Writers' Tears

The Old Haunt, Friday night, 2 September 2011

A shadow, familiar, passed by and from his usual space behind the bar, the flicker of recognition enticed him to look up from the tally sheet he was reviewing. Fridays at this time were, if not quite unfathomably dead, then really quiet, and suitable for paperwork – the seemingly yawning gap between the office workers and the night prowlers - and any extra movement was hopeful and welcome. Plus, he was bored, paperwork was doubly boring, so any semi-legitimate distraction was a boon and escape from the dreaded drudgery of stock counts and ledgers.

The figure kept moving, choosing to bypass him. He no longer took umbrage at those who choose to be served by one of the younger, and more attractive, staff.

With a barely perceptible frown, he tracked the shadow. Oh, he finally recognized that silhouette.

Dammit! Jim again.

Was it wrong that a bar owner didn't want a frequent customer to return? Especially one that liked good quality – and therefore expensive - whiskey.

It wasn't like Jim was trouble. Opposite was closer to the truth. He paid cash, always settled his tab.

In fact, he liked the guy. He was quiet, even quieter when in his cups. Never properly drunk. Dulled but not senseless. Even so he could seem lifeless, where there appeared to be no emotion, barely any movement. Not even morose. Just completely lost. He had okay nights and not-so okay nights. This was clearly going to be one of the latter, based on the hunch of the shoulders and the complete lack of acknowledgement. Jim was normally one of the few that would stand opposite him to order or at least nod in greeting – usually – when arriving.

From down the bar Jerry shot him a questioning look but despite his better nature calling out, he nodded in permission.

If Jim noticed the slight pause and their little interplay, he made no sign of it.

Jerry set the man up.

The first of many.

He had killed Derrick Storm.

Bored.

Tired of the spy's adventures and conquests.

The predictability and resultant monotony of the words and his character's inability to rise far enough from cliché.

The demand from his editors and seemingly his readers for a growing body count worried him. Even if not at bodies-per-page level, he recoiled from killing for killing's sake – even on a page.

So, with no little irony, he killed Derrick stone dead – with no possibility of a comeback - short of a zombie apocalypse - with a bullet to the head.

Hard to come back from that.

Then.

He had tried to find something new.

But.

Nothing.

Blocked.

Lost.

He had believed, and then hoped, that it was only temporary.

It wasn't.

Gone.

No spark.

Completely and utterly.

Terrified.

So alone.

Uninspired.

Rallied.

Failed.

New.

Old.

Nothing that worked.

Zero.

Well nothing worth writing home, well writing much at all about. Certainly not publishing. Gina was adamant on that.

Turns out Derrick was not the only one who apparently had been fatally wounded.

As time went on, he had become, um, desperate. He had tried many things, drawing the line at mommy-porn (even under a pseudonym). Nothing had worked well enough. Especially in a shrinking market with more competition.

A few book tours, a comic book adaption, whispers of a movie or TV series, offered the specter of salvation but ultimately came to little enough or less.

He got firsthand experience of how fickle fame, the fans and finally his publisher were.

He had been in LA on a desperate mission to sell the TV rights when there had been a series of copycat murders based on some of his earlier books but by the time he was back, the NYPD had solved it – after an initial wrongful arrest - and the opportunity had passed.

Once last chance had been tortuously dangled in front of him when he had been approached about the spy who shall not be named, but then they changed their minds, choosing to go with a more current author.

It still hurt.

The Old Haunt

He had bought it because it didn't want it to go the way of most of his other history. He had written the best part of two of his earlier novels here. He kept the picture from 'Bullets on the wall over the booth where he wrote almost two decades ago. It was meant to be inspiration but if he did acknowledge his portrait, it was definitely a form of mockery and chastisement.

It has come on the market when the owner had died suddenly, and violently. It had been a passing piece in the paper, and a careless remark by his mother had made him look deeper.

Once it was no longer a crime scene, he made an impulse visit and very soon he found himself parting with a not inconsiderable chunk of his remaining cash for the chancy proposition, beating out a chain of pubs.

He was enticed, nary desperate to establish a link to, and hold on to something from his – successful – past.

In some ways it was responsible for an uptick in his fortunes, even it is was fluky and slight at best. His luck had turned, at least in some small ways. The discovery of the prohibition era hidey-holes and the St Miriam whiskey had been a God send. The money was nice especially topped with the inspiration for the prohibition era nights at the 'Haunt which were still their most profitable activities.

Even better was his own inspiration for words and while they only produced a couple of short stories including one backstory for Derrick about gun and whiskey runners, they had made him feel less of a failure. For a while.

Alexis was still the bright anchor of his life. She was almost in college and her plan on moving out terrified him.

The residuals from the books kept the loft, paid Alexis' school fees, and left enough for college fund of sorts. Turns out that scholarship Alexis was smart enough to win would come in handy after all.

