Title: Bulletproof Hearts and Hollow-Point Smiles
Rating: T
Summary: It's ironic, he thought – you never feel as alive as you do when you're about to die.
A/N: As my first multiple-chapter fanfiction, writing Bulletproof Hearts and Hollow-Point Smiles was both fun and tiring. I am hoping to tie up this particular story in three total chapters. Questions and comments, as always, are welcomed; What better way for a writer to grow, than to hear the criticisms of others? Thanks for reading.
Chapter 1
Richard Castle drained the remnants of his Merlot, allowing his eyes to close only for the briefest of moments before beginning their fruitless examination of the tacky dining room anew. He had chosen this place, citing the supposed excellence of their chicken parmesan entree. If he was being honest, however, he didn't even know if it was on their menu. No...he had chosen this place, on the corner of 87th and Hamilton, for her. Just four blocks from her apartment, where he knew that she could come to him if he needed her.
She always did.
A waiter with a boyish face mumbled half-heartedly at him, dutifully reciting the day's specials onto deaf ears.
"I'm waiting for someone", he responded simply, dismissing the teenager with a strained smile, "he should be here any minute."
Blood, thick with his own saliva, fell in a lazy strand from his nose and mouth to his chest, the resulting dark stain branching ominously through his cotton shirt to where it joined in the midsection. He gurgled painfully as his throat involuntarily convulsed and gagged, rejecting the coppery flow to his stomach and lungs. He was drowning in his own blood.
He was bleeding out.
A tourniquet. He needed a tourniquet.
Castle moaned as he used what strength he had to heave his arm across his midsection, fingering the edges of his suit jacket. Rolling his shoulder back to shrug the heavy fabric from his arm, he couldn't help letting out a sharp gasp as another surge of pain ripped through him. A weak spurt of blood made the hand resting on his wounds slick as he sagged against the dumpster. There was no use; He couldn't.
It wasn't supposed to end this way. Not like this.
Rick arose from his chair, his face and voice smoothly transitioning into the charming persona that he had mastered so well. For a single, imperceptible moment, he faltered: This would be the last time that he would address his friend that he had leaned on as a crutch and an anchor for so long; This would be the last night that he could go on living this cops-and-robbers fantasy that he had been desperately clinging to for the last four years. Or was it her that he was clinging to, now? He knew the answer.
Sharply returning the matter at hand, he extended his arms, not for a handshake, but instead for a hearty embrace.
"Well, if it isn't the mayor himself, as I live and breathe. Rob, how've you been, you sunofabitch?"
His old friend returned the embrace with equal fervor, wearing a grin that, Castle silently noted, never quite reached his eyes. He never answered the question. "Let's sit."
Kate's quickened breath formed hurried clouds of condensation in her wake as it met with the frigid evening air. The soles of her sneakers thudded heavily against the pavement as she made jerky transitions from a brisk walk to a jog, weaving between the late-dinner crowds that would occasionally shuffle by, unaware – or, perhaps, just uncaring – of the hollow distress evident in her features.
She had been flipping through her copy of Storm Warning when the crackling of her police scanner caught her ear. It's what she always did when life seemed overwhelming and out of control. She never told him, lest she endure his knowing gaze and swollen ego, but the Storm adventures kept her grounded; even more, they kept her sane during her lowest hours in between the pangs of guilt and misery over her mother's death. He – and his books – were her anchor and shelter in a storm.
But he didn't need to know that.
She palmed the grip of her service Glock, loyally holstered beneath her jacket. After the shooting that day in the cemetery, her confidence in it, and her own ability, had waned. But he had been there, as he always was, to pick up the pieces, to soothe her with his words of belief and encouragement. Now, in this moment, she had never been more ready to use this weapon. For him. She broke into a run, her breath becoming ragged as she hurriedly clipped her badge to her belt. Two more blocks, according to the scanner.
"All available local units, we have a report of shots fired at the corner of 87th and Hamilton – a secondary anonymous caller has reported a victim in critical condition. Ambulance and fire are en route, E.T.A. four minutes. Victim was identified by the caller as a Richard Castle...he's one of ours."
Despite their smiles and booming voices, the atmosphere at the table was tense. Castle noted, with a certain amount of uneasiness, that Robert had brought with him two stoic men in sharply-fitted suits, introduced to him only as Mr. Cutler and Mr. Jackson.
