194. Won't you stay with me?

Beckett has carefully arrived at the theatre half an hour before the interval. She really does not care that Martha will want to watch her scenes from the wings, take notes, and deal with any points tomorrow. She can just miss them.

Beckett, in fact, is on a mission. She strides into the back of the theatre, through the stage door, holding up her shield at the doorman without breaking step.

“You!” It’s Derren, looking terrified, but sober. “Why are you here? No-one’s been killed.”

“No. Not so much as a dead critic.” She smiles with no humour at all. “Where is Mrs Rodgers?”

“She’s in the wings.”

“Side?” Beckett snaps.

“Left, usually.”

Beckett strides off, Derren left staring unhappily in her wake, to locate a stagehand.

“Please would you fetch Mrs Rodgers,” she says to the first one she finds on the left hand side. It’s not a question, and despite the politeness, it’s also not a request. The hand looks precisely once at her face and scuttles off as fast as quietness permits. Very shortly he returns, with Martha in tow.

Had Beckett been in the slightest bit bothered about anything other than Castle’s feelings, she might have cared about the slight red rim to Martha’s eyes and less than total confidence. However, she is still carried on a tide of cold fury that his own mother has hurt him so badly, and she is simply not having it. Her ire has carried her right over any discomfort about talking to Martha.

“You owe Castle an apology,” Beckett opens up, icily.

“What are you doing here?”

“Telling you that you’ve managed something I’d have bet was impossible. You’ve hurt your son – you know, the one you claim to love more than anything,” Beckett says with flaying sarcasm – “so badly that he actually thinks that you’ve never cared about him at all. That you’ve blamed him for even existing.” She lets that sink in. “That everything he’s done for you, giving you a home, money, love – doesn’t count because he can afford it.” She watches every word hit. “Of course, from what I’ve seen recently, that might be true. You haven’t exactly shown him that you appreciate him.”

Martha says nothing. She is incapable of speech.

“You’d better decide what really matters to you. Because it doesn’t look to me like it’s Castle.” Beckett turns on her heel, and then turns back. “He thought you were a family. He thought you loved him like he loves you. Did you? Because he doesn’t think so any more.”

She turns again, and walks away. Martha is left shaking behind her, tears falling down her suddenly-old, crumpled cheeks. Beckett’s cold contempt has pierced her in a way that nothing else could have done. She totters to a chair, alone in the dark of backstage.

Beckett whirls out, still raging at Martha’s complete lack of care for Castle’s emotions and surfing the wave of her anger. She marches away from the theatre, exuding intimidating fury, which clears a path through the Manhattan streets. Shortly, she passes a pizza place, and stops. She’s hungry, now the rage is dissipating and her adrenaline is starting to leak away. She goes in, sits down, and orders.

When she’s done, during which time not one single person apart from a rather nervous server has approached her, she looks at her watch. It’s closer to ten than nine, since she hasn’t hurried her meal: pizza, dessert and then coffee. She considers having another coffee. She has time, she thinks, and orders one. She has to give Castle and Alexis all evening to be a family, after all. She’s made her own decisions about tonight as she’s eaten.

Finally, she has no more ways of wasting time. She pays the check, leaves the tip, and picks up a cab.­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Castle and Alexis had returned from dinner somewhat before nine, neither one of them happy, and Castle completely devoid of any of his normal cheer.

“I really thought Detective Beckett would stay,” Alexis had said on the way back. “She said she’d stop you being upset.” Castle had managed not to choke on that. It doesn’t help his mood now. Beckett hasn’t stayed, and she hasn’t stopped him being upset, and he knows he’d said that he didn’t expect her to have dinner with them but he’s still hurt that she didn’t.

He bids Alexis good night and then turns to his office, on-line games, and the bottle of whiskey. It won’t make him any happier, but it might distract him for a short while. He plays without any enthusiasm, sips the whiskey, which doesn’t help, and dissolves into a morose marsh of misery. He hunches into his chair, and wishes fruitlessly that he’d pushed Beckett to stay; that he had insisted; that he hadn’t given her so much support when she can’t even be here now to support him. Even though she’d come today and helped and stayed, more than she’d ever promised, he wants her to be here now, and she’s not. Contrarily, he doesn’t bother texting, or calling. If she won’t be there for him, he’s not going to beg. He drinks another sip of whiskey, and remains sunk in gloom. Would it have killed her to support him tonight?