It didn't leave much. And Martha, well Mother, had been less than impressed by the cut in her allowance and after it transpired and finally became obvious to her that he was for real, she had gone on the road. Where it had worked well for her. But she still didn't come home except for a visit or to mind Alexis if he needed.

One bright spot was that Meredith dropped all pretence as soon as it was apparent that the money was gone. That bit of his past, was now simply, blessedly passed.

As for himself. Pretty much every had gone downhill. He was never the playboy the press made out, but nor had he been a luckless klutz, yet somehow dating had become a disaster too. Gina had not only kicked him out of his own bed, but out of a contract with Blackpawn. He got the bed back but not the rest.

If he was being totally honest, he was no longer quite so ruggedly handsome. The large beard was initially a foolish affection and slovenly habit that now conveniently hide his new jowls, so he kept it. The larger t-shirts and plaid shirts covered his expanded waistline. He made attempts to cut down on the food and hit the gym. Neither lasted long enough. The only thing he did master was control of his drinking. Turns out owning a bar is not conducive to trying to drown your sorrows, well not unless you wanted to go bankrupt.

So, he had a coffee machine installed. Even though he intended it for the staff and his use, a surprising number of customers requested coffee once they saw the machine. But most stuck to alcohol.

Rick wasn't totally teetotal but never drank at the 'Haunt. Here drinking alcohol was for customers only.

Customers like Jim.

Jim had started coming in late May and become a fixture in the months since.

The man wanted somewhere quiet – Jim never came on Fridays or Saturdays – too noisy he would tell Rick in few words. He kept to himself, drinking good quality whisky and never to real excess. Sometimes a little unsteady but always with enough control to go home, sometimes in a cab Rick called for him. On occasion, Jim would forgo whisky and they would chat over coffee but never about anything meaningful. It was if Jim was trying to hide from reality. Something Rick was far too familiar with.

But tonight, was Friday and Jim was here tonight. The bright lights and promise of later crowds had not put him off. The change in routine, that was not good, however you spun it. Friday was not ever Jim's night. Until now.

Jerry had set Jim up with his first glass of the dark alcohol.

Whiskey was Jim's poison.

When he first arrived at The Old Haunt, the Man had spent a good five minutes hovering, indecisive, until finally he had asked about the choices available in whisky and had expressed a preference for quality single malts. From the first night he had started with Bushmills. After a few visits, Rick has persuaded Jim to try something different, and after draining the dram, Jim had settled on the most ironic of whiskey brands Rick had introduced when he had rescued The Old Haunt and reinvigorated not only the venue and staff but the stock.

Writers' Tears.

The name was near perfect – the apostrophe was in the wrong place – but the name and the very fact that it was released in 2009, the year his career came apart, seems like a sign from the Universe. It should have been a kick to the gut, but it was damn good stuff, despite coming from a new distiller rather than one of the traditional Irish power houses.

The evening rush had come in and there hadn't been time to do much except help the bar crew. He loses himself in the moment, something he acknowledges now as one of the reasons to buy the place. It feels good working as part of a team, to be needed. Even if it only pulling pints and serving shots.

Three hours had passed, and the crowds had thinned, mostly heading to clubs, restaurants, a show, or home – or somewhere with a bed, mostly. The team are relaxed, sharing a word or a joke with the remaining customers and themselves as they clear up.

He cannot help himself. He strolls down the length of the bar, squeezing past two of his staff so he can check.

He had no idea how many Jim had had, but he does know Jim had taken his current drink almost an hour ago but seemingly not touched it. Just stared at it. Jerry looks at him concerned and tilts his head in the direction of the older man.

Their eyes met and the older man nods back, so Rick marshals his bonhomie and sets off for the man.

"Good evening Jim."

"No, it's not." He didn't slur which was at least something. But the tone was unusual. Usually reserved and polite even when in his cups. This was not hostile but hard, tinged with something akin to sadness or disappointment.

Rick tries very hard to tamper down on the instinct to seek the story. "Want to talk?"

"No."

"You know I have to cut you off?" He tries a different but no not unfamiliar approach.

"Yeah. Figured," resignation lanced through. No attempt to argue that he wasn't drunk, or that he hadn't actually touched his latest drink. Just acceptance.

Rick feels guilty, only a little, but he knows he cannot fix whatever ails this man. Nor should he.

"Can I get you a cab? On the house." That he can do.

"Nothing to go home to. Excuse me."

With that Jim rises suddenly and with hardly a tremor navigates his way to the bathroom, whisky still untouched.

Rick waits him out.

It takes a few minutes until Jim returns, face still damp from the effects of what was probably intended to be a sobering splash of cold water.

Rick says nothing, and the man appraises him even while his hand hovers by the glass of untouched whiskey.

"She'll be back soon. One look at me…." He trails off, and then resumes, "She'll be so disappointed."

"Who? Your wife?" He knows immediately it is the wrong question as Jim blanches, looks physically ill.

