212. I'm someone's child

“What do you want?” Beckett asks, still standing, but with a hand possessively, protectively on Castle’s shoulder. It takes him a minute to wrench his Beckett-besotted brain back to the decision he has to make. Oh. Yes. Does he want her to stay or not?

He raises his eyes from the table to his mother. She’s clearly desperately uncomfortable, but she’s not saying a word. Beckett’s hand is calm and sure against him: no indication of any preference she might have.

In other words, it’s up to him. Just as, in the end, he’d always trusted her to make the key decisions without trying to sway her judgment, so is she affording him the same trust. Just like at Dr Burke’s, if he asks her to go, she will, without hurt or fuss.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants Beckett there to ground him, but he doesn’t think he’ll get the conversation that he needs to have with his mother if she stays. His mother’s discomfort is too strong, too palpable. In addition, she’s quite clearly now terrified of what Beckett might do if he, Castle, is in any way upset by anything his mother says to him, which will not assist in any conversation at all.

He reaches up and puts his own hand over hers on his shoulder; half turns to gaze up at her.

“I think I need to do this alone,” he says softly. Beckett’s hand flips up under his, and curves gently round his fingers. “C’n I come over after?”

“Sure.” She drops a kiss on top of his head. Castle is perfectly certain she is making a point. He’s just not sure to whom she’s making it: to him, to his mother, or to the world at large. “See you later.” There is a perceptible drop in temperature. “Good night, Martha.”

As she walks away, silence falls. His mother is looking at Beckett’s departing back: smooth stride showing not a hint of hurt or worry. When he arrives at Beckett’s apartment, he is suddenly sure, she’ll be soft Kat who comforts him, and purring Kat who loves him, and quite possibly tiger-Kat who will make love with him until he’s happy and content and sure that he’s loved.

“It’s real.”

“Uh?” Castle says: his mother’s total non-sequitur leaving him rather confused.

“The way she looks at you. None of the others looked at you like that.”

“Uh?”

“You were infatuated with that red-headed trollop. God knows what you saw in Gina, or what she saw in you. You had nothing in common.”

“That red-headed trollop gave me Alexis. Besides which, when I met her she reminded me of you.” His mother chokes and splutters. “Before I knew she was cheating. She was a struggling actor and then she was pregnant. I wasn’t going to be like that one-night stand who left you alone. And…” he stops. This is all getting too raw, too fast – but they can’t stop now.

“And?”

“And I was pretty much programmed to love her because she seemed just like you!” he fires back. “Don’t they say men marry their mothers?”

“She was nothing like me,” Martha hisses.

“I didn’t know that till I caught her cheating – and nor did you.” He stops. A dreadful thought has occurred to him, approximately sixteen years too late. “Did you?”

“No,” Martha states flatly. “I would have told you. However much you would have hated it and me, I would have told you.”

“Right up till I came home from Black Pawn early and caught her I never suspected a thing.”

His mother pats his hand. “Darling, nor did I. I didn’t hear any gossip.”

“And Gina – well, on paper it made sense. She tried. She tried to be a good mom to Alexis and she tried to be a good wife to me. It’s just we had completely different expectations of what that meant. She thought it meant applying her ambitions to making me write and get richer. I… didn’t.”

“She sure wasn’t anything like me, kiddo,” Martha says acerbically.

“No? You just told me you sent me to boarding school to make sure I got the best chance. You implied – any chance. How’s that different?”

Martha is silenced.

“There isn’t any difference, except with Gina I wouldn’t play along. Didn’t pretend to like it.”

“If you had told me you hated it then maybe it would have been different!” Martha cries. “Why are you blaming me for something I didn’t know?”

“You told me over and over how proud of me you were, how happy I’d be able to go, what a chance it was for me, how everything you’d done had been worth it – I couldn’t have disappointed you. I felt guilty that I would let you down. All your sacrifices would’ve been wasted.” His risen voice drops down again. “After all, I always knew how much you’d given up.”

“How?”

“It was all around me. Did you think I couldn’t hear the gossip? ‘Oh, Martha Rodgers? Oh yes. She’d have been a star, if she didn’t have the child. Ruined her.’”