"So, Rob...how have things been topside? Gotham City still under control since you've let Batman join the 12th?" Castle waggled one eyebrow suggestively in parodic self-praise.
"Things have been...interesting, I guess you could say." The mayor had let his carefully-maintained guise fall, and was staring intently at him through half-lidded eyes. He looked almost genuinely sorrowful, Castle mused. Impressive.
"I know..." the mayor paused, as if searching for the right words, "I know what you've been doing the last few months. I know...damnit, Rick."
Castle stared back at him with glazed eyes, his mind whirring. He had played enough poker with this man to know how to hide the hand he was dealt, but now, he was slipping. He hoped that Rob hadn't seen his strained gulp as his mouth ran dry.
The mayor leaned towards him, embers of rage kindling behind his eyes.
"We gave you every opportunity to step away. Every opportunity. I knew all along that you wouldn't be able to resist that damned curiosity of yours, but I still hoped. You know how dangerous this is, for you, your mother...for Alexis...to continue investigating this. Why, Rick? Is it for her? That woman?"
Castle licked his lips, dragging his teeth over his lower lip as if in contemplative thought. He knew.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Rob. Come on, be real with me."
The mayor shook his head sadly, shifting his exasperated gaze to the empty plate in front of him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Come on...don't you think, after all this time – after everything that I've done for you – I deserve a little more respect than that?"
Something inside of Castle seethed, only to be quelled again by the seed of doubt.
"I don't owe you anything. Nothing can excuse what you've done, no amount of personal favors. And damnit, I wish that this was happening any other way, but it's not. You're making me choose between a lifelong friend, and the woman that I...the woman that I care about. This is breaking her. She needs to know. I need her to know. I can't carry this anymore."
"We were young, Castle. I was on my way up, and those officers were foolish and reckless. There's nothing that I can do about that now, you have to understand. Please...this will cost me everything. Everything."
"I know. I know that you paid the hired guns that killed these people. People like Joanna Beckett. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons...for what? A rung up on the political ladder? This is...I can't..." He was losing it.
The mayor studied him, unblinking for several long moments. Castle had lost his read on him, if he had ever had it at all, and now, he stirred uncomfortably beneath his friend's gaze. All bets were in, and he had lost this hand. Time to pay the price.
"You really won't re-consider? For us? For you, and for her? How do you think she'll feel when she finds out that all of this was pieced together behind her back, and that her writer-pal's best friend is involved? When you're forced out of that precinct on your ass? You think THAT won't break her?"
The small restaurant had grown quiet as the last table of patrons left, leaving only a few lingering stragglers at the bar. Castle stared down at his cloth napkin, folding it neatly over itself in the thick silence. He couldn't even look at his friend; He could barely believe that this was happening at all. Coward.
"I'm sorry, Rob. I've made my choice."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Rick."
Kate's heart thudded heavily in her chest as she reached the intersection. There were no first-responders yet – no flashing red and blue lights to bring her the comfort she needed, that he was in good hands. That he was alive at all.
A curse hissed from her lips as she wracked her brain, trying to recall the exact location that had crackled through on the scanner.
Where are you, Rick? Where would you go?
There was a pawn shop on the northwest corner, an adjacent auto repair shop, and a grungy hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant to the southeast. The restaurant. That had to be it.
She ran towards the dingy alley, snapping her Glock out of its holster as she cleared the first corner.
"NYPD!", she called, her voice scratchy in the cold air. Strafing briskly through the dust and overflowing trash bags, her trained eyes scanned for movement in the darkness. The streetlight at the mouth of the alley glinted off of the ground, catching in her peripheral vision. With her pistol still outstretched in front of her, she slowed and felt a sickening drop in her stomach. She could smell the coppery tang in the air as she aimed her flashlight downwards, illuminating the discovery that she wasn't sure she even wanted to see. Her teeth set on edge.
It was a blood smear, ending in a distinct, dragging shape. A hand print.
Castle wheezed as a deep shudder rumbled through his body, catching in his throat. Even after the earlier incident in the freezer with Kate, he couldn't recall feeling so intensely cold to his core. He wasn't fooling anyone – well, he supposed, he wasn't fooling himself – he was dying.
A soft whimper fell from his lips as his eyes wearily raked over the asphalt. Blood had pooled beneath him, and was lazily streaming past his legs into the nearby sewer grate. There was so much blood. Too much blood.
