Her fingers brush briefly against the downward-facing point of plastic as she contemplates pushing it up. It's the logical thing to do. But in the end, she leaves the light switch it as it is, deciding the intense commercial lights that hang from the ceiling would be far too bright. She doesn't need bright. And she'd prefer not to draw attention to herself.
She pulls open the flap of her black shoulder bag, slipping her hand inside and feeling around until her fingers land on what she's looking for. Sleek, smooth, cold metal, in the shape of a – no, that's her gun. Shaking her head, she pushes it aside and continues searching until she finds the cool metal cylinder.
She pulls the flashlight out and closes the bag again as she flips the switch to turn it on. Immediately, a flood of white light spills from the front, illuminating a long line out in front of her, the area it covers expanding gradually outward. She likes flashlights – a small, concentrated beam you can hold in your hand, sunlight that you can cast any way you wanted. Now, she casts it over the dusty shelves in front of her. Boxes and boxes and boxes of files. As far as the eye can see, which isn't far in the feeble lighting, there is nothing but dust-coated shelves full of dust-coated boxes full of dust-coated files.
Now to find what she came here for.
As she walks down the row of shelves, holding up a hand as she searches for the box she's looking for, she can't help but smile slightly when a memory springs to the front of her mind. Childhood memories of days spent doing exactly this, in better-lighted, cleaner rooms, with the shelves full of books instead of boxes. Childhood memories of days spent with her father.
"There are so many of them!" Wide child's eyes, curls of dark brown hair framing her baby face.
"That's right," he'd agreed, placing a hand on her shoulder and smiling down at her. "That's why it's a library."
"How we gonna find the ones we want?"
"How are we going to," he'd corrected, just like he always did. "And it's easy, Becks."
"Don't call me that," she'd grumbled, putting her hands on her hips and trying for what she thought was a tough, angry face. "S'my last name. I like my first name."
He'd just laughed, bending down and placing a small kiss on her forehead. "You're just like your mom, you know that?"
"I know. You tell me a lot."
"Because it's true."
"Answer my question, Daddy. How are we going to find the books we want?"
"Good girl," he'd said proudly as she incorporated his corrections into her sentence. "Now, watch." He'd taken her hand and pulled her with him as he walked over to the closest shelf. "They're in alphabetical order, right? By the author's last name. These are the Cs. See?" He'd pulled out a book and held it out to her – Gregor the Overlander by Suzanne Collins.
"Ge-gor," she'd said, struggling to pronounce the title. "Greee-gor the Oh-ver-land-ar."
"Close," he'd laughed. "But see her last name. Collins."
"Starts with a C."
"It does. Hey, look at this." He'd put Gregor the Overlander back and pulled out another one, holding it out to her again. "You know this one."
Of course she did. How many times had she seen that one lying around, on the couch, on the counter, on the coffee table or her mother's bedside table? "Hell Hath No Fury," she'd said proudly, stabbing the a in Hath with her pointer finger.
"Becks," her father had said. "Language."
"S'the title." She'd smiled up at him innocently. "Mommy loves that book."
"Mommy does," he'd agreed, putting it back on the shelf.
"Can I read it?"
"You, Becks? No way."
"But I'm just like Mommy."
He'd laughed at that. "Yeah, you are. But you're seven, which is a lot younger than Mommy. You can read it when you're bigger."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She'd made a face, considering the offer; finally, she'd replied, "Okay, then. Can we find my book?"
"Sure, Becks. What do you want to read?"
"Harry Potter!"
"Becks, we own those."
"I wanna find it."
"Want to. And we can just get it for you at home."
She'd pouted, clasping her hands in front of her chest as she stared up at him with big eyes. "Please, Daddy?"
He'd sighed, submitting. The pouty face and the big eyes always worked – he could never say no to her. "Okay, Becks. What's the author's name?"
"J."
"I need her last name."
"K."
"That's not it, Becks."
"J. K.?"
"Close."
"Rowling?"
"You got it. What's that start with?"
"Rowl – R."
"Right. Does R come before or after C?"
"After, silly." She'd begun to sing the alphabet to him, ending with a pointed look on the letter R.
"Of course." He'd slapped a hand to his forehead. "Silly me. So, if we want to get to the Rs, should we head towards the Bs or the Ds?"
"Um… Ds."
