Blink-and-you-miss-'em spoilers for "Sucker Punch," "Boom" and "Deep in Death."
Mad thanks to Alamo Girl and MissyMeggins for saving me from my grammatically impaired self.
There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception. -Aldous Huxley
It's amazing how perception changes things.
She walked into the precinct thinking it infallible, the "thin blue line" a partial false modesty, given how much steely strength shone in the silver of NYPD shields; how immovability and the impetus for endless investigation was embroidered alongside indigo thread.
But now it, like she, is crumbling. Broken and bloodied, never to be whole again.
Sitting in the back of a patrol car, she wishes for her memory to be shattered like the windows of the 12th Precinct's Homicide interrogation rooms. She wishes her ears would remain deafened for the rest of her life, as they have been since she was given not one but two pieces of news that brought her to her knees.
She prays to a God she no longer really believes in that they'll stop asking her if she's injured; it's not her blood that's turned a white button down into a pink striped shirt.
She leans against the black leather seat and starts thinking of what she'll wear to the funerals now that she is no longer a wife or mother, and then wonders if anyone will be draping the matching color over the badges she'd been thinking of so intently before it had all gone to hell.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Working in a 911 Call Center, repeated hang-ups and call-backs that ultimately end in a garbled transmission, with the speaker too far from the receiver for words to be anything but nonsense, usually mean a prank or the oft-loathed "butt dial."
Working in a 911 Call Center also includes forwarding calls to Dispatch, and in doing so, she knows the predetermined prefixes for issued departmental phones; can identify them within a second.
Working in a 911 Call Center, she can multitask, pulling up the name of the officer to whom the phone was assigned…
…and identifying the sound of gunfire in the distance.
Then multi-tasking shifts into borderline frantic overdrive, with different hands calling different people; her supervisor, who can start the chain of command, and the HNT guys, because the fact that it's late afternoon means there are cops and civilians inside – probably too many to get out unnoticed by whomever was wielding the gun.
Multi-tasking ends when the phones hang up and the prayers begin that she won't have to stand in a sea both at attention and wavering under the pressure of who they've lost.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
While a handful is assisting with the evacuation, most of the cops are exiting the building. Panicked footfalls are tamped beneath brusque New York accents shifting into calm authority.
The only people trying to get in the building are the Hostage Negotiating Team, rhythmic and regimented through the fires of bedlam.
There are unconfirmed reports that the shots came from one of the upper floors. They are no longer in doubt when they hear yelling a few floors above them.
When they arrive on the landing, their barked orders to drop their weapons are outmatched by the desperate pleas being yelled to a firmly barricaded door.
They know without looking that the men trying so frantically to cross the threshold are the cops from this floor, and they lower their protective gear. The point man reaches for the one still banging on the doors, but is shrugged off without much thought or effort. He turns instead to the other, and knows the ashen pallor that's covering his face is not completely the result of the bullet wound through his right clavicle, but the fact that some of his men have been left behind.
When they realize the door reads "Homicide," they feel the irony as a sucker punch, one that penetrates both of their shields.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Cops – and squad cars – are a dime a dozen in New York. Most go right by, lights on and sirens blaring, without another glance.
Most go unnoticed…
…unless it's headed in the direction of your precinct, and it's not just one car, it's a hundred.
Running up the block at a sprint, they're trying to process the scene with deli fare in their stomachs and hearts in their throats. Not that it matters; they work so well together they can talk without speaking. Ryan motions to the HRT van and Esposito nods distractedly, searching the growing crowd for the rest of their team.
They hear Castle before they see him, and both exhale a sigh of relief…
…until he's brought out in handcuffs.
Immediately and on instinct, they flash their badges and fly to the front of the barricade; how they did it, they're sure, is only going to be added to the litany of questions yet to be asked. They point at Castle, still fighting his restraints, legs kicking in two different directions, as though he's not trying to find purchase anywhere, but instead trying to gain enough momentum to turn him (and the two officers trying to escort him) around to again face the precinct entry.
While Ryan explains who they are and Castle's relation to them, Esposito walks toward the writer, nodding at the escorts to uncuff him.
Castle stops fighting when he sees Esposito, but the detective is more concerned about getting the bracelets off his friend than focusing on his expression.
It's only after Castle's fist has collided with Esposito's face, sending the detective to the ground and his badge skittering out of sight, that he realizes he's never seen Castle quite this angry.
When the truth comes, it brings no answers or explanations; never feels displaced or unfair.
