Disclaimer: Castle and all of its characters belong to Andrew W. Marlowe and ABC Productions. "The Rifleman's Creed" belongs to the United State Marine Corps.
For all intents and purposes, Javier Esposito was a Staff Seargant in the Marines, not the Air Force like Jon Huertas was. This is Esposito-centric, but is a Ryan/Esposito fic to its core.
This is my rifle.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Javier exhaled slowly as he pulled the stock from the rifle that was laid on the table in front of him. He took each component of the weapon apart with a practiced skill and precision from years of practice. His dark eyes watched the slick, matte colored metal moving with an intrigue that he had never lost, even after having his mentality and all of the things that intrigued him beaten out of his system at Parris Island.
The Marine is not an individual. The Marine is nothing more than a component of the rifle that is The United States Marine Corps. The Marine will always clean his rifle because it is that rifle that will save your life, and the life of your brothers.
He oiled the rifle carefully, making sure not to miss any of it. A well oiled gun was a happy gun, and a happy gun was a happy Marine. The silence of the apartment around him was almost defeaning. The only sounds that were audible were the clicks and slides of the rifle, and his even, perfectly timed breaths.
The day that he'd been promoted to Staff Seargant had been the happiest day of his life. He had stood in front of the man presenting him his stripes proudly, his chest puffed out like a pigeon.
The scent of the gun oil flooded into his nostrils, letting his head swim with memories of days spent playing football under the sweltering sun of the desert where he was stationed, and too many nights spent in a self-dug sleep hole with sand filling every crack that he had and many he hadn't know exsisted. There were more than enough walking nightmares in that desert to fill a thousand horror movies, but it was the ones that came when fitful sleep overtook him that always seemed to haunt him the most.
My rifle is my best friend.
It is my life.
I must master it as I must master myself.
The visions always started off slowly, and tamely. He'd be in a tent with his squad mates, laughing and joking over the letter that some guy's girlfriend had sent him and playing poker. They'd be watching an impromptu dance battle that was going on in the sand between two of his buddies.
Then the explosions would rock the base. Huge mortar shells would blast holes in the sand that were the size of his first car and sent shrapnel flying in thousands of different directions. The boys in the tent around him would spring to their feet, grab their rifles and sprint out into the cool desert night air.
Javier's eyes shot skyward at the sound of humming engines above him, he caught sight of the enormous planes soaring over his head. Shells dropped from the plane's belly and scorched the Earth around them when they hit.
The 'rat-tat-tat' rhythm of the bullets exploding from their rifles into the bodies of the oncoming enemies was a melancholy symphony against a back drop of vicious screams echoing across the endless space in the desert.
My rifle without me is useless.
Without my rifle, I am useless.
I must fire my rifle true.
I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me.
I must shoot him before he shoots me.
I will...
He'd always wake from the dreams, a scream tearing from his throat, and sweat drenching his shaking body. Sour bile would churn in his stomach and he'd have to bolt for the bathroom, his knuckles white as he clutched the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach violently. The smell of burnt flesh and diesel fuel were so strong that they were almost palpable tastes on his tongue as he hunched over the toilet, his stomach muscles quivering in the anticipation of a second onslaught of nausea. Then, he'd jump in the shower, and scrub his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the ash of the bodies that had fallen around him that wasn't really there.
He'd stand on shaking legs, slip into a new pair of boxer briefs, and slid beneath the cool sheets of his bed, the remnants of his sweat still lingering on the cotton threads. He'd wait, for hours on end, for a sleep that would never come. He'd lay there, staying at the ceiling and not moving a muscle, until the sun began streaming through his curtains. Then, he would drag himself through the motions of getting ready for work, gulp down some over burnt coffee and make the drive to the precinct to sit through a tedious day of staring at his computer screen if he was lucky.
On days when he wasn't so lucky, he got sent on a call with Ryan, Beckett, and Castle and he would have to urge the stomach bile that bubbled up in his throat as soon as the iron scent of blood entered his system. He had to talk himself through surveying the crime scene and try to make his muscles quiver as little as possible. Most days he wasn't that lucky.
My rifle and myself know that what counts in this war
Is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, not the smoke we make.
We know that it is the hit that counts. We will hit...
There was one day, when he was overseas, that showed up in the nightmares more than others.
He and his partner were holed up in an abandonded tower with his crosshairs trained on an oncoming convoy of enemy targets. The Scout Sniper system was an easy one to understand. You had your shooter, and your scout.
His scout was a young guy from Detroit, Michigan. His name was Kyle Walker, and he had joined the Corps to appease his father, who had served for many years and fought through World War Two. Kyle and Javier were incredibly close, but that was expected between Scout Sniper teams. They depended on each other more than anyone else in the Corps had to, so they became even closer than most of the already inseperable bonds that Corpsmen formed starting as early as bootcamp.
"900 yards." Kyle whispered, his eyes squinting through the binoculars in front of him. "Wind at 5 to 7, West to East." Esposito reached to the top of the rifle and clicked two different dials, zoning in on the target, and using his thumb to flick the safety at the base of the stock off. He sucked a deep breath through his nose, counted to five, and exhaled slowly. Sucking in one more breath, he held it this time and slid his finger into the trigger guard. Javier counted to three and squeezed the trigger.
My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life.
Thus, I will learn it as a brother, I will learn its weaknesses,
Its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights, its barrel.
I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage
As I guard my legs, my arms, my eyes, and my heart against damage.
I will keep my rifle clean and ready.
We will become part of each other.
We will...
