164. I get the story

“Beckett!”

“Castle? Please would you come over?” He can clearly hear the distress and considerable uncertainty in her voice. Seems that dealing with his mother hasn’t exactly been easy for her.

“Sure,” he rumbles. “There shortly.” Going out has the massive advantage that he cannot be pursued by his mother or daughter. He tugs on a light jacket against any May breezes and is gone from the loft in seconds flat. He merely hopes that when he returns he doesn’t find his mother dead on the floor and Alexis standing over the corpse with a bloodstained kitchen knife. Murder is only fun in fiction.

Beckett opens the door and falls into him, massively upset and shuddering.

“There, there,” he murmurs into her hair. “’S okay.” The best solution seems to be to walk her to the couch and then cosset her into his lap. Then he’ll cosset some more. He has to admit that he is a tiny bit relieved that she is so upset with the situation. He’d be a lot more worried about the future if she could just shrug it off and not care. He sits them both down, nestles her close, and waits for the storm to subside. Strangely, there is a teapot and china cup on the table, still emitting a very delicate aroma.

It takes less time than he expects. She pulls herself together, drags her head from his shoulder, and looks at him with drenched eyes and not a little trepidation.

“I promised,” he points out. “It’s not like you went looking for her to start a fight.”

Beckett blinks hard, and scrabbles for a Kleenex with which to dab her eyes and blow her nose. “But…”

“She was warned. Over and over. I didn’t want a blow-up, but she wouldn’t listen,” Castle says frustratedly.   He sags against the back of the couch. “I’ve told her that we’ll be discussing her living arrangements tonight.” Beckett hugs him, hard. “I don’t see any other way.”

“I don’t want dead men’s shoes,” she says, and it takes Castle a moment to work out what she means.

“It won’t be. Apart from anything else, Alexis got in on the act, and I’d swear she could be heard at Central Park. I think Mother’s finally achieved the almost impossible, and driven a wedge between herself and Alexis.” He sighs. “Alexis says she won’t bring anyone home now if Mother’s there, and while I really, really hope that was just the heat of the moment, it’s not looking so good. There’s no choice between Mother and Alexis. Never has been.” He sags further. Even his face droops, and then hardens again. “Mother is not going to screw up Alexis.”

Beckett hasn’t removed her arms from round him in any measure at all. “It’s up to you,” she says, and Castle hears the echo of his own words to her. “Just… maybe talk to Burke about it all first. Before you do anything that’ll hurt you later.”

Castle startles. “You – you – are suggesting I talk to Burke? Again?”

“Yeah, well,” Beckett mutters. “I never said he wasn’t a good shrink.”

If Castle hadn’t still been so angry with his mother, worried about Alexis’s entirely uncharacteristic loss of temper and completely unconvinced of what to do, he’d probably have burst into laughter. Instead he huffs sarcastically.

“I didn’t. I just don’t like him.”

“I’d noticed,” Castle says dryly. “Even now, you still don’t like him.”

“I’d like him better if he ever acted human.”

“Fair point.”

Castle is beginning to recover himself. Beckett is still shaky, and her face pale. Even so, she’s still hugging him.

“Okay,” he says soothingly, and rearranges her limpet-like grip to show that he’s fine. “I got Mother’s version of events. It was missing quite a lot of detail. Wanna tell me yours?”

He has the distinct impression that the answer ought to be not particularly. There is an uncomfortable pause in proceedings. He pets softly, and doesn’t press. After a moment, Beckett emits a heavy sigh, and then recites the entire drama with nearly word-perfect accuracy though no emotion at all.

“Oh,” Castle says, very flatly, and then realises his mistake when Beckett first winces and then tries quite determinedly to escape his grip. “Not you. Mother. Stop running away,” he adds, and ensures that she can’t. “I told you I wouldn’t be mad, and I’m not. You’re more upset than I am. I’m upset with Mother. Stop wriggling. It’s very distracting,” he leers. He tightens his arms till she’s completely enfolded, drops a kiss on the top of her head, and allows them both a minute of close contact. Beckett stops shivering, and then, much to Castle’s relief, nestles back into him. A few more minutes pass by, broken by the inaudible sounds of mutual thinking.

“Okay,” Castle says eventually. “I’ll talk to Burke again. But whatever he says, Mother is leaving the loft. I’ll call a realtor later and start them looking.” He acquires a mildly distracted air. “I’d better speak to my investment adviser about paying for it.”

“Uh?”

“Well, property on Manhattan’s a pretty good investment, so I might as well buy her somewhere.” Beckett boggles at him. “What?”

