Beckett had barely broken through the swinging, double doors of the morgue when a smirking Esposito sidled up on her left side and a weary looking Ryan coasted to her right. She tried to ignore the widening smile on the Hispanic's face, but she knew that eventually he'd open up his mouth and ruin her already dwindling good mood.

Just before they entered Lanie's autopsy room, Beckett stopped and turned slowly. "What?"

"Who's Mark?" Esposito questioned, his brown eyes squinting as he tried to intimidate his boss.

"A friend," she stressed. "And also none of your business."

"Come on," he whined.

"Seriously, Esposito?" Beckett crossed her arms across her chest, and stood up taller. "We're here to solve a murder case; not to discuss who I may or may not be dating."

Ryan said nothing as he helplessly cast his pale blue eyes toward his partner. Esposito, however, latched on to one word and ran with it. "Dating? So, you two are together then?"

She almost told him to stop being nosy, but noticed what he was doing. Well, aside from actually being nosy, he was pulling the protective brother card. Beckett sagged a little underneath his scrutinizing but warm stare. "We're not, Javi. Mark is just my friend. I swear."

He cocked his head slightly, as if trying to decide if she was lying or not, before sighing pitifully. "Man," he groaned, "Nobody is getting any around here."

"I would hope not," Lanie shockingly called out as she rounded the far corner. "It's a morgue. There's dead people here."

"Lanie," Beckett sighed in relief. "What've you got?"

An hour later, the trio of detectives exited the morgue with a definitive break in their so-called "Doogie Howser" case. Esposito rushed off with the orders to obtain a history of the decease's financial records while Ryan was told to re-watch every surveillance tape they had collected over the investigation. However, as Beckett was on her way to her desk for her part, Ryan stopped her with an outstretched arm and waited till his partner disappeared from view.

Somewhat sheepishly, he produced her cellphone from his pocket and handed it over. "Here," he offered. Before she could retort in anger or confusion, he held up a hand and forestalled anything she was going to say. "I know. Esposito lifted it from you while you were checking out the vic."

Beckett inhaled nervously, but gave the younger man a cool-eyed look. "Find anything interesting?"

He shook his head. "I made him hand it over as soon as he opened your recent calls list." Beckett groaned inwardly, but again Ryan shook his head. "Don't worry, he didn't see anything."

She perked a brow. "But you did?"

"By accident," he assured her, "And I won't say a word if you don't want me to."

She studied him carefully, and noted his earnest expression. Pocketing her phone, she sighed and offered a small smile. "We're just friends."

"Okay," he supplied. He grinned, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and took a few steps back. "I'm going to go watch those tapes. Again."

"And again and again and again, if you breathe a word," she called out jokingly. When he too disappeared, Beckett gave herself a face-palm and closed her eyes tight. With a sharp exhale, she squared her shoulders and made her way to the elevators.

It wasn't as if the idea of trying to date Fallon never crossed her mind, and vice versa. But when it came down to it, they were like two broken pieces from the same disintegrating puzzle; too jagged and warped to even begin and try to fit together. They silently acknowledged the fact, and moved on.

Although, she would have been an inept detective if she hadn't noticed how any time she offered Fallon any sort of physical comfort, he always seemed to lean in and forget himself. She figured it was because the man was lonesome. If he was like she thought he was, and hoped he wasn't, there probably wasn't a single soul after his wife's death. Not even mindless flings just to forget and let go for a night. It saddened her more than she thought it should.

Shaking her head clear of those thoughts, Beckett stepped off the elevator and into the empty bullpen. She could see Esposito's curious eyes peeking around his computer, as she walked towards the break room. She narrowed her eyes at him, and amusedly smiled when he hunkered down when he was noticed. She grabbed a mug, and turned towards the espresso machine that Castle had bought years before. With a heavy sigh, she returned the mug and exited the room.

Rather than wait for another cab to pass him by, Fallon opted to walk home. He shrugged deeper into his jacket, and cursed himself for not thinking to dress in thicker clothing. The rain continued to pour down, splattering to the pavement in thick drops. He shook his head roughly, shivering as a few stray beads of water snaked down his neck.

The pounding bass from a nightclub reverberated though his body as he walked pass, causing him to scowl. He always hated the club life, even when he was a young man. He always tended to drift towards the neighborhood bars that the same old men frequented; ones where they swapped stories of the old days and lived vicariously of the new through the young folks. Fallon really missed going to the bar, and knocking them back as good as the old-timers.