"No not Jo, Katie," Jim stammers, still clearly affected by something.

Not wife, a girlfriend he wonders.

It is not the question he asks. "Why?" already expecting the answer Jim provides.

"Drinking," the one-word answer laced with self-hatred and disappointment is enough.

Oh. He has no response for that. His words really are lost somewhere. Especially because this is his bar.

But Jim goes further, "But not the worst. One look and she'll know."

"Not just drinking? Then what?" Rick asks despite himself.

Jim doesn't wait for the question, seemingly ready to unload his woe on this comparative stranger.

"Made a deal." He looks sick, makes Rick think about heading for the bar and reaching for the bucket beside the sink.

'A deal for what?' he doesn't actually ask the man.

Seems he didn't need to. "For her life," and Jim seems to shudder and shrink into himself.

What? Why would he need a deal for someone's life? Not someone, well not a stranger. Family probably?

"Mr Smith he called himself," Jim chuckles sadly, the cliched name perhaps the reason.

"I have to keep her away from it."

The older man's head drops, and he grips the tumbler, knuckles white, leaving Rick fearful for the fate of the glass and the man's hands.

"No choice. Have to. Love her. She's all I've got." The older man shakes several times and removes a hand from the tumbler to grip the table, "I can't lose her too."

With those words all animus seems to leave Jim's body and he slumps, final hand coming off the glass, and Rick lunges just a little to secure the tumbler of untouched whisky before it takes a tumble of its own.

With his head crowded with contradictory thoughts, he loses track of how long he waits. He has no words he can offer, and the man has withdrawn within himself.

Eventually Jim sits up in his seat, and his head rises, and his eyes reluctantly engage Rick's.

"Sorry," the voice is gruff with barely suppressed emotion.

"Nothing to apologize for Jim," he assures the man, honestly feeling no slight, even as he doubts if the man believes him.

"Still I shouldn't have," and Rick shakes off any further attempt at an apology, but he doesn't want the man to go, too much is unexplained.

"I'm getting a coffee. Do you want one Jim?" and with that he rises and leave the alcoholic with his untouched whiskey.

It takes a few minutes to assemble their coffees and when he returns, the first thing he checks is the glass which appears untouched still. The second thing he notices is that Jim has had time to reflect and compose himself.

Rick knows how Jim likes his coffee and deposits the mug in front the man. In deference to the heat from the mug, Jim does not cup it with hands, nor does he drink it for now.

Rick takes a sip of his, revealing in the heat and gentle kick from the caffeine, "What do you want to do Jim?"

There is a long pause as Jim finally takes a draft of his coffee.

"Shouldn't be telling you this," Jim starts and halts. Seemingly completely sober for the moment, he checks their surroundings. Scanning for what Rick doesn't know but it appears as if this is a secret or at least something that should not be public.

Jim frowns clearly conflicted about something.

"I could help." He means it. Which catches him by surprise. Since he lost the words, and most of the money, he doesn't do this for strangers. And Jim is more of a stranger despite the semblance of familiarity. Yet somehow there is more. A connection. Maybe because they are both single – not by choice he thinks.

Jim tries a smile, but it is more of a grimace, "God no! Make it worse, most likely." He smiles properly, "sorry the offer is appreciated but it's not on you to fix anything, especially not my mistakes."

"Why?" He's honest in his offer and a little hurt by the immediate rejection. But his Spidey-senses tell him there's a story there. He is so keen to know it, it almost hurts.

"It's dangerous. Really dangerous. So I won't put anyone else at risk. Especially you."

Rick was wants to know what makes him worth of the consideration, when Jim tells him.

"Look Rick, we're both fathers."

And then the light comes on. His child? Katie is his daughter.

"Is it your daughter?"

"Yeah. Not that she deserves a failure of a father like me."

Jim gets up and leaves. Rick is too stunned to stop him.

He Googles her. Almost wishes he didn't.

Fuck! He almost cries for the man. And for the daughter he is learning about.

Detective First Class Katherine Beckett had been shot by a sniper giving the eulogy at her dead Captain's funeral in early May. Almost died. Expected to return to duty after an extended recovery – unsurprisingly. Unknown assailant. No leads. Case no longer active. Shit!

He doesn't know her. Barely knows Jim, but the wrongness of it burns him.

The more he reads, the more she draws him in. There isn't much available online, but he is still good at research when motivated. He visits the Library. Even after all the years, this is still a shrine, a sacred place to him. He finds more information but not enough.

Even with the scant information so far, her story will not leave him alone. After a disturbed night and day of no sleep and endless internal conflict he calls a friend. Well maybe acquaintance might be a better term as they had not spoken or socialized for a while.

It costs him one of his diminishing stockpile of St Miriam's but the friend comes through with enough of the information he was seeking. It grabs hold of him like nothing has for a long time.

