More Than Words

by feministly

Of all the pages he'd ever penned, of all the words he'd ever written, these anonymous letters to an ink and paper woman—all shadow and mystery and fragile allure—might prove more extraordinary than anything that came before. AU

13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Until We Meet

Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.

Update: Refer to A/N regarding concerns over the upcoming installment—that's my bad, I'm a tease, I'm sorry, you live, you learn, you leave less cryptic comments.

---

By sheer dint of anxious tenacity, he tripped up the steep incline, dodging the serrated teeth of cracked pavement slabs, skirting misbegotten piles of dog excrement, and inelegantly heaving in the soupy summer air. With the mercury flirting at 83 degrees before the sun had even crested over the high-rises, today promised to give hell a solid run for its money—not that he expected any less from this wonderful, terrible, greasy, patchwork city—and he was eager to conclude his run before the forecasted scorcher hit its zenith.

Maybe.

Running was a bulwark of insidious thought. Though run was an admittedly generous descriptor, he considered ruefully, wrenching his thoughts away from the searing agony in his quads and hamstrings, the nipping pulse in his Achilles tendon, the creak of his ribs with every bellowing gasp. Why, why, why people ran for pleasure—or how seasoned runners streamed fluently past, faces a mask of serenity, limned in a healthy glow of perspiration, the flesh of their sculpted calves miraculously immune to jiggling—not only confounded him, but also unfailingly pissed him off. Running was intended to render the misguided athlete miserable, tomato-faced, and wrung dry of every reserve—energy, hydration, and sentient thought. It was for exorcising invasive, persistent ideation; for exhaustion past the point of incessant brooding; for the exultation that resulted from outstripping self-imposed limitations; for pushing past that four-mile goal, gasping and dripping for another twenty minutes to prove god-knows-what.

But despite teetering on a knife's edge of nausea and fighting for an unimpeded breath and quivering from the strain of his exertions, it wasn't working.

I want us to meet. God, he hated himself.

Unequivocally.

In what had been a stunning display of trust, she'd called him—neck-deep in a crisis, all candid vulnerability and fragility, in need of tacit understanding and soothing encouragement—and rather than reaffirming that fledgling reliance, he'd hit her with a zinger from deep left field. Hard and fast—I want us to meet. What an asshole.

Molars kissing molars, tension in his jaw stretching from mandible to clavicle, he blinked the prickle of sweat from his eyelashes, shook back a forelock of sopping hair, and pressed on toward the loft, the bulk of his run behind him. The worst of it, he reflected miserably, was her kindness, her sensitivity—the way she'd tidily swept his supplication to the side, placated him with a gentle maybe, before adroitly segueing to safer conversational territory. At the time he'd been appeased, gratified even, until he'd reflected back on their exchange. And as with every remembrance of their discussion, a wash of emotions coursed through him, the chief of those being regret, closely tailed by disconcertion, and liberally interspersed with frustration, self-derision, and panic. Because he'd pushed too hard, too prematurely. Selfishly asked for things that could only—would only—topple the delicate balance of this nameless, amorphous thing they had. At the worst possible moment.

And now? Now he was living with the fear that she would neatly, deftly extricate herself from his life with the same delicate efficacy evinced in her kind set-down. That she would retreat without giving him a chance to rescind his rather demanding request—I was an ass, forget I even mentioned it. That she would be gone, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of herself in a handful of letters. Already he'd begun crafting an apology—an elegant expression of his regret leading into a litany of explanations for his impulsive challenge flanked by humorous self-recrimination. But it all sounded hollow when he spoke the words aloud, the insincerity apparent even to his own ears, because when all was said and done, he did want to meet her. So much it was almost a tangible thing, a flavor lingering on his tongue—thick, achingly bittersweet.

All he knew of her, all he had to draw on, was a crisp, velvety alto and a handful of narratives. And it wasn't enough. Not nearly. He wanted to witness the way her mouth wrapped around words as she volleyed a retort, the brilliant flash of her teeth as a laugh shook her, the curves of her face, the slant of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hands would paint the air with gestures as she spoke. He wanted it all. Katherine entire.

It scared him shitless.

And if the notion terrified him, god-knows how Kate would respond. Strictly speaking, he did know—it would trigger a retreat to rival the calamity that was Gallipoli—and the regret of loss, the irretrievable possibility of more would haunt him doggedly, shade any subsequent relationships with the acrid tang of what might have been. Which he couldn't tolerate. Couldn't bear.

With a start, he drew up short, the rubber soles of his Adidas tearing noisily at the pavement as he broke his stride and blinked up at the loft, chest still heaving. He'd made good time. Astonishingly good time. Six miles in forty perspiration-laden minutes—the power of distraction and self-recrimination hard at work. And somehow, despite his grueling pace and the stunning amount of energy he'd expended, he still felt penitent, far from vindicated. Left wanting more, needing more, just this side of bereft.

God, he was a mess—internally, externally, an encyclopedic disaster.

Lifting a shoulder, he wearily smeared his forehead against the damp sleeve of his pullover, bobbed a nod of acknowledgement as he passed Eduardo, and gasped reflexively as he passed into the foyer's frigid interior. He stopped only to collect his mail before shuffling into the elevator, gait stiff, and pressed a feverish temple to one of the car's brushed stainless panels as it fluidly ascended, steadfastly ignoring the snarl of anxiety in his gut, the sting of remorse behind his eyes. On wooden legs, he entered the sun-splashed expanse of the loft and cursorily took in his surroundings, stiffly toed off his shoes before pressing on. The allure of a cool shower propelled him past the loft's threshold, drawing him through the tranquil interior of his home office—mail unceremoniously discarded on the shambolic surface of his desk—and into the ascetic landscape of his master bath. His sweatshirt slapped wetly against the tile as he disrobed, the rest of his sodden clothing contributing to the pile, and he clambered beneath the brisk spray, eager for the anesthetizing shock of the icy water. The way it would foist everything aside for just a moment—his lamentable interpersonal blunder, the looming gala function with Gina, the aftereffects of Meredith's recent New York sojourn, Derek's recent literary intractability—and give him the space to draw a full breath.

He was reveling in the mindlessness of the moment, reaching for an exorbitant bottle of Keihl's body wash, when he heard the whisper-soft snick of the bathroom door and cast his eyes upward in mute supplication. Because there was only one goddamn woman nosy enough to intrude on a man in the midst of a cold shower.

"Richard, it's me," his mother's voice bounced sonorously off of the glossy subway tiles, all ebullience and bravado. "Alexis and I had the grandest time in D.C., at the National Museum of Art, and of course she adored U Street and Georgetown, but she refused to tour the International Spy Museum—positively defied the notion of going—until you could be present as well, saying that you would find it unforgiveable, us excluding you from exhibitions devoted entirely to espionage and—"

"Mother," he halted her, one broad hand braced against the wall, striving to dampen the annoyance that bled through his tone, "can we table this until I'm, you know, not—well, not exposed?" Why this was even a necessary request utterly baffled him.

"Oh, darling," Martha replied, all breezy unflappability. "I don't know why you're bothered—I mean, after all, you ride police horses in the buff and hardly bat an eye. But, I—I'll just go get brunch started. We can continue our conversation over mimosas."

Jesus Christ.

Absolutely not.

He was already in the shittiest of moods, and he knew his mother—she would probe and poke and pester until he relented and growlingly, tartly, reluctantly revealed the basis of his sulk, and then conversation would turn to the detective of his affections, and discussing Kate Beckett meant revealing the humiliatingly comprehensive scope of his entanglement. Which he was far from prepared to do, considering he hadn't begun to process the breadth and depth of whatever the hell this even was. Hadn't had the grit and temerity to really explore his inmost thoughts regarding her, regarding them, regarding what he wanted. And yet, for all his irritation, his internal countermanding, his indignation at literally being caught with his pants down, all that issued from him was a weak, "I ate like an hour ago, mother—"

"Well, that's all fine and well, but Alexis is starving, and I promised her something rich and Belgian and smothered in crème fraiche. Is your waffle iron still to the right of the sink? Never mind, I'll find it and dust it off and polish off the rest of the berries in the fridge before they develop a layer of fur. And really, why you purchase so much fruit for only the two of you—it's outrageous!"

And because he'd just run six miles and had no faculties earmarked for this washout of a morning, he resignedly hummed his assent, vigorously began soaping himself down, and mentally prepared for the meal that stretched bleakly before him—one that necessitated the dismantling of smoke detectors, a forbearance of stroopwafel-like Belgians, and a discussion with all the appeal of a lidocaine-less root canal.

---

"How's the novel coming, darling?" Martha inquired, spooning raspberries over a remarkably lopsided waffle, ignoring the pinched frown Alexis' directed at her, the way those bright eyes darted to Rick before rebounding to her plate. "You have that Samuel Taylor Coleridge look about you."

Oh, his kid knew him, could read his moods in the space of a sigh, knew that there was no approach less conducive to maintaining the precarious calm that had settled over the table.

"What, slack-jawed and bleary-eyed from opioid abuse?" He huffed, aiming for humor.

And hitting discouragingly wide of the mark, apparently.

"Uninspired," she clarified dryly, spearing a plump strawberry. "He was the progenitor of writer's block you know?"

"I'm well aware, thank you," he rejoined acerbically, selected a defenseless waffle from the pile, and ripped away the better half of it with his teeth. Scapegoating pastries to maintain his calm felt like a new low. "But I don't have writer's block, kind as you were to suggest otherwise. I'm simply at—you know, at a sort of crossroads with—with the—with Derek."

Martha nodded sagely, all clear-eyed innocence and altruistic concern—the façade of a master snoop. "Yes, that detective has recently been something of a nuisance, it seems. However, there's another detective entirely who, if I'm correct, is the reason you're wearing that dejected, petulant, rather unattractive scowl."

What the hell.

With a strangled cough, he convulsively swallowed his bite of waffle, the crusted edges raking the lining of his throat. "What—who are you talking about?" He demanded roughly, striving to assume a dumb, clueless expression.