In the midst of his reminiscing, Fallon found himself being shoulder-checked by a much taller, beefier man. Immediately he withdrew his hands from his pockets, but kept them at his side until he analyzed the situation and the perceived threat. When he looked up, he was surprised to find the one and only Richard Castle apologizing profusely.

Just as the younger man issued another apology, Fallon finally held up a hand and said brusquely, "Castle. It's okay."

Castle took a step back, flustered, and craned his head to see who he was speaking to. It took a moment before a flicker of recognition lit up his face. "Agent Fallon? Is that you?"

"In the flesh," he replied gruffly, slipping his hands back into the warm crevices of his pants.

"Oh, wow. How-how are you? It's been, what? Years?"

Fallon couldn't stop the small smile of amusement from perking his lips as Castle spoke. It was as if the man had so much to share and say, and couldn't take a pause for breath for fear of forgetting what was on his mind. He figured writing was a great release for the talented kid.

"I'm fine, thanks." He deliberately replied slowly.

Castle jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the club, and grinned. "I was enjoying an after party for my latest novel. It's still going on, if you want to join us." He wiggled his brows. "There's some pretty hot ladies in there too."

Fallon's smile was a little tighter than necessary, but the man was tired and growing annoyed.

"No. Thanks." He started to take a few steps forward, circling the taller man as he added, "It's late, and I have to get home."

"Oh," Castle's face fell slightly, and he shrugged as if unaffected. "I understand."

Fallon paused, and frowned. "You alright?"

The responding, "Fine," was just as false and hollow as his smile.

The former agent rolled his eyes, and set his jaw. "Okay, Castle. I'm calling you on it." He turned his back and started walking away with purposeful strides, until he stopped and turned his head. "Well, c'mon."

Without a word, Castle scrambled after him like a puppy following his master. Fallon briefly wondered if the man always blindingly trusted people he barely knew. They walked side-by-side down the street, until Castle cleared his throat and glanced askance at the stockier man. "Where are we, uh, going?"

"An old haunt," he replied bluntly.

It didn't take too long before they were entering a dark, 'hole in the wall' bar. There was one patron, draped over an empty glass and fighting to stay awake, as the bartender bopped his head to the music and wiped down the counter. The only sound was the soft crooning of Frank Sinatra from an unseen speaker. Fallon gave the man behind the bar a friendly smile.

"Hey, Mark." He reached over the counter and firmly shook the man's hand. "How're you doing? I noticed you stopped coming in, and I had hoped that it wasn't because something bad had happened to you."

Fallon grimaced. "I'm doing alright, Jack. Thanks."

Jack's smile slipped a little, and he looked uncomfortable as he asked, "Are you okay to be in here? I don't want to be the one to ruin anything, here, and I'm not sure how this stuff works..." He trailed off and rubbed the back of his thin neck.

Fallon held up a hand, as if to stop him from adding anymore, and raised his shoulders marginally. "Some days are easier than others, but I'm okay. I'll just settle for a coke, and get this guy a good scotch, will you?" He patted Castle firmly on the back once.

Castle, absolutely bewildered and somewhat disappointed that this "old haunt" wasn't the one he had hoped it was, sat down on a stool. Fallon sat on the one to Castle's right, closer to the front door, and in between the dozing drunk and the writer. He was always trying to strategically plant himself in a room; always unsure of the unforeseen circumstances that could occur, and the normally unfamiliar surroundings.

Jack speedily produced two glasses for his customers, sliding them professionally in front of them before turning his back and fiddling with a sputtering machine. Castle took a deep sip from his, and grimaced at the biting taste. He motioned towards Fallon's drink, and smirked. "What's that about? Are you a drunk or something?"

"Couth," Fallon drawled, "Learn it." He swallowed his own drink roughly. "About," he scrunched the left side of his face in concentration, "Nine months sober?" He shrugged unapologetically. "You kind of lose count when you're trying to block the whole thing from your memory; rather than focusing on it every damn day."

Castle, for his part, blanched and almost choked on his second gulp. Sputtering, he tried to save himself by muttering, "I didn't mean– I'm sorry. I had no idea–"

Fallon nodded and raised a brow in amusement. "Cool it, Castle. It's fine."

