But Why?

Reporters loved to ask her what her son's first words were. It wasn't "Mama," although to be fair, she was barely around, not with her hectic stage career. It certainly wasn't "Papa," and the less said about that man, the better! No, Richard Castle was born asking "why", and that, she concluded, was why she was not at all surprised when he grew up to be a very successful mystery writer.

"Why is it okay to lie about Ms. Minnelli's hair and not about broken plates?"

"Why is my bedtime earlier than yours, even though we both wake up at the same time?"

"Why do we have different last names?

Sometimes, simple answers were enough to distract him. "There's already a Richard Rogers out there, but you're the only Richard Castle."

In retrospect, Martha might have over-emphasized this point when Richard was growing up, but she also didn't want him to be bothered by the lack of a father figure. Quite the opposite, there was a strong male presence in young Richard's life. But even so, without realizing what he was after, his questions persistently reverted back to a particular theme.

Richard was five when his mother brought him to the after party of her latest play. One of the backers, a delightful gentleman, held her hostage all evening with effervescently effortless conversation. Then he lead her to the dance floor. They were in the middle of a spirited jive when a pint-sized tornado barreled onto the scene.

"Safe," shouted Richard, laughing. He hugged his mother around the knees just before the other children could lung forward to tag him with outstretched arms.

"Ah, Beauregard, meet my son," exclaimed Martha, scooping Richard up with such gusto that his legs dangled to and fro like a pendulum. "Kiddo, say hi to Uncle Beau."

"Another uncle? I didn't realize my father has so many brothers!" said Richard, mid-wave. His earnest little voice filled the room. "Why don't I ever see my father?"

"Uncle" Beau took a step back. "What's that?"

Needless to say, Martha discreetly excused themselves from the festivities early that night. After they had arrived home and she had gotten Richard ready for bed, Martha poured herself a deep glass of wine, pulled up a stool by her son's mattress, and stroked his hair absentmindedly.

Rick gazed back at her with a sleepy grin on his face. "Tell me a story, Mama."

"Well, let's see. How about Ali Baba and the forty thieves?"

He shook his head. "Tell me a story about my dad."

Even though she had practiced many times how she would explain to Rick about his father, Martha still felt unprepared for this moment. "I met him during an evening storm. Rehearsals had just ended when the skies suddenly swelled open. I ducked out of the rain and we ended up getting into the same cab. We started chatting. For a complete stranger, was very witty and charming and handsome, just like you. But what really captured my attention was that sense of mystery about him. He'd traveled the world and he could tell all these absolutely enthralling tales that left you craving for more."

"And then?"

A pause. "He left."

"Where did he go?" whispered Rick, pulling his blanket up to his nose.

Martha took a long sip and shifted her shoulders. "I don't know. He didn't say."

"Why did he leave?"

It was hard to say. "Only he knows. But it was his loss. He missed out on knowing you."

"Yes," decided Richard, peered up at her with knowing bright eyes, the most prominent feature he had inherited from her. "He would like it here with us, where I could see his face. And hear his voice." He sighed, a funny sound for one so young. "I wish I knew his name."

"Naw," said Martha, cracking a smile. After years on the stage, it came so naturally. "As someone with an overbearing father, let me tell you the perks of not having one at all. You don't have to let him define who you are. In fact, ironically, you get to define who he is."

"You mean it's up to me?"

"Sure, kiddo."

"Then I'll make up a story for you about him. With a happy ending."

Too fluidly, Martha stood up from her seat. "How about we save if for another night? It's getting way past your bedtime."

"But Mom," protested Richard, suppressing another yawn, as he let himself be tucked into bed.

Martha reached down to hug her son, then turned off the light. As she headed to her own room, she glanced back to watch him settle to sleep. Without knowing why, she whispered softly, almost to herself. "For what it's worth, his name was Derrick."

A/N: Castle belongs to the people at ABC.