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” Castle says bitterly. “How could you not know?”

“Did you ever, ever hear me say that? Me. Not others.”

Castle is stopped in his vitriolic tracks by the need to think back. Cold silence extends around him. “Not when I was a child,” he grates, eventually. “But later. After you moved in. Smart, sly little comments about how much easier it was for me.”

“I was jealous. Is that what you want to hear? You could give Alexis everything I couldn’t give you and more. You had it all. Successful, rich – and able to give your child everything and anything you thought she might need. Of course I was jealous. Who wouldn’t be,” she adds, bitterly. “Who wouldn’t be jealous that they couldn’t do as well for their child?”

“Jealous of your own son? How attractive, Mother.”

“I’m human. I’m not a saint. Of course I’m jealous. I couldn’t do any of that for you and now look at us. You’re blaming me for not being perfect, and for things I never knew.”

Castle abruptly feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Blaming his parent for things she didn’t even know… sounds bitterly, acidly familiar – from Beckett, blaming Jim for something he didn’t even know. Oh God. Bile rises in his throat. He doesn’t want that for himself. He swallows, spots a server, and orders a bottle of the same wine of which his mother had taken a glass: says nothing until it arrives and downs half the glass in one. Then he refills both his glass and, after a beat, his mother’s. He swallows most of his refilled glass, too.

This hadn’t been what he’d expected, on Sunday. He’d thought he was more… adjusted. Accustomed. He’d thought that he was most of the way to forgiveness. He’d even told Alexis off for being rude. He doesn’t have much moral standing for that right now. Suddenly, he wants Beckett. Just her calm support next to him would help.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he says, and exits for the restroom. His phone is, as ever, in his pants pocket.

Physically eased, he pulls out his phone, and taps Beckett’s photo.

“Castle? I thought you were coming here?”

“Could you come back? Please, Kate?”

“Sure. There shortly.”

Castle stays in the restroom a few more moments, wasting time. He goes back out to find his mother has apparently not moved a muscle. The level of her wine is unchanged. It remains untouched for the few, uncomfortable moments it takes for Beckett to return.

“Hey.”

Castle looks up with enormous relief. “You’re here.”

“Yep.”

Beckett sits down next to Castle and, under the table, puts her hand firmly on his knee.

“Mother,” Castle says, discomfort soaking his voice, “would you give us five minutes, please?” His eyes plead with her.

“Yes,” she says, and aims in her turn for the restroom. She takes her purse. Castle thinks that she might spend some time repairing her make up. It’s less than perfect around the eyes.

“What’s up?” Beckett asks.

“It’s all going horribly wrong,” Castle says miserably, “but I’ve realised why. I’m doing just what you did, but you fixed it and I haven’t. I don’t know how to fix it but I don’t want to have years of trouble or months of Dr Burke.”

“Yeah,” she says definitively. “Months of Dr Burke would be pretty awful.”

“Mother said I was blaming her for things she never knew about, and suddenly it was just like you and your dad. He never knew what he’d done till you yelled at him, and seems like Mother never knew either.”

He slumps into his seat.

“She didn’t know.”

“So explain,” Beckett says flatly. “I didn’t fix anything with my dad by not telling him, did I? Tell her the truth. Tell her – again – that she’s hurt you by not trusting you. Tell her that her issues nearly screwed us up completely. You’ve got a chance to tell the truth. I fucked mine up, five years ago. You get to do it better. Unless you want to be me?”

“You still don’t pull your punches, do you?”

“No. Not when it’s this important.”

“Okay,” Castle says, heavily. “But…”

“Mm?”

“But would you tell Mother – just a summary, not the detail – why it matters so much that she should have butted out of your life? I don’t think she’ll ever get it if you don’t. She won’t listen to me.” His head drops. “She hasn’t listened to me yet.”

Beckett swallows. “Really?”

“Yeah. I know it’s a big ask…”

“Okay.”

Castle shuts his open mouth, and simply hugs her. “I love you,” he whispers. “You… you stand for me.”