It just hurts – far more than any punch ever will.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
From the back of the ambulance, Montgomery sees Castle punch Esposito. Ryan intervenes immediately, and the Captain knows he should do the same. But he understands Castle's rage; feels it too, though, he thinks – without a speck of evidence he could testify to in court, mind you – not on all the same levels the younger man does.
He also feels something Castle does not; sympathy. For when they hear the story of what brought hell and gunfire raining down in his squad room, Esposito and Ryan will be as inconsolable as the writer is now.
The EMTs and HRT are trying to talk to him. One urges that they leave immediately for the hospital (which will not happen until he sees Beckett come out), the other trying to fully identify the scenario with which the negotiators are dealing. He remains silent, for his injury and the situation are not what's most on his mind at the moment. Right now, the shooter's identity is not in doubt.
But he knows that by the end of this, there will be two shootings and two shooters, and that's when the real crisis navigating begins.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
He doesn't remember much after those initial moments, probably because there hadn't been anyone like him before – someone whose life has ended but is somehow still breathing. The clock tells him in indignant, staccato-like ticks that he's only been dead two hours, but apparently his Layla has been dead for three days.
Three. Days.
Rage fueled by primal, shattering grief wells like a geyser again, and he roars even louder this time, throwing a chair into an interrogation room door. It bounces effortlessly back to him, and he wonders if this is what the rest of his life is to be: always hitting a wall, knowing the best part of you – the one part that could push you through – is gone.
He can barely see through eyes reddened by anger and anguish, and wonders how the Devil disguised as a detective - currently handcuffed to a desk drawer - sees like this every day. Or perhaps she doesn't; perhaps death and destruction are all she knows, all she's good at, all she likes. Must be, for it takes a…different type of creature to want to be in this situation.
She starts to move, and he raises the gun at her – God bless the great state of New York and their Permit to Carry Concealed. She stops, licks her lips, now chapped as she worries them. He smiles a bit at that; for, though his Layla is gone, he will never again stop worrying. The least Lucifer can do is the same.
She opens her mouth and he cocks the hammer again, intent on making good his promise of shooting her too – and through the head, not the shoulder like her boss - if she tried to tell her that she understood, that she's been there, she's lost someone too. That it wasn't she who killed his little girl; that it was going to be okay if he just gave her the gun...
She shows him her palms immediately, indicating surrender, but speaks nonetheless. After she clears her throat, she sounds more human, so he relents when she asks him if she can have some water. She nods and tries to stand, but he pushes her to the ground, growling that he'll get it. He's got no intention of uncuffing her unless he decides to talk to the negotiators, using her as a shield.
She motions to the far end of the bullpen, estimating the number of steps it would take to get there, given that he's had them in complete darkness since this all began. He nods and grabs a mug off the desk he's chained her to; he reads the name plate and hopes Detective Esposito (whoever he is) won't mind the use of his cup.
Two minutes later, the mug is shattered on the floor and he's falling backwards towards the ground, but never impacts the linoleum.
He cries when Layla comes into view.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Cops always find the weight of restraints and a gun on their hip to be a comfort.
She cannot get away from the black of the Sig or the silver of the cuffs fast enough.
She brushes off the medics and HNT for a minute, insisting that she can walk under her own power.
What remains silent is the fact that she has to do it that way. Castle had to help her out of her apartment after the Nikki Heat murders, even as minor as her injuries were. Her physical injuries are even less now, and she has to hold on to that for as long as she can, because she knows the internal scars will make themselves known very, very soon.
It's not the deep sighs of relief she notices as she emerges, nor the faint clapping and few flashbulbs behind the barricade. It's the boys – her boys, despite her reticence to call them such – Castle leaning against a squad car, and Ryan and Esposito talking to someone in the back of an ambulance.
Castle runs to her immediately, looking her up and down about six times before trying to reach for her. She finishes the connection mostly on autopilot, and feels his sigh into her shoulder. Her hand goes mechanically up and down his back, for it's the only thing her limbs are trained to do in a situation like this.
He steps away after a moment and runs a hand over his face. She winces internally when he sees his right knuckles are scraped and cut to hell and back.
They'll talk about that later, for she has something to say to the people she suspects were on the receiving end of the blow.
Ryan is white as a sheet (she cannot say ghost) and Esposito is working his jaw. Not, she guesses, from the strength of Castle's blows, but instead continuing the pain; self-flagellation for a story she wishes could be constrained by a dust jacket.
When she speaks, it's hoarse and tired and a thousand other emotions, for she's barely said a word since their murder victim's father drew a gun during notification. But it's strong; emphatically so.