She is the fastest person ever to qualify for detective, with further rapid record breaking rise up the ranks, three bravery awards, a couple of photos of ceremonies, the NYPD blue uniform is a bit unflattering, but she wears it with assurance, like armor.

Her demeanor is always serious, almost defiant. He briefly wonders what her happy smile would be like but dismisses it. And he's not looking for a relationship or even a date. She is almost a decade younger than him. Makes him feel a little disgusted with himself for the transient thoughts. He can at least acknowledge how attractive she is. Her eyes are amazing and her height, wow she is tall.

The more he digs into her past, the worse it becomes. When he finds the articles on the murder of her mother, Jim's wife, he almost gives it all away in horror and a fair weight of self-loathing as well as final understanding of the burdens assailing his customer and friend of sorts.

He has no right to go there, especially if will reopen wounds, old and new. Or worse, draw the attention of whoever was behind all of it. His writer's mind easily supplies all the necessary paranoia for a conspiracy and what were likely all too real dangers.

Even as this potential dead-end, he finds himself fascinated and motivated for the first time in many months he begins to write.

The Loft, Tuesday morning, 7.59 am

Alexis frowns. Her dad is not up with breakfast ready. He had made it a part of their routine, and something he did without fail on school days.

Something changed recently. She noticed but despite her questions he never explained, and she had chosen not to ask further, her heart more than a little bruised after all the failures of recent years. Her own assurance in the way of things nearly as threadbare as her father's.

As quietly as she can, she sneaks up to the bookcase wall and peers through the row of well-loved, nearly tattered copies of his favourite fantasy novels.

It's something she had come to fear she would never see again.

He's asleep at his desk.

Biting her lip isn't enough so she retreats to the kitchen. Despite the tears streaming down her cheeks, she does a happy dance much like her Dad would.

She almost laughs at herself at her incongruous actions as she finds a tissue to blot the stream of tears reaching her upturned lips, the salty stream uplifting beyond little else she has experienced.

She tries to temper her joy, tell herself it may not be anything, but she hasn't found her Dad asleep at his desk for more than three years.

She'll call Grams later to share the good news, and if she can try and get her dad to open up.

The Old Haunt

Jim turns up a few days later. He nurses a coffee – no whiskey - for what must be two hours. If has drunk more than a few sips of what now must be stone cold beverage, Rick can't tell.

"Why are you here?"

"She's coming home today." He stops looking completely defeated, "and I can't face her. Not again."

"I don't know what to do?"

"Be honest."

"I'm sorry?"

"Honesty. Best approach. Learnt with my own daughter."

"I can't. It's too much. She won't," Jim protests.

Rick can believe him, but his own smart daughter had taught him the benefit of frank honest. It hurt, strained things, risked breaking relationships but ultimately.

"Everything else you have to trust to love."

""She won't like it?" Rick still has no idea how 'she' will take it, but he can make an educated guess on how this independent and imposing police detective-daughter would likely react to a case so personal and Jim's own battles.

"Hell no," the older man admits, with the closest thing to a profanity Rick has ever heard from him.

"But you're going to try?" He struggles to suppress his own desperation for the story to have a happy ending.

"No other choice."

Rick nods in acknowledgement and acceptance, "Come on Jim. I'll take you back to your daughter."

"If she'll have me?"

"As a father, I have faith."

Manhattan

The door opens before the man can extract his key.

"Dad?" a commanding female voice, tinged with concern and more than a hint of exasperation, sounds out from behind the heavy door.

He looks to Jim, who looks pretty damn pale. Almost ill. That will be his daughter then.

He hasn't even seen the occupant behind the door even as he greets her. "Detective Beckett," he extends his arm, hand open, almost entirely on instinct, even before he looks back from Jim.

Oh, he sees her now. She's tall, eyes almost at his level, even in the ballet flats. She doesn't take his hand. Instead a glare that could melt Titanic-sized icebergs burns back at him. He almost thinks her rude, until he catches a glimpse of the pistol, a Glock 22 his author brain supplies, in her right hand, half-hidden by her side.

He stills, seeking to present no threat, tuning his offered hand to show an open palm. His internalized question of 'who answers a door with a pistol in hand?' is dismissed automatically by his own answer of 'someone who was shot at a funeral dummy!' and who hears a stranger at her door.

Reluctantly he drops his hand, but his eyes never leave her. Even pale, a good ten pounds at least underweight and so clearly angry there is an undeniable presence about her, a force. He begins to understand Jim's dilemma.

If he was interested before he is really intrigued now. And she is clearly striking, possibly beautiful, even without makeup and a pale complexion that belies spending the summer months in rehab. Perhaps in the up-country cabin that Jim had mentioned once. Clearly, she has been hiding from everything including the sun.

"I was just bringing Jim home," he goes for the obvious, the truth.

The eyes don't blink, the voice is equally hard, "I think you've done enough damage."

