Blank: Chapter 1

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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

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Monday, 8:08 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Castle's Complex for Battered Women

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It's dark outside, as the sun has set a while ago against the vast Pacific Ocean just over the forest that rises into the hills behind him. Richard Castle sits at his desk, his feet propped up facing the large expansive window, which is simply a portal to the massive trees that adorn the large campus. The small laptop teeters precariously on his thighs as he is lost in thought. He doesn't hear the door open or the woman of his dreams walk silently into the office.

Kate Beckett approaches slowly, almost reverently. She doesn't want to spook him. Sure, she is overreacting but . . . no, on second thought, she is not overreacting. Sure, they are being very careful these days. Well, these past two weeks, since 'the event'.

That's what they are calling it; the whole visit-the-massage-parlor-and-drop-dead routine. The Event. So much has changed for them since that time, beginning with how they speak, where they go, how they approach each other – ever wary of doing anything that might even remotely spook one Richard Castle.

So yes, they are being cautious, and who can blame them? Just one slip-up, one mistake, and they both realize that two weeks of memories – damn good memories – are gone forever as far as he is concerned. She speaks softly as she addresses him.

"I assume Jerry got the taxes finished and filed?" she asks, referring to Jerry Webster, Castle's new corporate accountant.

Oh, hey babe," he greets her, a broad smile on his face in contrast to the dark viewing beyond the window.

"Yeah, he finished last night, actually," Castle replies. "I know I haven't done my own taxes in years, but now – with this little project we have out here – it's darn near impossible for me to do them anymore, even if I wanted."

Kate smiles as she walks to the desk, placing a cup of coffee in his hands. A large image of Jabba the Hut adorns the cup. He gazes at the image, smiling.

"Thank you," he offers, putting the cup up to his lips and blowing into the hot liquid.

"Tell me how you found him again?" she asks. Another unnecessary question, and a new element of their relationship during the past two weeks. They have fallen into a routine of her asking questions she already knows the answer to. That's not the point. The point is whether or not he knows the answer. Whether he remembers. These little tests of his memory are something they agreed upon a couple of weeks ago.

After the Event.

"I found him through Ken Blackmon – a CEO down in the valley," Castle answers with a smile as he digs back into his perfectly-operating memory banks.

"He was one of the early investors in the Castles, and during that time we got to talking about what the Castles would mean to me financially," Castle reminisces. "From a tax perspective, that is."

"That's right," Kate nods. "I'm still trying to keep all of these people straight." It's a small fib. He ignores it.

"Well, you've been here a whopping four month and two days," he smiles. "I'd say you've done a fantastic job keeping it all together. By the way, for the hundredth time I know, thank you again for doing this. For coming out here. For staying out here with me."

"I had no choice, babe," she tells him, as she moves the laptop computer off of his lap, replacing it with her own hips and legs as she settles into his lap.

"Oh yes, you did," he argues. "You could have –"

"No, Rick," she cuts him off. "I couldn't. Not anymore. Thank God for that."

He can only smile in agreement. They have come such a long way in such a short amount of time. But this latest 'case' if you will – the one that brought on 'the Event' – this one has both of them spooked, and they both know it. The possibility . . . no, scratch that . . . the high probability, the sheer likelihood that at some point in the coming days, or weeks, or months that something will happen . . . a loud noise . . . a frightening situation . . . something will happen that will trigger another relapse . . .

And then all of those days, or weeks, or months . . . including these last two weeks . . . they will be gone to him. He won't remember a thing beyond the night of 'the Event.'

She gazes out at the darkness outside the window. It's just past 8 p.m. and normally he is out of here by 6 o'clock. She leans into him, nuzzling her hair underneath his chin. She knows how much he likes when she does this.

"What's going on, babe? I had to come all the way back here just to see how you are doing." she almost purrs underneath him. "Normally you are home by now, and here I find you avoiding me, sitting in the dark. It can make a girl start to worry . . ."

"Far from avoiding you," he chuckles. "I'm just writing, that's all."

"Really?!" she exclaims.

