This chapter and several others contains a lot of dialogue straight from the episodes that fit the timeline for this story: 47 Seconds, The Limey, and Headhunters. I would like to thank Dustjackets: A Castle Wiki for their wonderful site, which I used for all of the necessary dialogue.
"Good evening, ladies and gentleman. We're about to start boarding Delta flight 2508 with service to New York's JFK…."
He looked up with dull eyes and idly observed the fierce jockeying for position at the gate as the Delta agent pleaded with the masses to check their boarding pass for the zone number that would be announced, in order. Even though Delta still assigned seats, the process of loading a plane always saw otherwise rational humans turn into raging zombies trying to outmaneuver the system for the privilege of getting on the plane before everyone else.
Not that it mattered to him. He had a Stella Artois only half finished in his hand and a first class ticket in his pocket, which meant he'd have even more alcohol to drown his sorrows in once he deigned to board the red eye flight back to New York. He'd found a perfect seat to watch the chaos all unfold at the bar in the Chili's Too, which was oh-so-conveniently located to gate D 38 at McCarren International Airport.
Unfortunately, at the moment he wasn't nearly drunk enough. Unwanted images and thoughts of her were breaking through the bleary barrier of booze that had brined his brain for the better part of the weekend. He'd purposefully sobered up slightly this evening—missing his flight wouldn't be the end of the world, but he wanted to get home to his baby girl. Her graduation was rushing closer and closer—time sluicing through his fingers like water, and he was powerless to stop it. She was going to graduate, start her life as a college student and she'd leave him all alone.
Alone, with nothing but ghosts to keep him company in the loft. Ghosts of regrets and what-ifs. He tipped the bottle back, the pale lager sliding down his throat and soothing the jagged edges that seemed ready to clench together into a tight choke whenever he slipped up and thought about her lie. Perhaps with enough ethanol dulling his brain he'd be able to sleep.
Or at least find blissful oblivion for a few more hours.
What stuck with him—bothered him the most—was how near he'd come to making a complete fool of himself. He'd been so ready to profess his love to her.
Again.
So very fucking close.
The bombing the previous week had gutted him in several ways—had blasted several truths into his consciousness that he'd not been able to ignore. The loss of life, for one. The concept of being in the wrong place at the exact wrong time, for another. His daughter's exposure to the slaughter resulting from such a cavalier and self-centered act had hammered home that she'd soon be out in the cold, cruel world, unprotected. Vulnerable to carrion such as Leann West and her ilk.
But beyond the constant worry over his daughter's impending departure from the sanctuary of the loft had come the realization that life was too precious to waste. Not that this hadn't been driven home in cases prior to the bombing. It had just been such a profoundly stark message this time, impossible to discount. Perhaps it was the cold juxtaposition of seeing his daughter so affected by the senseless destruction and his examination of his own personal progress with the woman he loved.
Progress that could be portrayed with a precise number: zero.
He'd sunk to indulging in pure fantasy—however realistic it seemed—rather than trying to push their relationship forward. Whatever the reason, he'd been forced to acknowledge that he wasn't happy with the status quo anymore.
He'd thought she might not be either. She'd revealed as much (or at least that's what he'd interpreted) when she'd confessed, "It makes you think about all those things in your own life that you don't want to put off anymore." It had felt like she'd wanted to say more, but Espo's interruption to gather everyone for Gates' announcement regarding the FBI's request to figure out who the backpack belonged to had left them at loose ends yet again.
Grimacing, he remembered his mother's words later that night when she'd brought him a brimming cup of coffee while he'd been watching news footage of the bombing. She'd surprised him when she'd told him that avoiding seeing him at the precinct had kept her from thinking of him as a cop—and thus preserved her delusion that he wasn't in any more danger than if he'd been busy writing in the loft.
He'd never spent much time ruminating on how his adult activities might affect his mother, but now that Alexis was on the cusp of soaring out on her own he found he appreciated his mother's advice all the more.
Yet, it hadn't been Alexis he'd been alluding to when he'd revealed the biggest message the bombing had laid at his feet.
"Well if the bombing proves anything it's that bad things can happen no matter what you do." He'd paused, and then continued in a soft voice, "No one's tomorrow is guaranteed."
His mother had looked at him steadily, compassion in her eyes. She'd taken a deep breath, and then asked him a question he didn't have an answer for.