"What detective?" Alexis enjoined, eyes as wide and glittering and expectant as his mother's, little mouth bowing in a canny smile. Sighing, he reached over and brushed a dollop of whipped cream from beneath her upper lip, biting back an unbidden smile as she scrunched her nose, her constellation of freckles coalescing tightly before scattering across the bridge again—a tiny supernova. "Dad," her tone was half reproach, half soft-soap, "what detective?"

"She really is quite lovely, Richard," Martha murmured, and he swiveled his head, so abruptly he felt an answering burn in his trapezius, his body following on a tight pivot to face her. The forthright sentiment coursed hotly through him, a lurid shock that flushed his neck and ears, siphoned the air from his lungs.

What?

"What did you say?"

"She's lovely. Your detective—Katherine," Martha continued her meal unabashedly, fixing him with a knowing look. "I may be as desiccated as a craisin—your words, not mine—with a sense of vapid flamboyancy to rival Elton John's—another one of your flattering platitudes, darling—but my brain is still in peak condition, and the internet is a tool well-nigh as mighty as the sword. Or the pen, as it were."

Clearly he needed to nix the barbed asides, because she was salvaging them as buckshot—more penetrating and effective than his initial volleys. She was a goddamn strategist, the Patton of well-meaning manipulations.

"You looked her up," each word emerged sluggishly, disbelief protracting his syllables.

"You haven't?" This time she did freeze, waffle-laden fork hovering halfway to her mouth, regarding him bemusedly. "Why ever not?"

Yeah, why not, Rick?

"I didn't want to wreck the mystery," he informed her through stiff lips, the excuse weak to even his own ears.

"Ah, yes. The mystery. Of course. But, cutting to the heart of it all, is it patience or fear that's staying your hand?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shot back, parrying her inquiry, question for question.

"Only that your track record regarding romantic relationships is less than stellar," her eyes flickered away from him then, bangled wrists chiming as she lifted a crystal flute brimming with orange juice and champagne far too expensive for an impromptu brunch.

Well, damn.

That was a low blow, the judgment sanctimonious given her history, and it rankled, crept under his skin. But, annoyance aside—regarding it through an objective lens—she wasn't wrong. Not entirely.

Brushing the thought aside, he arranged his features into a mask of indifference, eyes shuttered. "And your own sordid, varied past, mother?"

"Doesn't apply to our discussion," she dismissed coolly, "don't sidestep the issue, and don't insult me just to derail the conversation, Richard." A taut beat passed, punctuated by the rasp of wooden chair legs against the floorboards as Alexis shifted in her seat, eyes wide, mouth a taut hyphen, too perceptive, too emotionally attuned for her own damn good. And the last thing she needed was more conflict coloring her life. Looking askance at his mother, he tipped his head toward his daughter, a subtle reminder of the potential ramifications of a falling out, another familial fracture.

"Much as I'm loving the bent of this conversation," he ground out, straining to temper his expression, "how's about we put this little parley on ice?"

And to her credit—and his relief—she understood. Adjusted accordingly. Comprehension and forbearance softening the lines that bracketed her mouth, pleating the corners of her eyes, and Martha continued then, voice gentle, "It isn't—I'm not saying this to needle or antagonize you, I hope you realize, and I know—I know you and I are cut from the same disreputable cloth. Apple falling within reach of the proverbial tree, sins of the father and all that—or mother, rather. So there's absolutely no judgment from this corner. But you and commitment? Water and oil could boast more compatibility."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I—I think you've been hedging, darling. Every response a question, deflecting, on the defensive. Per usual."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" He demanded lowly, fork clattering sharply against his plate, "that I know I'm an undisputed wreck? That I'm afraid if I start something I'll foul it up, per usual. That I can't make heads or tails of this thing between she and I because I wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it was standing in front of me wearing a garish neon sign and a halo? Cause that's what's been running—wind-sprinting—through my mind since about the second letter I posted. I'm not unaware," he ground out, channeling his fingers roughly through damp hair, "I'm—I'm..." He trailed off, words bunching in his throat.

"Afraid," Martha supplied, sweeping him with an assessing gaze, "you're afraid."

She wasn't pulling any punches today. Hard verbal emotional jabs steeped in maternal concern. And it wasn't as though her motives were specious, wasn't as though she intended to purposely wound him, but her sudden forthrightness kind of shocked the hell out of him. As a family unit, they were evasive, performing hairpin pirouettes around the grittier issues, historically speaking. Allowed grievances and secrets to suppurate and fester and devolve into bitter resentments and coy passive aggression. For whatever reason, whatever motive, though, she'd dropped prevaricating to accommodate for some good old-fashioned conflict. And for the record, he wasn't precisely a fan.

"In summation, yeah. I suppose that's the way of it. Generally speaking," he muttered, risking a glance at Alexis who blinked owlishly at him, mouth twitching up in a placating smile.

What a lovely fucking morning. The brunch of dreams. Served hot and carb heavy in Guantanamo Bay.

"It's the fear that makes it real, you know," Martha opined sagely, knowingly, startling him from his acidic musings.

"Makes what real?"

"I think you know, darling."

And he did know, he realized with a disquieting pang in his chest, a sick lurch in his gut. Which was absurd and hasty and idealized and ludicrous. He knew that, too. But for all his acknowledgments, it was utterly involuntary. Inevitable, maybe—that he would plummet effortlessly, inadvertently into the murky depths of a specter. An ink-and-paper woman that encompassed all of the mystery, all of the allure, all of the profundity for which he longed and reconciled himself to never finding.

And yes, there was that part of him—a sublimated, inscrutable part of him with unknown dimensions—that grudgingly, mutely, compulsively four-letter-worded her. A part of him he crushed in a stranglehold, choked into submission.

"Am I wrong?" He jerked his head to the left, the fading burn in his neck flaring anew. It was a tacit admission, all he would yield, and he met her scrutiny with a composure he didn't feel, that belied the pulse jackhammering in his neck, his ears. No, she wasn't wrong. And it petrified him. "And what do you plan to do about it?" She continued, pulling a knee-jerk grimace from him.

"I don't—I don't know. Meet her, talk to her, charm her. Win her over with my rugged good looks and significant financial cushion," he quipped wryly, but Martha only regarded him placidly, expectantly, and he fought the urge to shift nervously in his seat. Like Alexis just moments prior. Like he was thirteen all over again—knuckles bloodied and swollen and raw, the surge and pulse of battle still an ugly glint in his eyes, fighting the urge to wilt beneath the weight of her compassionate dismay. After a beat, he sighed wearily, admitted quietly, "I don't know. She's not ready to hear it—hasn't even agreed to meet with me, so anything involving feelings bodes terribly ill—and in truth, I'm—I'm not ready to say anything. Wouldn't know what to say even if I wanted to, you know, lay my figurative heart at her—in all likelihood perfect—feet. So, I guess—I just sit on this, just wait. Let things unfold naturally, gradually."

"Mm," Martha hummed, eyes on her hands, and she waited a beat before responding slowly, "I think restraint is sensible. But I also think hesitating could mean—that this could crumble into something too passive. Because it looks a little like sitting on your hands rather than waiting patiently. And that can only end poorly for you both."

And did it really matter what fork in the road he followed, which divergence he selected? Perhaps. But not necessarily. The outcome of this rare and odd and lovely little experiment wasn't wholly dependent on his decisions, his desires. If it hinged on anything, on anyone, it was her. Kate, the unknown variable—a Schrödinger's cat of confundity and clarity, everything hanging, hanging in the balance as he waited for her to catch up to where he waited, steady, and wanting and yes, four-letter-wording her.

So yeah, he could hold an ace-high straight flush and play his hand flawlessly, lay his every resource, each stock and bond and goddamn decimal point on the line, and she could summarily decide poker wasn't her game after all. Opt for chess or horseshoes or hell, why not pugilism? Call it a day—it's just not a good time for me, Alex—and leave him alone, hands full of worthless, lithographed vinyl and a string of maybes, might-have-beens, if-onlys. It would be that quick, that final. That brutal.

"Well, what do I do, hm?" He demanded, pushing back his plate, appetite a spineless deserter in the wake of his revelations and Martha's hard-hitting truths.

"Much as I'd like to solve this for you, darling," her voice was spun cotton, her eyes even softer, and he felt the vice-like press of his tension and near anger loosen thread by thread. Thirteen all fucking over again. "I can't."

God, he needed a drink. Something a hell of a lot stronger than Veuve Clicquot and Tropicana.

"Then the whole third degree thing was—"

"To spark a much needed ah-ha moment," she informed him tolerantly, and then sighed at his shuttered expression. "You haven't talked about this with anyone, have you? Not really. Aside from the one off with me. Maybe you mentioned it in passing but you haven't taken the time to parse it out with a trusted confidante." Bewilderedly, he met her knowing gaze, because how the hell she'd determined that—really, how she'd intuited all of the various and sundry and really, wholly unappreciated insights into his being this morning—escaped him.

"I know you, Richard," she continued, eyes a little hazy and distant, trained on a patch of wall or window over his shoulder, "and you need to talk about it with someone, be it me or a friend or a stranger on the subway, but talk. And figure this out. And I know, I know, I said I couldn't tell you what to do, and I can't. Won't," she snapped back then, intent and focused, canting towards him with a gravity and emotional forcefulness that testified to her mettle as a performer, vindicated every award and accolade she'd garnered, and he had the discomfiting sensation that she could discern each insecurity and fear and doubt that simmered beneath his skin.

"You write fictional lives, imagined heroes into being, attribute them with bravery and tenacity and the resolve to pursue what they want, who they want to the ends of the earth if need be. And you—you may be flesh and blood and not ink and paper, Richard, but you're a living, breathing protagonist, and you decide your own story, your own path, even your own denouement. If you sit idly by and allow something other than courage to govern you, you'll never forgive yourself, you know? And if you were to—quite literally—steal a page from one of your own acclaimed books, you wouldn't hesitate. You'd take your own advice."

