Disclaimer: Don't own

A/N: Okay, so I finished this and it's all polished and nice and I figured you guys wouldn't mind an extra chapter this weekend. But the next one will be on Thursday, because I don't think I'll have internet access until then. If that changes, you'll be the first to know!

This is another one of those chapters that took very many takes…

Kate was seated cross-legged on top of an examination table in the morgue, two cups of coffee in hand, when Lanie walked into the room.

"You're late," Kate said.

Lanie looked up, startled. "What have I told you about sneaking up on me down here?"

"I brought you coffee," Kate handed her one of the paper cups. "You know who else was late coming in today?" she couldn't help but tease. "A certain detective you seem to be spending a lot of time with."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lanie replied, her grin positively Machiavellian.

"Of course you don't," Kate said with a practiced air of innocence. "And that isn't a rug burn I see on your elbow."

Lanie was about to look at her elbow, but stopped herself just in time. She narrowed her eyes at Kate.

"Katherine Beckett," she scolded, her eyes dancing with laughter.

Their stand-off lasted for about a second, during which both tried to keep a straight face, before they giggled like schoolgirls.

"What brings you down here at this hour anyways? And with coffee?" Lanie took a sip of the drink once their laughter had tapered off. "Not that I'm complaining."

"It … has to do with Castle." Kate said, suddenly intent on staring at the lid on her coffee.

"Writer-boy?" Lanie asked. "You still not ready to let him back?"

"No," Kate shook her head. "Well..." she huffed an impatient breath. "Lanie," she began plaintively, leaning back against the wall. "I don't know what to do."

"You like having him around." Lanie said, as though it was obvious and as simple as that. "It's okay to admit it."

"I've admitted it," Kate defended. "It's just …you know, now Alexis is…" Kate didn't know how to say it.

"Also all puppy-eyed around you?" Lanie supplied.

Kate looked at her in surprise, her cheeks suddenly warm. "I wouldn't put it quite like that."

"I got the 411 from Javi." Lanie arched an eyebrow. "Said Little Castle showed up with cookies for you."

"Can you believe it?" Kate shook her head, eyes wide. She'd spent all night thinking about it. "She wanted to apologize for getting upset at me when I told her that her dad was in the hospital." She looked down again, fiddled with the sleeve on her coffee cup. "After I pretty much put him in there."

"You did not put him in there."

"We both know I could've stopped it from happening. If I'd taken the suspect down. And it could have been so much worse." Just the thought of it made it a little difficult to breathe. "How would I have faced Alexis then?"

"Nuh-uh. We are not having this conversation again. If you want to throw yourself a pity party, you're going to have to do it somewhere else. There is no pity in this morgue."

Kate couldn't help the grin that escaped.

"I'm serious," Lanie said, misinterpreting her smile for disbelief. "And what do you expect from the poor girl? She was raised by a single dad with terrible taste in women." At Kate's raised eyebrow, she quickly added, "until you, of course."

"Thanks."

"She's just trying to make sure you stick around."

And that terrible squeezing of her heart, that constricting of her lungs came out in full force.

Kate buried her head in her hands. There was just so much to deal with. "Oh, Lanie..."

"Honey," her voice was soothing. "I know you're scared-"

"Terrified, Lanie." She looked up at Lanie through the cracks between her fingers. "Terrified."

Lanie watched her, concern evident in her dark eyes.

Kate sighed, dropping her hands and telling herself to man up. "But I'm working on it. I went back to see the therapist, after my psych eval."

Lanie's eyes widened.

"I know," Kate said. "Big step. Tell me about it. But Castle was right … I was losing myself again. I … I don't want to be that person who always settles for less, who waits for things to go wrong, who forgets how to … love."

"Katherine Beckett, you are not that person," Lanie said forcefully.

Kate wasn't so sure. "I thought maybe I didn't have to be, but with what happened ... maybe it's a sign"

"You don't believe in signs."

"Castle does."

"He also believes in aliens and body snatchers and the walking dead."

Kate had to smile.

"You are not that person Kate Beckett," Lanie repeated. "You just have to … remind yourself of it every once in a while."

Easier said than done, Kate thought. She sighed yet again.

"You know the thing I admire most about him, Lanie? The way he just … lets himself feel. He's not afraid; he's not ashamed of it. And he sticks to his guns no matter what. I want to be able to do that. He makes me want to be able to do that. Just dive in..." She looked at Lanie, and was surprised by what she saw. "Are you crying?"