"Right. And that's this way… Come on, Becks, hold my hand…"
She smiles nostalgically at the memory, the first time he'd ever taken her to the library. It was March at the time – her mother had come down with a bad cold and he'd insisted that she take a few days off. Her mother hadn't liked it, but she did. It had been raining like crazy, and she remembers complaining on and on about being stuck in the house. And that was when he'd told her his favorite way to spend a rainy day – surrounded by more books than you can count. And so it was that he'd ended up in a library with an awestruck seven-year-old.
She shakes the memory off – it's a happy one, and she loves thinking of him, but she needs to focus. She needs to get what she came here for and leave. For him. She's doing this for him.
It doesn't take her much longer to find the box she's searching for. She pulls it down and sets it on the floor, crouching down and opening it, rifling through the cold case murder files inside until she lands on the one she wants. But as she's pulling it out, wiping the dust off, reading the name on the front, the lights come on.
She stands up quickly, switching off her flashlight and tucking it back into her bag. But she doesn't have time to put away the box and the file before a man with short salt-and-pepper hair comes around the corner.
As soon as he sees her, he pulls out his gun and extends it towards her – by his youth and the way his hands shake, she can guess he hasn't been working here for long. She could easily overpower him if she wanted to, even though her gun is tucked away in her bag and she definitely won't be able to reach it before he reacts. But she doesn't want a fight – she isn't breaking any laws, anyways. So she puts her hands in the air, the left one still holding the file.
"Who are you?" the man demands.
"Agent Cassidy Beckett," she replies automatically.
She can see his mind working – agent for what organization? He lowers his gun, though, saying, "With all due respect, Agent Beckett, I don't think you have any reason to be here."
"And with all due respect, Officer," she replies, placing a hand on her hip, and, as she does so, pushing up the fabric of her shirt so he can see her hip, "I don't think you have the authority to tell me to leave."
She sees his eyes widen slightly as he registers the badge clipped to her belt, sees him take a step back as he recognizes the shape and the words imposed across the metal.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
"My apologies, Agent," he says, rather formally, as he puts his gun away and takes a few more steps back. "Is there… a reason why you're here? Something you need?"
"Nothing you can help me with," she replies curtly. "I'll be out of your hair soon. I just need a minute."
"Of course." Thankfully, the rookie officer recognizes the dismissal, and hurries out. He doesn't turn off the light.
Tough luck. She can deal.
She looks at the file again, checking to make sure she's gotten the right one. She runs a finger across the name on the front; a sad smile dances on her lips, her eyes shining with tears she won't let spill out. Carefully, she flips it open, making sure everything is there. It is – she has what she came for. So she opens her bag and slips the file inside, walking back the way she came, out of the archive room at the 12th Precinct. She turns off the light on the way out.
She could just leave. She has everything she needs tucked inside her bag. But there's something she wants to do first.
She hurries towards a desk, a desk that now belongs to a man but used to belong to a woman, a beautiful, strong woman with bronze hair, hazel eyes, and a thick layer of emotional scar tissue. A desk that after all of these years still has a chair set just next to it.
The sight of the chair is almost enough to push her over the edge. Just like it always is. But she doesn't let it, because she's just like her mother and she's strong like that. She just walks straight over and sits down in it.
The man looks up from the paperwork he's doing, his green eyes widening in surprise as he sees who has sat down next to him. "Cassidy," he greets brightly.
"Hey, Jay," she replies. "What's happening?"
Detective Jason Fleming shrugs indifferently. "Not much, really. Mr. and Mrs. Esposito dropped by yesterday."
"Oh?" Cassidy smiles as an image of the two, the retired Hispanic detective and fiery dark-skinned medical examiner, floats in her mind's eye. "How're they doing?"
"Good. Javi says the idea of having a grandchild is driving Kevin insane, though."
"Of course it is. How's little Kennedy?" Kennedy Esposito, Javi and Lanie's young daughter. Just a teenager back then, Cassidy had waited in the hospital with her parents as she was born, had held her just a few days later, had engaged in all sorts of babysitting duties as the sweet little kid grew up. But she hadn't seen her in years.
"Cass, she's eleven. You can't really call her little Kennedy anymore."
"Right." Cassidy blows out a long breath. "Eleven. Wow."
"I know."
"She's still little to me, though."
"You're only fifteen years older," Jay points out.
