Relations and Revelations

All the usual disclaimers apply: I do not - not even intend to - make money with this.

Part 1

A glint just a few feet from me catches my attention. Something is reflecting the first rays of sunlight as dawn struggles to usher the twilight out of New York's streets. Nearly magnetically drawn, I step closer to it and before I know it, my knees have bent and I already grab the shiny object only to discover that it is a coin. A strange coin though. I flip it between my fingers. It seems to be old, it's not perfectly round, and its edges are smoothed down by all the hands it must have passed through. But its surface almost looks polished, silvery shining and the depicted figure stands out sharply as though it had only been coined yesterday. The image is oddly familiar, even though I can't tell what or better who it is showing. I lift the metal piece a little closer to my eyes to get a better look at the letters and try to decipher what is written on it. It's Greek.

"Glad you made it," a male voice startles me from the examination. "Finally," he adds, almost sighing. Considering the time of day and the deserted sidewalk, it doesn't take me long to understand that I'm the one being addressed. When I look up from the coin and turn, I see a young man dressed in beige shorts and an equally beige short-sleeved shirt, a baseball cap with logo completing the UPS driver's uniform and mostly shielding his eyes from my view. He smiles at me. Why is he smiling at me? And who does he believe me to be? His words echo in my ears. He was addressing me as though he had been waiting for me. He's clearly mistaken me for someone else. But the smile he gives me is now accompanied by expectantly raised eyebrows. He is obviously waiting for some kind of response.

"Pardon me?" I ask. He has to see now that I'm not the one he's looking for. This actually gets me thinking who he might be awaiting. And what might he be doing here. Maybe he isn't really a UPS driver but a foreign – yet obviously perfectly capable of the typical New Yorker pronunciation, as a part of my brain remarks – spy in the middle of an exchange mission I stumbled into. Or he's…

"Richard," he immediately snaps me from conjuring up another wild story by calling me by my first name. A shiver runs down my spine. I carefully retreat some steps, bringing a little more distance between the two of us. All the while I keep my eyes trained on him. How does he know my name? Wait a minute, why shouldn't he? Maybe he recognized me from my books. Or, from the latest picture on page 6. Yes, that's definitely the reason he knows my name. And no, it doesn't bother me or make me nervous that he didn't pick the usual 'Mr. Castle' to start a conversation. It's just a little strange, weird maybe, but nothing to worry about, is it? He's just a fan. Probably. The polite smile that had fallen from my face reclaims its space, widens even. My gaze is pulled to the object he's holding in his outstretched palm.

"Can you sign here please," he says as he points towards the paper, and produces a pen from his front pocket and hands it to me. For a moment I only stare at it. Maybe he simply wants an autograph. Picked me out on the streets, stopped his truck and decided to get one for his sister or girlfriend. I'm pretty sure that's the story he'll tell if I asked about it. For some reasons, male fans often do not admit to it. I allow my confidence to return. It still feels odd. Something is very off here. I peer out of the corner of my eyes to check my surroundings. We are the only ones on this street. I already knew before that there weren't many people around, but there had to at least be somebody passing by, anybody. I hesitantly take the clip board from the stranger, planting the first letters on the paper as I recognize it to be a delivery form. I can't contain the smile that creeps onto my lips then while my hand automatically completes the signature in the manner it's been trained to.

"Here you are," I gather my charm and look into his eyes when I hand the board back to him, precariously balancing the pen on top of it. His eyes are bright blue, I manage to notice. And an uneasy feeling unfurls in my gut when I catch sight of the mischievous spark blinking in them but suddenly my attention gets drawn to the form again, to the text on the form to be precise. That can't be true, can it? I rub my eyes as he turns around, getting into the truck parked at the curb. I must be imagining things, but I could have sworn the text on that form wasn't English but Greek. Again. Greek. Just like the coin. My fingers feel for it in the depths of my right pocket where I'd let it slide in just moments earlier. There it is. The cold metal immediately warms from my touch. What a strange coincidence.

