A/N: This one shot came about because I've been feeling pretty blocked as far as writing goes. So in this story I imagine Castle as blocked after he killed off Derrick Storm. He's adrift without inspiration and under pressure to replace his most successful character when into his life steps Detective Kate Beckett. This is a prequel of sorts to 1x01 "Flowers For Your Grave". Those with eagle eyes will spot a few lines of original script woven in near the end. For the rest, it's in italics. :)

Special thanks to WRTRD for her input in improving this story and for the inspiration provided by one of our latest chats about NYC. This time the inspiring subject turned out to be city smells in the summer and some random photos I'd taken in Chinatown.

"Writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all."

- Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Blocked

Well past 9am, and he was still asleep. His mother was up and pottering in the kitchen, that's how late it was, and his daughter, his daughter had long since risen, showered, got herself dressed, fed and out to school.

Guilt seeped from every pore even as he lay there, half-aware and half-not. He hated himself. He felt listless, distracted, anti-social and useless. In fact, if it wasn't for the sizeable sum in his bank account and the two homes he already owned outright, he'd be worried. He'd be a deeply worried man.

He checked the clock a half hour later when he heard the front door slam and understood it was supposed to be a message as well as the simple fact of his mother's dramatic departure for the day. His little family was getting tired of his hangdog routine, and he was equally tired of putting on a front for them, pretending to be fine. Because despite being Richard Castle, soit-disant "Master of the Macabre," the words had dried up. He was blocked.

The words had dried up and his imagination was shot to hell by worrying the issue to death, and all the while he felt the pressure mounting, like a levee that was coming perilously close to being overrun. In truth he had plenty of words, knew plenty of words, but like some cack-handed, inspirationless jeweler, he could find no elegant or interesting way to string them together to make a thing of value or beauty. He was bereft.

Several months ago he had decided to kill off his lead character, and now Derrick Storm was no more. Boredom and an embarrassed sense that the guy had outlived his fictional welcome eventually led him to this final drastic act. That, and the suspicion he secretly harbored that his writing success might be a one trick pony type thing, that maybe the Storm series was the best he'd ever come up with, and one day, out of new material, even sales of those books would stop, leaving he and Alexis destitute, forced to sell all his assets to buy shoes and milk and pay the electric bill, the things normal people had to wrangle with day in, day out. Okay, so this part only happened in his nightmares, but still. Those damn dreams haunted him, disabling his creativity, leaving him an empty husk of his former self.

If his mother and Alexis were tired of his dramatics, their ire was nothing when compared to that of Gina Cowell's DEFCON 1 level of cocked-pistol anger. Gina Cowell, second ex-wife and the President of Black Pawn Publishing: his literary representatives. He'd killed off her cash cow in an "act of self-sabotage," and with no plan to replace him either. So now the heat was on him to find a new thread, anything he could draw on that might form the beginnings of another blockbuster series to keep Black Pawn's hungry mouth well fed.

Later that day, he nursed a takeout coffee as he walked the streets of SoHo and Little Italy alone for a couple of hours attempting to clear his head. He wanted to feel more connected to the world, to get out of his ivory tower and down in amongst ordinary Manhattanites doing ordinary things, for that was where the real stories lay: out on the street, not inside his head. As he crossed Canal and carried on down Mott Street into Chinatown, his prayers were suddenly answered when he came across a scene that turned out to be far from ordinary.

It began with yelling, that's what grabbed his attention initially. But instead of the harsh, screeching Cantonese or Mandarin he was pretty used to hearing in this part of the city, where high-pitched women haggle or gossip outside grocery stores and deliverymen are upbraided with honking horns for trucks that block the stained, smelly streets, this is English he hears. It's the loud, authoritative voice of a single female telling someone he can't yet see to, "Face the wall and spread them. Now!"

He hurries forward towards the voice, skirting an impressive sidewalk display of fungi or dried, salted fish, he's unsure which at this speed. He ignores the tanks full of live crabs, lobster and eels that normally draw he and Alexis in to gawp like spectators at a carnival freak show, crossing the street instead at this point to where a navy Crown Vic is parked at a crazy angle to the curb. The car looks as if it has crash landed just inches away from a hydrant, its occupant now busy frog marching a longhaired man to the doorway of a building opposite, his arm twisted behind his back as he's manhandled against the wall and forcibly told to cooperate.

By the time Castle gets in position to have a better view, the three-ringed circus has drawn quite a crowd. The female occupant of the car has her back to the street, all her effort and attention honed on controlling the skinny, dark-haired man she has jammed up against the building.