Embarrassed, Castle opted to slightly turn his body the other way, and take a longer drink while not meeting Fallon's eyes. Finally, he set the beverage down and nudged it until it was almost entirely out of his reach. The smeared ring of water he left provided a nice distraction to play with as he asked, "Okay, so why am I here?"

Fallon blinked slowly in astonishment. He leaned forward, his elbows planted on the red mahogany, and popped an unshelled peanut in his mouth. "You followed me."

Castle didn't know how or when the salted nuts arrived, but he eagerly grabbed a few for himself. "Well, yeah," he said, dumbfounded. "But you told me to."

"I figured you wanted to talk."

A deep crease developed between Castle's wrinkled brows. He leaned back in his seat, and slowly chewed on the now gummy paste in his mouth. "I don't want to push my problems on you," he professed in his deep baritone.

"Listen," Fallon started, "I can see you're dying to say something, whatever it may be, and I'm offering to listen willingly." He turned his head and looked the other man in the eye. "Who else is going to do that?" He took a swig of his bubbling soda as Castle's lips twitched in apprehension.

"That's very true," Castle conceded with a tilt of his head. He couldn't think of too many people who would offer to listen to his so-called inane ramblings. He sagged in his seat, and pulled the glass of scotch closer. If he was going to open his mouth, he wanted to reinforce his "it was the alcohol" excuse by physically being seen drinking it. "I don't know." He sighed.

Fallon stared straight down into his glass of brown coke, fighting the urge to ask Jack to supply him with something much stronger. "Well," he prodded, "Tell me what you do know." He threw back another gulp as if he was knocking down shots at a frat party.

"Are you sure?" Castle asked hesitantly.

Fallon minutely lifted his head so that Castle could see the implacable look on his tired face.

Castle pulled back anxiously. "Okay. I was dating...someone." He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Fallon didn't miss the side glances that Castle kept throwing his way; as if the former agent was going to read his mind and immediately know to whom he was referring to. The writer didn't need to know that he knew anyway.

"She broke up with me," Castle continued. His eyes were downcast, and his voice broke slightly. Fallon noticed the way the bulkier man squared his shoulders, and hunkered over his scotch as if he was physically being weighed down by the pain of it. "It still hurts." He took another deep gulp of the burning alcohol, as if saying, "There. I said it."

Fallon waited a beat before asking, "Why'd she break it off?" He kept his voice neutral. He was well versed in the tactics of an interrogation, despite how the last few ended up. The curiousness that welled up he tried to tampered down, trying to needle what little facts he could from the fast-talking writer that he couldn't from the tight-lipped detective.

Castle audibly huffed. He wrapped a large hand around his cup, but made no move to drink from it. "She said I was too closed off from her; that even though I hold my heart on my sleeve, I didn't open it up." He sighed heavily. "I guess that she didn't know enough about me, and every time she tried to pry into my past, I just shut her out."

Fallon tried to keep his gruff tone non-accusatory when he questioned, "You guess or is it true?"

"Sometimes I didn't share things," Castle admitted with a meager shrug. "It's not that I didn't want to. I just didn't know how."

There was a change in music as the swinging music of the '40s gave way to the upbeat "Walk Of Life." The supposedly sleeping drunk lifted his head from the counter, and loudly slurred, "I love this song! Damn Straights."

Jack, who had long walked away from whatever he had been tinkering with, laughed. "Dire Straits, Chuck, but close enough."

Chuck wildly waved a hand in the bartender's general direction, and then promptly passed out. Jack shook his head, and returned to reading the novel he had tucked away in the corner with. Fallon pursed his lips, and turned back to his conversation with Castle.

"Did you tell her that?"

Castle eyelids fluttered distractedly. "Tell who what?"

After a pointed glare, Castle snapped his fingers as it registered. "Oh, right. No."

"Why not?" Fallon tossed back another peanut, and chewed slowly.

"I didn't know how," Castle said haltingly, as if confused about what part Fallon wasn't getting.

"Funny," Fallon remarked without a trace of amusement.

"How's that?"

The older man closed his mouth, and discreetly swiped a tongue over his teeth. He rubbed a greasy finger over an eyelid. "You're a writer, and you didn't know how to put your thoughts into words." He gave him a shark-toothed, pearly white smile. "That's funny."

