Glint – Chapter 1
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.
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A/N: Hello again. My youngest is now off to college, and my wife and I are doing our best to cope with the sudden decrease in noise – and fun – in the house. Fortunately, we get to go visit her during the season and watch her play, but for now, her empty room screams at us.
Ok, enough melodramatics. This story was actually inspired by Ironman7110, who challenged me to write a different story around the Knockout/Rise episodes. Although I have a general idea, I have to admit, this is one of those times when I am starting to post a story before I know exactly where I am going with it – so I guess we all will be surprised.
I hope you enjoy this one. It is so strange not to be looking forward to a Castle episode in the coming weeks.
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Wednesday Morning – May 25, 2011, 11:45 a.m., at a Cemetery in New York
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She stands stiffly at attention, fully aware of the brutal, bloody war waging between her heart and her head. She's adorned in her dark navy blue honor uniform.
White gloves, pristine and elegant.
The formal headgear – the official cap that shades her forehead, and covers her hair pulled back into a bun.
It's a look, Richard Castle decides, that is all-together different, not her at all. And yet it is intrinsically her at the same time. Somehow, she makes even the official funeral dress code seem . . . so Beckett. And he knows her well enough to realize the battle that is raging within the woman that he loves.
Yeah, he loves her. She's clueless, of course. She's with doctor what-his-name. He can't even remember motorcycle-boy's name right now. Not with the weight of sadness that covers this beautiful park of sorts.
Her voice – strong and vibrant – does little to betray her inner conflict. The words she speaks about a man she loves like a father.
"Roy Montgomery taught me what it meant to be a cop."
She loved Roy Montgomery. But God, she hates his guts this morning. How could he do this? How could he have been a part of it all along? All this time . . . all these years . . . he stood there pretending to care, pretending to be her friend, pretending to understand.
Only he wasn't pretending. He did understand. Yeah, he understood all too well.
"He taught me that we are bound by our choices."
She pauses for a brief second or two, considering her words. Maybe if she says them with enough conviction, with enough force . . . maybe then she will believe them herself. Choices. Yeah, he made his choices. Choices she now has to live with.
"We are more than our mistakes."
She mentally clears her head, as she sees her captain's widow to her left. She sees his daughters. And her heart softens, pushing the damning thoughts in her head away. Yeah, Roy Montgomery screwed up big-time, and it cost her mother her life. Maybe he wasn't to blame, per se. But he was involved. Still, in the end, when it could no longer be hidden, he could have run. He could have gathered his mother hen and their chicks, and disappeared. He's a cop. He'd know how to do it.
Instead, he brought his secret to the forefront. To them. And then he went and dealt with his secret head-on, knowing full well that his actions would end here.
In a casket, in the sunlight, with his wife in tears, his daughters destroyed, his friends and partners conflicted.
His tab is paid-in-full. She knows this. And so she honors him.
Okay, maybe it's for him, maybe it's not for him. Maybe it's for Evelyn. Maybe it's for the girls. Maybe it's for the other detectives and cops of the 12th Precinct who will never know the real story. She blinks for a second – and to those watching, her action seems nothing more than the sadness for a fallen comrade.
Richard Castle, however, knows differently. As does Kevin Ryan. As does Javier Esposito.
Which makes the words she speaks next – the story she tells – all the more poignant. She is unaware of how much her words elevate her in their eyes.
Her words. They continue to rise above the sniffles and hitched breaths.
"Captain Montgomery once said to me that, for us, there is no victory – there are only battles."
His words – so recent – come back to her as she stifles a catch in her voice. She takes a deep breath as she continues.
"And in the end, the best you can hope for is to find a place to make your stand."
They were more than words, no idle thoughts, she now realizes. He was penning his own epitaph during that conversation with her. And then – even then – he was using it as an opportunity to maybe, just maybe, give her one final life lesson. Hoping she would see it. Hoping it would stick.
"And if you're very lucky . . . you find someone willing to stand with you.'"
She glances over to Castle. He can barely see her eyes, somewhat hidden by the official cap that rides low above her brow. She almost falters, holding more tightly now to the makeshift podium that is adorned by red and purple flowers. She smells their fragrance as their scent lifts upward toward her nostrils now flaring with emotion.
In this moment, staring at the novelist who has shadowed her, chased her, teased her, angered her, frustrated her, confused her . . . in this moment, as she glances at him, considering the words she has just spoken, it hits her.
She is lucky.
She has found that someone.
She loves him.
Her voice finally cracks just as bit, as her volume drops ever so slightly, her stomach now exploding with tiny wings furiously searching for a way out.
She loves him!
"Our captain would want us to carry on the fight. And even if there is . . ."
Castle stares at her even more deeply now. Her words, and her glance . . . there was no ambiguity there. There was no hidden message. She has – surprisingly and completely out of character – put herself out there. In full public. And in this moment – a moment he has long ago all but given up ever attaining – he can only stand and stare. Even though every instinct is now to run and hold her – funeral or not – he can only stand and stare.