"Feels like more." She sighs, shaking her head. "Jay, I'm the oldest twenty-six-year-old in the world."
"Nobody's denying it." For almost a minute, both are silent, until she works up the courage to ask the question on her mind.
"How is she?"
Jay doesn't need to ask what 'she' Cassidy is referring to. He shakes his head sadly, saying, "She's… not good, Cass."
"When is she ever?"
"But it's been nine years. I just –" He stops, and rephrases. "You'd think she'd be getting better by now."
"Some wounds take a long time to heal," Cassidy says gravely. "And some don't ever, no matter how long you wait."
"You would know." He shakes his head again. "I'm just… it worries me, Cass. She's my mentor. She's my friend."
"I know what she means to you, Jay." A sigh. "Just… give her my best, okay?"
"Give it to her yourself," he suggests.
"I can't," she tells him, shaking her head.
"Why not?"
"You know why not," she says. "I've barely seen her since he… since it happened. She's like a stranger, Jay. I don't even know her anymore." She bites her lip, hoping the pain will focus her, give her the strength to hold back the tears. "And she hates me. She hates me, can barely stand to look at me because I look like him. Because I've got his eyes."
"Hey." He leans over to her, reaching out, and pushes dark curls out of her face. "She's your mother, Cass. She doesn't hate you. She's just… sad."
"Understatement of the century."
"Okay, maybe," he agrees reluctantly. "You remind her of him, and that hurts. Plain and simple. But she doesn't hate you."
Cassidy lets out a deep breath and doesn't reply. And he knows she doesn't believe him, doesn't recognize the truth when she hears it, maybe because she was born into a family founded on lies. Maybe falsehood and insincerity is all she knows. Maybe it's in her genes.
Finally, he says, "So, I'm guessing you came here for a reason. You know, other than to see the best friend you haven't called in almost a year."
"Now is not the time for guilt," she mutters. "But yeah, I did." She pats her bag. "Got it."
He nods, and she can tell he's guessed what she's carrying in her bag. He knows her pretty well. "I don't suppose I could convince you to get lunch with me, catch up a bit," he says.
"No, actually, I really should be –" She stops herself. What is she doing? Distancing herself from the rest of the world, alienating herself from the people who care about her? Just like her mother did? No, she can't do that. She's too strong to do that. "Actually," she says, "lunch would be great."
He's surprised – she can tell. But he recovers quickly, because he closes the file he was working on, pushes back his chair, and stands. "Cool," he says. "Remy's?"
"You know me so well," she replies, standing up, and he laughs. At a pace that suggests he's in no sort of hurry, he crosses past her, heading towards the elevator. But she doesn't follow. Not right away. No, she just stands next to the desk, her mother's desk, places a hand on the back of the chair, her father's chair. She squeezes the fabric between her fingers, closes her eyes, and his presence is so strong in this place he spent so much time in, this place where he was happy, that she can almost pretend he's there with her. She can almost feel him standing beside her, calling her Becks, telling her he loves her and that she's just like her mother.
"Hey, Dad," she whispers, and a tear slides out between her closed eyelids. And for once, she doesn't wipe it away. "Miss you."
The tear rolls down her cheek, leaving a shining wet track behind to show where it's been; when it reaches her jaw, it slides down to her chin and hangs there for a second before dripping off and falling, colliding with the seat of the chair and bursting open as it hits the fabric. A thousand tiny beads of water where her father once sat. A thousand words that would never be said.
"Cass," she hears Jay call from behind her. "You coming?"
She didn't wipe away the tear. But now, she wipes away the line it left behind, blinking a few times for good measure to erase any evidence. She loves Jay – he's like her brother. But she doesn't want him to see her cry.
"Yeah," she calls, and she's relieved to hear that her voice sounds perfectly casual. "I'll be right there."
As she begins to walk away, she trails her fingers along the back of the chair, trying to absorb as much of her father as she can in these few precious seconds she has here with all there is left of him in this place. All there will be left of him here, once she and the file in her bag have gone. With a hoarse, cracking voice full of memories of goodbyes left hanging on tongues, she whispers, "Love you."
And without another word, Agent Cassidy Johanna Beckett walks out of the 12th Precinct with her closest friend, a cold case file labeled RICHARD E. CASTLE in her bag and a well of tears hidden behind her clear blue eyes.