She leaned more deeply across the table, one hand reaching out, then resting it against his own splayed fingers before smiling, succinctly consolidating the overarching character themes of David McAllister, Leroy Fine, Derek Storm, and even those of his lesser loved and two-dimensional leads.

"Pull the trigger, bite the bullet, get the girl."

---

Following her soliloquy, which he wished he could've captured, scrawled down, used in some future work because it was raw and poignant and compelling—though the day he divulged that thought to his mother was the day Satan built an igloo—silence lapsed. Martha turned back to her congealing waffle, tucking back in doggedly, and Alexis picked at the remains on her own plate, the flame blue of her focus visible in his peripherals. That right there was a conversation he was almost certainly going to suffer through. As if his mother wasn't enough. Nor the tireless churning of his own musings. Lovely. Tamping down a sigh, he pressed up from the table and quietly began collecting plates and ceramic dishes, assiduously giving both redheads a wide berth before escaping to the relative peace of his kitchen, and from there, to the absolute peace of his study. Which is where he sequestered himself reclusively, scrawling thoughts on Derek, the current plot, potential dialogue in his beaten Moleskine while Martha and Alexis talked and bustled in the kitchen.

His focus was intent, unremitting—the temporary absolution from outside thought anchoring him to the task—for some indeterminate stretch of time until the conspicuous absence of sound stirred him from his reflections, settling around him almost palpably, and he pulled himself away from the chicken scratch and half-assed flow charts on the tissue-thin paper bent over his knee, and frowned. Silence was a state of being antithetical to Martha Rodgers. And, for that matter, Alexis Castle. Glancing up, he twitched, blinked once, bemused to find his daughter leaning against the doorframe, all cool contemplation. Burying a reflexive smirk at the visual—her slender arms folded imperiously, one cinnamon eyebrow hooked upward, his mother's doppelgänger in miniature—he instead curved his mouth into a weary smile. Oh, yeah, he knew that look. Had been on the receiving end of it for longer than he'd been capable of holding rational conversation. And it was telling him he was in for a pint-sized if not thematically substantial earful.

"What detective, dad?"

Straight for the jugular. Impressive. Subtle she was not, though in tenacity she could rival a kennel of English bulldogs, and he looked on admiringly as her bare feet tapped determinedly toward an armchair, the delicate edge of her chin thrust obstinately into the air. Answers, the tilt said. She expected them.

Where to even start?

He deliberated, internally shuffling through his options while Alexis inelegantly clambered onto the overstuffed leather cushions, adjusted the bunched fabric of her top, folded her legs into lotus position, flicked the silken panel of her ponytail behind her shoulder, and turned expectant eyes on him.

Time up.

Rick took a preparatory breath. "Do you remember when I mentioned a friend of mine to you? One whose feelings I'd hurt?" At her shallow bob of concession, he continued. "Well, I did just like you suggested. And smart cookie that you are, your advice did the trick. One heartfelt apology later and, lo and behold, we were friends again."

"She forgave you," she murmured gravely, disregarding his attempts at levity, and stanchioned spindly elbows against scabby knees, used twin fists to prop the stubborn jut of her chin.

"Yeah," he returned, forced playfulness draining away, leaving behind a quiet pensiveness. Eyes coming to rest on the bundle of her letters, the sheath secured with a length of green hair ribbon Alexis had abandoned in his master suite a few weeks back, he picked up the thread of his retelling. "She gave me a second chance, which is a big deal for her. Trusting people, letting them in—or, you know, letting them see what and how much she feels, is—it's a big deal. A lot of bad things have happened to her and a lot of people have let her down, and she thinks the only person she can trust in and depend on is herself. But we're getting along really well. Or—well, at least, I feel like we get along. And the more we've talked and the better I know her, the more I want to meet her. Because up until now, we've—well, we've only written letters or spoken over the phone. You can be friends without spending time together in person. Many people have friends they've never met face-to-face, I understand that. And if that's how she wants things to stay, I—I'll respect her wishes," he sighed, glanced over at Alexis' impassive expression, let a smile flicker over his face, "but I wish—I want to meet her."

"Because you like her," she clarified, tilting her head to one side.

Eight going on eighteen, this kid. "I do like her," he conceded softly, "very much."

Alexis' mouth fluttered open, snapped closed, the pattern repeating itself as she peered into his face curiously. "So," she finally managed, thoughts snagging on a word, "do you—I mean, do you like her like her, or just like her? Like, just a friend."

"Oh," he leaned back at her question, disconcertment furrowing the expanse of his forehead.

It was a foregone conclusion the moment you read that inscription, Rick.

"I mean—I really like her. And I think if we got the chance to meet—have coffee or lunch or sit on a park bench and just talk—I would have a better idea, you know. Of whether I like her as a friend or as—you know, as more than a friend."

Liar.

From the way she scrutinized him, narrowed her eyes, he got the sense she'd detected the false buoyancy in his voice, the too pragmatic, anomalously phlegmatic way he'd breezed through his rationalizations. And he expected her to call him on his shit, but instead, she hitched her shoulders in a shrug. "Okay," Alexis drawled, attention still leveled on him, "I guess that makes sense."

He struggled to keep his expression placid, tethered his surprise. "It does?"

"Sure," she nodded sagely, looking for all the world like some Raja yogi in pursuit of Samadhi—lotus legs, unflappable expression, narrow jaw still propped on fists. "You don't wanna really like her until you know if she likes you back."

Damn. Well, she wasn't wrong.

"That's—yeah, you're—you're right. I wanna wait and see where she's at with all of…this," his gestured to himself, then drifted abstractedly, hand tracing the air between his body and Alexis', "before I think about liking liking her. You know?"

"What's her name again?" She murmured, the action of speech against her bolstered jaw cantilevering her head strangely, an enigmatic wobble.

"Kate," he returned easily, smiled at her, some of his tension leaving him when she smiled back.

"Pretty," she commented inanely, paused for a restorative beat, then resumed her inquisition. "Why do you like her?" As if there was a straightforward response to that question. As if he had the capacity or insight to even articulate his thoughts. And yes, he was a writer, he knew. Recognized that the occupation demanded a certain fluency with feelings and intentions and motives, and the irony of his deep-rooted emotional constipation wasn't from lost on him. But far be it from him to disillusion the first flushes of romance he saw in Alexis' saccharine smile, in the lambency of her eyes. She wanted to live vicariously, so he folded his hands, sunk further into the well-worn recesses of his desk chair.

"That's a loaded question. Why do we, any of us, like anyone? We can list a lot of personality traits, but the reality is more goes into it than that."

"Like what?" She demanded.

"The circumstances under which you meet—like, are you in a place in your life where you want more friends? At that specific moment in the day, do you even feel like talking? And when you do speak to one another, do you happen to say the right thing at the right moment?" Rick wondered about that. Often. If he'd sent the letter another day, written different words, what would have transpired? "There are second chances, of course, but you only have seven seconds—according to experts on the matter—to make your first impression. And once that window of time has passed, you're kind of stuck with their perception, or their thoughts, about you."

"But why do you like her?" He heard the accusation behind her pointed question—stop prevaricating.

Because she makes me feel alive, was the concise response, the authentic one. But he didn't think that would satisfy Alexis' push for answers.

"Well," he murmured softly, features shifting, melting into something gentle, pensive. "She's very brave, and very strong. I like that about her. I don't know all of the things that have happened to her, don't know all of the battles she's had to fight, but I do know people that loved her died, people that were supposed to take care of her didn't, and she's been all on her own for a while. Even with all of that, though—all of that pain and all of that loneliness—she chose to work a job that allows her to help others. Even though no one was helping her. So, she's selfless, too."

"And good," Alexis chimed in, "she's a good person."

"Yeah, she is," his voice was warm, gaze tender, "without a doubt. And her job doesn't just require her to help people, it requires her to risk her life sometimes. She's a police officer," he simplified, relishing the way her vibrant eyes flared in admiration, "and yes, she's brave because of everything she survived, but also because her job is dangerous and every day she decides to get out of bed and protect you, me, perfect strangers, and even bad or evil people. That's pretty courageous," he took a collective pause, smirked at Alexis' marked engrossment, cleared his throat, continued, "She likes books and so do I—of course, I write them, read them," his eyes flickered to the heavy-laden shelves demarcating the boundaries of his study, Alexis' gaze quick to follow, "and I appreciate someone who can discuss literature with me. Who likes big words and proper grammar—"

"There, their, they're." The dimpled smile she flashed—unabashedly spotlighting his central pet peeve—pulled a laugh from him.

"Exactly," he agreed warmly, face wreathed in amusement. If there'd ever been any doubts she was his, that quip was concrete proof. "And who values all of the things that books can teach us. Um," he raised a hand to his face, pressed and swept a broad palm over his brow, cheeks, nose, chin, before resolving what to say. "I like that she's clever. She's—yeah, she's really funny. She has a great sense of humor, is incredibly witty—you know, thinks fast, teases me, is unusually sarcastic, much like another young lady of my acquaintance," he pinned Alexis with a faux glower and was rewarded with a smiling-eyed scowl, "and that's—well, it's fun. Getting to banter and joke with her.

"Let's see, what else? I like that she cares so much. About me, her dad, her friends and coworkers, the people she swore to protect. And I like that she's forgiving. I really messed up with her, hurting her feelings—" lying, his self-conscious interjected maliciously, "—but she managed to let it go, and kept talking to me even though I knew I'd upset her."

Alexis nodded once in acknowledgement and then shifted her eyes to peer out the window. White shafts of piping summer sunlight streamed luridly through the panes, harshly irradiating her piquant face, exchanging the cornflower irises for something closer to transparency. It was an unsettling effect, broken when she tipped her face down and out of the buttery glow to toy with a hank of her hair, fingers exploring the bristled ends of a copper strand. "You like a lot of good things about her," she remarked slowly, and then raised her head, fixed him with a wondering look, "but do you like any of the things that aren't good?"