Shit, she's spiky. But he holds his tongue. He remembers a few times he had overstepped with Alexis, he can take a bit of tongue lashing. Plus, he knows that this is not definitely the first time through this particular hell for the father and daughter, and another relapse would be so much tougher. For both.

Jim turns to him. "Thanks Rick, I got this." The elder Beckett does extend his hand. "Thanks for everything. I do appreciate it."

"I hope everything works out Jim," he shakes the man's hand. "Don't take this the wrong way but I hope I don't see you again. In the 'Haunt at least."

The man breaks a small smile, "And you Rick, your last advice. It's good, I'll give that a go."

He cannot leave without addressing the woman sheltered behind the door, "Good night Detective. I wish you both well with your recoveries." There is simple sincerity in his voice.

She doesn't answer, but the glower slightly lowers, dimmed by a tinge of uncertainty he thinks, small frown lines creasing her forehead. Cute he thinks, immediately grateful he did not vocalize that errant thought.

Time to retreat before he makes it worse.

He spins on his heels and beats a retreat to the waiting cab, never looking back.

Behind him Detective Kate Beckett watches the big man leave, the frown still apparent on her brow, she almost squints and unconsciously nips her lower lip. Her senses are telling her she should recognize the man who delivered her father home. Shaking her head, she drops it for now, she has more immediate concerns to deal with.

The Beckett household

He dad had done nothing but apologize since returning.

She didn't smell alcohol on him but didn't necessarily mean anything. She is certain he has lapsed and lapsed badly. She wants to cry. He had been sober so many years, but she can concede that her nearly dying would be reason enough to fall off the wagon. Especially after she forced him to leave her and sent him back to the city, both of them alone.

If there was any good, it would appear that her father recognized that and maybe was ready to do something about it.

"Oh Dad."

"I couldn't. I couldn't. I'm so sorry."

She fights the instinct to flee and extends her arms to wrap round his sobbing body.

"We can get over this. Get you back on track."

"I want to. I never wanted to….."

"I know." Guilt woven through her words. She did this. Well not entirely on her own. But her near death and her reaction to run and hide, on her own, shutting him out, that had a big part to play in this. She knows it. She is responsible. Her Mom's case. The tragedy that keeps on.

Eventually "I've got a mind to get his license pulled."

"Don't. Rick's a good guy. He listened. He offered to help. Tried to."

"By serving you drinks." A statement, more like something on a charge sheet.

"No! That's on me, and me alone Bug. And for the record he was more than diligent in looking after me. Always cut me off, and made sure I got home in a cab. Gave me coffee as often as whisky."

She starts to scoff, but somehow bites down on her cop-bred cynicism. Plus she can admit that it is not typical behavior of a bar owner. She frowns again. There was something vaguely familiar about this man. Rick her dad called him. She makes a mental note to follow up later.

Opposite his daughter, Jim takes a big swig of the coffee. It almost burns going down. It is strong, neat and so very hot. His daughter's choice. His punishment of sorts. A tear leaks from his left eye betraying him.

Katie looks back at him and in that moment the stern gaze of a child about to admonish a parent wavers, and then folds.

She steps in close, takes the mug from him and places it on the bench, safely away from the edge. She places the backup piece beside the coffee mug and steps forward, embracing her one remaining family member.

He looks at her, so lost and yet his love is there. It probably always was, even the first time, just that she could not see, through her own pain. Worse she thinks, that she chooses not to, or refused.

For better or worse that time is past, and this is now. And she is a detective, a damn good one. Right now her senses are telling her that there is far more to this than just his drinking.

There had to be. His sobriety had survived her place being blown up, tied up but not murdered by a serial killer, a freezer, a dirty bomb (a whispered secret after he returned from his enforced trip to the cabin). Sure her dying twice after being shot was in all certainty the worst moment but she thought, hoped, trusted he was stronger. She wouldn't have run away to the cabin to recover/hide if she thought otherwise. Would she?

He won't meet her eyes at first.

Then he does.

"Tell me Dad. Please," the 'why' unnecessary.

Jim puts the coffee down on the table and sits, indicating that his daughter should follow.

She reluctantly sites opposite him, eyes locked on his face, and waits.

"He said he was a friend of Roy Montgomery's. That Roy had made a deal for your life, and before the end, he sent it to his friend. But the file got to him too late."

Her jaw drops. Not just that Roy Montgomery's failings were less secret but that somehow her father had been dragged into the entire dirty business, "What?"

Jim ignores the outburst, "Why didn't you tell me Bug?"

So many things she has kept secret. What is the answer he seeks? And can he handle what she has been hiding from him.

"What do you know?"

"Only by implication. The voice told me nothing. I can only deduce that Roy Montgomery, your captain, was involved somehow."

He sees the resignation on her face. He detests what comes next but he must. For both of their sakes.

"And somehow it is connected back to Jo's murder."

He hates himself for it. But not the self-loathing that lead him back to the bottle, when shot after shot had failed to wipe the very knowledge from his conscious and unconscious.