"Damn straight I'm crying!" Lanie exclaimed, not even bothering to wipe away her tears as she pulled Kate into a bone-crushing hug. "I'm not made of stone!" She held Kate tight. "I'm so happy. This is what I've wanted for you since the day we met."

Kate returned the embrace. "You're a good friend, Lanie." You make me think I can do this, she added silently.

"The best, Katie," she scolded, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm the best."

Kate could only laugh, even though so many questions were left unanswered. Even though the conflict still raged on inside her and sucked the breath out of her better intentions.

"You're the best," she agreed – at least that much was known fact – just as her cellphone buzzed. Lanie pulled away, wiping at her eyes while Kate read the text message.

"Uniforms found Rocky," she informed Lanie. "They're bringing him in."

Beckett had given herself a few minutes to watch a nervous, fidgeting Rocky from the observation room, so when she entered the interrogation room with a quick, confident step, she knew she'd get Rocky's attention. When she slammed the door shut behind her, she knew she'd make him flinch. And when she threw the files she was carrying on the table in front of them, pictures of Cranker's work and Crombie's early graffiti fanning out, she knew the colour would drain from his face.

"You are in a whole world of trouble, Rockefeller Gates," Beckett said, pulling out her chair and taking a seat. "Or should I say Marcus Titshaw," she allowed herself a pause and a smirk. "I bet the kids really made fun of you in school."

Marcus was watching her. His head was shaved, his face rough, his ears pierced and his forearms tattooed. And, if it hadn't seemed incongruous on a person so weathered by the heartless beatings of a life fighting the streets, Beckett would have said he looked afraid.

The odd juxtaposition of tough guy image and wary eyes gave Beckett pause.

"Defacement of property. Criminal mischief," she read through his rap sheet. "Theft, B&E, assault. You've been in and out of jail since your late teens," she observed.

Marcus chose to keep his silence.

"It must have killed you to see John Crombie doing so well. You tagged together as teenagers, you lived in the same foster home for two years." Her voice gained intensity as she spoke. "And now while you're stuck eking out a living through petty theft, living the hard life, your friend Johnny was making a real name for himself, selling his work for tens of thousands of dollars."

He swallowed heavily, fidgeted in his chair.

"Except you knew the truth, you figured out who Crombie really was." Beckett placed photos of Crombie's early graffiti and Cranker's more recent work in front of Marcus. "And you thought: knowledge is money. You knew Cranker's real identity and it was going to cost Crombie a lot of money to keep you quiet."

Marcus' eyes widened. He looked almost offended. "I would never blackmail Johnny," he protested.

Ah, Beckett thought. So he speaks.

She slid the blackmail letter towards him, sealed in plastic. "Your prints are all over this, Marcus. You threatened to reveal that Crombie was really Cranker. So what happened? Crombie refused to pay you? Is that why you killed him?"

"I didn't-" He stopped, fumbled. Sweat beaded on his brow. "It wasn't-"

"Where were you between 3AM and 4AM on Saturday, Marcus?" she asked, meeting his eyes with a fierce steadiness.

Marcus did a double take at the sudden shift in the interrogation. "I, I was crashing at a friend's place."

"Can your friend verify that?" She maintained eye contact, making sure he didn't have the option to look away.

"He wasn't home that night," Marcus shifted uneasily in his chair.

"How convenient," Beckett's sarcasm wasn't easy to miss. "You killed Crombie and then you went back to look for the money." She paused. "It was under the floorboards, by the way."

Marcus' eyes widened in surprise.

"You would've found it eventually," she assured him, holding his gaze. "If we hadn't interrupted you."

He looked away.

"Do you know who you stabbed in that alley, Marcus?"

His adam's apple bobbed up and down. He still didn't look at her.

"You stabbed Richard Castle."

That caught his full attention. He stared at her, jaw gaping. He leaned forward. "Wait. Richard Castle the writer?" he asked, face suddenly ashen when she nodded. "Are you sure?"

Beckett nodded again. It took Marcus a moment to process this news.

"I…I love his books." He slumped back in his chair, ashamed."I read them in the prison library. Man," he muttered miserably, "I almost killed my favourite author." He looked up at Beckett. "He looks really different in his pictures. Nothing like in real life."

Beckett stared at Marcus. That was a confession. Oh goodness, Castle was going to love this story.