A gurgling cough sent thick splatters of crimson onto his pants. How long had it been? Two minutes? Ten minutes? An hour? Hot tears pricked at his eyes as he lolled his head back against the cool metal, succumbing to the creeping fatigue. Was anybody coming for him? Where were the sirens, and the lights?
Where was she?
Castle rose cautiously from the table, unsure of how to proceed. Sorry I'm about to ruin your life, friend, how about I pick up the check? It was almost laughable.
But nobody was smiling.
He threw a $100 bill on the table and turned, unwilling to look back at the man that he had practically revered for so long. Dropping his head in defeat, he began to weave around the empty tables to the exit, praying that it would be the end. Praying that he wouldn't become one of his mayor's "loose ends" to be dealt with. Two chairs scraped the dingy tile behind him.
Oh, no.
Two pairs of hands grabbed him roughly on either side, and he felt himself falling backwards as he was dragged through the bar to the rear exit. The heels of his shoes hissed and squeaked as they trailed the tile, legs and arms flailing in a frantic, fruitless attempt to escape. His head collided with the heavy wooden door as they shoved him through to the dank alley, sprawling him against the dumpster on the far wall. Still reeling, he glared between the thugs to the scene within, expecting that the frightened bartender would see him, and come to his aid. As the door shut with a soft thud, he could make out the exchange of some bills, and a dripping, cooing reassurance:
"You'll have to excuse our...intoxicated...friend, here. We'll take good care of him."
SCHLINK-SCHLINK
The sharp whispers of Mr. Jackson's silenced .22 Ruger reverberated off of the weathered brick walls, the crackles dissipating into the night sky above.
Richard Castle knew all of the film and literature cliches for a character who has been shot. His own characters – the ever-masculine Derek Storm, and even Nikki Heat - had danced that particular number plenty of times. Though wounded, they gathered themselves like the headstrong warriors that they were; They carried on, defeated their dastardly foes, then went on to save another day, and another world. He always had been a romantic.
But this wasn't his story.
He simply stood before the two men, staring past them into the thousand miles of nothingness that overtakes you in that single moment of clarity. It's ironic, he thought – you never feel as alive as you do when you're about to die. Blood began to leech out onto his collared shirt, trickling hot, wet paths to his waistline. Bringing his hand to the ragged holes, he lightly placed his palm to himself before lifting it back to reveal vivid red. It's such an...alive color, he mused to himself. Not something that he would associate with a slow death, or the eternal unknown.
His knees buckled, legs sprawling in front of him as his back raked painfully against the metal of the dumpster. He raised his head to meet Robert, who had joined them in the alley and was currently staring down at his old friend with equal parts sorrow and vindictiveness. Next to him, Mr. Jackson was releasing the magazine from the pistol and locking the chamber open. He threw it carelessly to Rick's side. The professional killer's throwaway pistol, for a throwaway life.
The mayor angrily pulled his gloves over his fingers, and looked to Mr. Cutler: "Wait two minutes, then call the police. Make it look like a mugging gone wrong. You know how it's done." He paused, looking down to Castle. Were those tears glassing over his eyes, or just the fatigue that comes with murdering an old friend?
"I really am sorry, Rick. I'll..." his speech hitched for the briefest of moments. Maybe the old bastard really did feel something. Not that it mattered now. "I'll make sure that Alexis and Martha are alright. I'll make sure..."
Tom's breath really did catch this time, as he stared vacantly down the alley.
"You didn't deserve to die this way. I'm sorry."
And he was gone.
Around the corner, the rustle of trash bags and a wet scrape against the pavement startled Beckett back to her surroundings. The hand print wasn't going anywhere, and she was running out of time – if she had even made it in time at all. She rose again to the combat stance, her back slinking against the far wall as she widely rounded the corner, Glock aimed steadily in front of her.
She wasn't ready for what she found.
Slumped against a rusted restaurant dumpster, chin dangling limply to his chest in a slick puddle of red, was Castle. Her partner. Her best friend.
"No...no, no, no..."
She disregarded everything she had ever learned at the academy and on the brutal city streets as a patrol officer, running to him without even completing her preliminary clearing of the scene. Sliding to her knees beside him, the Glock fell from her hands and was replaced by the lapels of Castle's suit jacket; In that moment, her world was frozen in time. All that existed was him.