When he half-hears a noise he nearly doesn’t bother going to investigate. What’s the point? If it’s his mother, she can go to her new home. She probably just came back here on autopilot and then found her keys didn’t work. It certainly isn’t because she has any desire to make nice with him: that’s perfectly clear from today. It’s probably the pipes knocking: an airlock, or something. The building managers can look into it tomorrow. He slumps in his chair and has another sip. The noise repeats, more loudly.

Annoyed, Castle heaves himself out of his chair, determined to give his mother (he is sure it must be her) a considerable piece of his mind. She doesn’t live here any more. Banging on his door and no doubt waking Alexis is unacceptable. He stomps to the door, and flings it open.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he hisses angrily.   “I – Beckett?” He stops. “Beckett? Kate? Why?”

Beckett steps inside, shuts the door behind her, and looks up at him. “I guess you weren’t expecting me?” she says dryly.

Castle doesn’t answer. He simply hauls her against him and once more buries his face in her hair. He couldn’t let go of her if it meant his slow and agonised demise; he can’t bear not to have her so tightly in his arms that she can’t ever leave. She came back.

She came back.

Her hands have slid up around his neck, holding him, and he’s leaning on her, utterly undone that she came back, desperately clinging to her so she won’t go away again: his Beckett who is here, where and when he never expected her.

“You came back,” he whispers. “You came back.”

“Come here,” she murmurs. “Just come here. It’s okay.” She steers him to the couch, and gently pushes him to sit down, then joins him, replacing her arms around his neck and waist, letting him re-inter his face in her hair. She becomes aware that his breathing is short and choppy; the presumption of tears without the reality. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back tonight.”

Beckett doesn’t say anything for a second. It had taken her all of dinner to gather up her courage actually to do so, though she’d intended to return from the moment she’d left.

“I always meant to,” she eventually emits. “It just took me a while to pull myself together.” She doesn’t mention the intervening meeting with Martha. “And you needed to have dinner with Alexis, without me.” She pats his head softly. “I’m here now.”

“Mm,” Castle half-whimpers. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She holds him closer, trying to cosset him. He stays leaning on her for some time, heavy and wounded, as close as he can manage. Slowly, his hands curve around her waist and shoulder; more slowly than that, his face moves from her head downward, and he presses a kiss into her neck: no sexuality, as soft and simple as he would have kissed a baby. She turns into him, satiny cheek pressing into late-night stubbling, and waits. Nothing happens, and Castle doesn’t speak. She carries on holding on to him, and drifts.

When next anything happens, Beckett is half-dozing, Castle propped between her and the arm of the couch.

“Dad?”

Castle startles into some sort of life. “Pumpkin? What’re you doing awake?”

“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s the middle of the night, Dad. Go to bed.”

Beckett has slithered down to ensure she’s not in view. She really does not like the thought of the explanations she’d have to give.

“Okay. But you get back to bed now. If I should be asleep, you sure should. Scoot!”

Alexis scoots. Castle stretches, and yawns, and then cuddles up again.

“C’mon,” Beckett murmurs. “Bedtime.”

“Don’t go,” Castle says, desperately. “Don’t leave. I don’t want you to.”

“Okay. Not going anywhere.”

Castle takes that as a promise, clamps a hand around her wrist, and tows her to his bedroom. Beckett has a sudden memory of an illustration of Christopher Robin towing Pooh Bear, and moves a little faster. Her head will not be improved by bumps.

On reaching the bedroom, Castle abruptly remembers his manners. “Would you like the bathroom first?”

“Please,” Beckett says, becoming aware of biological necessity.

“There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet, too.”

Beckett disappears into the bathroom and closes the door with a firm click. Castle sits down very heavily on the edge of the bed and starts to pull his socks off, still dispirited and miserable.

He’s stripped down and huddled in a comfortable robe when Beckett re-emerges, wrapped in his spare robe, which drowns her.

“Oh,” he says with realisation. “Do you want a t-shirt or something to sleep in?”

“Yes, please.”