Her legs, well her legs just go on forever, and he's got a great view from the middle of the street, right over the hood of her car, as she gets a little more physical with her "perp", as he begins to think of the Asian-looking guy. Her hair is cut short and choppy through the back and sides so that it spikes a little around her head. She's tall, taller than the guy she's arresting, slim and athletic looking, and though he can't yet see her face, he somehow guesses she'll be attractive in some way. No woman who can handle herself like this on a crowded Manhattan street could fail to be in some way attractive to Richard Castle. He feels the fog of his depression lift just a fraction as his own worries melt into the background and the scene in front of him rises up to flood his imagination with possibility.

"I said spread 'em!" she barks again, kicking at each of the man's feet in turn until he steps wider, hands pressed to the wall in front of him, so she can begin a rapid, efficient pat down.

By this point Castle is on the verge of getting in there and offering to lend a hand. He finds it hard to stand by and watch a woman, even one as capable as this, having to deal with a recalcitrant (albeit non-violent right now) male without attempting to come to her aid. But the gun on her hip tells him she's a cop, and so he stands and stares like the rubbernecker he is, watching with growing admiration as she cuffs her suspect one-handed, hauls him around and then deposits him in the back of her car without an insult or a curse word ever being exchanged.

A second Crown Vic pulls up to the curb a few seconds later with a screech of tires and a slamming of doors. Two more men get out, hurrying to the side of the lady cop's car, hands already on holsters.

"You got him?" asks a fierce, Hispanic looking guy.

"Hey, Beckett. You okay?" pants a skinny, white guy in a sweater vest and tie who runs up at the other guy's heels.

"Hmm, Beckett", thinks Castle, watching the rest of the scene unfold in case he gets the chance to learn a little more. Are these "too-late-the-hero" cops her partners or members of her unit, he wonders? Are they Vice, Guns and Gangs, Narcotics, Homicide? Maybe even Quality of Life squad given the noise, illegal dumping and antisocial behavior he knows sometimes goes on in this neighborhood. He's not sure which department these cops work for but his attention keeps being drawn back to the woman – to her cool air of authority, despite a pretty, chiseled face that confirms her youth when she finally turned around. She is utterly in control of this situation, and blocking a busy street in Chinatown so you can arrest a guy amongst his own kind is no mean feat in itself. And she had that perp cuffed and squared away before her backup could even arrive. Castle is seriously impressed.

"We need to get him out of here. Li and the Korean, Hwang, won't be far away once the drums get going. I'll take him back with me. You pay a visit to the girlfriend's nail salon on Grand. Call me if you find anything," she tells them, all business, instructions these two look like they'd never question or attempt to second-guess.

Before he can think to do something, to get her full name or ask her even the dumbest of introductory questions, the whole event just wraps itself up. It's like one of those kids' pop-up books - this tight little team turns the page and the scene collapses in on itself and just disappears. The woman called Beckett gets into her car, and the two guys behind follow suit, trailing her further down Mott Street in convoy until they can make a left at Bayard and turn back on themselves to head for Grand and the Korean nail salon she ordered them to visit.

Beckett's car disappears like it never even was, and Castle is left standing in the street outside a sprawling, smelly, Chinese Supermarket long after every other rubbernecker has moved along. He's left agog but excited, grappling with the opening scenes of a mystery – who was the guy they just snatched up off the street, what do Li and Hwang have to do with anything, and just who was that sexy, powerful, enigma of a woman he just watched kick ass and then some?

He walks home in something of a daze, words flowing inside his head like the ticker tape at the stock exchange: fast, colorful and relentless. Occasionally he bumps into people on the crowed sidewalks of Little Italy and has to apologize, the streets already in full build-up for the San Gennaro Festival, which starts at the weekend. He zigs and zags from Elizabeth to Mulberry, Centre and Lafayette, with fingers that itch to type, until he finally hits Crosby and then Broome.

Home.

His mother is in residence, the high-pitched singing and the eye-watering cloud of Rive Gauche giving her away. Alexis is sitting at the counter doing her homework, a glass of milk and a small plate of cookies laid out in front of her, his perfect, darling girl.

He greets her enthusiastically and the surprise on her face is a little disconcerting for how it speaks to his miserable mood of late.

She treats him far too carefully. "You all set for tonight? Gram laid your suit on the bed and I already picked out a tie to go with—"

"I'm fine, sweetie."

Alexis looks wary and unconvinced. It breaks his heart to see her worry and fret over him like this, her understanding and concern borrowed, in advance, from a woman far beyond her years.

He takes both her hands in his and looks into her eyes. "I promise I'm fine," he tells her, squeezing her fingers to add weight to his words.

Only one book left to launch, and while "Storm Fall" will undoubtedly do well in the charts for a few weeks, the need to make like a shark and keep moving is still there at the back of his mind as he showers and shaves, dresses and primps in front of the mirror in preparation for tonight's big book launch party. Today's takedown on the street still lingers, a tiny scene from a far bigger story already taking shape in his mind, and center stage the beautiful, kickass lady cop he can't seem to shake off or get out of his head. More than that, for once he finds he doesn't want to.

