the print on the shirt was any indication he had to get out before the madwomen came back; sitting round any longer was not an option. It was really too bad the chair was bolted to the floor; it was limiting him severely in his escape attempts. His eyes fell back to his outfit, bolted chair or not, he really had to be going.

At least the dreadful t-shirt had jogged his memory. He knew who held him captive now, he just didn't know what could, would happen if he stayed here any longer. Even the thought of Beckett or the boys coming to rescue him as he sat helplessly, clothed in corny Valentine's Day style boxers covered in tiny red hearts, drew a groan from his lips. He would never live this down, that much was clear, and the faces photo-shopped and staring back at him from the t-shirt were not going to help. They were also the reason he needed to escape. The fact this madwoman had created a t-shirt with his face and hers edited into a heart with the words, soul mates cursively transcribed beneath it, did not bode well for Richard Castle. The outfit made it blatantly obvious that this madwoman was going to steal his virtue – not that he really had all that much virtue left, but that really was an argument for a different day.

The fact a woman, and a woman alone, had managed to place him in this predicament was also innately embarrassing for Castle. If Beckett found out she would never let him forget it, and to make matters worse he would be the butt of every one of Ryan and Esposito's jokes. The precinct would be hell. For the moment, Richard Castle was not above admitting that he was a proud man, and his pride and ego would suffer immensely from the loss, if this situation ever got out. However, if he was ever going to get out, he really needed to stop mulling on his wounded ego and think more like a cop. Or a writer – how would he write the escape? What was the story? He could recall details of its beginnings, now that the familiar face on the t-shirt had brought back his memory of the events transpiring after he had left the precinct…

"Excuse me, excuse me, Sir." Castle had turned to see a women looking slightly apologetic on the sidewalk behind him. He flashed her a friendly smile. She probably just wanted an autograph and he was in no real rush, just casually strolling home, already a few blocks from the precinct. Seeing him stop and turn around, she continued, "It's my car, I have a flat tyre and I can change it myself. I don't mean to bother you, it's just that the spare is jammed in my trunk and I just can't seem to shift it. Would you be able to…" She trailed off as Castle interrupted her.

"No problem, Ma'am" he grinned and started towards her, "Happy to be of service".

"Oh, thank you so much," she breathed, relief etching over her face. Castle took a moment to study her, she was middle aged, frumpy in appearance, with soft brown eyes that had a quiet determination set in them. He wondered if she had a family, the lines beginning on her face from the stress of raising children, teenagers. He eyes glanced at her hands, no wedding ring, and she was wringing her fingers, nervously it seemed. He jerked his thoughts from her and her story and ambled to the open trunk of her car. The street was basically empty save for a few parked cars, she was lucky he routinely walked this street; the thing was jammed rather tightly in the trunk. He grunted and moved further into the open trunk in an attempt to get a better grip on the stubborn tyre.

"My, it is jammed in rather well, isn't it," he begun, decidedly aiming for pleasant conversation with this stranger. He was about to continue, comment on the difficulty of having a car in the city, when he felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck. It felt like a bee had stung him and he hastened to get it off him, bringing a hand up to firmly slap his neck. With that he collapsed, forward into the trunk and the frumpy, middle-aged stranger didn't hesitate to stuff his legs indelicately into the trunk, slam it shut and drive away as the city spined on, into the night.

Of course he'd made up the last part, he didn't remember anymore than the sharp sting to his neck, but he assumed he'd been drugged and his position leaning into the trunk made it easy for her to load him in and drive away. Without him conscious and struggling, it wouldn't have been too difficult for one, not all that petite, middle-aged woman to drag him into the room and position him like this on the chair. At the thought of what that one middle-aged madwoman intended to do him Castle shivered, a hiss breaking from his lips.