Castle rummages in his closet and finds a t-shirt that’s not quite likely to reach Beckett’s toes or strangle her in her sleep. She wriggles into it with a short but very attractive view of herself in nothing but panties, and disappointingly becomes entirely swamped in the fabric. It droops below her knees, mainly because it’s so wide on her that it’s falling off one shoulder. It is, regrettably, distressingly impervious to non-X-ray vision and to telepathic suggestions that it should droop a lot further. All the way to the floor, in fact. Since it doesn’t, his gloom is not alleviated, so he proceeds to his nightly ablutions uncheered, and returns no better.

In the interim, Beckett has snuggled herself into bed, and is watching him as he returns, hair dark against his pillows, eyes soft. He slips in beside her, and before he’s wholly settled she’s turned into him, nestled into his side, draped an arm over his chest and lain her head on his shoulder. It’s astonishingly comforting, and Castle is, finally, comforted.

“Go to sleep,” Beckett murmurs. “I’m not going anyplace. Love you.”

Castle is left almost wordless, and barely manages to choke out, “Love you,” in return. His arm doesn’t need instructed in order to wrap itself around her, and he drifts into sleep surrounded by the scent of her hair and the warm body curled against him, holding him gently, her strength bleeding into him.

She came back, is his last conscious thought. She came back to me.

Castle wakes up slowly, failing to understand why there is a weight on his chest and something tickling his nose. He yawns and flexes, and is greeted by a sleepy growl.

“No alarm,” Beckett mutters, and buries her head under the covers. This is unwelcome. If Beckett is in his bed, she shouldn’t be growling at him. She should be purring, preferably because he’s stroking her. And come to think of it, why is she –

Oh.

The disaster of the previous day falls in on Castle’s head, and he remembers precisely why Beckett is here. He slumps back on his pillows, miserable, and turns away.

A hand slides around him, followed by Beckett pressed to his back. “Still here. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Castle grates. “My mother blames me for everything and that’s not fucking okay!”

There is a brief, unpleasant silence.

“You’re right,” Beckett says acerbically. “It’s not okay when your parent blames you for not being something. God knows I know how that feels. So you’re right. It’s not okay.” She pulls until he turns over to face her. “So are you going to let it warp you for years like I did or are you going to talk about it like I should have?”

Castle stares at her, shocked into intelligence by her tone. “You really don’t pull any punches, do you? Aren’t you supposed to be soft and sweet and sympathetic?”

“Me? You helped to fix me, your way. Now I’m returning the favour – my way. You never want soft lies, you want the real story.   The true story.” She takes a deep breath. “The truth is, either your mother will apologise and mean it, or she won’t. Just like my dad. He was always sorry, but it didn’t stop the drinking till he was ready. And after he stopped, he was truly sorry, and he meant it. But by then I wasn’t able to believe him, and you know how that panned out. So don’t make the same mistakes I did, Castle. Don’t ruin your own life because of someone else.”

It’s her turn to roll away from him, to turn her back and hide her face; his to pull her back over and around.

“What aren’t you saying, Beckett? There’s more to that than you’ve said.” He thinks for a swift second. “Alexis said that she thought you were going to stay to cheer me up. But you didn’t stay, and you’ve never told her a lie. So you didn’t say you were going to stay. So what did you say to her to make her think you were going to cheer me up?” He pins her down, searching her face. “You must have said something.”

She shakes her head.

“You did. So if it wasn’t staying – ‘cause you didn’t – then you meant something else.” His gaze rakes her face again. “You were angry yesterday. Not just angry, you were really mad with… my… mother – oh my God, Beckett. You went to see her. Oh my God.” His eyes have flown wide. Beckett makes a determined effort and manages to wriggle away and under the coverlet. “That’s why you didn’t stay.” His words spill out faster than his brain keeps up. “You went to give her hell. Oh my God.   What did you say? What did you do? Do I need to bail her out? Do I need to bail you out?”

Beckett wriggles further down under the covers, and tries to become invisible. This is not a discussion she wants to have. Castle, sadly, has other ideas, strips off the covers, and hauls her back up.

“You went to talk to Mother. You can’t bear being near her, but you went in to bat because” – his eyes widen so far they’re sure to fall out – “because she hurt me. And then you came back here to stay over because I was upset even though you said just two days ago you couldn’t do it when Alexis was here. Kate…” He stops. “Oh, Kate.” He pulls her in and refuses to let her go, no matter her attempts to escape. “You did all that just because I was upset?”