“You’ll just – buy her somewhere?” she says faintly.

“Sure. Pick a good neighbourhood, and it’ll be a great investment.”

“Oh.”

Castle observes an unexpected degree of uncertainty curled up in his lap. “Something wrong?”

“No… Most of us just rent, Castle.”

Castle shrugs. He doesn’t see the point of paying a landlord when he could own the asset. “I’d rather own it,” he points out. There’s a rather disconcerted huffing noise emanating from under his chin, which he entirely fails to understand. He compromises by nuzzling the available area, being the top of Beckett’s bent head. “Besides which, if I owned it she could never be evicted. I wouldn’t ever do that. Much easier. More secure.”

“Mm.”

“Beckett, what’s wrong?”

There’s a silence.

“I don’t like remembering you’re rich,” she mutters. It’s Castle’s turn to boggle.

“What? What’s that got to do with anything? You never let me treat you to anything anyway,” he adds indignantly. “You should.” There is a completely unintelligible noise of disagreement. “However, if it makes you happy, we can draw up a pre-nup.” That fetches her. There’s an infuriated squawk. “I wouldn’t want to lose my chance at custody of your DVD collection.”

“You keep your hands off my DVD collection!” Beckett screeches, looks up, and catches his wicked grin.

“Okay,” Castle says smoothly. “I’ll keep them on you instead. Stop being silly. I know you’re not a gold-digger. And you should still let me treat you more. I like treating you.” Smooth suavity turns to sophisticated sexuality. “Right now, you should let me treat you really, really well.” His hand tips up her chin, assertively. His mouth descends on her now-accessible mouth, likewise assertively. And his other hand investigates the possibilities that her t-shirt might come loose from her waistband, and on finding that it could, if properly encouraged, encourages it. Assertively.

All this assertion, unfortunately, isn’t quite applied rapidly enough to get ahead of Beckett’s brain, which suddenly catches up with the conversation.

“Pre-nup? Say what?”

“I don’t want one,” says Castle provocatively. “It’s you who’s protecting your DVD collection.”

“That is not what I mean. Why are we even talking about pre-nups?”

“I’m not, you are.”

“You started it.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did so. You said I should let you treat me and then you said if it made me happy we could draw up a pre-nup.”

“Did I?” Castle says innocently. “I don’t remember that. Anyway, if you’re talking about pre-nups I really feel that we should at least get engaged first, and you said you needed time to sort everything out. So I think you’re being a bit presumptuous, Detective.”

Beckett emits some wordlessly infuriated noises which make her sound like an enraged tiger. Or eagle. Or maybe a gryphon – no, that would be a lion-eagle mix. Maybe a dragon. He snickers happily above her head and makes sure that he’s taken a very tight hold of her hands. Then he kisses her helpfully opened mouth again. Assertively. The infuriated noises, now muffled, draw to a close. He kisses for long enough to ensure that they don’t begin again, and being convinced of that, releases her wrists and uses the free hand for some non-specific but arousing petting until they’ve both entirely forgotten about pre-nups, apartments, Castle’s wealth and Martha.

“I better go,” Castle murmurs disappointedly some time later. “I am so not looking forward to this evening.”

“You could come back, later.”

“Not tonight. I’m not leaving Alexis alone with Mother – or even with a babysitter. I don’t know what sort of disaster I’d come back to. A police record wouldn’t improve her college applications.”

“Guess not. She should stick to normal teen mischief. A tattoo, maybe.”

Castle growls dangerously. “She is not getting a tattoo.” Beckett shrugs, and grins at him. “She is not.”

“You wouldn’t know about it.”

“No tattoos,” he states definitively.

And having achieved her objective of diverting Castle’s attention from the deepening pool of depression towards which she was quite clear that he was aiming, Beckett saunters to the door with him, reaches up, and bestows an extremely leisurely kiss on him to console him on his travels home.

Castle gets halfway home before the effect of the kiss wears off and his toes uncurl. At that point he remembers that he needs to see the realtor, requests the cab to divert, and relapses into unpleasantly necessary thought.

Sadly, the realtor is still open. It should close at lunchtime on Saturdays. Even more sadly, he’s pounced upon by a smart Brooklyn brunette who is only too happy – especially when she finds that he’s a cash buyer – to show him a seemingly endless parade of smart, expensive apartments in smart, expensive locations. He has to promise that he will look through them all – but not now – before he’s allowed to escape.