He looked at Beckett with sudden interest. "Wait, does that mean you're Nikki Heat?"

Beckett resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Barely.

Marcus swallowed thickly, looked tired and guilty and ashamed. "I messed up," he said, staring at his hands, voice heavy. "I messed up everything."

"He's a pretty famous guy, Richard Castle. A son of this city." Beckett said, taking advantage of Marcus' apparent remorse. "You won't be able to show your face in public once it gets out you stabbed New York's own Richard Castle. The DA's a big fan. So is the mayor. Not to mention half the judges in the city."

He ran his hands over his face, shifty-eyed. "It wasn't … I didn't … I thought he was someone else. The fancy clothes. The slicked hair."

Beckett studied him, trying to gauge if he was feeding her a story, or being honest.

"I identified us as police, Marcus. That excuse won't work here."

"But the other guy – Richard Castle – he just looked so angry, I thought he–" Marcus stopped abruptly, as though catching himself.

"You thought he what?"

He watched her, seemed to be weighing his options.

"Stop lying, Marcus," Beckett said, giving Marcus her most intimidating glare. "I'm all you've got. Tell me what happened, and I'll make sure the DA goes easy on you. I'm in your corner on this."

There was a sudden spark in his eyes. It looked like relief. "You … you can keep me safe?"

"When it hits the papers tomorrow that you're the guy who stabbed Richard Castle, I'll be your only friend in the city."

"Okay, look, it was me. I did it." He said it almost eagerly. "I went to Johnny's studio that night, I grabbed the knife right before you came in, and I used it on Richard Castle."

"What about Crombie's murder?"

"That…" There was a hint of hesitation, the fraction of a moment where his eyes flicked away from hers before returning. "That was me, too. I … I knocked on his door. Knew he'd be there. I killed him."

The hesitation gave Beckett pause. "Why did you kill him?"

"Does it matter?" he asked in exasperation.

"Why did you do it, Marcus."

"Because I wanted money. He owed me. All those times I watched his back when we were kids, so he could play with his paints. He hits it big and he forgets about me!" He slammed his fist down on the table. "Does it really matter! He's dead, okay! He's dead and I did it."

There was desperation behind his words, not anger. This was the guy who'd stabbed Castle, Beckett was convinced. She wasn't so sure he was the one who'd killed Crombie.

A knock resounded on the two-way window behind her. Gates, Beckett realized, had been listening in. And that knock was an order to end the interview. She handed Marcus a pad of paper and a pen.

"Write it down," she said as she stood up. He nodded, a little too eagerly, as he took the pen from her.

Beckett exited interrogation, and entered the observation room.

"He's hiding something," she told Gates, who was waiting for her.

"He's scared," Gates said. She looked sideways at Beckett, eyebrow raised. "He thinks the DA and the mayor have a vendetta against him for hurting a son of the city."

Beckett frowned. The way she said it sounded very critical.

"He confessed to attacking Castle," Beckett said. "And breaking into a crime scene, but I'm not sure about his involvement in Crombie's murder."

"We have his prints on the blackmail letter," Gates said pointedly. "He knew Crombie was Cranker. We have him breaking into the crime scene, the same crime scene we found a hundred thousand dollars in. Most importantly, we have a confession."

All circumstantial evidence as far as Crombie's case was concerned, Beckett thought. She doubted she could say as much without Gates accusing her of thinking like a lawyer again. And she could hardly say she had a gut feeling that something was wrong.

"I just need a few more minutes with him-"

"We have enough for the DA to put him away for a long time," Gates cut her off. "This is a win, Detective Beckett. I'll update the mayor." The captain turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

Beckett turned towards the window to watch Marcus write out his confession. She was not at all happy with how this was playing out. Marcus was hiding something, and she was going to find out what it was.

"So he was a fan?" Castle asked Beckett, who was seated at the breakfast bar across from him. Alexis was seated next to Beckett, and all three of them were enjoying an impromptu dessert session with slices of cake in celebration of the arrest Kate had come to inform them about. It was so cool that Beckett – of all the detectives in the world – had solved his case. He loved seeing her in action, and the thought of her hunting down evidence, staring down recalcitrant suspects, tying leads together with that sharp mind of hers, all for him … The thought of it made him giddy. It also made him want to write – he'd pounded out two chapters today, despite the need for frequent naps.

"It was the reason he admitted to it," Kate replied. "He felt so terrible about attacking his favourite author, that he let slip a confession."

