A/N: chance a glance at a great cause #ThankYouTerri on twitter

or www . YoungStoryTellers . com (slash) thankyouterri (slash)


"Roo-kie, Roo-kie, Roo-kie."

The chant is loud over the misty swirl of music and the hum of other patrons. Fists pound on the bar in time with each drawn out syllable, pushing the cacophonous roar so it strains just on the right side of bearable. The wood is old and it creaks under the abuse from those around me but I laugh despite myself because the enthusiasm is infectious.

I laugh, but I kinda hate the way their fists rebound on the surface, how their drinks splash and spill. Most of all I hate the way one guy in particular throws his weight around, catching my eye when he kicks up his feet on the barstool I just vacated. Arrogant ass!

He smiles and gestures to the seat, suggesting he'll move if I really want it back, but I lose sight of him quickly, my interest drawn away by the noise around me. He'll keep!

It's not just the noise though, it's the casual - albeit unknowing - disregard for the memories I have tied up in every inch of this place that get to me. I don't begrudge them their excitement, how can I when I feel it too. I'm fully aware that they have no idea what exactly it is they're pounding their fists into. And when I've wanted this moment for longer than I can remember, I get carried away right along with them. Doesn't mean it's not just a little grating every time they do it.

I take a deep breath and try to let the feeling go, take it in at the same time, exist in the two extremes at once, because the atmosphere is intoxicating, drugging. Nervous energy zips through the room so the guys - my colleagues now, fellow officers - reach for each other, offering back slaps and verbal abuse, dark humour and fist bumps, and I get so caught up in the moment I smile despite my trepidation.

I blow the shallow breath out through my lips, raising a hand to someone I know, I get a nod in response, dismissive and curt so I turn my back on them, curling a strand of my short, dark hair behind my ear to hide my face. It buys me a few seconds to look around the room, to think about my next move and my eyes flicker rapidly to take everything in.

Dad used to say it was my tell, that I had no poker face when I was anxious. He's right and I gotta fix that. I gotta stop gnawing on my lip and fiddling with the things that find their way into my hands. Mom told me once I'm fidgety, like she was at my age. A fidgety cop with no poker face sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, so I guess I'm pretty screwed up all around.

I smile again, drop my hand and slip my thumb into the pocket of my jeans to keep my fingers steady, stop my palms from shaking, hiding my nervousness as best I can. Trying to start as I mean to go on.

It's pathetic that I'm scared shitless isn't it? These people have given me a gun, thrust the life of the city I call home into my hands for safe keeping, and I'm standing on the outer edges petrified I'm gonna throw up on myself when they demand the next round of shots.

I'm the person these people are trusting with their lives? To back them up and be their partner? Seriously?

At least one of these poor losers is gonna be saddled with me after training and my hands are shaking. Okay, I might have an unfair advantage, but nothing and no one prepares you for this!

I take another deep breath to calm down, reminding myself that I've wanted this, craved it, waited for this very moment in time for what feels like forever and the clench in my stomach, self belief and doubt in an eternal battle, can go to hell, as I pray once again that I just don't throw up.

I'm hard on myself, I have to be. I don't want to screw up. In this bar frequented by cops (and sometimes my dad) if I do something stupid or embarrassing (or knowing me, both) I'll never live it down. Especially today.

I can't throw up. I repeat it over and over again as the loud mouth one with green eyes shouts my name and calls me over. He waves his fingers and grins like we're buddies and we're not. We have a - ugh - complicated past and pretending not to know his name might be insane but it's really helping me, so I'm going with it. Self delusion is only a problem if you're not aware of it, right?

A few of the others turn to get a look at me when he shouts and I raise a hand hoping he'll shut the hell up. Top in most classes at the academy and making a name for myself already, yeah I know most of the eyes in this room look at me with hatred. I couldn't give a fuck! I love this work, I can tell already, can feel it everyday with every training exercise, that it's going to be something I'm good at.

I smile as I draw closer to the main group, hiding away the naive little girl I feel like they all see - twelve years old, in shiny new shoes - and repeat my mantra once again. Do. Not. Throw. Up!

Nicknames are being thrown around thick and fast tonight, a weird sense of belonging and camaraderie throwing caution to the wind and I refuse to have one associated with vomit. It would work too well with my name, the perfect fucking alliterative concoction and the one with green eyes is watching me creepily - he does that a lot - as if he can read my mind and knows exactly what I'm thinking, knows what words and facial expressions combined together will best annoy me. It'd be him who suggested it first, of that I have no doubt.

He'd love it when I blushed, getting flustered. So, I'm simply not gonna give him the satisfaction. I turn away trying to ignore the warmth in my stomach generated by his gaze and I throw out my elbows to get through the crowds.

There's a small space for me to fit into as we're lined up along the bar, shot glasses in a neat and practised line before us, interspersed with beer bottles including my own. The guys either side of me - including the one I'm steadfastly ignoring - have kinda taken me in, claiming me as a member of their weird little group.

With the combined efforts of my dad, brother, uncles and unpteen cousins I have a fairly decent insight into the male ego. Thanks to my mom, sister, and seriously scary aunts, I have no compunction to sit idly by and stroke it.

I give as good as I get and I fit with this group, I like this group. For some strange reason they like me too.

They call us to order and I swallow thickly, jumping when someone smacks me on the back. Clearly it's gonna be a team effort. Knock one back and slam it down, tip the glass and pass it around. First rookie to hurl pays the tab and that will not be me.

See, I have a slight inside edge, I remember mom talking me through this before I left for college. Not the hazing ritual but the drinking in bars with boys, dad frowning on the sidelines until she threw a casual back off glare in his direction. She wanted me to be prepared and able to take care of myself, to be smart and sensible and safe, so she didn't pretend I wouldn't, or lecture me I shouldn't, she just sat me down and walked me through the whole thing.