A look of both hurt and bemusement crossed over the author's ruggedly handsome face. He couldn't tell if they were still having a conversation, or if this was turning into an ugly confrontation. He also found himself a little surprise by how much he didn't mind the latter happening. The pent up anger was beginning to eat at him and his fist ached to mindlessly pound something, whether it be a typewriter or someone's body. The thought almost scared him.

"Hardly," he retorted humorlessly.

Fallon simply hummed in reply, tossing back a handful of peanuts. He needed this. His body began to thrum with anticipation, as adrenaline began to awaken his weary body with the prospect of a fight. They both needed this.

The agent took a deep breath, and patted his thighs as if trying to decided something. He grabbed his soda, gulped the rest of it down, and smacked his lips softly as he abruptly stood. He pointed to Castle's scotch and said, "You're going to want to finish that."

Castle scrambled to his feet, tossing back his drink with a hoarse cough and grimace, before slapping money down on the counter. He pushed himself away from the bar, and nervously ran a hand through his hair as Fallon calmly turned towards the bartender and caught his attention.

"Do you mind if we pop out back, Jackie?"

The younger man scowled. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

"I told you not to call me Mark," he noted.

"You said I could," he protested with a laugh, crossing his lanky arms across his chest.

"I was drunk," Fallon replied dryly.

Jack rolled his eyes, collected the cash, and shrugged. "You know the way out."

Fallon rapped his knuckles on the counter, and nodded curtly. He started towards the back of the unlit section of the building. "Castle."

Castle followed, a little unsure and more than worried. Jack counted the green money he held, and didn't look up when he called out, "Don't make a mess!"

Fallon just waved a hand over his shoulder as he disappeared into the black. He rolled his shoulders back, his jacket tightening at the seams. He leaned into the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the back alley. The night sky blanketed the back street in it's inky oppressiveness as the icy air bit his skin. Despite the cold, Fallon removed his jacket and carefully placed it atop of a closed dumpster.

There was only one light in the alley; right above the door that was currently opening. Castle stepped out with the words, "What are we doing?" on his lips but the cracking sound of bone on bone, Fallon's fist against Castle's chin, stopped him from getting passed the word, "What."

Castle stumbled to the side, and clutched his jaw. "What the hell, Fallon!?"

He circled Castle's bent form like a predator, a snarl on his face. He shook his hands out, and raised them in a semi-fighter's stance. "We're venting."

Castle straightened up, shook his head hard, and blinked rapidly. Fallon lashed out with a right jab, catching Castle square in the nose. The man stumbled back, his hands reaching up to cup his face as his back slammed into the brick building. "I'm a former alcoholic, whose wife was killed, and who has a lot of unresolved anger issues."

He advanced forward. "You," Fallon continued in his low growl, "Are a broken-hearted mystery writer, that can't say what he thinks when it truly matters." He tried another jab, deliberately holding in his true strength as Castle barely jumped out of the way in time. "And it's just eating you up, isn't it?"

"Are you insane?" Castle demanded. He moved away from the wall, fully aware of being boxed in, and not wanting to experience another blow.

Fallon stopped his advancement, and held his hands out in surrender. His face was shrouded in darkness; the lone bulb illuminated enough of his face to reveal his distressed expression. "Look, Castle. I'm sorry." He rubbed a hand over his face, and closed his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he added, "But I can tell you need this. And whoever you pray to knows I need it too."

Castle, his body tense in anticipation for another strike, straightened and frowned. Then he narrowed his eyes, raised his fists in a mock intimation of the Fighting Irish, and nodded once. It was all Fallon needed to continue. Of course, the former agent knew it was entirely unfair to unleash his full arsenal of moves on the other man, but he read Castle's file too. The man knew a few things when it came to fighting and defending himself.

Fallon stepped forward, his trained body attempting to force his mind to slow down and think out every move like a chess match, but the burning need to burrow his fists in something was growing stronger with every second. Fallon growled, and rushed forward, tackling Castle at the waist and bringing the two of them down to the dark pavement in a tangled heap.

Castle grunted as the air was forced from his body. Fallon struggled to straddle the bigger man, his left arm holding down Castle's dominant hand as his own right pounded into the man's soft belly. Castle swung his own clenched hand until it connected with the side of Fallon's head. The agent, stunned when the meaty hand struck, fell to the side and scrambled to get to his feet. Castle, knowing the other man was definitely not going to stay down for long, was struggling to stand the second he hit Fallon's face.