So she tells him everything she knows.

They both break. Thirteen years back in a flash for both of them.

Tears are the least of it, but even so, they cannot – yet - bring themselves the comfort the other, their own guilt outweighing the familial bond.

But their finally being honest, sharing their secrets, gives them both solitary hope that they can fix this. Together their diminished little family of two. It was going to take a long time and lots of work.

The Old Haunt – 28 November 2011.

He almost didn't come in today, but Jerry called and said he needed to come in – and soon - but didn't explain why. A bit cryptic for someone usually so straight-forward. Jerry is now the bar manager and runs the place better than he ever could even if the man doesn't always make sense, but if Jerry says he needs him, he'll trust him and go in.

He takes the subway and walks the last few blocks enjoying the chill of the night, grateful for the lack of rain. He dodges through a gap in a group of customers leaving the 'Haunt and makes his way towards the bar.

Jerry is in his favorite spot where he can see most of the booths, the floor and door from his resting place behind the bar. He gives his boss a genuine grin and tips his head in the direction of one of the booths at the back with the seats obstructed from view.

Rick smiles in thanks but shakes his head at the silent question of whether he wanted one. He is making good progress of his own, but his self control is tested even now. However, he does divert to the coffee machine and efficiently fixes himself a latte with artificial sweeter and the low-fat milk.

Coffee in hand, he crosses the floor and arrives at the booth and is finally able to see the occupant tucked in the corner. The man greets him with a unfamiliar grin, and starts to rise, hand extending in greeting. He waves him off and the man returns to his seat, even as Rick struggles to find words.

If he wasn't so familiar, he would almost not recognize the person opposite. Especially as he is drinking coffee. The suit is sharp, even if a little less fashionable than his own preference.

The man looks him up and down and smiles again in greeting. Like an old friend. Of sorts.

"Hello Rick."

Even as he sits opposite the older man, Jim puts something on the table and slides it towards him.

"Hello Jim," there is warmth in tone, he likes the man, plus his mother had drilled him to be polite regardless of the urgency of the question that follows, "What's this?" as picks it up the red-hued round object, roughly the size of a poker chip.

"30 day chip."

Secured between thumb and forefinger, he feels the pattern of the triangle that sits on one side, the words 'unity', 'service' and 'recovery' each adorning a side.

"That's yours, you earned it, not me," Rick insists.

The man shakes his head, "I want you to have it Rick. I'll get more alone the way, but this one is yours."

"Thank you, Jim. Can I ask why?"

"You helped. You listened. You didn't give up on me." Jim looks him straight in the eye. He forces himself to hold his gaze.

"I made the break, started, then had to restart, but have stuck at it since. But more important than that, you helped me with Katie. Your advice." He looks sincere, the voice even, "About being honest. It was critical in us rebuilding and getting past our walls."

There is a long pause. Neither man certain what to say next.

Rick can't claim any special insight or vision, just that his daughter has more often shaped how he has tried to live his life and not fall back into old habits and vices. He admits as much. "Thank my daughter. She's the one who really made me want to get better. Be better. I just shared her advice about saying sorry and being honest."

"Mine too," Jim admits.

"How is your daughter Jim?" He tries to keep his voice neutral, not give anything away, which should be easy as he doesn't know himself how he feels.

The man looks back at him, appraising, but seemingly he passed the inspection, or perhaps Jim relents and shows mercy, "Good, well fine," a tacit admission of the struggles the other Beckett has. "Mostly. Still healing," he concedes.

That's a mite contradictory he thinks but Jim changes the subject on him this time.

"Almost didn't recognize you Rick. If it wasn't for the eyes and your good nature."

"Thanks."

"I'm being honest. You look good. Lost the beard, lost quite a bit of weight too. Looking quite sharp, even if not to my taste."

He can't stop the smile, even as he subconsciously strokes the absent scruff.

"Thanks Jim." This time with feeling, "You do too. If that isn't too presumptuous or even a little weird."

The older man smiles at the warmth of the words.

"Now why didn't you tell me you were Rick Castle?"

That throws him momentarily. "Why is that important? Not a fan, are you?"

"No, not me. But I know one." The man must be a lawyer given how cryptic he is.

"You're not a lawyer, are you?". He fires back, quite enjoying this surprise meeting.

"Bingo. In one." Jim takes another sip of his coffee, and Rick takes a deeper draught of his, barely controlling his expression, God artificial sweetener is foul.

"It's how her mother and I met. Been one all my life, apart from a few breaks. Could say it is my calling but never like Jo."

"And your daughter?"

"Was going to be the first female chief justice, until…." Jim halts mid-sentence, unable to voice the first family tragedy. "Katie felt it differently, she came home, changed her major. Became a cop."

Rick nods, imbibing the information, uncertain what it could mean.

"So how are you Jim?"