And then, bedecked with leaflets for hi-spec apartments, he calls Dr Burke. He should have done that much earlier, but he far prefers Beckett’s brand of comfort to Burke’s. He might also be hoping that Burke has gone for the day, but he’s carefully not thinking that thought. Deep under his not-thought, he’s worried that Burke will make him see that he’s right. He doesn’t think that thought, either. He’s not-thinking a lot of not-thoughts, here and now.

“Dr Burke’s office.”

“It’s Rick Castle. Is Dr Burke there, please?”

“Of course. I’ll just connect you.”

All the not-thoughts become horribly real thoughts.

“Good afternoon, Mr Castle,” Dr Burke opens. “Do I deduce that your mother has involved herself again?”

“However did you guess?” Castle asks bitterly. “Yes.”

“I see. May I suggest you attend my office? If you wish, I shall arrange for coffee, and I have a supply of snacks if you would like that. I infer that you have not partaken of lunch.”

“Yes. Please. I’m only a few minutes away.”

“I shall see you in a short time. Do not worry, Mr Castle.”

Castle drags his mental weariness towards Dr Burke’s, and arrives, trailing an aura of depression, to be greeted by the aroma of good coffee and a china plate containing an extremely luxurious brand of chocolate cookies.

Dr Burke observes Mr Castle’s surprise. “In times of high stress, Mr Castle, chocolate has been known to release endorphins and serotonin in the brain, which counteract stress and depressive tendencies. You appear to me to be under stress, and in need of a soothing cup of coffee. A cookie may also assist.” He smiles paternally down at Mr Castle, who has disposed himself in a chair without any of his usual verve. “I occasionally find that a cookie is a useful counterpoint to a stressful day.”

Mr Castle acquires an expression of extreme disbelief and surprise, but, astonishingly, fails to comment.

“Now, what has your mother done?”

“Mother,” says Mr Castle with acidic emphasis, “decided that it was a good idea to go and see Beckett earlier today.”

“Mm. I infer that this visit did not proceed well?”

“You could say that. You could equally well say that the San Francisco earthquake was a small sneeze.”

“I see.” Oh, dear. Mrs Rodgers has been very ill-advised. “Why do you not tell me the whole story, and then we shall discuss your reactions and feelings?” Dr Burke pours Mr Castle some more coffee, and moves the plate of cookies unobtrusively nearer to him.

“Mother went to see Beckett,” Mr Castle says again. “Her version is that she only wanted to offer Beckett some motherly advice so that she would come to the loft sooner. She claimed – to Beckett, who spots lies for a living – that Alexis and I were upset that she wouldn’t. Beckett flung her out and gave her thirty minutes to tell me the truth about it all.”

“Mm?”

“Alexis walked in on the story, completely lost her temper – she never does that, but she had all her teen tantrums in one very loud go – and said Mother had ruined her life and she was never bringing any friends home ever again.”

Dr Burke raises eyebrows. The row must have been quite spectacular.

“So I sent them both to their rooms to calm down, and told Mother we’d be discussing her living arrangements this evening. Then Beckett called, and she was upset, so I went over there and she told me her side of the story, and on the way back I went via the realtor and then I called you.”

“Mm. And were there material differences in the two stories?”

“Mother left a lot out, but it didn’t make any difference to the core of it. She was stupid, and arrogant, and Beckett called her on her lack of expertise, and on the lies about Alexis and me, and then threw her out with a few more choice words about allowing Mother to leave with dignity.”

Dr Burke winces. He can imagine the scene. He has experienced – fortunately only as an observer – quite enough of Detective Beckett’s ability to flay the object of her wrath with words and tone to understand that Mrs Rodgers had been left in no doubt whatsoever of her mistake.

“Beckett told me all of it.” Dr Burke winces again. “She wasn’t …gentle.   I think she thought I’d be mad with her, even though I said I wouldn’t be.”

“Were you?” Dr Burke enquires.

“No. I told Mother and told her. She just wouldn’t listen at all. I told her Beckett wouldn’t take it well and she just ignored me.”

“In other words, you have reached the end of your patience with the situation. Hardly surprising.”

“No, I guess.”

“Please tell me how you feel about your mother’s actions.”

Mr Castle produces a very assessing gaze. “Are you head-shrinking me now?”

“In the pursuance of Detective Beckett’s recovery, yes.”

“Oh,” Mr Castle says, nonplussed by the plainly truthful answer. Dr Burke does not lie. It never answers. “Okay then. I… well, I was angry, and I was disappointed, and I just don’t understand how she’s being so dumb and unkind. She’s never been like that before.” Mr Castle sounds, despite his adult baritone, very like a child first discovering that his parents have flaws. “I mean, she’s been blunt, and she can be intrusive, but she’s never been unkind.”