She continues to speak, but he only sees her lips moving. He no longer hears the words, as his mind screams at him to see the glint of light flashing to his right. It is far too low in the distance to be the sun, and he instinctively knows that it is something else that intrudes into this solemn moment. It's the second time the brief shining sears his peripheral vision. He ignored it the first time, too lost in her words, in her melodious voice, in the horror of the casket in front of them, in the memories of the shootout in the hangar only four days ago.
But this time, his mind recognizes the flashing reflection of light in the distance, about a hundred yards out behind one of the white headstones, standing tall in a row of stones that honor the fallen here. Without a thought, he is moving now, his heart exploding in his chest from the sudden rush of adrenaline, the sudden panic that has a firm grip on his chest, and the single word that escapes his mouth as he is now horizontal and in flight, arms outstretched.
"Kate!"
His mind pleads to the heavens that he can make it to her when his airborne trajectory suddenly shifts. He is pushed, forcibly, upon her as the jolt of pain rockets into his back and onward into his chest area.
For a second or two, he cannot think, he cannot see, and he definitely cannot breathe. His vision is blackened, and his mouth is suddenly parched. He opens his eyes, but sees nothing.
He doesn't see the woman lying below him. He doesn't see her mouth and eyes open in competing screams. The pain in his back seems to be subsiding, now a dull ache. But the burning in his chest increases, and he exhales and inhales quickly, feeling as if his chest is on fire. Every breath lights a match inside his lungs.
"Castle?" Kate screams, as her mind is fully conflicted, wanting to both simultaneously push him off of her and pull him tighter into her embrace. Perhaps it is years of experience, or perhaps it is just that she knows this man far more intimately than she will ever admit. But she immediately knows something is wrong with him. She pulls her hands away from his back, extending them vertically upward into the air. That's when she sees it. That's when her carefully recrafted life comes unglued.
Her white honor gloves are red.
And it's a lot of red.
She gazes fearfully at the man atop her now, no longer aware that she is screaming. No longer hearing the screams of those around her. No longer aware of Alexis Castle and Martha Rodgers and Kevin Ryan rushing towards the fallen duo.
She calls his name again, as she watches the expressive eyes dim, the usual sparkle fading like a candle at the end of its wick.
She doesn't see Detective Javier Esposito break away from his partner, looking not toward his two friends on the ground, but instead toward the sound of the second shot that booms throughout the cemetery. A former Special Forces marksman himself, he immediately has recognized the sniper attack and had turned his attention toward the direction of the attack itself. He rushes toward the line of graves in the distance, dashing between headstones as he sees a figure rise to flee the scene.
Esposito ignores the rising cacophony of shrieks behind him, his weapon raised, sprinting hard. He is fifty yards away from the retreating figure when it turns, brandishing a smaller weapon in hand. Esposito fires off two shots, and smiles as he is rewarded with the sight of the fleeing form falling to the ground. He approaches quickly, but cautiously, moving more toward his right in a flanking movement.
He knows snipers. He's been a sniper. A good one. He knows how dangerous people like himself can be when cornered on the field of combat. Which – make no mistake – is exactly what this once peaceful resting place has now become.
He comes upon the figure, facedown. No matter, he won't be caught off-guard. His weapon in both hands, he approaches slowly, kicking the would-be assassin in the leg. No movement. He nods his head with more confidence, as he uses his foot to roll the man over.
Esposito ever so subtly nods his head again, as he stares into the lifeless eyes that don't squint in the full sunlight that blazes overhead. He sees the pool of blood – two pools actually – now recognizing that both of his shots hit their target. He pauses – just to make sure – and drops to a knee to feel for a pulse.
Negative.
Satisfied, he rises, and turns back toward the carnage some one hundred and twenty yards away, cursing the lack of security that allowed this man to get within a football field of the funeral. As he approaches the grieving flock that mourns – mourned – his deceased captain, he notices Detective Kate Beckett kneeling on the ground.
"Thank God," he whispers to himself with relief, until his mind quickly starts calculating the alternatives.
Detective Kevin Ryan – his best friend – is also kneeling. Thank God he, too, is alive and well. But he is a good ten feet or so in front of Beckett. A horrible nagging in his stomach spurs Javier Esposito faster, as he now is sprinting back toward the wreckage in the distance. Seconds later, he gazes down at the ground ahead of him.
Kate Beckett doesn't even bother to hide the tears that flow down her cheeks, her head swiveling between the two forms lying prone in the grass.
Two bodies.
Kate cradles Richard Castle's face with one hand, her other hand holding her cell phone to her ear as she barks words to the 911 operator she has called. Both of her gloves – previously crisp white – are crimson-soaked. Streaks of his own blood from her gloves are now painted wildly across his face.
"Javi, help me!" Kevin Ryan screams at him, pulling Esposito's gaze down to the detective on the ground next to him. Ryan is frantically yelling at the uniformed officers who are trying – a bit too roughly – to pull a distraught Martha Rodgers away from the bleeding body in Ryan's hands. That's when Javier sees the red hair caked with blood, masking the glossy eyes on the young woman, and the ever-growing splotch of red in the grass below her torso.
"Oh shit," he whispers to the warm wind that blows hauntingly, teasingly.
"Alexis."