"I'm actually pretty good. Every day is a little better. Some harder than others. You know how it is."

He nods, well aware from his own battles but uncertain for now what to say, "Look, if, I, I, well, I'm feeling some…" The man's hand cuts him off.

"Please don't feel guilty. Entirely my choice." He looks right him, "you did the right thing every time. Cut me off when needed. Got me home every time. That wasn't your responsibility. You went above and beyond."

"Still, I feel…"

"Please don't. Told Katie as much when she wanted to charge down here and suspend your license."

His daughter, the scary cop, "She did?" He can't keep the surprise out of his voice. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised by that. He imagines that in good health Detective Kate Beckett would be a force to be reckoned with.

"Imagine her surprise when she did a background check and discovered the owner was her favorite author," Jim imparts with quite some humor.

Favorite author? Now he's perplexed. And not a little proud. He doesn't get many compliments these days, so he'll take what he can.

"Of course she still didn't look happy, and then she muttered something about police horses."

Shit, he fights the blush of embarrassment as best he can. A little bit of him still not-secretly finds it amusing, but well that's not something he'd want to share with someone like Jim. Or his impressive cop-daughter.

Jim brings him back to the moment, "I told her the truth. About my drinking, and your help, all of it."

He is not sure how, but he knows this is about much more than his relapse.

"That was brave." It falls out of his mouth before he can stop himself."

Fortunately, Jim can laugh about it, "Maybe. Terrifying is more apt. My daughter, well she can be the living embodiment of a cop." There is a lot of pride in the voice. He is a father too so he can appreciate the sentiment, but he never wants to know the emotions Jim had to ride out. He doubts if he would be any stronger.

"Did it help?"

"Not at first. She's stubborn. More than stubborn than my wife or I. Hardly a surprise though."

He just nods. Steels himself to listen.

"And the case. Her mother's, Jo's case. It pulls her down. Has a hold, nothing, no-one, can break. God knows I've tried." His hands actually shake, and he let's go of the coffee cup and the rattle stops. "Sorry," he breathes, and Rick gives him as long as he needs.

"Nothing to apologize for Jim." Nothing was broken. On the table at least.

"Maybe not to you. But to her? Years of neglect. Abandonment. And then I do it again." The man's confession burns him. He feels responsible for his part in this. He told, well advised, Jim to be honest.

Regardless of the doubts in his head, and he has plenty, he goes with hope, "Doesn't sound like she holds that against you. Does she?"

"No. She's magic like that. Forgiven me so much."

"Then it should be okay. My daughter is the same. Less than impressed with me letting myself go and my failings in the first place. But she is pleased that I am making the effort to be better."

"Same here. And you do look happier too Rick."

He fights a sudden urge to play-act. Like he used to. He could blame his mother's influence, after-all it is strong, but honestly, he used it to deflect and distract, to hide. "Thanks Jim, but I'm not all the way back yet." More honesty.

"Same here." The subtext is strong. He means both himself and his daughter's forgiveness. Maybe more.

"About the drinking or the other thing?" He can't help himself the question flies from his lips with a life of its own.

Jim stares at this hands, the subtle shake, and clasps them together, "Both but mostly the other thing."

The 'other thing'. The deal Jim made for his daughter's life. He doesn't know what we would do in the same circumstances, but his father instincts tell him any sacrifice for his kid is worth it.

"How did she take it when you told her?" He doesn't know if he should ask the question but the interchange seems honest and open.

"Anger, frustration, hope, denial….." Jim tails off, clearly not quite willing or able to share everything.

Rick respects that.

"Sounds like you may have got through to her, Jim?"

"If I did it is only because I failed her in other ways."

"Doesn't seem that way to me."

"That's very kind of you but I'm no hero. Not even a good dad. Certainly not when Jo died."

Rick doesn't know what to say to that. He may not have failed in exactly the same way, but he knows what it is to disappoint his daughter. To fail her in his own ways. She the disappointment, the attempts to mask the emotions and the times when she didn't.

"Once I finally dug myself out of the bottle the first time, I promised. And I let her and me down."

Rick physically bites his lip to prevent correcting the grammar, old habits die hard.

"But if there is an upside, my weakness, my falling back into addiction, that is what convinced her. More than any logic. But that's no surprise. The child of two lawyers…." Jim trails off, perhaps lost in an old memory.

"Pretty intense family discussions?" Rick queries.

"You have no idea," Jim states with a father's pride. "She had the better of both of us. Told you she was going to be the first female Chief Justice, well being cop made her relentless logic fearsome with her cop's interrogation skills."

Jim stops, clearly at a loss. Rick does not want to make this worse for his friend so instead he asks, "How is she, really?"

"Back at work, desk initially but in the field now. Getting better slowly. Work has been very tough. A new captain. From IA no less. Very by-the-book. But she has her partners and they look out for her. Like brothers."

"That's good," Rick admits before adding, "I Googled her." Rick confesses, forcing himself to keep his eyes level and on the man opposite.