The bar is crowded. Gina did well with her introductory speech. Those who don't know them would never suspect the lengths her lawyer was prepared to go to as she hammered out the terms of their divorce like it was a life or death hostage negotiation.

For the first couple of hours, he behaved himself, played the affable author, signing book after book, signing other things besides. Whatever they asked, he was the puppet in the suit prepared to oblige. But his mind was elsewhere, had been all night, and his daughter, sitting at the bar doing homework, was more than well aware, as she watched him from the corner of her eye.

He grabbed another flute of Champagne, sidling closer to his two-drink maximum, and began to pontificate.

"Life should be an adventure. You want to know why I killed Derrick? There were no more surprises. I knew exactly what was going to happen every moment of every scene. It's just like these parties. They become so predictable. "I'm your biggest fan" "Where do you get your ideas?"

"And the ever popular, "Will you sign my chest?" his daughter replied, witheringly.

"That one I don't mind so much."

"Yeah, well, FYI - I do."

Castle looked around the room listlessly. "Just once, I'd like someone to come up to me and say something new."

From the edge of his vision a voice rang out, strong, clear and…strangely familiar? "Mr. Castle?"

Castle turned around and pulled out a pen, fully prepared to sign yet another exposed piece of female flesh. "Where would you like it?

Beckett approached, holding up her badge.

"Detective Kate Beckett. NYPD. We need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight".

Alexis leaned over her father's shoulder, took the pen from him, and whispered in his ear, "That's new."

Kate. So that was the name of his mystery woman. Detective Kate Beckett. It had a strength to it, just like its owner. He liked her even more already.

"I know you."

She blinked. "I'm sorry, Mr. Castle. You know me?"

She looked annoyed and a little flustered, and he'd only said three little words. This had the potential to be a whole lot of fun. He was going to get his mojo back and this woman would be the one to give it to him.

"Yeah. Your name's Beckett, right?"

"Detective Beckett. Yes. But I just told you that."

"No, I know. But…I know you from before."

She frowned in confusion at the tongue twister he'd just delivered and at the equally twisty logic of his statement. She knew him, of course she did. He was a pretty famous author, one of her mother's favorites. Though there was no way in hell she was telling this guy that or that she'd read (and owned) all of his Derrick Storm novels herself. You know what they say: never meet your heroes. Well, this guy was turning out to be a good case in point.

He flashed her a disarming smile and she actually stammered. "H…how do you—"

"You arrested a guy in Chinatown today. Guy named Chung-Ho Min, if I'm not mistaken." He looked cocky, overtly pleased with himself.

Beckett stared at him, eyes narrowed, but she confirmed nothing.

Castle pushed on, undeterred by her terrifying silence. "Min has a couple of accomplices or…"known associates", I believe you call them. A…a guy by the name of Li and some other dude called Hwang." He was winging it, but he used what he had to hand, and what he had to hand was his spectacular memory for detail.

"And you know about these…"dudes"," she said disdainfully, mirroring and at the same time mocking his use of air quotes, "how, Mr. Castle?"

He stuck out his hand. "Please. Call me Rick. And you are…" he asked, leaving the way clear for her to fill in her first name again, only in a much less formal manner this time. More of a, "Hi, Rick. Yes, I'm Kate. So pleased to meet you," kind of a thing, where she held onto his hand longer than necessary, her eyes locked onto his.

He'd be waiting around a long time for that. But this realization would only come to him slowly.

She ignored his hand. "Me?" she asked, tapping her own chest, slightly incredulous.

He nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, I'm…" She paused and he held his breath, waiting, anticipating, already imagining. "I'm taking you downtown to help us with our enquiries following the discovery of a body earlier tonight. And after that…"

"Yes?" Castle asked eagerly, imagining drinks in some dark little bar with a pianist who performed live jazz Thursday through Sunday, somewhere intimate they'd finally get a chance to debrief one another after putting her case to bed, in a manner of speaking.

"After that you will explain to me how you come to know so much about a covert raid that took place in Chinatown today."

"I…I was there. I saw what you did. It was impressive."

"Cut the B.S., Mr. Castle. I never mentioned Chung-Ho Min by name. Not in public. So I want to know how you got his name."

He gave it up immediately. "I called a guy."

"Well, I hope that guy was your lawyer and I trust you have one helluva calling plan because you two are gonna have a whole lot to talk about, if I have anything to do with it."

Kate turned to one of the two uniforms hovering at her back, cuffs already drawn. "Gentlemen. Shall we?"

The End

Thank you for reading.