He blinked at the question, taken aback. "I don't—you're gonna have to explain what you mean."

"I mean, like," a little huff forced its way out of her and she flicked a hand up in exasperation, grimacing. It was the same expression she'd worn as an infant when learning to talk, all cherubic perturbation as the words she so clearly strove to utter remained latent, emerging instead as senseless chattering. "It's really easy to like all of the—like, you know, all the good things about a person. The happy things. How nice they are, the way they treat their friends when they're around you, the jokes they make and their favorite books and movies and stuff. That's the easy part. But," she slowed, regarded him solemnly, "what about the things that are really hard to love? Their bad habits? The worst thing they ever said or did? What about the things she's done that hurt your feelings? Grams said that's when you know how you really feel about someone—if you accept the bad the same way you accept the good."

She blinked slowly, once, twice, a carrot-top Yoda perched crisscross applesauce on his chair, bird-bone frame dwarfed by the bulky dimensions of scuffed cocoa leather cushions. Since when had his kid blossomed into a self-help guru? And how the hell had he gone this long embracing his comfy little falsehood? He'd convinced himself he could defer his feelings until he talked to Kate, until they collaboratively sussed out this offbeat little dalliance, took each other's mettle, had that inevitable, unvarnished conversation about labels and emotions and significance and them. Turns out the assumed back-burner was ratcheted to high, boiling point an inevitability, methane blue flames licking the air, and all of the self-served relational moderators he'd swallowed were absolute bullshit.

Because you couldn't earmark feelings, couldn't ice them for later or in-the-instance-of or maybe-if. Feelings were absolute, ungovernable and dark and compulsive, and he released a stale breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, sudden comprehension osmosing the moisture from his mouth and throat, wrenching his stomach queasily downward.

Deciding whether or not he four-letter-worded Kate was suddenly extraneous.

And really, hadn't it always been a foregone conclusion?

He already did.

It was for the way you look at me and made for you and me, that Nat King Cole refrain.

It was Corinthians I—never failing, but the greatest of these, without it I am nothing —and sonnet 116—does not alter when it alteration finds, or bend with the remover to remove, an ever fixed mark, looks on tempests and never shake.

It was 'til death us do part, in sickness and health and all the mundane in-betweens.

It was a quiet certainty that nestled in the notch between his ribs, a fixedness acquired with every letter, every phone conversation.

It was the surge of heat when she murmured his name, the near reverence he fostered for her strength in the face of adversity, the paradoxical satisfied discontentment he felt at the conclusion of every call, the wistful longing for goodbye to one day be goodnight.

It was that elusive thing he'd wanted, striven to unearth in Meredith and a string of other women rendered nameless, faceless, by a whiskey-warm alto shrouded in anonymity.

It was something that might be nothing, but could be everything, could be his as long as we both shall live, his always.

He swallowed, tongue clinging to the desiccated surface of his palate, blood surging sibilantly in his ears.

Shit.

He loved her.

---

Left reeling, bemused in the wake of his epiphany, Rick passed the next few days in a sort of stupor, rendered uncharacteristically taciturn as he sorted, categorized, contemplated, agonized, grateful that Alexis was preoccupied with a sleep away birthday party followed by a day spent with his conniving though openhanded mother, caroming from store to store in search of back-to-school clothing and accessories.

Which gave him ample time to stew, to write with immersive, tenacious energy fueled by demitasses of espresso courtesy of his La Marazocco and a series of highballs glowing amber, the oaky dram of Glenlivet 33 closer to four fingers than two. And when he wasn't writing, he was running, pushing himself to the threshold of stomach turning muscle failure, or cleaning the loft obsessively—wiping down baseboards, dusting air vents, scrubbing grout with an erstwhile toothbrush, recaulking bathtubs, decalcifying shower heads. And doing his damnedest—really and truly and vainly trying—to refrain from missing, thinking of, wanting, fearing Kate.

It unnerved him, the power she unconsciously held, that she unknowingly cradled the sum of all his hopes in the votive of her hand, and he flinched from it. Hating it. Loving it. Feeling acutely, exhaustively vulnerable in ways he couldn't combat, couldn't circumvent.

Following the Machiavellian execution of Martha's interrogative brunch—or as he had snidely christened it, his brush with culinary waterboarding—she'd maintained her distance, a thoughtful if not belated gesture that he'd appreciate if he wasn't so fucking rankled by her prying questions and wide-eyed, well-meaning advice. Though, if he allowed it, or grew weary of forcibly tuning it out, the truth in his mother's words penetrated the haze of his self-pity and ire and trepidation like the sun burning through a shroud of fog.

God, his similes had all the hallmarks of the ramblings of a preteen girl.

And it pissed him off.

Because he was better than that. He was a literary genius, a veritable Hawking with metaphors and imagery and character development so nuanced they offered college courses on his novels. Well, the newer ones, at any rate. He was almost positive they used his seminal works as an example of what not to do, and he felt surprisingly indifferent at the thought of creative writing profs creating PowerPoints featuring him as a cautionary paradigm. Because really? Campy fledgling novels and Alex-Mac-cum-slutty-prom-queen heroine aside, no one was laughing now. At least, no one with any inkling of the staggering row of place values stretching across his bank statement.

And he was trying to harness his literary savant, but despite his best whiskey-infused efforts, his writing was suffering—Derek had turned into such a fucking pansy. Pining after an unobtainable, stunning Rubik's cube of a woman he'd introduced in chapter three. But then so had his creator, he conceded dryly.

Such a lovestruck pansy, Rick.

Too, his thighs felt like the water balloons Alexis filled and stockpiled in a spacious Igloo cooler each summer in the Hamptons—precariously tight, retaining excessive amounts of water, and one misplaced hangnail away from detonation. And what's more, he was running low on Glenlivet and strawberry Pop-tarts, which meant he'd be forced within the next few hours to venture from the immaculate and unnervingly hushed interior of the loft.

And he needed to call her.

He knew.

Rip the Bandaid—involuntary eye-watering, arm hair and all, no tender gestures.

And let her set the tempo. If he could restrain himself from barreling through the conversation with a one-sided end goal in mind—because yeah, he wanted to meet her more than he'd wanted to marry Meredith, which made him pathetic and probably an asshole sans pareil, but there it was.

He wanted to meet her more than he'd wanted his first publishing deal, wanted to know her in a way that made his throat ache, his thoughts tangle, and he pondered the when where how. At what point had it all narrowed down to her? At what point had he fallen—plummeted—for her, like the curve of the earth had constricted, narrowed, the pull of gravity stronger, harsher and the ground beneath him further than he'd recalled. And if he was swan diving into a fucking void, she was securely tethered to bedrock—with the bedrock being her fearful hesitation due to her shadowed and inscrutable past, yeah, again with the shitty metaphors, he knew—cautiously earthbound while he gleefully tumbled through time and space.

Probably to figuratively, emotionally pancake himself a few feet from her perfect, cagey self.

So now he was gridlocked.

Nearly a week since he'd allowed himself to entertain the thought of calling Kate. Thoughts knuckling down on her—on their impending conversation, on how much he missed the familiar rise and fall of her voice, how much he loathed it.

Everything in him was at cross purposes.

The washed up romantic in him indelibly drawn to the promise of unconventional, storybook-worthy, starry-eyed passion implausibly culminating in lock, stock, and barrel love.

And then the jaded pleasure seeker, all smooth words and flat-eyed smiles to lacquer and seal in his emotions, reeling in pliant, feminine bodies using flashy cars and designer suits and his very, very skilled hands as lures, hooking them adroitly, magnetically, before executing a crisp, insouciant catch-and-release.

So this was his Robert Frost, two-roads-yellow-woods moment.

He'd made himself divergent for her. He was what he had been and what he longed to be. He was Alex and Rick Castle. Her principled, gentle, transparent pen pal in one reality, her silver-tongued, opulent seducer in its parallel. This thing with her, it was the line—in the sand, the demarcation you laid it all on, that stripe you crossed. It was a wild speculation, a literal coin toss. And he couldn't predict which way the scales would tip, what the roll of the dice would yield.

But after more than a week without hearing her voice, and his mother's cross-examination and his daughter's abecedarian counsel and one too many tumblers of the hard stuff, he picked up the phone—proverbial bullet clenched between his teeth, stress fractures in his molars, strain in his jaw, and Jesus Christ, why was this suddenly so difficult? Such a little word and such perilous, insurgent, transformative implications.

Four innocuous, undeclared letters and his heart was punishing his ribs, the hollow surge filling his ear canals, the dry crater of his mouth, the covert fluid-filled space girding his optic nerves, the rounded cusps of his fingers and toes, and he had to bear down on the phone, press his head against the earpiece just to hear the chirrup of the ring back tone because his pulse was just that loud, because he was emotionally stunted and terrified of the scope of something that was nothing more than an ephemerous theory. To him. And if he had to guess, she was likely ignorant to it all, innocently blind. Lopsided pining, unrequited asymmetry.

Oh, there it is.

His spine ossified, a nervous, unyielding lineament as the chirruping ceased and a soft snick sounded and then there she was.

"Hey," she greeted, and there was the subtlest thread of wariness in her voice. He wanted to soothe it, he wanted to provoke it. Awaken the same faltering uncertainty in her that rioted through him. "I—uh, it's been a while," she informed him factually, and he grimaced. Now guilt was uncertainty's shadowy bedfellow.

Excellent.

"Hey back," he returned, aiming for casual and touching down on strained nonchalance. Fighting back a sigh, he took a less flippant tack and continued. "You're right. It's been a while. Longer than—it's been too long. And I'm sorry I haven't called before now. I—I should have."

Not the raw truth she deserved or he wanted to speak, but it was substance, authenticity. An admission of guilt. He waited as the silence stretched elastically, expectantly, and shifted against the couch cushions, disinterred an abridged hardback of White Fang from his lumbar region, and allowed his fingers to drum out a nervous tattoo on the glossy cover, an amateurish wolf frozen mid-howl and pressed beneath his clammy palm.