The lawyer stares back at him. He can't read the emotion.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Sorry that came out, well not wrong but too direct. I did research. But I realized that whatever this is, is simply too dangerous. I have a family, a daughter, and you do too. I can't put them at risk."

"I shouldn't share this. But I trust you Rick. And the coffee you provided had meaning too. She's seriously addicted to caffeine. That fact that you had coffee on hand, "

Rick exhales a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding.

"I can keep a secret."

"I appreciate that Son. I won't share much. She'll hate me, well maybe not hate, for what I am about to share. She doesn't do weak, or the appearance of weak. Detests even showing any sign of vulnerability, always did, even before her mom."

"I hope you know that you can trust me Jim. But you don't have to tell me anything."

"I think it would be good to share. She made me promise not to share at my group. Didn't mention anything about you." The lawyer's interpretation no doubt.

Rick nods and sips his coffee waiting for the man.

"She is in therapy. Had to go to seen and cleared before she could go back. Which she did and passed, but she needs more. She won't tell me what it is like, but she perseveres at it."

"I imagine it must be hard. Trauma like that can have long lasting repercussions. I think it's good that she is seeking treatment. I really hope it helps her recover."

"Thanks Rick. It's a hard road but she is making progress."

Rick can't but help lower his voice for the next questions, "The case? The deal?"

"She hasn't said. But on hold – both - for now I believe." Jim looks relieved more than anything. "But I'm trusting you with a lot, our lives, Rick."

He reaches for Jim's hand and squeezes firmly to signal his acceptance. "I won't let you down."

He won't.

The Loft

It is late, the coffee is tepid, and the murder board glares at him. He frowns at the irony. Years with nothing, and now he has a rich vein that he cannot stomach most of. He can barely look at all, more than ashamed by his main contribution of merely scribing the contents onto the surface.

He should damn well feel guilty. He knows that should leave it all alone. Regardless of the fact that he barely knows Jim, definitely does not know Detective Kate Beckett. At all.

It some moments – when the pull of the unwritten is so intense - he feels he owes them nothing. But that's a lie. Because of them, her particularly and her story, he is writing again. He owes them pretty much everything.

But it is not a story on the board, but history and tragedy. Bitterly sad and distressing. And history would not judge him kindly if he meddled.

He has made a commitment to Jim and he means to honor it.

He won't research her shooting or her mother's death. He won't even write about them for himself. He promised and he meant every iota of it. More than that commitment to them, is his assumption that the people involved will stop at nothing. He has a family of his own. He's not putting them at risk for this.

Decision taken, he takes a minute to scrub the murder board of the cold hard facts of Johanna Beckett's murder and Detective Katherine Beckett's attempted murder. What remains is less, a shell of story or stories, but more than just bare bones. It has potential, a lot, and he recognizes it for what it is, a lodestone. Now he has a talisman that can be the foundation that he can build a real story on. Characters and plots, details. More than once he tells himself that he should not be doing this. At all.

But he can't shake it.

The untold story has him. Like nothing since well, the early days of Storm.

He has written pages. Maybe nothing like actual full chapters, but pages and pages. He is not sure if it could ever be a book, one book. Facts and fiction intermixed and unintelligible to anyone but him right now.

Still, he can't help himself.

It is not even for the story. At least, not like ever before.

He can be honest about that. Jim's tale had given him plenty of ideas, more than he had for years. And yet nothing meaty enough for the substantial part of a novel. He usually needs research for that.

Could he do that? He has no idea about whether it would be allowed. He always assumed that the CIA shadow was a fluke. Some higher power that intervened.

But what are his intentions? He doesn't know. This isn't research. At least not like his previous methods.

He goes to his locked cupboard.

There are two bottles of St Miriam left.

Would they be enough?

He had a feeling that whatever happened it was going to cost a lot more in the long run.

He calls his old friend the Mayor. Turns out the Mayor is a good man and takes his call. He can keep both bottles, but one has to come out when he hosts the next poker game.

Bob had promised that he will get him an introduction, and through the doors of the Twelfth Precinct, but from there he is on his own. The pitch will be all his, and there is no guarantee that the precinct Captain will agree to him doing research and potentially shadowing any of her detectives.

Plus, he has no idea how Detective Kate Beckett would react. Even though he does not know her, he worries how any action he makes will impact her, her recovery and her father.

Regardless, for the first time in more than two years he feels truly alive and driven to write.

It is time to put aside his writer's tears, and for him to get back to what he does best.

Author's Note

I always wondered about the stress on Jim Beckett after Kate Beckett sent him away from the cabin and then it grew from there. What if there was no Rick, who would Mr Smith make a deal with? How much more pressure would that place on a man already close to breaking?

And yes, Writers' Tears is real brand of whisky. And no I've never tried it nor do I want to as I detest the taste of whisky. Ironic, I think.