"Castle? CASTLE!", her voice broke with desperation as she lifted his chin with one hand, smoothing his blood-matted hair from his eyes with the other, "please...oh, fuck. Come on! Please!" She heard the wail of emergency sirens in the distance. They wouldn't get here fast enough.
No...they had to.
He was quivering violently, his cool skin moist with a sheen of sweat. Here he was, bleeding out in an alley, and what was she doing? Yelling in his face like some sort of lost child. Pressure. She needed to apply pressure.
Beckett pulled at the sides of his suit jacket, swiftly tugging it backwards down onto his elbows. His hand fell listlessly from his abdomen with the sudden jolt, revealing the two telltale bullet wounds that were still steadily seeping onto his shirt. It didn't look good.
Hooking her hands around his collar, she let out a low grunt of effort as she forced the halves apart, sending buttons bouncing and skittering across the pavement. Fingers trailed from his sternum down across his belly, in search of any more less-apparent wounds that needed attention. Fortunately, it seemed to be just the two nauseating bullet holes.
'Fortunately', she inwardly grimaced, is not a descriptor that she had ever thought she'd use at a time like this.
"Beckhhett? Kate?"
Her head snapped up at the feeble, slurred speech that floated down to her. He was staring at her crookedly, his head lolled to the side, with no energy to brace it. His eyes, usually so vividly blue – so alive – were glazed over with a sorrowful grey behind heavy lids, his dilated pupils almost washing out their color altogether.
"Yuhh know, I always...wond'rd 'bout the day you'd...rip my clothes off." He spoke in shallow breaths, the edges of his mouth curling into a ghastly grin that flashed his teeth, stained a sickly pink. Beckett swallowed hard and looked away; Looked at anything that wasn't the man in front of her, spitting and slurring his last words through his own filth and fluids. Even from him, the innuendo seemed wildly inappropriate at a time like this – but maybe that was just one his humorous coping mechanisms. The ones that he had lovingly chided her for begrudging him that day in the tiger holding cell.
And then, he giggled. A deranged, creeping giggle that made her stomach twist.
He was in shock.
"Damnit," she hissed to herself. She should have recognized it as soon as she saw him. Why, of all times, could she not focus now?
The wailing of the ambulance and fire units were agonizingly close. "Castle, listen to me," she said as evenly as she could, wadding her jacket into an untidy rag before pressing it gently to him, "I'm going to do something, and it's going to hurt. I'm going to put pressure on this, so that you don't lose any more blood, okay?" He stared blankly back at her, his silly, sickening grin still ghosting his lips. She bit her lip to suppress the quaver in her voice before continuing: "I need you to stay with me, Rick, okay? Talk to me about your favorite case. You liked that one with the superhero. Please, stay with me." She leaned the heels of her hands into the jacket, forcing her weight down to his wounds.
A howl ripped from his lungs into the frigid air. She hung her head between her arms, slamming her eyes shut. She couldn't break down now; This wasn't about her. He was the one that was bleeding out, but god, that sound. It wasn't human. It was a shrieking, animalistic bawl that signals only pain and the frenzied, primitive instinct for survival. It was a sound that she had never wanted to hear, and prayed that she would never hear again.
Screeching of tires signaled the arrival of the EMT's and responding officers. She heard herself crying out to them – to anyone – for help as she watched his eyes roll back into his head, drifting in her own slow-motion surreality. She was being dragged away from him by her forearms. She couldn't remember if she struggled.
The cooing voices of Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan distantly reached her ears as they surrounded her, occasionally barking orders to the patrol officers who were scurrying around the alley.
"What happened?" "Are you hurt?" "Did you see the shooter?" "God, look at him, man." "Get a unit behind that ambulance – I want to know what's happening, when it's happening."
"Why would this happen?"
The paramedics were shouting to one another as Castle was heaved onto a gurney and fastened into place. Orders and feet were flying faster than Beckett could keep track of, still reeling from the adrenaline rush that still caused her to shiver.
Seven minutes ago, she was at home on her couch. How life can change so quickly.
She shrugged the blanket that had seemingly materialized on her shoulders to the ground, and ran towards the closing ambulance doors. She heard her name behind her. She didn't care.
"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD. Make room for one more, I'm coming with you."