He can feel her smile and her excitement under his chin. She is thrilled, of course, at this news. It has been almost a year since he has written anything beyond a few letters and stories for her – and even those were last year during their separation when he came to the west coast. Since then, he hasn't really written anything.

So, to see him focused and working late – on a novel, on a new book no less – yeah, it brings a smile to her face. It is a good sign – especially given everything he has gone through in the past couple of weeks. Perhaps it is the one good thing that has come out of their most recent adventure, for lack of a better term.

She looks toward the desk where he has placed the laptop computer, and squints to read what is there. She lowers her head, frowning – her initial enthusiasm now dampened.

"What is this?" she asks, as she realizes that this is far from a new novel with rich new characters and storylines he is working on.

"It's a diary of sorts," he replies. "A journal. A record of my days. My . . . my memories. I started keeping a diary every day since our . . . since the event."

"Why?" Kate asks. It is just habit. She knows exactly why he might want to do this, and it breaks her heart.

"So that I will remember everything," he replies, and he feels the subtle nod of her head beneath his chin. He nods along with her.

"I am writing so I don't lose anything," he continues. "We both know I am going to relapse someday. We don't know when. We don't know how –"

She begins to argue but he cuts her off.

"We both know this, Kate," he continues. "Best to embrace it, plan for it."

"How in the world do we plan for something like this?" she mumbles into his chest.

"By writing," he tells her.

"I don't understand," she replies, still planted in his lap beneath his chin.

"Every day, I write what happened to me," he tells her. He reaches down, turning her face up toward his own."

"I write about what I did. What you did. Things we talked about. Things we agreed upon. Things we disagreed about. Funny things you said. Mistakes I made. Decisions we have already made. So, when it happens – when I drop out and lose my memory – and we both know I will . . . it's going to happen . . . and when it does, I will have something to read, something to guide me back as much as possible."

She gazes at the top of the page and sees the title. North Star. So appropriate. It takes her back to a conversation that seems so long ago with Alexis – a conversation that occurred only four months ago. A conversation about truths.

"Nice title," she muses.

"It will become my anchor, my north star," he remarks, sadly. "My true north when I don't remember. My truth that I no longer remember. But just because I cannot remember does not mean it is not still truth."

"That's what I am here for, babe," she tells him. She desperately wants to be that true north for him. The conversation with Alexis hit deep. Took roots.

"What if you're not?" he asks. He can feel her recoil against him, and quickly explains his mindset.

"No, really babe," he continues. "What if you're gone? Now don't look at me like that, it's possible. Not likely, I admit. But possible. What if you're dead? What if you're in a hospital in a coma? It's not exactly like that has never happened. What if you're back east for a weekend visiting your father – I have to know, Kate. I have to know what is going on."

"I don't want my life to be turned into a movie, Rick," she mumbles beneath him.

"Hey, I'll have you know that 50 First Dates was our favorite movie," he laughs above her.

"Yeah, until it became our reality," she reminds him.

"Touche," he admits.

Yeah, it's been an interesting couple of weeks for the two of them – dealing with his new normal. And the ramifications of this new normal.

First, he is understandably upset that he has been relegated to 'desk duty'. There have been a couple of incidents at the complex; a new admission, a clogged toilet, a disgruntled husband wanting to visit – all normal things that normally wouldn't be an issue.

Under normal circumstances. But these are anything but normal. Everyone is treating him with kid gloves . . . protecting him. They are keeping him away from things . . . and by things, that means darn near everything.

It's driving him nuts . . . and alternately pissing him off.

And then there was the surprise departure.

Karen Marks has checked out. The plan was for her to stay longer, but with the death of her boyfriend two weeks ago, she wants to get back to her house. Re-start her life in her own house, with her child. It was not lost on anyone that Karen Marks had left her own house to get away from her boyfriend who lived with her. It was – and is – her house. Not his. Yet she was the one who left. He stayed. At her house. Now that her house is no longer a danger to her, she feels it is time to go. No one can blame her. It's the right decision.

Except for the therapy. Her home is safe now, but her mind, her mental state is still a question mark. There is still much work to do there.