"So," the stranger stretches the word to last all the while he is turning around to me. "This is yours then," he adds as he hands me a brownish package. My name is written on it in bold letters. What's this? I carefully weigh it in my hands. All I can tell is that it is neither small nor large, and quite solid. No loosely tingling cords or pieces in there. I listen closely, but it doesn't seem to create any noise. No ticking then, either. It is only when I let a fresh wave of air fill my lungs that I realize that I've been holding my breath.

"What is it?" I question, not daring to open it. Even if it says Richard A. Rodgers on it. Wait a minute. Especially not because it says Richard A. Rodgers actually. I stare down at the writing. Really, there it is. My birth name, the name I haven't used in ages. If I weren't confused before, I most definitely would be now.

"My present," a soft smile crosses the other man's expression when he answers my question, without actually helping me to understand what's going on. "Although you're awfully late to collect it." The soft expression is replaced by a frown now. What? That's it? All I get is another riddle instead of an answer that would actually make sense? It doesn't help to explain why a truck driver stops in the early morning on some random street that no-one could have predicted to be my whereabouts at that time beforehand, to deliver a package addressed to me, no sender shown anywhere, and only my birth name for recipient.

I gaze down at the package and feather my fingers over the letters. It feels real, and right somehow too, just to add to the strange situation. It may be safe to open it after all. It's not a bomb, isn't it? But who knows, maybe there's Anthrax or some other deadly virus in there to poison me or turn me into patient zero, taking down half of the world with me. But who would be interested to assault me in that way? Although Gina would be pleased because you could be absolutely sure that kind of death would raise book sales to unknown heights, at least until potential readers started dying because of the epidemic. I nearly catch me rolling my eyes at myself.

He's waiting. Although I'm still warily eying the package in my hands, I'm aware of the fact that the driver hasn't moved since he handed it to me. He is simply waiting and watching me. He should get back to his truck and just drive off to deliver the rest of his freight. Apparently, he won't leave before I open it. That should actually set off a couple of alarms in my head, but my hands act without permission anyway. The left pointer finger digs down below the folded triangle that closes the wrapping on one side of the parcel. The material tugs on my finger and it struggles to pull the paper off, freeing part of the 'present'. It's easier on the opposite side. I take my time while I wait for the driver to disappear, but he refuses to do me the favor, and keeps watching. What is he waiting for? And why do I let myself be pressured by his gaze? Maybe I should just take the half-opened parcel and walk away myself.

I take a deep breath before I rip off the paper in one go, only to reveal a colorful book cover. The silhouette of a person with spread feathery wings against a bright orange sun illustrates the title of the children's books on Greek Myths. Uhm? Even when I turn the book around and flip it open, I can't find anything that would tell me about the person who'd sent it or a hint as to why. My gaze shifts to the delivery guy with what I guess is a puzzled look plastered on my face. He, on the other hand, seems to be finally satisfied, greets me with a nod and turns around then. I still don't have a clue what is or was happening here.

"Wait!" I call out to get his attention before he climbs into the truck. The wrapping has glided down to the ground without making any noise, but my hand still keeps tight hold of the book. "Who are you?" This is anything but your usual delivery situation. I at least want to know who that weird guy is. His glowing features turn into a smirk. My head tilts on its own accord as I try to understand why I believe him to glow. People don't glow. At least they shouldn't. It's definitely only my overactive imagination that makes me see a UPS delivery driver radiate light. What have I done before coming here? Maybe I hit my head and now I'm seeing things. I should ask Lanie and let her check me over.

"Well, Richard, I'd thought you'd never ask." Or it's some kind of drug. Maybe I got poisoned and now I'm experiencing a very weird trip. But it's nothing I've tried before. So yeah, Lanie definitely needs to be the next stop on my way.

"Aw, I'm actually a little offended you don't recognize me," the UPS guy states and indicates the amount of offence he claims me to be causing him, in the little space he holds his pointer finger and thumb apart as he gestures with his left hand. He squints a little bit in feigned disapproval for a moment, and adds a disappointed shake of his head to it.