“Not just,” arrives from the vicinity of his chest.   “You were really miserable. It wasn’t fair.” She makes another attempt to disappear.

Castle has been completely distracted from his misery by Beckett’s astounding actions. Coming back to the loft had been quite surprising enough. Actually searching out his mother and – he has no doubt of this – tearing into her on his, Castle’s, behalf… he can barely believe it. He’d wanted her support, and thought it was missing. He’s received it in spades.

“Stop trying to wriggle off,” he says with mild, absent irritation. “Stay put. Stay right here.” He tucks her in, firmly. She’s not going anywhere. She belongs with him and that is where she’s staying. Not for the first time, she’s made her position perfectly plain – and it’s with him. All he can do is hold her tightly and take from her strength.

Because if she’s on his side, against her father and his mother; if she’s so sure that none of this is his fault, and says so in blunt, harsh words; if she’s here with him – then finally he can believe it, because his Beckett has never, ever softened or shaded the truth. Not told him it, and let him be hoist on his own assumptions, but she’s not lied to him since the mince pies. She’s not lying now. He relaxes back into the comfortable bed and pillows, and pulls Beckett into a better position, over his chest and with her head tucked just below his chin. A sidelong glance downward shows him only flaming colour and futile attempts to hide from him.

“You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” No answer. “You were just going to let me assume that you’d let us have dinner together and then sneaked back.”

“I did have dinner,” she mutters.

Castle makes a sceptical noise. “Not what I meant and you know it. Now, why did you go and accost Mother?”

“Told you. You were upset.” She clamps her mouth closed and tries to curl further under the covers. When that fails, mainly because Castle isn’t letting go of her, she tugs the covers up as far as she can over her head, and tries to hide.

“Stop hiding. I want to know what you said to Mother.”

“I want doesn’t get,” Beckett grumps. “Not telling you. ‘S not important.” She clings on to the coverlet. Castle unpeels her fingers from it, one by one, and extricates her.

“I want to know,” he says firmly, rabid curiosity for the story having dispelled his last fragments of unhappiness. Or possibly it’s the effect of having Beckett in his loft, in his bed, and in his clasp. It hasn’t happened nearly often enough for his liking. He keeps her hands in his, so she can’t hide all over again. It occurs to him that she’s quite seriously embarrassed by the whole affair, and by the admission of her feelings that it makes. She isn’t exactly good at admitting her feelings, but he’s getting very good at understanding them whether she wants him to or not. Right now, he understands that she’s forced her way past her own feelings to put his first.

“It’s not important.”

Which invariably means that it is important, in everyone but Beckett’s eyes. That’s almost as big a tip-off as it’s fine.

“Yes, it is. It’s important to me. What did you say? I won’t be mad.”

There is a very extended silence.

“Just that she’d made you think she didn’t care about you.”

Castle doesn’t believe for an instant that this is the whole sum of the conversation. He waits.

“And that you used to think you were all family, and she loved you.”

More waiting.

“And I told her she’d better decide what really mattered,” Beckett mutters. “And then I left.”

Presumably without shooting anyone, Castle thinks, on the grounds that no-one’s breaking down the door to arrest Beckett.

He kisses the top of her head, which is the only part of her that he can see. “I’m not mad,” he says. “Really not,” and follows up with a hug. “Just…”

“Yeah?” rises nervously from the coverlet.

“Is the theatre still standing? Ow!”

Beckett emerges from the covers, eyes flashing dangerously. “Never mind about the theatre, you overgrown idiot! Of course it’s still standing.”

“Gotcha,” Castle murmurs smugly, “and now you’ve come out.” He kisses her hard. “No hiding.” Another kiss, deep and possessive, and he rolls so that he’s leaning down over her, a sleepy, sexy look on his face. “I don’t like you hiding from me, especially when you’re in my bed,” he drawls. “It means I have to hunt you out.”

“Neanderthal.”

“Not at all,” Castle pronounces suavely. “I’m a thoroughly modern man. On the other hand,” he purrs darkly, and places said hand on her stomach, fingers downward, “some things haven’t changed much over time.” He bends down and takes her mouth. His hand shifts to find the edge of his oversized t-shirt, and pull it out the way, his fingers return to slide over and then under her panties; she turns to him and her own elegant fingers embark on wickedly arousing actions and then everything else disappears in the hot haze of desire and lust and love.