"This. Is. Not. Your. Fault."
There will be more words to come later; explanations from her and she's sure, unnecessary apologies from them. But now she just wants to get the hell out of here before they bring the body down.
It's fitting that it's Castle who understands her urge to leave; he can read – and write – her like a book. He hovers a hand at the small of her back, never touching, and they walk past Montgomery's ambulance as it finally whines to life. Past the ME's van, past the victim's mother–turned–widow, past the IA guys who slip a business card in Castle's jacket pocket and tell him to have her call them for an interview, past the police barricades and her own defenses, to hail a taxi.
She can no longer hold her head up, having saved face with the people that matter most, and leans her temple against his shoulder. He slowly drapes an arm around her, and when she has words again, she'll thank him for holding her together at the exact moment she was about to fly apart.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Normally, seeing a body bag wheeled out on a gurney simply means a groan, and then determination to fix (if only a bit) the unfixable.
Seeing a body bag wheeled out of the police precinct where her friends work means a heart attack.
She'd been out to an early dinner with college friends, and hadn't heard her phone. She pushes through the sea of onlookers, most of whom are leaving, searching ardently for a familiar face.
She and Esposito lock eyes immediately, and from the guilt she sees written all over his face, it's all she can do to grab on to the barricade as her legs go out from under her.
Javier and Ryan run to her aid, both taking an elbow to help her to her feet and both talking a mile a minute.
She catches snippets: she's fine, with Castle, deem it a good shoot. She's surprised when she focuses not on the fact that it was Kate who was apparently involved with something that could have ended with her in a body bag instead of some asshole Lanie wishes were alive so she could take her scalpel to him then, but the fact that the boys end their breathless litany of half-formed explanations with a uniform summation: "It's all my fault."
She looks between the two of them, and they start speaking in tandem again, though the words differ. She puts up a hand to stop them, and then looks closely at Esposito, whose olive skin is marred with reds and purples – things she knows indicate the beginning stages of a bruise. She motions for him to continue, and when he does, she wishes she hadn't asked.
She's never heard him like this, sounding so…broken.
He tells a tale not of guilt or innocence; instead it's a hybrid of blamelessness, unintended guilt, and unending guilt. Coming back from logging evidence with the Crime Scene guys, they were waiting on an elevator when they heard someone ask for Detective Beckett. When Ryan realized the faces standing in the lobby of the 1-2 were the same faces on the mantel of the most recent victim they'd been working, he'd nudged Esposito to alert him.
Esposito then waved them around security – around the metal detectors - and ushered them upstairs, Ryan standing in front of the faded "Homicide" stencil on their door so as not to shock them. They knew, sadly, that Beckett was a pro at notifications, a combination of how many she'd given and her own time on the other side of the news.
They missed the father's concealed weapon. They missed his volatility.
And then they had headed to the deli. Vacated the building, stepping into the sunshine without noticing a storm was brewing behind them; having lured and left their friends – their family – in the lair of a monster.
Not that they could have stopped it, she realizes, noticing their two empty holsters. She knew it was Montgomery's MO to order his people to a break, and the boys' was to leave their guns in their desks, given that they normally stepped away for less than half an hour at the time.
It all happened in minutes, she realizes. Lives irrevocably changed in mere seconds.
She shakes her head. Not at the boys' perceived failings, but at the fact that they are so blinded by what happened that they can't see it probably would have happened regardless. Even if the father hadn't been carrying, they'd had suspects before who had disarmed an officer.
Suspect. She has a few hundred different names for him, none repeatable.
They rush through the ending of the story: how an injured Captain got his personnel out while Beckett offered herself up in return (Lanie has a few hundred different things to say about that), how Montgomery had to force Castle out so Beckett could close the doors behind them.
She looks between the two men in front of her, and while her heart holds sympathy for Beckett, it breaks for the two shattered souls at whose feet she stands. They will carry this as a burden; an open wound for weeks, if not months. Platitudes – pleas – that they did nothing, nor could they do anything that afternoon will be fall on deaf ears.
She can think of only one thing to say; one thing to do. She takes each of them by the hand and walks them to the curb, where she hails a taxi. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."
She watches (hovers) protectively as they reluctantly enter the vehicle, and after they drive away, she kneels to pick up her discarded purse. She sees a badge beneath one of the
response vehicles and reaches for it. It's Esposito's, and it's a little scraped – a little tarnished – but, she knows, stronger because of its flaws.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Normally, there would be a champagne toast for the subject of the lead story on the evening news – Hero Cop Saves Squad, Entire Precinct – but when Martha sees Richard bring Kate Beckett through the door and doesn't recognize the brunette, she knows the term hero carries as much burden as it does pride.