"Is everything okay, Alex?"

Damn.

That her first thought was for him, to confirm that he was well, was safe—and to be fair, the woman had so much heart and compassion she'd probably do the same for a knife-wielding transient in the tunnels—and not for the uncertainty and lingering traces of disappointment he heard at the periphery of her sentences. "I mean," she continued, "I'm sure you were busy. Work, your kid, life."

Hesitating a beat too long, he murmured his assent, decided on redacted honesty. "You're right that I've been somewhat…preoccupied," he allowed, then stopped abruptly before saying something he'd inevitably regret.

"Preoccupied," she repeated flatly, no question in the word, and a frown pulled at his mouth, notched the space between his brows.

"Yeah," he admitted slowly, unable to pinpoint the thread of emotion running through her response, though he knew for a fact it wasn't equanimity or contemplation or even dejection. She seemed to be waiting for elaboration, for more than his murky run-around, so he doubled the tempo of his drumming, let his foot take up the same pace against the floorboards, and summoned the scattered odds and ends of his resolve. "And if I'm speaking honestly, I wasn't sure if a call from me would be a welcome thing. After—well, you know. After our last conversation."

There was silence on the line, then the punctuation of a puff of breath. "I don't—what are you talking about, Alex?"

Was she serious?

His fingers stilled, a jolt of bewilderment drawing his eyebrows toward his hairline. "I, uh—I was pushy and insensitive. And I really—I shouldn't have said—asked—what I did. Of you."

Christ, he hated this. His newfound awareness of what he felt for her had drained him of his velvety words and disarming appeal. Rendered him tongue-tied and very, very aware of his myriad shortcomings.

Another collective pause tightened his stomach, hampered his breathing. "So, you're—you changed your mind, then. You don't want to meet." The faulty conclusion—though reflecting on his fumblingly vague apology, he could see why she'd arrived at it—came out detached, cool, and he scrambled to elucidate. To smooth over the sense of betrayal that threatened to leak through her calm.

He knew her.

"If you think I don't wanna meet you, you haven't been paying attention," the pitch of his voice dropped to a low husk, all grave sincerity, "but the timing—I regret that, Kate."

"I don't."

This woman, though, unbalancing him with each sentence. Entirely unpredictable. Because of all the things she could have said, he would never have anticipated that. Her admission—I don't—was vulnerability personified. Really?

"Are you—really?" And of all the things he could've said—he succumbed to a spectacular eye-roll and allowed his head to loll back, swallowing an expletive when it connected painfully with the sofa's back slat.

"I'd had a—" the line sizzled as she took a long draw of air, "very long, very miserable day, and it was—it helped." She'd startled him for the second time in as many responses and he released a wavering sigh. Realized he'd banked on her running, dissociating, when in point of fact, he'd been the only one to bow out—preempting her assumed desertion.

His mother had been right on the goddamn money.

"Though you're right about the timing," she told him, and he batted away the surge of disappointment that accompanied her words. "And it's not because I don't want to meet, and not because I'm stalling or—or afraid. But I'm in the thick of a case. A bad one. It's…messy. It's left me messy. I'm riding on adrenaline and caffeine and rage right now, and I just—I don't have the resources," she trailed off, sounding small and brittle and weary, and he wanted to cup her face in his hands, murmur reassurances and wishful promises against her hair, and then wondered at the probability of that ever coming to pass.

Girl like that, guy like him? The hope was a dark horse. He could acknowledge that. Especially once she knew Alex, discovered the man behind the appellation. Factoring in his lies, his reputation, and her goodness and fire, he knew she was categorically beyond the bounds of reality. For a long time now, he'd downplayed the weight of his omissions, the power they had to absolutely level them. He'd convinced himself a few well-placed words and flowery apologies and tactful justifications would function as sutures for the damage he inflicted.

And maybe on a different woman that would be enough—and if he was honest, it had been enough for other women, for many, many unrecalled and bygone women—one less cynical, less grief-weathered, more trustful and transparent. But not her. Never her.

As he'd spun out the lie—because it was a lie, not just an evasion or secret or even the hallowed sense of mystery he'd been so keen on preserving—he'd realized how deep his invention would cut. She'd offered him her friable trust, revealed the softness she guarded so possessively, shared her weaknesses and fears. She'd made herself vulnerable to him. A second time. Unknowingly to the author of the book he'd restored to her; to a man who wrote crime novels, was fascinated with murder, the macabre. With law enforcement—and God knows what she'd make of that, if she'd assign ulterior motives to their discourse, their friendship, believe this was in any way conditional on his writing or research or character development.

But trustworthiness, integrity, fidelity were hardly traits ascribed to Rick Castle. A man who was, until the last few reformed months, accurately regarded as an indiscriminate womanizer, one credited with a long succession of female stopgaps in his wake. Beautiful, brief distractions, discarded before emotion or expectations took root. And maybe every woman was simply a surrogate Meredith, each casual encounter and flippant rejection the deserved retribution she had never received, but it hadn't felt that way at the time. After Kyra and after Meredith, after watching his life fragment spectacularly, and then piecing it back together at his own insistence, through his own efforts, the reckless, detached, and transient relationships he blew through were legion.

And god, it felt good.

It was revenge, release, power, reaffirmation. And it was too easy, first relying on his literary success, then riding the coattails of his consummate bad boy reputation—which women hated, loved, loved to hate by turns, lapping up his bold innuendo, his carnal, suggestive stares and dissipate outlook on relationships. They wanted to reform him and he let them try. Until he grew restless, decided to move along, and then he disengaged, extracting himself neatly and summarily from their lives.

So yes. It was easy. He was surrounded by disenchanted socialites, repressed housewives, and star struck admirers of his work. It fed his famished ego and slaked his physical needs, but he didn't really feel any of it. And it lost its luster far earlier than he'd admitted, long before he stopped using warm bodies as a place to try and bury his rage, to jumpstart happiness or feeling. Something beyond the habitual numbness.

And then—over a beer and a burger and a newspaper splashed with his exploits—Weldon had spoken to him in direct and merciless verbiage that first shocked, then inflamed, before finally resounding in him, marrow-deep. Forced him to look long and critically at the piss-poor man he'd made from scratch. He hadn't simply become this man. It was no passive transformation. He'd purposefully, willfully created this version of himself.

Their conversation was as vibrant now as it had been the November night they'd met, and he suspected it would always be that way.

The pivotal moments always are.

Weldon had looked on, a supremely discomfited bystander, as Rick coolly dismissed his latest flavor of the week—a flawless blonde with lovely, plentiful, deeply appreciated artificial upgrades. Even through a slate cigarette haze and several feet of well-worn tabletop separating them, the other man must have discerned very genuine hurt in those pansy blue eyes, in the quivering of her lush mouth. Looking back, Rick could see it, too. After wobbling away on stilt-like heels, crimson soles winking ominously as she'd stalked out of the bar, Weldon had pinned him with a look.

"I'm surprised as crazy as you are about your kid that you're okay with treating women the way you do. That, or you do a bang-up job of acting like you don't give a shit, which in all fairness may just run in the family." He must have given the other man a look of complete perplexity because Weldon regarded him indulgently, folded his hands, calmly expounded.

"I mean, Jesus, Rick. Who do you think these women are if not some poor schmuck's daughter? And here you are, a smooth-operator, a hustler drawing them in with your pretty words before fucking 'em into one week and leaving them the next. No call, no explanation, no apology. You really telling me you've never thought of that, huh? It hasn't even crossed your mind once?"

And then he went for the jugular.

"You're really telling me that you wouldn't come within an inch of manslaughter if twenty years down the line Alexis was seduced by some millennial version of you? Charmed, taken for all she had, left out to dry because, hey, he was just having a good time, looking for a little fun, a warm body."

It was like a bellyful of soured milk, that thought. He saw fucking red—he'd always considered that phrase hyperbolic, chalked it up to literary symbolism, but it was apparently a very real side effect of murderous intent—and rolled his shoulder back, knuckles popping as he made a fist, itching to plow a furrow through Weldon's knowing smirk for even thinking it, much less speaking it.

And that was it. That was the moment the self-loathing really picked up.

He felt immediate, nearly palpable shame, and a few days in he was leagues past guilty, reflecting on the droves of women, most whose names he couldn't recall, though the memories of their faces when he dipped out with a disingenuous smile and sans a second thought lived on in brilliant technicolor.

First he hated himself because of the way he'd treated the daughters of nameless, faceless fathers—understanding giving him perspective, a new awareness. And then he'd hated himself for feeling guilty because of solely that—guilty over the way he'd treated daughters, and not in response to the fact that they were simply human and by right deserved respect, kindness, honesty. Four months later, he'd plumbed her book from the depths of a secondhand shop, and that was it. If he'd been leery of falling into the same patterns, that first letter—brief, distant, yet oddly stirring—had eighty-sixed the thought. With the second, his interest was piqued, his mind rebounding to thoughts of her in quiet moments. And by the third, part of him knew. This is what he'd been waiting for. And if not her, someone near the same.

He was so gone on this girl.

"Kate," he soothed, all reassurance, and why was his voice only ever this soft, this gentle with her? Her and Alexis. For the same reasons he wanted to tip her chin with his fingertips, know the hues and striations of her eyes, memorize the contours of her face. "You don't have to explain. I'm just glad it's not a no," a nervous laugh rippled through him, "really. I thought I'd spooked you."

"Hardly. I'm a cop. And a woman. In New York. You're gonna have to try a little harder than that to make me run." She'd started out strong, her words crisp, but the solidity had bled out by the time she reached the last word. Recognizing the false bravado for what it was.

But he didn't feel up to the raw intensity of an emotional conversation. Not now. So he swiftly glossed over her comment. "Well, you scare me sometimes. And we're separated by multiple cell towers and bumper to bumper traffic. So, I buy that," he readjusted his grip on the phone and took the moment to gather his thoughts. "And I'm sorry for—you know, for selling you short, I guess?"