"So … how do you plan to act on this realization?"
His mouth had gone dry. She was pushing him, and he was terrified of launching into a course of action that he'd later regret. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean. Richard, how much longer are you going to drag your heels before you tell Beckett how you feel – and I mean while she is awake, not lying on the ground with a bullet in her chest."
His posture had stiffened. It seemed all too easy for her to propose an approach that had abject catastrophe written all over it. She didn't know Kate: how stubborn and recalcitrant she could be. Not like he knew her. He had to take it slow—introduce the concept of his love for her subtly, until she was in the middle of it without knowing how it had all begun.
Confrontation—or confession—either would more than likely send Kate Beckett running for the hills.
That's what he'd thought at the moment. Of course, he'd still harbored hope in his heart at the time.
More fool he.
He'd protested his mother's assumption that he needed to change the status quo and do something. "You don't understand. It's—."
"It's complicated, so you say. Only, it's not." He'd shot her a look that must have conveyed some of the agony the stupid stalemate had brought him, as she'd continued, "It's not. Nobody's tomorrows are guaranteed, right? Wouldn't it be better to tell her, even if the timing is wrong, than never to tell her at all?"
She'd waited; quiet, while he'd weighed her words. There'd been a burning in his gut as the acid tried to leach its way through the wall of his stomach and spill out onto the ground. What if she was right? What if she was wrong? He'd been walking on eggshells since that day months ago on the swing when Kate had tossed a crumb of hope at his feet. He'd been paralyzed, afraid that if he tried to move forward that she'd seize up and destroy the only token he'd been given.
But, what if…what if one of them was hurt or injured, or, God forbid, killed next week? What if, in his determination to remain resolute and not push her for a decision, something tragic happened and they ended up losing the chance they'd been given?
"And what if she isn't ready?" He'd been so sure that she'd felt something for him. That they'd be together at some point, sooner or later.
"Then she never will be. Then you move on."
His mother's words had hurt, at the time. But, he'd recognized on some level that she was right, that this detente and delay was fooling no one and only serving to make them both miserable.
He'd had no idea at the time that it was the latter part of her message that would come to fruition.
Taking another swallow of the beer, he mulled over his weekend. He'd fled to Las Vegas after they'd solved the case (and after he'd finally heard the truth) to get away from it all—get away from her and her lies. He'd promptly tried to pickle himself in as much alcohol as he could and had spent hours desperately pretending that he was having a great time partying in Sin City.
Poker had been a roaring success, probably because no one could come close to reading his expressions. He'd appeared as miserable when he held a fistful of random cards as when he had four of a kind. He'd cleaned out his competitors, but even the satisfaction of taking on and beating the card sharks he'd found at the Bellagio had failed to make any dent in his dark disposition.
Looking up at the gate, he saw that there were only twenty or thirty people left waiting to board. He threw some cash on the bar and creaked upright from the hunched over position he'd assumed when he'd sat down an hour ago.
He shuffled to the gate, each step closer to New York weighing him down as if one of his research subjects in the mob had chained concrete blocks to his legs. His disheveled appearance prompted several glares from people waiting in line to load the final zone as he stumbled past and walked through the deserted area roped off for premiere class boarding. The harried ramp agent scanned his boarding pass and waved him through. He dragged his exhausted body down the jet way, mind buffeted by the constant, looping replay of her words as she'd confronted Bobby Lopez.
"Bobby. Don't lie to me."
"It was not the trauma. You do not get to use that excuse."
"The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it."
Each one had been serrated, stabbing him randomly as he'd stood there listening.
But, he'd finished the job. He'd held his head high and had persevered. He didn't think anyone had even noticed there was anything wrong—well, no one except his mother. She'd read him like a book when he'd asked her to go with him to Boylan Plaza. To pay homage to both the dead and to the end of his hopes and dreams for a future with her.
"Oh Richard, really? A bomb memorial? C'mon, honey. Isn't this kind of morbid?"
He'd hung his head and stuttered out a response. "Well it's how I'm feeling."
"She isn't dead."
No, no she wasn't. But a part of him had died in that observation room when he'd realized what she was saying. "She might as well be."
His mother had stared at him, mouth gaped open. He'd meant the words as a harsh response to the situation, not literally. That was the thing about love—he'd never wished her true harm. He just wished he could scrub the heartache away. The anguish of his unrequited love had suffused his soul. It was agonizing.