Just as the stockier man was straightening up, Castle threw an uppercut that caught Fallon's jaw, and snapped his head back. The writer blinked in surprise, then began to shake his hand in pain. "Ow," he whined as Fallon rubbed his jaw with a wince.

"I'd say," he grumbled. "You pack a punch." A trickle of blood smeared his lower lip, and coated his upper teeth when he grinned.

Castle rubbed the back of his head, and went to point out the blood when Fallon stepped forward. Castle feebly managed to block one blow, when another caught him in the side of the head. He stumbled back towards the bar door, his back nearly being pressed into the building, but he knew that wasn't a good idea. When Fallon moved in, Castle reacted by reaching out and grabbing Fallon's arm and throwing him against the wall instead.

His head connected with the brick, and he let out a low groan. He hadn't expected Castle to literally throw him around. He bent over, one hand resting against the building as he struggled to stay focused, when Castle grabbed him from behind and furiously pummeled into the back of his head. Fallon struggled to reach for the taller man's arms, and he realized that Castle had a lot more pent-up anger than he originally thought.

Castle had one forearm wrapped around Fallon's throat as the other continued to pound at his exposed face. Fallon, whose vision was seriously getting more than a little dark and fuzzy around the edges, dug his fingers into Castle's arm and tried to pry it away from his throat as he tucked his chin down. When he managed to create enough space for his elbows, Fallon brought his right one back with as force as he repeatedly could. Castle pulled away, wrapping his arms around his pained ribs.

Fallon gasped as the damp air rushed back into his lungs, and staggered to his knees. "Jesus," he stated hoarsely. He blindly reached out to find something to support his weight, and felt his rain-slicked fingers slide across the oily siding of the dumpster. He grimaced, closed his eyes, and made no move to get off his aching knees.

"Are we still fighting?" Castle managed to rasp out from somewhere behind him.

Fallon waved his left, and coughed up a wad of pink spit. "Give me a sec." With some effort, he pushed himself off the ground, ignoring the pebbles and clumps of dirt that embedded themselves in the palms of his hands. He slowly turned to face Castle, who was bent over and resting his hands on his knees, fighting to breathe.

"You know," Fallon wheezed, "For someone who doesn't know a thing about fighting tactics, you sure make up for it in brute strength."

"Thanks," Castle croaked.

Fallon took a deep breath, then made to move and attack again. However, Castle opted for the offensive, and chose to run forward and not hang back to let the trained man beat him down. He let out what he thought was a pretty ferocious roar, and seized Fallon from around the middle, and barely registered the fist punching at the back of his neck as he brought the smaller man down.

Unable to protect his head, once again, Fallon realized too late that he would need to do something to keep his skull from being split in two. That was easier said than done as his feet were no longer touching the pavement, and he was falling backwards with a moose of a man on top of him. Castle had started to let go as they fell, and he managed to push himself more to the side than on Fallon, as Fallon's arms uselessly pinwheeled in the air to stay upright. He splayed his arms out by his side in an attempt to cushion his body from the impact, but his head still slammed against the wet ground.

Castle crawled over, grabbed Fallon by the collar of his shirt, and raised his first to land more solid blows before he realized that the former agent was already out cold.

"Fallon?" He uselessly grabbed the man's chin and wiggled it back and forth. "Hey, you okay, buddy?" He crawled up Fallon's body, placing a hand on his chest as he pressed his ear to his parted mouth. The steady fall and rise of Fallon's chest made Castle sag in relief. He rolled to the side, on his back, and ignored the puddle that soaked into his clothes.

There was an agonized groan, then a grunted, "How long was I out?"

"A minute," Castle replied exhaustedly. "Tops."

"Oh," Fallon blinked up into the night sky, beads of water gathering on his dark lashes. "Good."

They lie together, ignoring the frigid cold, and the water that seeped through their clothing. Rain steadily fell down in a light sheet, coating the two in its shiny wetness. Finally, Fallon slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and lightly patted Castle on his tender stomach.

"Come on, big guy. Let's get you home before your family starts to worry."

Castle only managed a low moan in response.

TBC...

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