"And that, young Padawan," he turned to Alexis, "is how you close a case without even being in the room." He tilted his head to the side, serious-face on. "Learn from the master."

"Oh, she's learned well," Kate said, smiling at his daughter. "Alexis is the reason we were able to track down Rocky in the first place."

"I just thought the graffiti looked familiar," Alexis shrugged.

"Don't be modest!" Castle scolded. "I didn't get to be an honorary NYPD Homicide Detective through modesty. I'm still waiting on the badge, by the way," he cocked an eyebrow in Kate's direction.

"Not happening," Kate replied without missing a beat.

"So Rocky also killed Crombie?" Castle asked.

Kate sighed. She rubbed a hand through her hair – something Castle knew she did when she was stumped by a case. "I'm not sure."

"But he confessed to it," Alexis said. "Why confess if he didn't do it?"

"He seemed afraid of something," Kate replied. "I'm not sure what, but Gates pulled me from interrogation and declared the case all wrapped up, so that's that as far as she's concerned." She tapped her finger against the counter, lost deep in thought over the case. A steely cloak of determination settled on her shoulders. "I'm going to find out what he's afraid of, Gates or no Gates. And then I'll go at him again."

Castle exchanged a look with Alexis.

See, he tried to telegraph to her, this is why she's extraordinary.

Alexis turned her attention to Kate, expression thoughtful.

"Gates," Castle said aloud. "I bet she's tickled pink that I'm not shadowing you."

"In between press conferences, maybe," she replied, the glimpse of a smile on her lips. "She's insisting on handling all media relations on this personally."

"Hey," he brightened as a thought occurred. "Maybe being in the limelight like this will warm her up towards me."

"The mayor has her telling everyone you're a hero," her smile bloomed into amused satisfaction, "and the force is proud to work with you."

"Ouch. Maybe not, then," he acknowledged. He almost felt bad for Gates. He looked at Alexis. "Maybe you should bake her some cookies, too."

"Those were a big hit, by the way," Kate said to Alexis. "I had to hide my stash. You would not believe how sweet a tooth your average homicide detective has."

"I can bake you more any time," Alexis said eagerly, "They're really easy to make."

Castle looked at her. Was this residual guilt, he wondered. The admiration he could see his very transparent daughter projecting, though, indicated otherwise.

Interesting.

"Thanks, Alexis," Kate was again smiling warmly at his daughter. It gave him warm fuzzies, he was man enough to admit.

Kate pushed her chair back from the counter and stood up. "And thank you guys for dessert," she said.

"Don't mention it, Super Becks," Castle teased. "Gotham thanks you."

"It's the least I could do," she said, ignoring his attempt at levity. And there was that look, the one she'd worn when she'd come to his door yesterday. That worrying mix of emotions once again lurking in those lovely eyes.

"Let me walk you out," he said, standing up carefully, movements stiff. His side was starting to hurt through the painkillers, as it usually did at the end of the day.

"Goodnight, Alexis." She smiled. "Thanks for your help with the case."

His daughter was again watching Kate with a considering gaze. That worrying mix of emotions in Kate's eyes magnified ten-fold under Alexis' scrutiny. Castle was about to intervene when Alexis shrugged and wrapped her arms around Kate in a hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled. And just as quickly as the hug had begun, Alexis pulled away and scampered up the stairs. Castle, from where he was standing, could see the blush on Alexis' face – the perils of being a fair-skinned redhead.

Very interesting.

He looked at Kate, who seemed quite taken aback as she watched Alexis disappear up the stairs. He'd bet this is just how she'd looked when Alexis had handed her the box of cookies at the station. He found himself smiling.

"I'll see you, Castle," Kate was saying, already halfway to the door by the time he snapped out of his rather pleasant daze.

"Tomorrow, maybe?" He suggested, hurrying to catch up with her. He had to hold a hand to his side as he walked. "Whatever the doc may say, you really are the best medicine."

She smiled, and so did he.

"You know what would really help me heal?" He continued, because he was a master at pushing his luck. "Another hug. Oh! Oh! How about a kiss? I'd bet my spleen would grow back from the healing effects of that."

She made a face.

"Yeah," he agreed, chagrined. He really needed to think before he spoke. "That came out sounding much grosser than I'd intended."

"Goodnight, Castle," she said again, a bit more emphatically.