“You’re there for me too. Both of us.” She snaps out of sappiness. “Let’s just do this, and go home.”

At that apposite moment, Martha returns, more perfectly made up but just as tense and unhappy.

“Hey,” Beckett says, civilly.

“Hello.”

Beckett swallows.

“Castle wants me to tell you why it mattered so much that you didn’t meddle,” she says bluntly, and watches Martha’s wince. “Dad tried to tell you, but it didn’t sink in. Maybe if I tell you it will.” She swallows again.

“My mother was murdered just after Christmas. Within a month Dad had drowned himself in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He stayed there for five years.” The hard tone strikes both Castle’s ears and, it would appear, his mother’s. “Then he went to rehab. It took him nine months and then he called me. He’s been dry ever since. I thought we – he and I – were a family. I spent my time protecting him.” She swallows again, convulsively, and it’s Castle’s turn to put his hand quietly over her knee.

“Then Castle arrived at the precinct.” A spiked, tearing pause. “Showing off a family that worked, and trying to convince me to come and watch it. It couldn’t have been worse. All the things I used to have with my father. Before he got drunk, and ruined them all.” She meets Martha’s eyes, and hers flare. “Castle got why I wouldn’t come. But you kept trying to force me to.”

Her words are scalpel-sharp, laser-precise.

“You kept trying to put me in a situation which dragged up every memory of my drunk father telling me through the vomit and the urine and the degradation that he didn’t want me. He wanted my mother. Telling me to leave because I wasn’t her. Wasn’t enough of a family. You wanted to force those memories on me, because you couldn’t leave well enough alone and trust your son. You thought that you were bringing me – us – into your family. All you would have been doing was tearing what little was left of mine apart. It’s no thanks to you that my father and I have worked it out. Neither of us needed someone interfering. Neither of us need anyone to replace my mother.”

There is an icy, jagged pause.

“Castle knew what he was doing. You didn’t. You should have stayed out of it. All you did was drag up a past we were trying to get over. All you did was add more pain.”

Beckett looks coldly at Martha. “And then you went and did the same to your son because you couldn’t listen. Listen to me now. You and Castle have this one chance to clear things up. I had one chance with my father, when he came out of rehab, and I didn’t take it. It damn near broke both of us.” She shrugs, as if she’s completely indifferent to Martha. “I don’t care what you do. I only care what Castle does. The rest is up to you. I’ll be there for him whatever happens.” She takes a breath, and finishes. “It’s up to you if you’re there for him at all.”

Over the course of her edged, lethal words Martha has become paler and paler; Castle has stiffened: his shoulders set and knotted.

But his hand is still on her knee, and hers has slid over it, and they’re both still together.

“I… didn’t know,” Martha falters.

“You didn’t want to know,” Beckett says judicially. “You were told. Just the same way that Castle has told you over and over, in words and actions, how much he cared about you. Listening isn’t your strong point.”

Martha winces. Beckett sits there: face white from the strain of retelling the story, eyes blazing.

“You’ve got a chance to make this right. Take it.”

Castle turns to Beckett, breaking her gaze from his mother. “Thank you,” he whispers, almost soundless. “Will you stay, or would you rather go? I’ll be at your apartment, later, either way.”

“What do you want?” she breathes in return.

He flicks a glance at his mother. Before he can speak, Martha does.

“I’m sorry,” she says, largely directed at Beckett. “I just… I wanted you to be part of our family. That way I’d be safe. If you and your father were part of us… I’m sorry. I didn’t know how difficult it was.” Her mouth twists. “I didn’t want to know,” she admits.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Beckett says, not quite an admission; not, now, an accusation. Her eyes meet Martha’s: less frightening, still cool and collected. But it’s a better place to stand. Even Castle is less tense: his hand still on her knee less heavy, less gripping.

“Richard…” –

“Stop. I need to say some things.”

Martha recoils, as if anticipating a blow.