"In what way?" Oh, he'd surprised her—the quick response, the way her voice canted upward.

"That I thought you'd dip out," he sighed, thumbing through Alexis' milk-fed excuse for a Jack London classic, resolving to swap out this glorified kindling for originals. And new house rule: no abridged anything. It pissed him off. "And I'm mildly interested in making your acquaintance," he tacked on, sideways smile hitching up one cheek.

"Mildly?" She demanded, and he could hear her answering grin.

"Ratherish."

"I don't think that's a word." He loved it when she was like this—mouthy, playful, all inviting flirtation.

"Ah, yes, because Miranda rights and police reports are just rife with exotic lexemes," he shot back.

"A helpful tip for you: if you ever land in prison, absolutely mention lexemes—loudly, while palming food from strangers' trays in the caf—and also incorporate ratherish into conversations with beefy guys in the yard. Incorporate the bend-and-snap into your soap retrievals."

"You're dangerous," he breathed, and to his consummate delight, that pulled a laugh from her. Messy case and all.

"Well, yeah. Cop, remember?" Her voice was warm in his ear, lulling him into candid complacency, and he spoke without editing, without thinking.

"No, because you're a woman."

Well, shit. Stellar move there, Rick. Spewing all your hang-ups and insecurities after very nearly chasing her off couldn't possibly go awry.

Lifting his head, he jerked it back down with force, grimacing as it knocked dully against the back of the couch—purposefully this time—and he really couldn't believe himself because he'd been within verbal reach of a truce and solid ground and a restoration of that amiable banter that defined their exchanges.

She hummed thoughtfully after a moment, leading fluidly into a rhetorical statement. "I thought we were supposed to be the fairer sex."

It was obviously meant to underplay his gaffe, gloss over his unflatteringly misanthropic perspective on women. And God knows why she didn't ream him, because that was chauvinistic as hell, and her voice alone radiated this feministic strength irrespective of her male-dominated choice of profession or the fact that she packed and expertly handled a Glock 9mm, or could likely subdue him with nothing more than a shoelace and a well-placed scowl.

But she was extending a get out of jail free card, and hell if he'd pass it up. "In terms of beauty? Absolutely. In regards to mercy and dispensation of justice? Agree to disagree."

"My sex thanks you for that glowing commendation," she deadpanned, a real smile lurking at the edges of her sarcasm in spite of her best, most earnest efforts. "But it—well vantage point is the real determinant, I'd think."

"What?" He'd always been directionally challenged, and this—she, darting and fluid and dynamic—was no exception.

"I'm just saying, I—well, the same—the same could be said of men. Which, as a woman—being the fairer sex, of course—I'm entirely qualified to determine," she practically purred her way through the last remark, parading that shiny women's lib streak like he'd predicted, and he wished, not for the hundredth time—because that mile marker had come and gone a half-dozen letters back—that he could match the play of her expressions to her sentiments, her banter. And to devour the smug little smile she wore—oh, he knew it was there, could all but hear the smirk—with the press of his mouth and hands. He wanted that in ways that forced him to his feet, spurred him to pace aimlessly, desperate to burn off latent energy and passion in limbo.

And then she was back, kittenish timbre supplanted by something softer, more Kate the woman than Kate the detective. "And because I got a letter, week or so ago. And it's still just—it's sitting on the table, and I know I should open it, should just—just rip the seal, take the damn plunge, wade into his bourbon-fueled dialogue and alcoholic self-loathing. But I—Christ, I don't want to. I'm not ready to even feel sorry for him much less forgive him."

Her father, he grimaced, sympathy coursing through him.

There was a muted peal from her end—the cathodic report of a horn, he noted—and realized she was outside, should've known from the barely-there hitched increase in her breathing—and he imagined her taking long strides, gliding past the perambulating tourists, gaze hard and briery as she made her way homeward. Or maybe not homeward. Maybe doing her damnedest to outstrip her thoughts, her father, the case. Walking aimlessly until blisters and stone bruises and nightfall forced her indoors.

"Then don't," he murmured, the oversimplification tumbling free.

"It's not that easy," she snapped back.

"Make it that easy," his voice dipped down, soothed, compelled.

And after one moment, two, double that, she huffed a laugh. "That's such a man's response. Make it that easy," she echoed, but there was no bite, no sting in her retort.

"Well, I'm all man, detective," he drawled, toeing their fast-fading boundary line with a pulse, a thrill, raring for a coy salvo, her wry snap back. Dig for dig. Heat for heat.

"I reserve the right to decide that for myself."

Oh, Kate. Game on.

"So, just for posterity's sake," he pressed, voice deceptively calm, smile tightly checked, "what you're saying is—you want proof I'm all man? And just how is it you're planning to do that?"

He could swear the silence flushed cherry, her discomposure was just that palpable.

"You're an ass," she recited primly, and a laugh elbowed its way free, too thunderous and too excessive for tasteless innuendo, but she'd just sounded exactly like this starchy, thin lipped Sunday school teacher he'd tangled with in the first grade, and there was this deviant, childish part of him that really loved how easily he could get a rise out of her.

"Guilty as charged," Rick admitted through a grin, "but it's all part of my charm."

Kate issued a decidedly unfeminine snort that broadened his mouth, crinkled his eyes. "Whoever told you that was lying," she drawled dryly, "and as to that blatant admission of guilt, you should probably start crafting a solid defense."

"Yeah, I'm gonna blame my unstable home life and dissolute childhood on this one," he intimated and was rewarded by a breathy laugh on the other line. A fleeting smile pulled at his mouth in the pause that followed, and after a tenuous beat, he pushed on. "So—um, not to beat a dead horse—"

She cut him off, her traditionally staid voice flip and playful. "Ah, yet another arrestable offense. You're really racking 'em up tonight, Rembrandt."

Damn. Her smoky tones wrapped around legal jargon did indecent things to him, made him glad this conversation was separated by miles of city streets, was strictly auditory. "Is that actually a crime?"

"Shouldn't it be?" She shot back, tone just shy of condemning.

Oh, yeah. Shit. Innocent animal, abject cruelty. That was insensitive. And stupid. Because as a rule girls were absolutely crackers over horses, lost their gorgeous, labyrinthine minds over the fly-ridden things. Time to make nice. Should've known better, Rick.

"Touché, detective," he placated, conciliatory and warm, attempting to put some distance between his callousness by righting their derailed exchange, "but back to the equine in question…"

"Shoot," Kate allowed.

Oh, god bless. Apparently they were letting this one slide.

And maybe it was the realization that she wasn't going to ream him for his not-so-subtle quip, for making light of animal abuse—her absolution, his anarchic attention span—or something else entirely, but it was out before his brain had really recognized the thought. "Oh, hey, maybe that's what happened to the horse."

A charged pause, and then—"You realize I have a gun, right?"

Oh, he knew.

"And handcuffs," he intoned smoothly, half humorous, half unsmiling fervor—and hopefully sufficiently ambiguous to veil that four-letter thing that'd send her running for the hills, past the hills, into the white-capped Atlantic. "And was that an admission of your guilt?" The provocations kept coming, wittiness an old, dependable response; a defense against the onslaught of emotion.

"I have three guns, Alex." He could hear her smirk and wanted to rid her of it in creative, equilibrium-robbing ways.

"Surprisingly, that doesn't help," he said plainly, and sank back into the plush recesses of his sofa, propped his heels on the lip of his water-ringed, time-scarred coffee table. "But, hey, maybe we could be cellies!"

"Doesn't help? Doesn't help with what?" She challenged, sidestepping—with admirable restraint, he felt—all the possible prison yard references. Chief among them, him being her bitch.

Not that you'd mind, Rick.

But now. Back to the origin of this wildly divergent discussion thread. Never mind the hectic pace of his heart or the anxious ripple beneath his ribs. "I think that's a conversation best held in person, don't you? Preferably over a sumptuous meal. And a bottle of Tuscan Cab Sauv."

For a long moment, there was only still air, and why was this conversation so fraught with freaking pauses? Forget tenterhooks. This feeling of stretched-to-snapping was the emotional equivalent of some medieval torture device—the sickening anxiety, owning the reality that this thing might be entirely one-sided, nothing more than a lovely, baseless figment—causing his fingers to curl inflexibly around the corner of a throw pillow, the plastic casing of his phone.

"Sounds like you know your wines," she finally remarked, her equivocation doing absolutely nothing for his nerves. But then, mercifully, remedially, she tacked on—"And we both know you're a passable conversationalist."

"Passable?" He scoffed, raring to her banter. "I'll have you know I have an extremely talented mouth." Oh. That was bad. Foot in mouth. Redlining foot down throat. Not so talented after all. Jesus Christ. Again with the involuntary one-liners—a rudimentary, sophomoric, pitiful coping mechanism—and he rolled his eyes, mouth sliding into a derisive smirk, loathing himself in this very awkward moment.

As always, however, she surprised him. "Promises, promises," she murmured, and he swallowed. Hard.

"So," he managed around the cottony knot in his throat, aiming wide with his next question, unable to draw a bead on her forthcoming response, "you didn't regret the timing." She hummed—assent or uncertainty, he couldn't tell—and he took that as an indication to continue. "And that means you—well, that you aren't entirely opposed to meeting?" Oh, god. He hadn't sounded this ineptly faltering since the days of violently yodeling, acne-ridden prepubescence, and to be this way with the one woman he wanted to charm—he didn't doubt it was some cosmic, karmic retribution for the spineless, shitty stunts he'd pulled with countless love-starved girls. Giving him a bitter taste of his own snake oil tonic. To be the vulnerable one, to long for something so precarious so deeply, was piercing in its intensity. "It's—I mean," he stumblingly resumed, "I get it if you don't think now is the right time, or I'll understand if you aren't ever comfortable with meeting in person. I absolutely wouldn't—I mean, the last thing I want is to push you, or for you to feel pressured or obligated or—"

"Alex." His name from her mouth was a soft thing, but firm, damming the words in his throat with startling immediacy. "I meant what I said before. I'm not against the notion."

He blinked, his mouth opening and closing on empty air like a fucking goldfish, three-second working memory, glassy-eyed expression and all. "Oh, that's—that's good," he blurted stupidly, and winced as she huffed a laugh.

"I do want to meet," she reiterated firmly, voice even, but the rhythm of her assurance was stilted, as though she was endeavoring to convince herself rather than him.

He made a face, at that realization. Mouth dipping down and eyes narrowing as he kicked back his desire to ride right over her hesitation, struggled to marshal his fast-fading altruism. Because yeah, he wanted to meet her. Fiercely. But if there was any reluctance, any qualms on her part, it wouldn't be real. Wouldn't be the way he wanted it. "But?" Rick prompted evenly, his better nature winning out. Barely.

"I can't until I put this case to bed. I just—I don't have anything left to give."

"You don't have to explain, Kate," he soothed, his inner conflict giving way to empathy, a gentleness he associated solely with her and his bright-eyed daughter. Pushing aside the disconcerting notion, he sighed. "I get it. At least in theory, though I can't truly wrap my mind around everything you're—all the struggles and feelings you're encountering and—and sifting through. So no explanations necessary. Or even allowed, I think. Just—just let me know when it's all over and done. And we'll go from there."

The rush of her exhalation hummed in his ear. "Okay," she murmured, seemingly reassured, and the silence curled around them for a long moment.

"Now," he began, voice brighter than before, "allow me to tell you about the impending and immensely odious gala on my docket, into which I was all but conscripted due to my own myopic jackassery."

"Please," Kate prompted, a smile—the one with teeth, with rounded cheeks and crinkled eyes, or so he vividly imagined—bleeding through the word, warming him. And so he did.

---

In the two days following their transparent exchange, he freaking floated. Skated on air as he drifted from mundane task to rote undertaking, a half-smile firmly affixed by his unflappable serenity. Because, given enough time and patience, the romanticized meeting he envisioned—that first look in some sunlit purlieu, a rushed explanation accounting for his smoke-screened identity, warm eyes and half-hidden glimpses flashing over the lip of her coffee cup and beneath the scimitar-curve of her lashes.

At least, that's what his overblown imagination contrived.

Goddamn poetry. That's what he wanted.

Instead, he had an unfixed interval stretching before him, and precious little to do about its reach. Not a kilocalorie expended on his end would speed them toward that eventuality, and dwelling on his synoptic lack of control only made him irritable. So instead, to distract himself, he'd padded down to a dusty café, sufficiently closeted away from the usual foot traffic, and opening a battered Moleskine, began to write. Not like he did on his laptop—alternating between word processor, thesaurus, and fact-checking via web search—but in that raw, unfiltered way he hadn't indulged since Alexis was breaking her baby teeth. And it felt unbelievably good—cathartic and real and innervating, in ways to which the flimsy give of his keyboard could never compare. And fueled by the novelty of pen nib scoring fresh pages and the acidic clout of his macchiato, the words—dynamic, substantive, gripping—broke free of the mechanical uniformity Black Pawn had inspired with their rigid deadlines and expectations.

It was the days of hunger-fueled inspiration, of collegiate stress and youthful ingenuity, of ramen and writing and little else—it was all of that all over again. And so he wrote until the flexors and extensors in his right hand spasmed, until the pen wore a groove in the flesh at the top of his ring finger, and he'd sufficiently exorcised his thoughts and energies for the day.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Brood, scribble, sip. His days followed a familiar if not erstwhile pattern, and he worked doggedly, capitalizing on his inventiveness.

And on the third day—a coincidence which had to have some Biblical significance, because God knows, pun intended, writers never disregarded such blatant symbolism—he sidelined his smudged and coffee-stained compositions in exchange for pomaded hair, a closely shaved, exfoliant-buffed countenance, and the starched confines of his Brunello Cucinelli tux. Creativity resurrected via his literary efforts, maybe. Hell if he knew, he was just pleased—ecstatic, really—with this windfall.

And quasi-rhapsodic over his conversation with Kate.

But those were happy musings for another time, because tonight was about his bombshell agent and the date she'd extortionately wrung out of him. Yay. Despite the dubious nature of said date, however, he'd resolved not to be an ass tonight. Because, after all, his jackassery was the antecedent for this thorny situation. And this whole thing—the formalwear, the town car zipping down Columbus Ave, his mandated companionship—was about him trying to make amends for his baseless faultfinding.

Rightly so, his better, more principled half affirmed.

Finally, the driver rolled to a stop, tire walls grazing the curb, and Rick gazed dispassionately at the immaculate brownstone before exiting the vehicle and striding to her front porch. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, or if he'd even had any suppositions assigned to her, to tonight, but when she answered the door, it knocked him back, exacted a blink of surprise and a huff of appreciation.

Damn. Girl cleaned up nice.

And judging by the bubblegum flush in her cheeks, she'd noticed him noticing.

Clearing his throat, he offered her a tight smile and an offhand compliment. "You look lovely," he gestured loosely at her sleek gray evening gown, keeping his voice carefully bland. "Ready to go?" Quirking an inquiring brow, and tamping down the pulse of quasi-resentment at the hollow nature of the evening, he offered her the crook of his winged out arm, and the warm cirque of her hands dispatched him, propelling them forward and into the falling night.

---

Nose buried in his third flute of Veuve Clicquot, Rick scanned the room for his "date", thoughts vaulting from Kate to his Moleskine to Gina to the current susurration—something about founding fathers and opposition to bipartisanship and political longshots. Turning back to the huddle of literary bellwethers, he honed in on Ron Chernow—for whose published work on business/finance he'd cultivated an odd predilection—and the way his eyes flashed perceptively behind wire-frame glasses, the fervor in his gaze as he exposited on his newfound passion, his parallel fascination with politics. More to the point, a maligned legislative prodigy whose mammoth biography he'd undertaken, the dreamy quality of his bowed smile attesting to his happy immersion in pre-revolutionary minutiae.

God bless him.

Giving the man a parting nod and a brief smile of his own, he migrated to the center of the room, glance landing on Gina's wiry figure foraging at the refreshment table. He hadn't been avoiding her, not precisely, but after they'd drifted apart following their arrival to greet respective acquaintances and colleagues, he'd made no effort to rejoin her either. Swallowing a sigh, he loped toward her, came abreast the blonde, and plucked a croquette from her cocktail plate. The look of bemusement she shot him tightened his chest, because, yeah—he'd been remiss as her date, a fact reflected in the disapproving line of her mouth.

"Sorry about tonight," he murmured softly, and she tilted her head in seeming consideration before giving him a terse nod.

"Don't worry about it," she returned lightly, but her skittering gaze belied her casual absolution and impelled him to action.

Laying a tentative hand on her shoulder, he checked a grimace at the upsurge in her confusion at the touch. "I—that's kind of you, really. Letting me off the hook that way. But it's not okay. I promised you a date, and have, without question, failed to deliver on that front. So let me apologize, alright?"

Her answering smile was small, but at least it was genuine, and he felt relief unfold in his chest. The last thing he wanted from Gina was romance, but she wasn't a terrible human—in fact, he had a sneaking suspicion she was, in all likelihood, a pretty great human outside of a professional setting—and she didn't deserve his aloofness. In fact—he paused, holding the perplexed scrutiny of her gaze—she deserved some transparency, to hear the inside story preemptively, rather than doing damage control. As often as she'd whitewashed his indiscretions, composedly fed the press artful deceptions, placated and emotionally patched up the victims of his sexcapades, he owed her honesty.

"And it's not you, Gina. Me maintaining distance and not inviting you out for a drink or dinner or whatever," he conceded after a charged beat, watching as her brow creased in confusion at the disclosure, "it's that—well, I've been talking to someone."

Oh, that was a shock to her persnickety system.

She didn't look surprised anymore. If anything, she looked just this side of royally pissed, hands jammed against the protrusion of her hipbones, eyes accusing. "Since when, Rick? We've gone over this countless times—you start something I'm the first to know. No exceptions." His name and all the rest rolled off her tongue censoriously, and he rolled his eyes.

God, he hated histrionics.

"I've literally only been talking to her. That's it. Conversation. No illicit trysts, no debauched dalliances, we're just…talking. And not in public, either." And here was the kicker, the tacked on snippet that altered the thrust of their innocuous and entirely equivocal relationship. "But, full disclosure, we haven't actually met. And I don't really know...who she is. Completely. If we're talking legal names and physical descriptors, I mean. Because I know her, I just don't know her. If that makes—you know, makes any sense at all."

The tension that had leaked from her stance resurfaced at his hesitant, bungling admission.

"Are. You. Serious." Despite her level tone, she delivered each word with seething, whip-like accuracy, pretty eyes hard, deep-set slivers of ire now.

"We've maintained our anonymity, though," he offered weakly, the defense pathetic even to him.

"Great," she snapped, angling her body away from the bustling auditorium and keen scrutiny of the attendees. Gratitude for her discretion warred with his rising irascibility as she continued her careful flagellation. "Your identities are an unknown factor in this…thing. So you think. But how do you really know she's who she claims to be? And not some nosy, budding journalist with a career-changing advantage resting in her prim little lap? How do you know?" She demanded harshly.

"Because I contacted her first, dammit," he hissed, canting forward, stepping into her space, eyes narrowing. Through the thrum of annoyance, he could smell the costly floral notes of her perfume, could see the delicate grains of dried mascara beneath her eyes, which oddly enough, softened his annoyance. That reminder of her imperfections and vulnerability. "Look, I contacted her, and there's not a doubt in my mind she's exactly who she said she was. Not a trace of mistrust, I swear."

"And as a rule your instincts are so dependable, Rick," she shot back with heat.

Jesus. That was pointed. Rocking back on the heels of his patent leather Ferragamos, he felt his eyebrows involuntarily scale the expanse of his forehead, come to a rest against the edge of his hairline, and reveled in the red suffusion of shame that stretched across her chest and cheekbones. "You're not wrong about my judgment. Or the potential risks associated with a choice like mine," he finally murmured, just to break the awkward stalemate, "but despite your disapproval, the relevant constituent in all of this—" he swept a hand between them to emphasize his words, "—is me. And her. And what we want."

He broke off suddenly, curling his fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to tunnel his fingers through his carefully tamed, meticulously gelled hair. "I appreciate your professional advice on this matter and will take it into advisement as I proceed," he lied crisply, avoidant gaze trained above her eyes, focusing instead on her immaculate center part because he was so very, very peeved, and now was a remarkably unsuitable moment to draw attention to their hostilities.

Unmoved by his avowals and heaving a beleaguered sigh, Gina retrieved her plate, bit into a tuxedo strawberry, and launched into a weary lecture. "When this all goes to shit—which it will, I've been a publicist long enough to recognize a pattern when I see it—don't expect any sympathy from me. Understand? I'll clean up your mess. Again. I'm really fucking good at it; you know? Being your social domestic—sweeping mistakes and regrets under the proverbial rug, mopping up tears, plastering over the holes you've punched in perfectly decent friendships and professional associations. But I won't be a shoulder to cry on or your rebound or the emotional target of your frustration—in each of those roles, I've acted the part with other men. Brought down the goddamn house, really. But not with you. Not this time."

There wasn't any vitriol in her discourse, just this pat pragmatism, which sparked an awareness, a reluctant sympathy in him. She was tired, and she was vulnerable, and she was his first line of defense. He'd taken advantage of her. Taken her vigilance for granted. And odds were—despite her polished, gilded veneer—she was drawing on the vestiges of her mettle. So instead of the searing riposte that balanced on his tongue, he simply muttered, "Glad we settled that. You should...well, make sure to try the eclairs."

And the rest of the night passed much the same—Gina with her plastic smile firmly affixed, flitting from figure to figure and charming half the freaking room with a modicum of effort. Likable or not, bearable or not, Ms. Cowell was a consummate networker and the savviest, most strategic publicist he'd ever had the dichotomous pleasure and misfortune to meet. And then of course, Rick Castle himself—the whiz kid scribbler, his candid bearing and arresting figure drawing others to him with the steady predictability of an ocean current. Not that he minded charming and conversing with his contemporaries. Far from it. But tonight, he was worn to the bone, bled dry of energy and levity and bookish acumen, and by some stroke of luck other eminent frontrunners commandeered discussions and freed him up for gratuitous brooding, for deep ruminations.

And miraculously, they managed to dance around one another, him and Gina. Alternating from one cluster of luminaries to the next with strategic precision until the humanity trickled from the room, into cars and away home, which was their cue.

Mirroring the masses, they emerged from The Pierre, descending the steps side by side, steps matched in cadence, one hand skating down opposing rails. Even their demeanors aligned—remote, brittle, glacial. And their commute was no different, the silence a stale, cloying thing as they mutually fumed on opposite ends of the butter-leather bench seat, clinging to their ire and superiority and all but choking on the viscous hostility.

And abruptly, an intrusive darkness interposed itself between his knowledge and his hopes, a barrier steeped in doubt. For all the trust he wanted to grant her, Kate was still an unknown, and Gina's abject panic had sown a catch in his gut, this nauseating little snag. Which he hated. A manic meltdown from a high-strung blonde and he was doubting everything? It was fucking absurd.

But it was real.

And before he'd adequately processed anything, they'd arrived at her brownstone, and he quit the car, rounding the vehicle on instinct to jerk open her door, detachedly assist her as she hastily made for her front door. Somehow, he'd maintained a loose grip on the chilled feather-weight of her fingers as they approached the stoop, and he arranged his features into a neutral expression when she turned toward him, already two stair steps beyond and above his stiff form. "I'm sorry," she breathed, a length of golden hair escaping the intricate coils at the nape of her neck, undulating beside her mouth, fluttering at her exhalation. "It wasn't my place to—I shouldn't have gone off on you like that."

Interesting, he frowned. And surprising to say the least. Ginas of the world didn't apologize. They stuck to their guns no matter how rusty and careworn the weapon, and never admitted to errors or qualms. But there was only sincerity in her countenance, her eyes glinting like coins in the shine of the streetlamps.

Fucking hell.

She looked near tears, he groaned internally, and lord knows that was the last thing he needed tonight. After their verbal skirmish and feigned interest in their surroundings, their peers, he was one slow blink away from nodding off. "I know why you said what you said. Even if I wasn't a fan of the delivery," he conceded coolly and shuffled his feet against the pavement, warily observing her reaction. It was the closest thing to forgiveness he could afford tonight, his irritation still too near the surface for anything approaching lenient dispensation. For now, that would have to suffice.

But it seemed to stem the impending outpouring of emotion, kept the tears from spilling over the causeway of her waterline. She nodded once, lips lifting in an attempted smile that bore closer resemblance to an expression of pain, and sniffed. "Duly noted," she told him after a dry swallow, and palming her key, turned toward the door. He was halfway back to the car when he heard his name, turned to her questioningly, and braced himself for whatever parting shot she'd readied. "Just…be careful, Rick," she murmured, catching him off guard, her posture unnervingly despondent, aspect carefully blank even from this distance. "There are some things, some betrayals from which you can't recover. No matter how resilient you may be."

She slipped fluidly into the dark recesses of her home, leaving him with that sobering portent and a growing sense of unease and wanting things he half disbelieved would come to pass. Cultivating in him the seeds of fear and doubt that threatened to choke out the hope of his days-old conversation.

And, standing alone on the corner of 69th and Columbus, the night air broken by the idling hum of his town car, the ligature of his bowtie suddenly unbearable, he realized how utterly and spectacularly and truly alone Richard Castle really was.

But it didn't end there, the revelation stretched beyond the limits of his self-pity and into new awareness, igniting a spark that grew to fill, to warm the inner expanse of his chest, because he suddenly knew—Kate was just as alone. And maybe, maybe there was some truth to Gina's insistences, maybe he had invested too much of himself, wagered more of his heart, his hope, his emotional resources than was sensible. But—blatantly disregarding the sick seed of doubt in his gut and Gina's thinly masked pain and his own deeply-grooved, dispiritingly sloppy track record—this was more than fleeting, illusory feelings. On both sides.

Prior to their conversation, he might have owned to being obsessed with an illusion. In love with a fabrication who knew only the manufactured, sterilized version of who he was. Knew only the man he wanted her to know. Who he wanted to be. But it wasn't that. At least, not entirely. Not anymore. He did fear the eventual unveiling, thoughts of her potential responses cinching his throat and hitching his breath—I'm Alex, I'm Rick Castle, I'm a liar, I'm mad for you. But where he had been contemplating a tentative maybe, now it didn't seem stupid to bank on the initially far, far, farfetched presupposition of eventually. In terms of meeting. In terms of them. It no longer struck him as outrageous that she might—now, soon, someday—entertain something beyond dubious friendship for Alex.

And it was a lovely thing, this discovery, he reflected, drifting lethargically, peacefully back to the car—his publicist's precursive warning reverberated faintly, benignly in his skull, but his mind was alive with reiterations of Kate's contralto confidently reassuring him that I want to meet, Alex and the tempered warmth of her voice and the comfortable abandon she'd exhibited with him. Given to him.

No, Gina was wrong. She was wrong and he felt it in the innermost recesses of his gut, in the notches of his joints, in the marrow of his bones.

But despite her profusion of errors, she was right about one thing.

Because even prior to what was now a long overdue corporeal interaction, without a working knowledge of the planes and convexities and divots of her face, and sans a definitive time and place or concrete promise, there was already no recovering from this. Absolutely no recovering from her. Like he'd owned before, he was sweepingly, thoroughly gone.

And strange though it seemed, he didn't really mind.

---

A/N:

Wow, guys. If any of you are still with me, I owe you poetry and apologies and refreshments, and I hope you know that I'm miles beyond sorry for this absurdly protracted delay. Sorry doesn't really cut it, but hopefully the obscene length of this chapter will help! I fully intend to finish this story, even if it takes me forever (I swear it won't, please sideline your unwarranted panic) and costs me my sanity (a more realistic prospect because grad school is resource- and joy-sucking bitch). Which, yet again, is my justification for why this took so freaking long to churn out! At the start of the new year I transitioned to two new jobs, in both of which my role is that of a technical writer—i.e. researching and meticulously hammering out two systematic lit reviews on two different topics for two unique professors all while struggling to balance a third job, my class load, and find time to sleep/maybe eat/occasionally shower/infrequently brush my hair.

Suffice to say, I was kind of burned out on writing. But as soon as final exams and projects had concluded, I sat down and this just poured out. It's a behemoth, and I considered breaking it up, but there was no natural division that I could find, so I just left it as one continuous installation. And I hope you all enjoy it—especially in light of how long you've waited (provided there's anyone still scoping out this little fic). Again, I'm so sorry, and I'm resolving to be better than the deadbeat fic parent you all know and tolerate! Here's to more predictability, and here's to you, whoever's out there. To everyone who took the time, thank you for each lovely comment and all the words of encouragement I received. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this update, and most of all, I love all of you!

Up next—Kate, a break in the case, and a tragically explosive conclusion.

* I'm a terrible and completely unintentional tease, so let me apologize for the way I phrased the final bit of my A/N! That cryptic reference to a 'tragically explosive conclusion' is related exclusively to the case Beckett and Sorenson have been working, and is categorically, finitely, and in absolutely no way related to the growing relationship between Kate and Alex/Rick. Promise! Cross my cynical little heart and hope not to die because I'd REALLY like to finish this fic.

And because I apparently spooked a number of you with my absentminded comment, here's a notion I
hope encourages and soothes you—with the case ending, and Kate no longer consumed by that singular focus, what's to stand in the way of their long awaited, inevitably magical meeting? I'll leave you with that until the next explosive—though in no way relationally destructive—installment, as well as doling out a massive blanket thank you to everyone! Much love and appreciation to everyone still out there!