I've eaten today so that's good - as long as I don't throw up - loaded up on carbs as instructed. I've got an empty beer bottle to swig from, looking like a full one where it hovers by my shot glass, and every other drink they knock back I spit out, giggling and spluttering along with the rest of them. It's pretty simple really. They're on five and I'm on three and it might be cheating, but tonight I don't care.

I'm already battling the knowledge that my mother could drink every one of these idiots under the table - myself included - if she were here, doing this, she'd be better at it than me. Hell, my dad would be better at it than I am, but I have a point to prove.

On the count of three we raise our drinks to the person on our right, slam the glasses on the bar and throw the alcohol into our mouths, passing the empties off to the person on the left. We tip our hats to the full and the drained dry, honouring the people who will be our partners in good times and bad. It might sound stupid, might be a little predictable, but it's tradition, and I like it.

The burn is immediate, thick like syrup but nowhere near as sweet, and it cascades down my throat almost choking me, but I whoop along with everyone else, shouting my badge number and tipping the glass, now in my hand, upside down on the bar as I do.

The human tank next to me growls, throwing his hand up as he highfives me and laughter bubbles up outta nowhere as I slam my hand into his. He pumps his fist and whirls away, leaving me with the guy with an arrogant smirk and smouldering green eyes.

I brace myself and bite back a smile, he thinks he has moves when he sidles closer, one arm slung casually over the back of my chair. I know his moves, been down this road before and yeah we kissed, once, but I still try to ignore him, telling myself the buzz through my system is the alcohol and nothing more.

Our eyes catch, even though I don't mean them to, and he leans in closer as if the haphazard locking of our pupils was an open invitation. It was not!

"I'm on to you." He hums, pleased with himself as he throws his feet up on the barstool again. It brings his knees into contact with my thigh and I'm tempted to kick out at the chair leg with my boot and knock him on his smug ass.

I don't, but I do roll my eyes. It's a habit I've gotten into that I really need to break, but the heat of the alcohol and the weight of the last few weeks finally falling away are stampeding over my defenses. I even forget about breaking bad habits and curl that wayward strand of hair behind my ear again.

"What?" I release the word with venom, or try to at least. I fill my voice with as much distaste as I can muster because, yes, I know who I'm talking to, even if I pretend - and have pretended all evening - that I don't.

We were neck and neck on everything at the academy, if I was first he was second and vice versa. I handle a gun better than he can and he runs just that bit faster, he bench presses more than me too obviously - I mean look at his arms! We're rivals but more than that, he's annoying as hell! He gets under my skin. And yes, we kissed, and yes, I remember his fingers in my hair and over my face, the way his smile got softer when he said I had beautiful eyes. I remember all of those things - every little detail - that doesn't mean I'm going to acknowledge any of it.

I shake my head and wait him out as he leans in closer, grinning again, I hear my mom's voice in my head.

Sometimes arrogance is a smoke screen. What you need to work out is whether it's worth the effort to look beyond it.

"You're cheating." He whispers and he sounds so happy, his head tipping towards my beer bottle and I scoff, trying to throw him off, reaching before he can to pull the warm glass into my chest for protection against his accusations. I move too slowly and he traps my hand around the glass, holding my eyes as he does.

"Aren't you? Not every drink, but enough that you stay clear headed when the rest of us are partying with the green fairies."

"We're drinking whiskey," I state, yanking my hand out from under his, "not absinthe," and I turn to leave but find myself angling back, wanting to leave him with a little dig of my own. "Perhaps you shouldn't drink with the big boys if you can't handle it."

His mouth falls open then he smirks, one lip quirking up and his eyes dancing with delight, they roam my body as if he's remembering handling something else entirely and heat flares through me, sharp and precise.

"You really think you're something special, don't you." He grins, throws the words out to trip me up.

Dropping my eyes so my lashes shadow my cheeks, with confidence that comes from nowhere and the words right there on the tip of my tongue, I can't resist throwing them back at him, "You have no idea."

He laughs, watching me walk away and even though my face is burning with the knowledge his eyes are on me, I throw a little extra sway into my hips, determined not to look back.

I keep walking, pressing the backs of my cold hands to my scalding cheeks as I do and I get as far as the end of the bar before a hand lands on my shoulder.

"Hey, rookie."

I jump, knowing the voice immediately, my body snapping to attention at the presence of the captain. He points beyond where I stand and gestures to the group - the guy - I left behind me.

"Having a good night?" He grins, his eyes twinkling.

I blush, heat rushing straight up my neck to my cheeks, and blurt out "Yes sir" so formally I may as well have saluted and clicked my heels for his approval. He laughs and waves me off when my cell chimes in my pocket - thank you universe for that well timed interruption - and I smile, covering one ear as I step into a darkened corner for as much quiet as is ever gonna be available here.

"Hey." I answer, smiling into my palm and curling around my phone with a grin, the same grin I always wear when I talk to him.

"Hey, kid listen, you got about ten minutes before this hits the press and I'm gonna talk fast so you don't freak out when it does."

Fear snaps my spine into firm rigidity and I rock off the heels of my boots, rising to my full 5ft 10" frame, braced for the impact of the words that will follow.

"Dad?" I grip the phone in white knuckled panic but it doesn't go beyond the crushing feel of my fingers. I am my parents daughter in that much at least, a deep breath and stoic expression, my voice doesn't even shake as I wait.

"Mom's been shot."

The world kinda fades out after that. Probably shock, but we've been here before.

When your father is a renowned writer and your mother is an infamous ex-cop turned would-be senator drama tends to be a daily occurrence. For most families this would be a life altering moment, but for the Beckett-Castle's this is just another Friday night.