Kate lifts her head and tries to fix herself, and Martha thanks her years of training for her ability to keep a neutral expression. Beckett's wrists are a painful, chafed red, but that's not what draws her eyes to the detective's hands; it's the fact that they are shaking.
She's trying to move them so as not to be noticed, smoothing out her crinkled shirt, hair and sense of safety. The gesture brings Martha's gaze back to a haggard, tired face. Exhaustion is setting in, and her pale color offsets the dark circles under her eyes.
The redhead can look no more.
Martha desperately wants to take Kate into her arms, soothe her like she used to do with Richard and Alexis, tell her lies that everything will be all right. Instead, she takes a small step forward and puts a hand on her son's arm, telling him she'll make some tea.
Richard and Kate both softly utter their thanks, and Martha watches them trail upstairs, sagging against the table against the back of the couch in preparation for the duty she was not asked to undertake, but the job she has done for her son and her granddaughter. The job she will do for Kate because she is family too, regardless of the status of the detective's relationship with Richard. She'll hold them up when they cannot stand on their own.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
Seeing her father sitting on the floor in their hallway normally meant he was trying to make a drunken world stop spinning.
He was trying to make the world stop spinning, all right, but not his own.
He sat across from the closed bathroom door, looking forlorn. Alexis slid down the wall and took her father's hand, loosening his fist into a more relaxed grip. She laid her head on his shoulder, but instead of kissing the top of her head as he normally did, she felt his chest hitch slightly.
When she looked up, his unchecked emotions – fear, gratitude, grief, guilt – told her more than words ever could. But he speaks anyway, a complexly simple sentence.
"She locked me out again."
Her eyes fly to the bathroom door, and now that she's listening, she can hear the faint drum of the water as its rhythm hits both body and a river rock shower bottom.
She knows he wants to be in there, to assure himself that Detective Beckett's okay; that while she may be bruised, she is not broken – not yet, and that she'll stay that way. Alexis knows the feeling, having felt it after the ME van he was riding in was ambushed.
Her answer is slow but honest. "At least you know she'll be coming out this time."
He half-laughs, half-sobs, and Alexis wraps herself more firmly around him, wondering just who will need to heal more.
It's amazing how perception changes things.
He always wakes when his door opens in the middle of the night, and waits for the moonbeams to stretch themselves across the room to illuminate the newcomer.
He has responses for all those who might rouse him; plans of attack carefully crafted over many years, whittled to perfection.
He has no response, not even an instinctual one, when he opens one eye and Kate Beckett is standing there in a t-shirt and boxer shorts she'd borrowed from him.
He should have a response, some witty repartee permanently up his sleeve, given how much he's wanted to see her standing in his doorway.
But he doesn't move, nor does he utter a word. They stare at each other for a moment, and when she wraps her hand around the door jamb, he thinks she might bolt.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, "You said once that you'd do anything I needed."
He remembered; during the search for her mother's killer. At his encouraging nod, she continued, "I…would really like to not be alone right now."
He nods and sits up, reaching for the bedside lamp, intending to go sit in the chair sitting alongside the guest room bed.
But as impetus pulls him forward, it pushes against her back as well, and he's surprised when her fingers – now calm and motionless (he can barely breathe the relief in fast enough) cover his on the lamp.
"Do you mind…" She motions to the bed behind him. "Unless that would be…"
He shakes his head. "Get in."
She smiles shyly, and he watches her cross to the other side of the king sized mattress. They are both staunchly unmoving as she crawls into his bed, like melting icicles hanging tightly to eaves for fear of falling and shattering. Finally, she lays her head on the pillow, and across the space – across everything that's happened, everything that will happen (with them or the case, it doesn't matter) – he feels her hand brush up against his back.
He looks halfway over her shoulder and can only make out her eyes. In the waning light he can see gratitude, but also…
Safety.
Acceptance.
Resolve.
Her hand slides up to his bicep, and he covers it momentarily. She tugs lightly on his fingers and he rolls over until they're facing each other.
Their fingers link with one another and rest between them on his crisp white sheets, his hand atop hers a promise, even if she doesn't hear it yet: I will be your shelter, your protector. Whatever you need.
Nothing else is said. There will be time for words later.
He watches (hovers) until her eyes grow heavy and her breathing evens.
He maintains simple contact with her hand through the night; is her tether until moonbeams turn to sunrays that illuminate – cleanse and bless – a brand new day.
FIN