132. Mother knows best

“What’s wrong? You keep checking your watch and jumping at every noise.” Castle says, late on Sunday afternoon.   They’ve spent the day in a haze of togetherness and a long walk out through Central Park, but now Beckett is openly edgy. Suddenly he catches on. “You’re worried about Mother and Alexis coming home, aren’t you?”

Beckett shrinks away from him, and nods. “Yeah.”

“They’ll be home about eight,” he notes, heart already beginning to sink, and sure enough he’s guessed right.

“I ought to be going.”

He knew this would happen. He had known it right from moment one. But it still hurts. Beckett picks up on it instantly.

“I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t do it.” She stands up and goes through to the bedroom to pick up her already-packed bag, then returns. “I’d better go home now. See you at the precinct?”

“You don’t have to go yet.”

“I can’t do it, Castle. I’m not ready.” She pauses. “You said you wouldn’t push me. I said I wouldn’t hide what I was feeling. I’m telling you that I can’t do this now. I’m trying,” she says painedly.

“I know. I guess I just thought – it’s all going so well, and maybe… I didn’t want to push you, Beckett. Come here.” He rises and reaches for her, and draws her back to him, stroking her head down into his shoulder and tucking her close: her flat shoes leaving her the perfect height to lean his cheek on her hair. He couldn’t say that he isn’t disappointed, but he has to remember how far she’s already come. He’d never expected her to visit his loft this weekend, and yet she’s here; she’s forced herself through two brunches with his family, and two sessions with her father. He shouldn’t grab for more, and he definitely shouldn’t be hurt that she can’t yet give more. He snuggles her in, and kisses her head gently, and doesn’t push further. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” He kisses her much harder, really not wanting her to leave at all, and lets go of her very reluctantly.

He watches as she leaves, and hears the door close with some distress.

Beckett is also in some distress as she trails home. She’s angry with herself that she still can’t face Castle’s family in Castle’s home, and she’s just a little angry with Castle for making it obvious that this upsets him. She knows it upsets him, and she’s trying really hard to cure it. She doesn’t need any more reminders. She makes herself tea, not coffee, and tries not to be so ridiculously upset that he’s upset with her.

Halfway down the camomile tea, she remembers something Dr Burke had said: your upset has equal value to that of your father, or Mr Castle, or any other person. She’s allowed to be upset, and she’s allowed to be upset even if that upsets Castle. Of course, the opposite must then also be allowed: that he can be upset even if that upsets her. And he was upset, and it has upset her…

And that’s okay. As long as they don’t let it fester.

She finishes her tea, and takes out her upset on a perfectly innocent cushion. It makes her feel better. Not so the cushion, which is now rather ragged.

Back in his loft, looking at the empty space where Beckett had been nicely snuggled into him, Castle is upset that she had felt she had to go. He knows why she did. But he’d really, really – stupidly – hoped that having got so far she’d be able to take that one last step. It had been everything he’d wanted: Beckett in his loft, and arms, and bed. Just like it should be. Just like he wants it to be. It’s been as addictive as heroin, and he wants his next fix, but he can’t get it. They’d parted on a downbeat note, though: he’d been upset and that had upset Beckett and he’s still upset and he guesses Beckett is too. As long as she’s not still upset with him…

He’s meandering through useless thoughts and more useless attempts to write, heavily cut with procrastination and computer games, when a commotion at the door, considerably earlier than he had expected, indicates that his mother and daughter have returned. He goes to find out how their weekend had gone.

“Isn’t Katherine here?”

“No.”

“Detective Beckett was here?”

“Why not?” his mother asks. “The whole point was to get her here. She was supposed to stay.”

“Mother, it’s all a little more complicated than that.” He remembers Alexis is present and stops that sentence short. Unfortunately, he doesn’t stop talking. “She was here for dinner last night.” Had he been looking at Alexis, rather than his mother, he might have seen an expression of extreme disappointment hemmed with temper. “She has gone home. We’re fine. Don’t meddle.”

“I suppose it’s progress,” his mother mutters.

“Detective Beckett came for dinner while we were away?” Alexis asks, with an edge on her voice. “She hasn’t come since she came with her dad and she came when we weren’t here?”

Oh, shit, Castle thinks, and curses his mother’s inability to keep her mouth shut in front of Alexis.

“What’s going on with you and Detective Beckett, Dad? I thought you were” – she falters a little, and blushes an unbecoming scarlet which clashes violently with her hair – “ getting together. How can you be getting together if she’s avoiding us?” There is an unpleasant note in her voice.

“Thank you, Mother,” Castle grits out bitterly, “for your lack of discretion.” He turns to Alexis. “Detective Beckett and her father have had some issues, and she’s trying to deal with them. Seeing a normal family – you and me,” he says acidly, and glares at his mother, “is currently very hurtful. That’s why she’s only come out for brunch with all of us, rather than coming here. She’s getting there. Do not” – he looks very straight at Alexis – “say anything or do anything about it. It really won’t help. If you want her to come here” – Alexis nods – “then don’t try to force it. Okay, pumpkin?”