“Mm. Do you think she means to be unkind?”

“No. That’s why I don’t get it. I thought if she knew she was then she’d stop, but nothing’s sinking in.”

“Mm. Tell me, Mr Castle, have you considered further the thought that your mother may be scared of the changes to her living arrangements?”

“Yes. Beckett said she thought you were right, and I thought about it, and…”

“Mm?” Dr Burke hums encouragingly.

“I didn’t tell you how Mother came to live with me. Us. She was married to another actor, and somehow he managed to clean out all her bank accounts and take possession of their apartment.” Dr Burke’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know till after, when she showed up on my doorstep absolutely devastated. So of course I took her in, and she could help with Alexis – it was good for Alexis to have her around – and it all worked out really well. It wasn’t always easy, exactly, but it worked out.” Mr Castle looks unhappily at Dr Burke. “I do love my mother,” he says, piteously. “I just don’t like her much right now. It’s always been family. That’s why I was so angry with Beckett at the beginning, because I thought she wasn’t looking after her family and I just couldn’t ever get my head round that idea. Family’s always come first, no matter what.”

“I have no doubt of your love for your family, including your mother,” Dr Burke says soothingly. “That does not preclude anger, annoyance, or even occasional dislike for their actions. Such is not at all unusual, and you are not a lesser person thereby. However, as I have said, you also deserve happiness. For the moment, let us return to the question of why your mother may be acting as she is.”

“Um… okay. So anyway, her ex cleaned her out. I had him dealt with,” Mr Castle says. “He’s rotting in a jail in LA. But when you said she might be scared, it didn’t sit right, and then when Beckett agreed with you” –

“A most unusual occurrence, no doubt?”

“Only admitting it. Eventually, she’s agreed with most of what you’ve said or done. She’s just not keen on saying so.”

“Mm,” emits Dr Burke, perfectly satisfied with that confirmation.

“So I thought about it, and I realised that she stopped going for big parts after that, too.”

“Too?”

“Well, I took her to my parties, because it cheered her up, and she enjoyed them – even more than I did, a lot of the time, though I wouldn’t like you to think I didn’t enjoy them – and she made a lot of contacts there but none of them were big names, though I suppose the big names were writers and so forth, not producers or directors.   No-one’s wanted to film any of my books.” Dr Burke ignores that last sentence as entirely irrelevant to the problem at hand, and Mr Castle’s tone of disappointment as unnecessary.

“And?”

“Well, I wondered if maybe she’s so fixated on it because she’s still really insecure from what her ex did?”

“That is a very interesting conclusion, Mr Castle. Would you care to pursue it further?”

“Um…” Mr Castle says, “um…I guess that she’s still worried - I don’t think she’s realised it, though – about being left homeless because she was left homeless by someone she… oh… Someone she loved and that she thought loved her.”

Dr Burke wishes most fervently that Mr Castle was not so violently opposed even to the concept of undertaking psychiatric practice.

“And what does that lead you to conclude?”

“That she thinks it might happen again.” Mr Castle suddenly realises what he has said, and an expression of extreme anger suffuses his face. “How can she think that?” he says furiously. “How could she ever think that I would let that happen to her? She brought me up and she’s lived with us for thirteen years and she can think that I’d let her suffer?”

“I do not believe that she does think that,” Dr Burke reassures, with considerable emphasis on the think, “I would be astonished, in fact, if she were not utterly horrified if anyone said such to her. I do not, incidentally, recommend that you do. It would not answer. However, I do consider that, subconsciously, she is being driven by such a feeling.”

“But I wouldn’t,” Mr Castle says forcefully. “How does she not know that?”

“Mr Castle, have we not seen how ingrained behaviours and masked emotions can affect events and relationships in very unexpected ways? Your mother undoubtedly knows, intellectually, that you would never let her suffer. That is not the same as a long buried terror of being betrayed by one whom she loves.”

“I suppose I get that,” Mr Castle assents, still somewhat doubtfully.

“So on that basis, what do you conclude?”

“I guess she needs some sort of reassurance.” Mr Castle relapses into thought. Dr Burke does not distract him. Really, Mr Castle is so much easier to deal with than Detective – or Mr – Beckett. A man of much more equable temperament. Very refreshing. He has only eaten one of the cookies, too. In cases where cookies are required, most often they are all consumed. Dr Burke quietly makes more coffee, and prepares his own tea. Patience on Dr Burke’s part will serve Mr Castle best.