Disclaimer: Castle belongs to the guys who created it, obviously. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made.
Notes: The idea for this story was stolen straight from a Tumblr prompt. It's being written as I go, so there's not going to be any kind of coherent posting schedule, sorry. (But I am between jobs atm, so here's hoping for a quick turn around.) No Beta Readers were hurt in the making of this. (But volunteers are welcome.)
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Misfire 1/?
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There is no gentle awakening.
Awareness strikes him all at once, slicing through him like a hot blade, twisting and searing in his chest.
Oh, but fuck, it hurts – everything hurts, everywhere – and he can't breathe. There's something in his throat that he tries to swallow around and can't.
His scream has no voice as he writhes on the bed, panic rising in the wild pound of his heart and he can't. breathe. Oh, God.
Castle's eyes water as he tries to reach for his face but something's holding him down. Hands, soft and firm and familiar, like a balm on his burning skin.
A face swims in his field of vision and he recognises her through the blur of tears. Red hair and deep, worried lines. His mother. It calms him a little, but not enough, because he still can't. fucking. breathe.
She's speaking, to him and then not. Over him, like he's not there, and he should – he should care, but he doesn't because all he can hear is the thunderous rush of blood through his ears.
More hands grab at him and then ice slices through his veins. In the space of a breath, what should be a breath, he feels his heart start to calm, feels the world grow heavy and dark and he finds it harder to move but easier to breathe. His mother is still talking over him. Her voice is a little bit less frantic and there's someone on the other side of the bed, he thinks, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters because it all starts to come back to him. Flashes of brilliant colour against the grey fog of his mind.
Montgomery.
They were – Roy was dead.
And a flash of something in the distance.
The smell of fresh cut grass, soft against his cheek.
Something wrong. Something that shouldn't be.
Beckett, deep lines creasing her forehead, bloodied hands in his hair, on his cheek.
Light. Flashing. Reflected.
And-
Words slurred on his lips. "I love you."
And then-
A shot.
Oh, God.
He was shot.
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