Alexis stays silent for a moment. “Oh,” she says, but her tone has moved to thoughtful not angry, and then disappears upstairs with her bags. Regrettably, his mother does not disappear and is looking particularly self-satisfied at having opened a conversation. Castle’s rather fragile mood starts to fragment.

“Exactly what do you think you were doing, Mother? I told you not to interfere, and the first thing you do when you get home – early – from doing something helpful for once is open your mouth and let Alexis in on the whole problem. How’s it going to help if Alexis thinks Beckett won’t come because of her, huh? You’re just lucky that Alexis has more empathy than you do, because you very nearly messed up the chance of Beckett and Alexis getting along.” He’s infuriated. “Beckett’s issues are private, and now I’ve had to tell both of you.” He stalks out of the main room, and shuts his study door very firmly behind him. He has no desire at all to see his mother for several hours. Or weeks. It’s just as well that Alexis hasn’t taken umbrage – as she so easily, and seeing all the mess from an outsider’s point of view, could have. He gives thanks for his wonderful, emotionally astute daughter and turns to his laptop and the ever soothing sales figures and on-line reviews.

At least, they should be. Castle has an unpleasantly nagging sense that he ought to let Beckett know about this latest disaster. Certainly he needs to do so before she suggests another desensitising brunch, which at the rate matters relating to his family had been progressing, is quite likely to involve next weekend. He also doesn’t feel that keeping it a secret is likely to bring him health, wealth and happiness. Very reluctantly, he picks up his phone.

“Beckett.” She sounds… um… emotional.

“Are you okay?” he asks, instead of jumping in to the next problem caused by his family. Well, his mother.

“Fine.” There’s a pause. “Er… mostly fine.” There’s another pause, which Castle doesn’t break into. He has the sense that there is more. “I was a bit upset but it’s okay now but I think I’ve broken my cushion,” she rushes out.

“How do you break a cushion?” Castle asks, completely intrigued by the completely irrelevant.

“Um… I hit it a few times.”

Ah. Maybe he should suggest a punch bag. His butterfly mind finally catches up to the important piece of the sentences. “You were upset?” And you’re saying so? What fresh hell is this, he thinks, trepidatiously.

“A bit. I’m allowed to be upset. Dr Burke said so.” There’s a strange mixture of defiance and uncertainty in her voice. “Just as long as we make it right. You’re allowed to be upset too.”

“Okay,” Castle says slowly, frantically trying to process this whole new complication – or maybe not. She’s just said – he thinks – that they can get upset with each other without it being a total disaster as long as they make it right. “Okay, so you’re upset because I was pushy?”

“No, I’m upset because me not staying made you upset but I can’t stay and I’m trying but you’re still upset with me because I didn’t.”

Castle takes some seconds to untangle that, in which time a sniff is evident down the line.

“It’s okay you’re upset, Beckett. It’s okay I’m upset, too – but I’m not upset with you, I’m upset with the situation. I hate it that you’re not able just to come over when you want – when I want, but that’s not your fault. I know you’re trying. I know it takes a while. I just hate waiting.” When I want you here so much.

“Patience isn’t a virtue you normally display,” Beckett snarks, sniffing again.

“Patience is very over-rated. Except in be” –

“Shut up, Castle.”

“That’s not what you said last night either,” he singsongs provocatively. The tenor of her silence speaks volumes. Painful volumes. Being de Sade’s victim is not his preference. “Okay, shutting up now.”

There is another pause.

“Are we good?” Beckett asks shakily.

“Yes. We’re good. But…”

“But?”

“Promise not to kill me?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“That’s disturbingly indefinite.”

“Spill it, Castle.”

“Mother got home and promptly asked why you weren’t still there in front of Alexis,” he blurts out. “So I had to tell Alexis you and your dad were having some issues and seeing her and me together didn’t help because otherwise she’d think it was her and then everything would really be totally screwed.” Silence. “Beckett?”

“Is that it? Is that all you told her?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why not tell her more of the truth?”

“Not mine to tell,” Castle says simply. There’s more of the impenetrable silence.

“Oh,” she says at last. “But don’t they want to know?”

“Oh yes,” Castle agrees. “Definitely. That’s not the point, though. They want to know but it’s up to you. They don’t have a right.”

“Oh.”

“Up to you, what you want known. Same as it always has been.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

That seems to be that. He’d have expected more, and more vociferous, commentary from Beckett, but there isn’t.

“Are we good?” he asks, just as she had.

“Yep. We’re good. See you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Till tomorrow.”

Castle cuts the call feeling somewhat relieved. They’re okay. They’ve talked about difficult subjects and they’re still okay. No storming off, no assumptions about what they each mean, no subtext like briars in which they tangle and tear each other. They’re good.

If only his damn mother would keep her sticky beak out, it would all be very good indeed.

There is a diffident tap on his study door, followed by a diffident Alexis peeking round it.

“Dad?”

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“What’s wrong with Detective Beckett and her dad?”

“I thought I asked you not to say anything?”

“I didn’t think you meant to you,” Alexis droops.

“It’s not for me to tell Detective Beckett’s business. Not even to family. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine, if we just wait.”

“You’re telling me to wait? Who are you and what have you done with Dad?”