The recoil was enough to shift him back from where he'd positioned himself on the crumbling floor of the tower, debris and small pieces of cement digging into his stomach through the desert camouflage uniform he wore.
In the other end of the scope, the target crumpled to the ground in a mass of red, bloody mist and heap of twisted limbs.
"Target eliminated." Javier grinned, pulling a small piece of paper and mark a hash mark on it with a short pencil.
"That makes five hundred, Espo." Kyle extended his hand and the two men bumped fists. The buzz of planes hummed over head, and it didn't quite register that there was the possibility of them not being friendly units.
That was, until the shells ripped open the ceiling above them. Esposito hit the ground, rolling into the far corner of the tower and covering his head, his rifle cradled underneath him for protection. The assault on the tower felt like it lasted an hour, though in reality it was only about thirty-five seconds.
When the fire finally ceased, Esposito raised his head, choking on the dust from the shattered cement and brick of what had once been the ceiling and was now reduced to rubble around them.
"Someone must have seen the muzzleflash." He hacked, coughing into his fist and swiping a hand over his shaved head to get rid of the dust there. He stumbled to his feet, his right knee protesting angrily at the movement. He clutched it for a moment, decided it was a minor sprain, and moved across the room. The dust that still hung thickly in the air made it difficult for him to see anything. "Walker, we've got to move. They know we're here, they'll be backed." Silence. "Walker? Come on, man, get your ass up, we've gotta go now!" He barked, finally stumbling upon where the other man was curled into a ball. He rolled him over, and immediately felt his stomach churning. The amount of blood that leaked through the holes in his chest was enough to produce the sickly sweet metallic smell that any Marine came to associate with death.
He heaved the contents of his stomach as he tried to regain control and focus on what needed to be done. He ripped the dog tags from his fallen comrades neck and tore down the stairs of the tower, sprinting for the cover of the sand dunes. When he was finally in the clear, he fell to his knees, and he sobbed. He let out all of the pent up frustration from the 104 days, 23 hours and 57 minutes that he had been stuck in this sand clad nightmare, and he cried until there were no more tears. Once his face had dried, the unwavering sun baking the saltly tear stains into his skin, he clammered back to his feet and marched off towards their base camp, the steely exterior of the Marine Scout Sniper firmly back in place.
Before God, I swear this creed.
My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country.
We are the masters of our enemy.
We are the masters of our enemy.
We are the saviors of my life.
He snapped the last piece of the rifle back into place and checked the magazine one more time before settling them back into the gun cabinet located in the bedroom. His shoulders were tense as he hung his head low, cataloging all of his Corps brothers and what they had meant to him.
The clock on the wall read 3:35 in the morning, but there was nothing in his being that even hinted at being tired. There was too much going on in his head for him to consider the prospect of sleep. He knew that his current mental state was a formula for nightmares of epic proportions. So, instead of the bed, he chose to make his way to the barstool in front of the kitchen bar, a cup of cold coffee stewing in front of him.
He wasn't startled by the arms that slid around his neck and the pair of lips that landed on the back of his neck. It was always around this time that Kevin roused from his sleep to get a drink of water. The man was like clockwork, and it was something that Javier, being the light sleeper that he was, had come to expect to be woken by.
"It's early." Kevin mumbled into the soft skin of his neck. Javier reached back and ran his fingers through the silky hair at the base of Ryan's neck.
"I know."
"You smell like gun oil."
"I know." Javier chuckled, the scent clung to his skin like a parasite for hours after he had cleaned the weapon, no matter how hard he tried to scrub away the remnants.
"Do you want to talk about the nightmare?" Kevin whispered, settling his chin into the crook of Javier's neck and kissing the tanned skin softly, lovingly. A contended hum fluttered out of his throat at the contact.
"Not really." He turned and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist. "It doesn't matter now. You're here and that's all I need."
"You only ever clean your rifle when the nightmares are bad, Javi." Ryan muttered, leaning into the kiss that Javier placed on the corner of his mouth subconciously.
"I know. It was bad, but I really don't want to relive it."
"You always told me that they messed with you really badly."
"And they do, but it's a lot easier having you here when I wake up. The worst part was being alone in the apartment when they happened." He hugged Kevin tighter to his chest before releasing him. The subject of his PTSD had been a touchy one for quite some time when their relationship had begun, but eventually they had formed enough trust for him to share some of the stories that haunted him. Of course, he'd withheld some of the more gruesome tales for Kevin's own benefit, but just the oppourtunity to get some of the burden off of his chest had helped. "I love you, you know?" He whispered into the soft tandrils of Kevin's hair.
"I know. I love you too, Javi. So much." He pressed his lips tenderly to Kevin's and stood up off of the barstool.
"C'mon. We got to get some sleep." With that he led him into their bedroom, slid between the warm sheets and curled into him, wrapping his arms around the other man's waist and pressing his chest into his back. His nose settled into the curve of the back of his neck, and the steady, even breaths told him that his partner had already slipped back into sleep. Soon after, the steady breaths and the thump of his heart lulled him into a comfortable sleep.
They say that once a Jarhead is a Jarhead, there is nothing else that you can be. In anything that you do, be it changing a diaper, going through a day at work, or laying in bed with the one you love, you are always going to be up to your ears in desert sand, waiting for the next concussion of explosions to richochet through your camp. Perhaps, one day, this would change, but Javier didn't see that happening any time soon. There were only two people that he trusted in the world. Kevin and his rifle. After all, they were both very much the same. They were his. There are many like them, but they belonged to him. And he wouldn't have that any other way.
So, be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but peace!
Thoughts? Reactions? Drop me a review and let me know :)
Much love, J. Rook