"Right," he smiled fondly at her. "Goodnight." He reached to open the door for her, but had to stop at the sharp stinging as his stitches pulled with the movement. He winced, pressing a hand tightly to his side.

"Are you alright?" Kate rested a hand on his waist, eyes dark with concern.

He looked down at her hand, which was now resting on top of his, and then winked at her. "Worth it," he teased.

She was having none of it. "Rick."

"I really am feeling better," he assured her. "I'll be at a hundred percent in a month, tops."

"Be serious," she said in exasperation. The same exasperation she'd worn when he'd visited her the one time when she was laid up in a hospital bed. The room suddenly seemed a bit smaller, a bit more sterile. Alarms were blaring. "You're obviously still in pain, you can't sit for extended periods without straining yourself, you're walking stiffly and-"

"Fine, six weeks," he conceded, cutting her off before she could get even more upset.

"Castle," she began, watching him warily. "I was thinking-"

He froze as she started speaking. With a sudden suffocating clarity, he knew where this was going.

"-maybe you should take a break."

He tried not to let the betrayal appear on his face. She was pushing him away again. Like she'd done after she'd gotten shot.

"Kate. No."

"This isn't … I'm not …" She stopped, took a breath. "You need to heal. You lost part of an organ-"

"Not a vital one," he pointed out.

"You're not allowed on the frontlines in the military without a spleen."

"Or if you have flat feet, but the NYPD has entire precincts full of donut-eating flat-footed cops."

"Stop arguing with me."

"Stop being unreasonable and I won't argue with you," he pleaded.

"I am being perfectly reasonable!" Frustration flashed in her eyes.

"No, Kate!" He could hear his own desperation. Not a good thing, he noted distantly, but hell if he was doing this back-and-forth with her again. "I'm not going to do this with you. I thought we were clear on this. I laid down my cards, you laid down yours. I am not letting you back away because some idiot happened to stab me in an alley!"

She stared at him, aghast.

"Castle." Her voice broke on his name. Tears welled in her eyes.

"Aw, Kate." He moved towards her, ready to apologize. He could feel the situation spiraling away from both of them.

She stepped back, hand out to keep him away. "Alexis said she wanted you to stop coming in."

"I've discussed it with her," he said. "She's fine now."

"What if I'm not?"

"Kate," he felt it again, that clawing desperation, exacerbated by the stinging in his side and his sudden exhaustion. "I don't want to let you go. I … I'm worried that if I can't shadow you, then you'll slip away."

"Rick," she whispered, looking so torn.

They were both surprised by the vulnerability in his confession. He could see it in her eyes, how it made her wary; afraid. And being exposed in this way made him reckless.

"Don't make me let go." He was jumping the gun. He knew it. She was going to pull away. It was too soon. She wasn't ready. She wasn't the person she wanted to be, yet.

"I don't know if I can do it." She was looking at him with those big eyes so full of hurt and fear. "You make me feel the way my mom used to," she whispered.

He had to stop, to savour those words. He didn't think anyone had ever paid him a higher compliment. No greater gift. He stared at her. That sounded like a good thing, so why…

"I just..." Kate struggled with what she wanted to say. "It hurt too much." She put a hand to her chest, rubbed in back and forth absently over her heart. "I don't think I can do it again."

He wanted so badly to hug her. To hold her. To chase away that sadness, that darkness in her. But she was holding on to it so tightly.

He didn't even know what to say. What could he say? This was just that part her heart, corroded from neglect, grinding its way back. Shaking off the rust and being confused by these new motions, unfamiliar through disuse.

Perhaps that was what Jim Beckett had been talking about, the other thing he'd lost when his wife had died. Kate's heart.

"Kate," he whispered. Why couldn't he say more, finish his thoughts. Make sense of his thoughts.

"I just need to be alone," she said.

He didn't want her to go. He stared at her, searched her face for permission to ignore her words.

He came up empty.

"Please, Rick," she said, meeting his eyes. What he saw in hers squeezed the air out of the room. "Just a little while. I'll come find you." She kept looking at him, all her wounds open to see.

He stood awkwardly, bad at following instructions but even worse at handling a Beckett who was so raw, stripped bare. All the mysteries discarded, leaving this one hardened, naked kernel of truth.

It was too much.

"Sure," he said quietly, because what else could he do. Kidnapping was still illegal last he'd checked. "Of course." He opened the door for her; closed it once she'd walked out. And this, he thought, is what heartbreak sounds like. A door quietly clicking shut.