Then he is suddenly only smiling in a friendly way as he walks up to me. But really, that smile especially seems to creep me out. Should I know him? Is he maybe some perp we'd arrested before? At least he isn't Tyson; I'm sure about that. I'd recognize that guy, wouldn't I? Only now, I come to realize how careless my actions were. Really. I'm so stupid. He was already gone until I made him come back. I should have just let him go. But no, I had to ask for his identity. There's probably no text book on eerie encounters with strangers in a lonely street that suggests to keep pushing them to tell you something; definitely not. It's not the cleverest thing to do that's for sure. Oh my god, how much would I have freaked out if someone told me Alexis had acted that way. Luckily, she's way too sensible to commit asininities like this one. Maybe I should talk that through with her when I get home, just in case.

The best thing to do now was to start for a slow but steady retreat. He's still smiling and even though it doesn't feel intimidating at all, I'm pretty sure I need to pull back now. I can't imagine what it would do to Beckett if her partner was found murdered – stabbed, with my luck - in a lonely street by some madman in shorts only because of overstepping out of curiosity. I have to get away now. But it doesn't work. Why won't my legs move? Don't panic! It's nothing. There surely is a very good reason why I can't move in a situation that I should get as far away from as possible.

Only I come up empty, and now the guy is almost there, stops one arm length in front of me. I barely manage to tell myself to not stare at him wide-eyed like some deer in the headlights. I should try and leave a message for Beckett. 'Sorry, I confessed my feelings for you when you couldn't remember it, and then got killed because of my own stupidity before I manned up to tell you again.' That would be a good start. A little long though. Maybe I should settle for 'sorry'. Now I only needed something to transport the message before my own blood was the only ink to write it in.

"I'm the messenger." He points to his front pocket. I inconspicuously look him up and down, check his form for any signs of a weapon when I take in his answer. That's it? That's what he wants to tell me? That he is a messenger? That much I have been able to assess already. Since his expression is completely neutral, except for the friendly or rather polite smile that's still in place, I put in all the effort I can muster not to burst out into relieved laughter about my own unfounded fears running away with me before.

"Your outfit somehow gave you away," spills out of my mouth though before I can contain it and just finally let the man take his leave. I mentally slap myself. There I am worrying about my life ending right here, and then I go all in and provoke the man with a smart-ass comment so he can change his mind and kill me right away after all. The street is still empty, too empty.

"The messenger," he emphasizes to reinforce his former remark. There may be a hint of annoyance filtering into his voice now, as he gestures for me to take a closer look. Really, I don't need to inspect the guy's uniform. He expectantly looks at me. I don't get it. I lower my gaze to a small pin on his front pocket. It's a caduceus. My shoulders lift as I shrug. So what? He works as a paramedic as well maybe, or he's just a fan of medicine. Maybe he's a med student working in delivery to pay for his tuition.

"Gods!" He's rolling his eyes, annoyance blatant now. "Come on, I thought you were a little smarter, Richard. The Drachma. The book. The wand…," he lists and gestures wildly as if his rolling wrists could make me follow his entangled train of thoughts. I look down at the book. Greek myths, yeah. Some more Greek adding to the coin.

Wait, had he mentioned a Drachma? My head snaps up to look at him again. Weren't Drachmas ancient Greek coins? I'm pretty sure they were. My brows are deeply furrowed now. How can he know about the coin? Even if he watched me picking it up, he couldn't know it was a Drachma, he couldn't have seen it from his position. I dig my hand in my pocket again. There it is, still safely resting at the bottom of it. And then there is the caduceus. It can't be, can it? He's a courier, right? I shake my head, unwilling to draw the conclusion he obviously expects me to come to. But it does make sense in a strange kind of way, doesn't it?

"Hermes?" I manage to breathe out the ancient gods name as a tentative suggestion. It's just too weird to be true. After all, there are no gods.

He beams. Literally. I've got to shield my eyes from the blinding light he seems to emanate in response. Okay, obviously I've finally snapped, or the side effects of the drug are starting to show. When the rays dim to a manageable brightness, I lower my hand to openly stare at the UPS driver now. It seems my mind has run blank.

"I am, son," he confirms.