"I really thought we could have a future together. You know, I was—I was willing to wait. Turns out it's all just a big joke." They'd come to the fence where offerings of flowers and stuffed animals served as memorial to those killed and hurt in the bomb. He'd faced his mother, clutching his stomach and feeling dizzy as his overburdened heart seemed to give up as the rest of his body had. "She knew. This whole time, she remembered. And she didn't say anything…" he'd paused, tried to elucidate a reason for her actions that might justify what she'd done to him, "… because she was embarrassed because she doesn't feel the same way. I'm such a fool."
His mother had looked away. He'd seen the tears in her eyes. She'd grasped his hand and had given it a tight squeeze. "Well c'mon. Let's go home. Break out some of the good stuff, okay?"
"Well I'd love to. I've got to be getting back."
His mother had been so bewildered that she actually cried out in an octave higher than her usual range. "Back? Why on Earth would you go back, knowing how she feels, knowing that she lied to you—."
"No, no, no. This isn't about her. This is – this is about them," he'd pointed at the fence in front of them. "You know? It's about doing something real. Something that matters. I'm not willing to let that go."
His mother's sad smile had demonstrated her understanding. It was her departing words that had stuck with him for the rest of the case, and then had followed him to Vegas. "Richard, love is not a switch. You can't just turn it off. You can't work side by side with her and not feel anything."
He'd drawn himself upright and had clenched his teeth together before spitting out, "Watch me."
It'd been brave talk at the time; he'd even believed it for the first day or two. He'd hardened his heart to her, had relentlessly reminded himself of her perfidy every time he'd noticed his resolve retreating even slightly.
At the end of the case, he'd found some satisfaction in his role at the precinct. A role that he'd tried to consider independent of her. He'd helped solve a complex case—had been a major part of the team which had discovered that Leann West was responsible: that her quest for ratings had taken a dark and deadly turn.
But, his mother had been right. While he'd reveled in his ability to walk away from her after the arrest, being with her on a daily basis was excruciating. He'd needed distance, and while a weekend in Vegas spent slowly replacing his blood with alcohol hadn't necessarily led to an epiphany, he'd decided that he couldn't continue as it had been.
"Welcome aboard, sir." He looked up and saw the open, friendly face of one of the flight attendants greeting him. He grunted at the man and brushed past him into the cabin. He was in seat 1B—he always chose an aisle seat if he could, and preferred the first row for the even more generous leg room. His seat mate at the window was a man in his 30's, already with headphones covering his ears and his nose buried in a book. Not one of his—it appeared to be a scifi/fantasy novel—but he was relieved he'd not have to make idle chitchat. He was in no mood to do so.
He collapsed into his chair and closed his eyes. He had little expectation of sleeping, despite the hour and his level of fatigue. No, he'd be spending the next four and a half hours trying to figure out what to do once he got back to the city.
And drinking. As much as they'd let him.
"Excuse me sir, would you like something to drink before we take off?" The welcoming voice came from in front of him, female this time.
He answered brusquely, without ever opening his eyes, "Bloody Mary, extra vodka."
Vodka would loosen up the wheels and cogs of his brain, help him to come to a difficult decision. One that he could see was necessary, but implementing it was going to hurt. A lot.
"Here you go, sir." The friendly voice had returned, with a glancing touch to his hands as she placed the drink on the console between the two seats. Opening his eyes, he saw a beautiful blonde woman leaning over him. She was smiling at him, polite but amiable, and he couldn't help but to answer it with a grin of his own.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" She straightened up, leaving behind only a trace of her scent (coconut, and something else—orange?) and slight warmth in his fingers where she'd touched him.
He regarded her lazily, observing that she was of average height and a petite build. She didn't seem fazed by his inspection—if anything her eyes were sparkling even brighter.
"Why, yes. Yes, ma'am, there sure is something you do for me," he countered, picking up the Bloody Mary from the console. "I've changed my mind. I don't think I'm going to need this drink, after all."
She reached for the drink, and their hands met once more.
"And you can give me your name. Mine's Rick."
Her smile grew deeper and more personal as he grasped her hand longer than he needed to, making it clear he'd meant to touch her. He winked at her as she sized him up and gave a slight nod.
"Jacinda. My name's Jacinda."
Ah, yes. Jacinda. I cannot wait to hear what you think of this chapter.
All opinions welcome!