Relations and Revelations
All the usual disclaimers apply: I do not – not even intend to – make money with this.
Part 3
It still all boils down to the one central question -why? Stuffed into this single word, I throw all of the growing and developing instead of dissolving confusion at the person in front of me, a god, which is hard to comprehend while he just looks like anybody. I can only hope for straight answers this time, since he seems to have the habit of providing vague and cryptic statements instead.
"It's complicated."
I almost huff at his words. Of course it is, but doesn't mean I have to accept it, do I? My life is already over-supplied with complicated issues, so I'd rather decline this one. 'Uncomplicate it for me!' the demand burns on the tip of my tongue, but I guess it's not the ideal way to address a deity. "Huh?" it is then.
"We're not supposed to have this conversation, Richard."
So? And more importantly: why not?
"Let's just say, it's not that easy any more to foster relationships with mortal beings, even when you are close." That just doesn't add anything to enlighten me. My dissatisfaction must have been obvious. He's probably more talkative than usual. Still: why?
"We – I'm - not allowed to contact you." Great, what an effervescent source of clarity he is. Does he mean 'you' as in all human beings or 'you' as in me, Richard Castle?
"But you did?" I can't help but ask. Why? I feel like a four year old, but I really don't get it, and it's slowly but surely giving me a headache.
"Actually…," instead of completing the statement to, for once, give an explanation, he points to my pocket, the one with the coin, I realize. The Drachma?
"…I may not be known to obey all the rules to the letter," he prompts, grinning lopsidedly. "Runs in the family, obviously," he adds, grinning even more widely as if it was some reference I should get. What do I know about his family? Not that much, do I?
"I just wanted you to have this…," his tone is serious, as his expression morphs back to the neutral, noncommittal mask of a smile from before. I'm eying the book again. He wants me to have it, a book about heroes and demi-gods in Greek myths.
"… and give you some fatherly advice, Richard." he adds. Fatherly advice, huh? 'I am, son,' his former statement invades my thoughts, as well as the mentioning of 'family' and 'close relations' and… he can't be serious, can he?
"You meant it before? You want to tell me that I'm your son?" my voice practically climbing a whole octave at the last word. I didn't mean it so sound that squeaky and shocked.
"Well yes, but that's not what I'm talking about now…" he trails off, obviously recognizing the doubt in my eyes. He must be kidding me.
"Oh, will you just believe me? We don't have forever for this," annoyance and impatience paint his tone. I don't want to enrage a god, do I? Especially not the one who obviously claims to having fathered me. A god, Hermes, actually acknowledges that he is my father. You don't hear that every day. As hard as it was to believe before, this is just too much, can't be true. Only moments ago, there weren't even any gods, and now one is my father? Readers would never buy that kind of twist. It lacks every kind of logic, especially since there were no indications beforehand which could help to support the theory. Maybe as a kid I would have made something up like this, but even back then, I'd usually preferred spy stories.
"Aren't you known to be a trickster-god?" I argue. I've long outgrown the need for a father figure, but I don't like the way he uses me being fatherless to what…? What's in it for him? A good laugh? Probably. Back to pranks we are then.
"I know it's a lot to comprehend," he admits. The understatement of the century! "Martha even named you after me, you know?" he adds after a moment of silence as if that would explain anything, but it doesn't. I really can't find any similarities in terms of naming here.
"Richard?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow skeptically.
"No, the one you so readily got rid of. Well, at least Alexander is the name I gave her back then before…" he seems to hesitate. