Richard Castle fought a yawn as he stood at the kitchen sink of his Manhattan apartment. In his hand, he loosely held a Britta filter pitcher under the faucet. As it filled with water and became progressively heavier, his arm inched down further and further under the weight until his elbow rested against the countertop. He yawned again. As a thirty-eight-year old adult he'd spent more days than he could count waking at the ungodly time of five-thirty a.m., but no matter how many more times he set his alarm for the pre-dawn hour he would never get used to it. Never.

With the pitcher full, he set it on the counter beside the sink to allow the water to filter through and pool in the pitcher basin. Turning around, he only needed to take one step forward until he arrived against the opposite counter in the galley-style kitchen. There, an empty plate and knife were laid out beside a loaf of wheat bread and a jar of chunky peanut butter.

Castle untied the knot on the bread bag, pulled out two slices, put them on the plate, and tied the bag shut again, making sure to press out all the air before he did so. Working on auto-pilot, he cut the top crusts off the bread—top crusts only. (She preferred wheat bread to white, but never the top crusts.) On each side of the sandwich he slathered a healthy dollop of nut-filled goodness before smashing the slices together—peanut butter side in—and licking an extra bit of peanut butter from his fingertips. From the cabinet beside him, he retrieved a clear plastic bag and, after cutting the sandwich in half—diagonally!—he placed both halves inside.

The task was mundane, he had to admit. Every morning a sandwich. Always chunky peanut butter. Always wheat bread. Always cut diagonally, but this minutia he liked.

At eleven years old, his little girl wasn't so little anymore. As soon as her age hit matching double digits she informed him that she was grown up and she could do things for herself now. They both knew that wasn't true as there were many things she could not yet do—both legally and per her father's rules, but being eleven did change things.

In a way, it made it easier. At this age, she was old enough to stay by herself in the apartment at least for a few hours during the day. She could pick up her lunch and lock the apartment door behind her if he had an early shift at the precinct. He didn't have to worry about making sure a babysitter was with her for every second and that relieved him (and his wallet) greatly. Still, that didn't stop the worrying. Or the sad pangs in his chest when he saw her eying lip gloss and high heeled shoes with envy.

All too soon she would be growing up, becoming a teenager, graduating high school and leaving for college. Thoughts of that nature drove him almost immediately into a panic attack. Seven years, he minded himself; he had seven years until that happened.

Could Alexis make her own peanut butter sandwich? Of course. As long as it was a Tuesday or a Thursday. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday she had peanut butter and jelly. (No one could say his daughter was not particular.) She was absolutely capable of making her own sandwich, but the fact of the matter was he liked doing it for her simply because it was something he could do for her.

With his varied working schedule it wasn't possible for him to be there for every event, every homework question (though, truthfully, with Alexis's advancing age she was quickly outpacing his knowledge base—particularly in math). He did the best he could, but as a working single parent sometimes that was exactly what it became: the best he could do. Thank god for that scholarship to a private school; at least she was getting the best education he could provide with his civil servant salary.

Covering another yawn with the back of his hand, Castle dropped an orange, a bag of pretzels and the sandwich into a paper bag. He carried that bag and a granola bar over to her backpack, which hung on the coat closet doorknob. He tucked the lunch bag into the main zipper area and the snack into one of the side pockets. Realizing he forgot her drink, he hurried back to the kitchen. After plucking a pink flower covered aluminum water bottle from the cabinet, he filled it with the water in the Britta pitcher, and added that to her bag before zipping it back up.

Still waiting for his coffee to kick in, Castle showered and changed efficiently. Back in the kitchen, he grabbed a packet of brown sugar cinnamon PopTarts from the cabinet and tucked them in his jacket pocket; he would eat them on the subway on the way to the Twelfth. Just before he left, he paused in front of the refrigerator and stared at the message board, which hung at waist-level to him.

Each morning he had to leave before she was awake, he liked to leave her a message. Sometimes funny, sometimes inspirational. That morning, he kept it simple. He grabbed the magnetic marker and yanked the cap off with his teeth. Have a great day, Pumpkin, he scrawled before capping the pen and returning it to its hanging position on the refrigerator surface.

With this final morning task complete, he turned off the kitchen lights, grabbed his work bag, and headed out the door.

"Good morning, Beckett," Castle said to his partner as he walked past her on his way to his seat. As usual, she was already in position, half a coffee mug deep in the morning by the time he arrived. And, as per usual, he received barely a grumble of a greeting in return, but he didn't mind. She wasn't a morning person (or, quite frankly, a people person), but that didn't matter to him; he would still be polite and cheerful to her.

Honestly, given her general irritation with and at times downright animosity towards him he was surprised their partnership had lasted as long as it had, but six months later there they were still sitting at adjoining desks. When on his first day, Detective McCreary had warned him about Beckett's harsh nature, he thought the younger detective was messing with him. Or, at the very least, exaggerating greatly.

Then, he was faced with one full week of cold stares and ignored greetings. When he did something she didn't like, she snapped at him. When he did something she appreciated, she said nothing. Her defensive mode was so prominent, he was actually surprised she did not erect a wall between their desks and place a few land mines just to be safe.

Briefly, he considered being the one to end their partnership. Did he really want to face each and every day with hostility in the workplace? Of course not. But he was also not one to give up.

Despite her less than cordial demeanor, the lady detective intrigued him. His gut told him that meanness was not her true nature, but that her snarky attitude was merely her defense mechanism. Her emotional bullet proof vest.

His prior experience working with female detectives was limited to one: a strapping five-foot-ten alarmingly muscular and over-tanned woman who terrified every man within a ten foot radius of her. As he was convinced she could bench press him (or possibly break him in half over her knee), Castle always treaded lightly around Sami Derringer at the Ninth. Thus, she treated him with casual politeness and they got along just fine. Detective Beckett, however, was different.

For starters, no one ever had to wonder if she was a man or a woman. She was all lady and nothing but. Secondly, not only was she a woman, but a beautiful one at that. Castle was faced to bear witness to many a cat-call she received while they were out and about in their first few weeks together.

This, he knew, was a pivotal part of her story. In order to command respect in the male-driven police world she overcompensated for her appearance with a strict and harsh at times personality. Realizing he would never have any idea what it would be like to be continually objectified on the job, he gave her the benefit of the doubt and reserved his judgment until their working relationship progressed past its initial weeks.

Quickly—within just six days, in fact—he discovered McCreary's other decree to be true: Kate Beckett was an extraordinary detective. She picked out the tiniest and most critical of details before he'd even skimmed his eyes over the crime scene once. She linked evidence like it was neatly placed on a child's connect-the-dots puzzle and not scrawled haphazardly on the Twelfth Precinct murder board.

When it came to the victim's families, though—that's when he saw her shine. She was soft and tender with them. Never rushing them for information, letting them take their time to get out their grief. She stayed still when they seemed closed off or reached out a hand if she thought they needed one. Watching her took his breath away and that's when he knew for sure; he was extremely lucky to be partnered with Kate Beckett.

Unfortunately, she did not seem to feel the same. Though his demeanor remained soft an opened, indifference was the best he could get out of her for weeks. Then, four weeks after they met, he—somewhat miraculously—spotted something she had not on a case. When he pointed it out to her, she looked like she'd been slapped across the face with a wet towel. He even heard her whisper to herself, "I can't believe I missed that."

That was the first time she commended him on a job well done. Of course, her softness was short lived and the next day she was back to yelling at him for spilling his mug of coffee and getting some on the corner of her desk, but he would take it. From that point on he knew she at least somewhat respected him as an investigator. As a person…well, that was still up in the air.

"So," Castle began as he returned to his desk with a steaming mug of mediocre coffee, "were you able to track down that Giles guy?"

Kenneth Giles was a person of interest in their latest case. The day before, they had been handed the case of a man stabbed in the vestibule of his apartment building. In talking with the victim's family members, they discovered he had an argument with Giles earlier in the week. Giles, a former business partner of his, had—quote—"gone off the deep end" recently and thus quickly rose to the top of their suspect list.

"I did," the female detective informed him. "Turns out he's got a history of aggravated assault and battery. I was able to find an address for him through a former employer so whenever you're ready we can go."

Castle took a long swallow from his coffee mug and then smiled at her. "I'm ready now; let's go."

She stood from her desk, grabbed her jacket and snagged the keys to their shared cruiser off her desk. Castle bit his lip as he watched her pocket the keys and head towards the exit. Their joint vehicle was one of the main points of contention between them as they could never agree on who would be the driver.

Beckett almost always insisted on behind the one behind the wheel, but Castle also preferred to be the driver, as he had been in his previous partnership. More days than not this led to an argument typically only settled by rock-paper-scissors and someone's grumpy attitude for the remainder of the day.

As they boarded the elevator, Castle made the impromptu decision to allow his partner to take the wheel without argument. Mostly, this was due to the fact that he only had one and a half cups of coffee and didn't want to be the one in charge of fighting early morning Manhattan traffic. Maybe, if he felt like it, he'd argue for the drive home.

"This is the address?" Castle asked when his partner pulled their cruiser up to a dilapidated looking building in a questionable area of town.

Kate double-checked the email with the address on her phone. "Yep," she nodded in confirmation. From his tone, she could hear her partners concern and she understood why. This was definitely not a street she would want to be on after dark—unless she was armed, of course, but it wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning. What could possibly go wrong?

Kate stepped out of the vehicle and shivered slightly as she slammed the door shut. She plunged her hands down into her coat pockets but found them disappointingly bare. Damn. Where were her gloves? As much as she wanted to believe that March meant the onset of spring, that morning New York City's weather reminded her that winter still held on by its icy clutches by providing an air temperature of a chilly thirty-one.

Ignoring the uncomfortable pinch of the air on her cheeks and nose, Kate jogged into the building ahead of her warmer companion, who not only possessed gloves but a scarf as well. She searched the lobby for an elevator and found the one tucked in a corner to display an "Out of Order" sign. On the bright side, she thought as she made a left turn towards the stairwell sign, at least the trek up three stories would warm her up.

"Which apartment is it?" Castle asked as they walked.

"3C," she replied. "Hopefully he's home, because he doesn't have a current employer so tracking him down someplace else would be difficult."

"Right…" Castle sighed, side-stepping a puddle of what he chose to believe was spilled cola in the stairwell.

When they arrived on the third floor, Kate pulled open the stairway door and immediately gasped from the noxious fumes that assailed her nostrils. Instinctually, she took a step back which resulted in the heels of her boots unintentionally crushing the toes of her partner. She mumbled an apology, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Jesus," he muttered, bringing the edges of his scarf up to cover his face and nose, "are we going to find another body up here?"

"I don't think so." She knew the scent of a decaying human all too well, but this was not it. Her attuned nose quickly determined the equally unpleasant scent to be a mixture of garbage, feces, and urine.

Following the spray paint directions on the wall (evidently a sign was too much to ask for) Kate and Castle turned right towards apartments C and D. They stepped over heaps of debris and trash, which appeared to be accumulating for more than a few months. Practically reading her mind, her partner keenly observed, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say this apartment building hasn't been properly inspected recently."

"Probably not."

As they rounded the next corner, muted screeching could be heard. Both detectives reached for their holstered weapons. He drew, but she held steady. Glancing over her shoulder she shook her head. "It's just a TV."

Still, he looked uncertain. "Beckett… I don't know about this. Do…do you think we should call for backup?"

Rolling her eyes, Kate turned back towards the upcoming apartment doorways. "Relax Castle; we're fine."

"Are you sure?" His tone grew quieter and more trepidations. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

She turned back to him, glanced down to the filthy floor and then back up at him. "Watch out, I think you dropped something."

His eyes darted downward and he took a half step back. "Oh what?"

"Your balls."

Taking pride in the irritated expression of her team member, Kate turned her progress forward once more. Three steps later, she reached the entrance to apartment 3C, directly across the hall from the doorway to 3D, which appeared even more dilapidated, if that was even possible. Her training kicking in, Kate paused and listened closely to the apartment in question for several seconds. When she heard nothing, she rapped sharply on the door.

"Kenneth Giles?" she asked, speaking in her loud, commanding cop-voice. "NYPD. We have some questions we'd like to-"

It happened so fast, Kate didn't have time to realize what happened until it was over. As the words exited her mouth, the distinct tha-thunk of a shotgun being cocked could be heard. She didn't react in time, but thankfully her partner did, tackling her to the ground as buckshot blasted through the cheap wooden apartment door.

A second blast happened no more than a few seconds later, sending even more splinters raining down on them. Kate shut her eyes tightly, but it wouldn't have mattered; Castle's body hovered protectively over hers, obscuring her from all debris.

When they heard clinks of the shotgun casings hit the ground, both detectives sprang into action, not wanting to waste a moment. Kate shot her hand to her hip holster, but it was Castle, who already had his weapon at the ready, who put a bullet in their suspect's knee. He hit the ground with a thud and a yelp.

"So, ah, you might want to call for backup now," he observed wisely as he placed one knee down to aid in his standing. He held one gloved hand out to her to assist her from the ground, but she refused and pushed herself up. Feeling sticky remnants on her fingertips, she grimaced and wiped her hands on her pants before plucking her cell phone from her pocket.

While her partner stepped through the battered apartment door to cuff and disarm their attacker, she phoned dispatch and requested backup as well as an ambulance for their suspect. With her phone call completed, she gazed inside Giles' apartment and found him lying on his stomach, arms cuffed behind his back, his shotgun safe several feet away.

Exhaling, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and gazed around to observe the damage the shotgun blasts had caused. Of course, given the preexisting state of the apartment building hallway, damage seemed to be a relative term. For the most part, the pellets had lodged themselves into the opposite wall and door, but upon closer examination, Kate could see holes in the door; some of the pellets had gone through.

Concerned, Kate approached the door to 3D cautiously. As she neared, she could hear scraping and shuffling near the door and then a muffled curse. Adrenaline coursing through her once more, she held her weapon at the ready and called out for her partner.

"What?" he asked as he ducked through the opening of the door. She nodded silently towards 3D and he approached with caution. He raised his fist to knock on the door, but the second his knuckles touched the door swung open with a horror movie groan.

Kate edged her way into the opening, weapon leading the way, until she heard, "Don't shoot me man! I already been shot! Damn fool shot me!"

Castle stepped in behind her and they both discovered a gangly African American man huddled on the floor just inside the door, his white t-shirt turning crimson at the left shoulder. "Oh god," Kate exhaled, too stunned to properly address the scene. Fortunately, her partner was not suffering from the same affliction.

As he stepped over to the victim, he was already unwinding the scarf from his neck. He mashed it against the man's shoulder; he yelped in pain. "It can't be that deep," Castle concluded, glancing up at her. "Not after going through two doors."

"How do you know, man? You ain't the one bleeding!" the victim yelped. Castle muttered an apology before pressing harder on the victim's wound to staunch the bleeding.

Several hours later, Kate and Castle had finally returned to the Twelfth. Their person of interest turned prime suspect had been sent to the hospital to have surgery on his knee. Their innocent bystander turned victim had been looked over, deemed to have minor injuries, but was also sent to the hospital as a precaution.

When they were finally able to leave the scene, Castle took the car keys from Kate's hand and, for the first time in a long time, she did not protest. As they drove silently, only one question filtered through her mind: how could she have been so stupid? She had seen Giles' rap sheet and knew he had a history of violence, yet she'd dismissed Castle's concerns. Rationally she knew in most circumstances they would have been fine, but she had dismissed her partner's gut in a way she would not have dismissed her own, and that guilt clawed at her insides as they drove.

"So," Captain Montgomery said as he met the silent duo just beside their desks. "You two want to explain to me how a civilian ended up shot inside his apartment this morning?" The captain's gaze darted between Kate and Castle before finally settling on the female.

Kate opened her mouth to explain, but no sound came out. Fortunately, her partner stepped in. "It was a fluke incident, sir. Beckett and I agreed we had no reason to believe Giles was dangerous; at that point in our investigation he was merely a person of interest. Fortunately, Mr. White was not seriously injured and will make a full recovery."

Montgomery nodded as his eyes drifted towards Kate. Under his gaze, she dropped her chin towards her chest, feeling like a toddler being scolded by a disappointed parent. "Well, let's be glad for that."

"You didn't have to say that," Kate said once their captain had walked away.

Her partner shrugged and leaned his hip against her desk. "We're partners."

"But I'm the one that screwed up."

"You didn't screw up, Beckett," he assured her. "I had a gut instinct that could have just as easily have been wrong. We had no factual way of knowing that psycho was waiting for us with a shotgun behind his apartment door. That's what partners are for, right?"

At his light smile, she curled up one corner of her lip. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He nodded and turned towards his desk, but she stopped him before he could take more than two steps away. "Thanks, Castle; for having my back."

He nodded at her. "Any time."