Now they have to consider how to continue her therapy sessions with Dr. Samantha Peraza when the woman who needs the help is no longer at the complex. Something they hadn't thought about. How to continue sessions when someone leaves early.

Like Karen Marks, Regina Overstreet also lost her 'significant other' in the past two weeks – her husband Josh – during the actions that led up to 'the event.' Regina, however, has decided to stay. Going back home to her mother, who was – let's say – hesitant with her support for her daughter is not the woman's first option. She has chosen to say a while longer, spend more time with Dr. Peraza, and just spend more time healing.

"You're not kicking me out, are you?" Regina had asked when she heard that Karen Marks was leaving, and her reasoning why.

"Absolutely not," Castle had replied adamantly.

"Then if it is all right with you, I think I will stay a while longer," Regina had decided, bringing a sigh of relief to Kate Beckett.

Even with an early departure, the Castles Complex is – and has been – a resounding success. With Marks' departure, it leaves ninety-seven women in the safe community, just three families short of full occupancy. Now, just four months into housing these women, Richard Castle is mulling over expansion ideas much sooner than he or anyone expected.

A somewhat bony elbow in the ribs from Kate Beckett interrupts his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.

"Ow," he mock-cries.

"You big baby," she retorts smiling.

She pulls herself off his lap, and dusts imaginary lint from her jeans. Jeans. It is a good look on her. One he still is not used to, but loves, nonetheless. It is a much more casual Kate Beckett that lives with him here on the west coast than he knew back in New York.

"Hey, how did you get out here, anyway?" he asks.

I took your Ferrari, of course," she winks at him.

"Then how was I supposed to get home?" he replies, smiling. "Looks like you're the one who wanted to leave me stranded here"

"Well, you do know how I love rescuing a damsel in distress," she laughs, bouncing towards the door, quickly ducking to avoid a crumpled-up piece of paper that soars by her head.

"Let's go, writer-boy," she laughs, and he joins her. It has been a while – almost a year – since she has called him that. Since anyone has called him that. It strikes both of them yet again how long it has been since he has written anything for public consumption.

"That's not who he is anymore," she reminds herself. "At least not right now."

"I'll meet you at the car," he promises. "Just thirty more seconds, babe."

She closes the door gently. He waits until he hears the clicking of her small heels echo further and further away. He quickly spins his chair back toward the credenza behind him and pulls out a small key that opens the narrow, upper right-hand drawer. He smiles as he fondles the small jewelry box that he placed here just days ago.

His plan is to propose to the ex-detective this weekend. Sure, she has only been out here for four months, but as they have both documented, they have been doing this dance for over four years. Enough is enough. She is either the one, or she isn't. He's decided that she is. It should be no surprise to her now.

His mind goes back to a conversation with Alexis just last night, in the young woman's bedroom away from the ex-detective's damn-near Vulcan hearing.

"I want you to video tape the me proposing, Pumpkin," he had told her last night.

"Oh Dad," the redhead had gushed, "I'm so proud of you. That's such a millennial thing to do!"

"I have good reasons for this, Alexis, and they have nothing to do with keeping up with your socially-overactive generation," he had reminded her. "You know how likely it is that I am going to experience a relapse at some point. And when that happens – unless there are great advances made in the antidote Sam has promised – when that happens my last memory is going to be of standing outside a massage parlor in Chinatown."

"Dad, you could be fine," she had argued. "Nothing may happen until Christmas for all we know. And even then, Mr. Carlos could have a new antidote that –"

"And yet, I could suffer a relapse at Christmas and lose seven, eight months of memories and be thrown back to that damn massage parlor, Pumpkin," he reminds her. "I wouldn't remember proposing to Kate. I wouldn't remember getting married. Or the honeymoon. Arguments we had, make-up agreements we forge. All of it lost to me like sand sifting in the wind – and we are back to square one."

"Ah, there is my author daddy," she had smiled, and he had to smile with her. At least for a few seconds.