“I get where you were coming from. But – I said this before – I don’t get how you don’t see that not trusting me really hurts. I believe that you didn’t know how I felt – but how did you not see that I was taking care of you?” He stops, and regroups. “Beckett and her father didn’t tell each other the truth, and it nearly destroyed them. We need to tell each other the truth, and truth is, you’ve really hurt me. You didn’t trust me to look after you, or be family, and you didn’t trust me about Beckett. But now I know why.” He breathes out, slowly. Below the table his hand clutches Beckett. “I can’t say I’m not hurt. I am. Everything I thought was family… isn’t the same. Isn’t stable yet. I thought you loved me and now… I don’t know. I want to believe you, but I believed you before, and since I met Beckett and she…” he stops that sentence, because even now he doesn’t want to say that out loud; but then he thinks of what Beckett had said about telling the truth. “She loves me. No doubt.”

Beckett emits a very tiny squeak, and then raises an eyebrow such that only Castle can see it. He looks back at her, and she blushes. Castle’s ears are a touch pink.

Martha shrinks into herself. It seems that, after all the hard words and harder truth, Castle’s simple statement that Beckett loves him, with no doubt, has hit her hardest.

“Since I met Beckett you’ve been different. I get it. Now. But you could have stayed with me if you’d only been prepared to tell me the truth then, and to trust me about Beckett. I never wanted any of this to happen, but it has. So,” he finishes heavily, “we just have to adapt to it.”

“Adapt?”

“You have your home. I have mine. You don’t make any comments about Beckett visiting, and I won’t stop you coming to see Alexis and me, or Alexis seeing you.” He pauses. “But. You don’t just walk in and out of my loft. You don’t come into my office or bedroom any more. I love you, Mother, but I’m not ten any more, and you need to treat me like an adult. That means trusting that I know best about my concerns.” He carefully doesn’t use the term affairs. It could easily be misunderstood.

“I…” he thinks she’s about to argue. “Yes,” she capitulates. “I want to fix this, Richard. I really do.”

“Me too,” he says. Beckett manages a nod. Castle shuffles round the table, and envelops his mother in a hug. “Let’s all try to make it work, huh?”

“Yes, darling,” his mother says, buried in his shirt, her arms tight around him. “I’m sorry. I do love you. I just wanted… I was wrong.”

“Let’s fix it,” Castle says, in preference to it’s okay, or I forgive you. He’s not sure that forgiveness is what’s called for right now. They need to find their new normal, and then forgiveness, when it’s wholly established.

“Yes,” his mother says again. “Yes, let’s.” She disentangles herself from Castle, and briefly looks as if she might try to hug Beckett. Fortunately she thinks better of it.

Martha leaves, but there’s a better atmosphere between her and Castle than in weeks.

He sits back down, and looks at the remains of the wine. “Want some?” he says. “There’s enough for a glass or two each.”

“Yeah, okay,” Beckett says, and attracts the attention of a server to obtain a clean glass. When it arrives, Castle splits the last of the wine relatively evenly (Beckett gets a little more, since he’s already some way ahead) and much to his surprise she doesn’t protest. Seems like a normal relationship with her father, though Castle doesn’t think she’ll ever drink much, has allowed her to have some wine when she’s stressed, not only when she’s relaxed and happy.

She slides a little closer, and their thighs touch. It’s comforting. The wine slips down smoothly, and that’s comforting too.

“You okay, Castle?” she asks.

“I think so. I think we’ve really fixed it this time.” He has a large mouthful of his wine, and contemplates the evening so far, turning the glass. Suddenly he puts it down with a click and slings his arm round her. “I’m so glad you came back and told her the truth.”

Beckett colours. “’S okay,” she mumbles, and takes another sip of her wine to cover her general embarrassment.

Castle smiles softly at her. “So now what?” he asks. “We’re here, and now it’s all over, I’m hungry,” he finishes prosaically.

“Let’s get something to eat, and then go home.”

“Home?”

“I’m going to my apartment. If you’re going to be pedantic, you might have to go to your own home,” she snarks, but her eyes are mischievous and her shoulder is bumping his.

“Accuracy is very important, Beckett,” Castle ripostes – and then chokes on his wine as her fingers apply some considerable accuracy, under the table.

Dinner is eaten at a brisk pace, after that.