Castle makes a horrible face at his daughter and advances upon her with awful gestures and fearsome aspect. Alexis shrieks happily and runs for it, Castle following.

When he catches her at the foot of the stairs, giggling like a much younger child, he hugs her, because after all he can’t imagine ever being at odds with her in the way that Beckett is with her father; and then says firmly, “No meddling, Alexis.”

“Okay, Dad,” comes meekly back.

“Now, you’ve got school tomorrow. Be off with you, daughter!” She scampers upstairs, not noticeably quashed.

“Are you going to talk about it, darling?”

“No, Mother, I am not,” Castle says through gritted teeth. “What happened to ‘I would never interfere’? I don’t need you ‘helping’.” The quotation marks are audible. Martha bristles.

“You’re not managing very well by yourself, kiddo. It’s been months and she hasn’t come here. You need some help, and so does dear Katherine. I’m sure if I were just to talk to her everything could be sorted out in a heartbeat.”

Castle loses the remnants of his frayed temper at his mother’s over-simplistic prescription. “Whatever you think, Mother, you are not a shrink. Leave Beckett alone. Leave us alone. Or just leave. Right now, I don’t care which. I thought you’d started to realise that it was all more complicated when you suggested having a weekend away, and then I really thought you’d got it at brunch, but suddenly you’re back to nagging and pushing, and you came back deliberately earlier than you told me, so you clearly haven’t understood anything.” He glares furiously.

“Well, really!” Martha emits. “Just because you aren’t getting what you want, you’re taking it out on me.   Hardly attractive, Richard.”

“I” – Castle starts, and stops, takes a breath, and realises what is going on. His voice becomes cold. “My life is private. If you can’t understand that, the dictionary is right there. Stop trying to trap me into admissions to satisfy your curiosity. You have no right to know. I’m not twelve any more. Beckett’s issues are also private, and please understand very clearly, Mother, that if you do anything to make them worse then it will be you who will be leaving. Do you understand me? I will not tolerate you spoiling this. You – despite me telling you to keep out and explaining some of it – have no idea of the damage you can do to Beckett, and if you don’t stop pushing you’ll ruin everything. If you do that then you will be gone. This is the last warning you’ll get. Butt out.”

Martha is sitting, shocked and open mouthed, on the couch. Castle has never, ever, laid the law down to his mother: he’s always just gone along with her and let her have her own way. Family first, family always, family before everything. But suddenly it’s not his mother before Beckett. Alexis before Beckett, without a doubt or hesitation. But not his mother: in this surge of primitive protectiveness of both Beckett and his chance of happiness.

His mother exits before anything more can be said, which is fortunate, because any further argument from her could easily have prompted ultimatums. (Ultimata, he wonders?, and knows it’s to distract himself.) Why can’t she just leave it alone? He’s sure that she’s only doing so because she wants the best for him, but she’s not helping. It occurs to him, annoyingly, that it’s the equivalent of all Beckett’s friends asking him about everything: she doesn’t talk and they worry; he doesn’t tell his family every last detail and they worry. Or, in his mother’s case, pry.

He goes back to his study, and fumes pointlessly. He’d really, really thought that his mother had got it. He really had. And now it’s all back to square one, with the added complication that now Alexis has been dragged in, which he’d really wanted to avoid. He’d really, really hoped to keep Alexis out of it. Why couldn’t his mother just stay out of it? She’d come up with a brilliant idea, and now she’s ruined it all. Bitterly, he wonders whether she’d planned to walk in on them, and more bitterly thinks that Beckett’s early escape might have been the only thing preventing it. Seems like Beckett had guessed right, or her innate cynicism had kicked in. He fumes pointlessly some more, and doesn’t find a good way to relieve his feelings that doesn’t involve primal scream therapy. At this rate, he’ll need to consult Dr Burke himself. There’s a really nasty thought.

He fusses and frets and fulminates and fumes for the rest of an overlong evening, not emerging from his study for any reason. Anger has swallowed any thought of hunger, and he has glasses and whisky by him. He pours only one, though. A hangover will not improve Monday, and he suspects that he will want both the gym and an early start on the bullpen – for him, anyway. He can work out his annoyance on the rowing machine and then avoid his mother by being gone long before she’ll waken. He really does not want to see her until he’s sure that he won’t do something stupidly irrevocable: even if he’s very, very angry with her he does love her and he would, he realises, calmer now, be very sorry if they stayed at odds.

Still, it’s about time his mother learned that she shouldn’t poke into every aspect of his life. It’s about time he stopped letting her, too. He needs some boundaries. He thinks of some of the more intimate moments of the weekend and flushes at the thought of being – er – interrupted. Or worse, critiqued. His mother has no shame and no embarrassment. If Beckett were really to come here, he’d need some way to ensure privacy. A lock would possibly help. Or maybe two.

He spends some time Googling for locks – and frosted glass backing for the bookshelves between his study and bedroom, about which he has never before been concerned. Then he goes to bed, late and still somewhat annoyed, and dreams inchoately annoyed and embarrassing nightmares about accepting a Pulitzer naked in front of everyone he knows.