"I'm serious," he had told her, bringing her back to the moment. "I want you to video-tape everything. The proposal, the reception dinner, the wedding itself, our first dance as a married couple –"

"Dad, I am not videotaping the consummation!" Alexis had deadpanned, bringing a pale complexion to her father's skin tone.

He chuckles, thinking of the end of that conversation, as he rolls the small box across his fingers, then all-too-gently replaces it back into the drawer. He closes the drawer, locking it as he stands, then heads toward the door.

He wants to get this done, and quickly. His biggest fear right now? That something happens between now and this Saturday night, when he plans to take Kate back to the Cliff House, to that same spot along the seawall where it really began to meld for them back in December, on her first night in San Francisco. The perfect spot, where she dreamed of bringing the man she loved since her Stanford days.

His biggest fear is that something happens between now and then, and he is thrown back to two weeks ago outside the massage parlor . . . with no memory that he even planned on proposing to the ex-detective. How long would it be – how many weeks or months would pass before he thinks to look into the secret drawer in his credenza? And how would he even remember what that key in his main desk drawer is even for?

No, this has to happen. This weekend. He's made the reservation at the Cliff House restaurant. Alexis will be set up with her phone, unbeknownst to Kate, ready to record everything for posterity. And more than posterity, for a reminder in case that becomes necessary.

He saunters out of his office, whistling a happy tune as he walks toward the front door of the administration building. He offers a wave to Colin Alexander and Dawn Harrison, who sit at a table in the foyer area, sipping on coffee. Both have the night shift coming up. They smile back at him, and he is struck again at his fortune for having such a fantastic team.

"How's the leg, Dawn?" Castle asks. Harrison, of course, had taken a bullet to the thigh less than six weeks ago during the siege on the Castle's Complex.

"Almost good as new, boss," the woman replies. "We were lucky."

"You can say that again," Colin Alexander remarks. "A through-and-through on the edge of the thigh. The bullet could have gone inward instead of outward."

"I would have had a lot more damage, for certain," she agrees. "I guess I just live right," she chuckles, and both men join in as Castle nods to the pair and walks out the door. Kate is waiting for him in the first parking spot, already in the driver's seat of the Ferrari, a bright smile on her face.

"I guess I am riding tonight," he smiles in return. He hops into the car and Kate fires the machine up and barely has the sportster in reverse before Castle's phone starts ringing. He glances down and sees the face and contact information of Ron Daniels pop up.

"Hmmm" he hears Kate mumble, and he has the same immediate thought as the hackles on his neck stand at attention. Ron Daniels is responsible for client pick-ups. He calls to say that a pick-up has been made, or not made. Both Castle and Kate immediately think of Penny Zimmerman.

"Did you know there was a pick-up tonight?" Kate asks.

"Yes," Castle replies. "Hopefully Ron is just following protocol for a pick-up."

"If that were the case, he'd be calling Colin inside," Kate remarks, a frown on her face.

"My fear exactly," Castle thinks to himself as he answers the phone, placing the call on speakerphone so that Kate can listen in and comment as necessary.

"Hey Ron, it's Rick," Castle greets his limo driver. "No problems I hope?"

"Wish I could say that, boss," Ron Daniels replies. "Unfortunately, we have a problem."

"What kind of problem, Ron," Kate asks, her voice all business. Any humor, fun or bantering that the couple just enjoyed as evaporated in an instant.

"Well," Ron begins in his slightly Southern drawl, "we actually have a series of problems here."

"Explain, Ron," Castle interrupts, now both impatient and nervous.

"The call came from a Cynthia Romaines," Ron begins. "Husband's name is Jeremy. Or rather, I should say, husband's name was Jeremy."

And just like that, the night becomes darker, as Kate Beckett quickly grabs Richard Castle's hand for support.

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A/N: This new tale is going to go a little deeper into the whole domestic violence world, with a twist, of course. Given that the reason for Castle being in California in the first place, a return to the reason he is here is in order. Combined with his 'new normal' and the concerns that raises for our favorite couple, this gives us a lot of leeway in where to go with this.

Thank you to everyone for the kind words and wishes after my last story. All of you are more important than you realize.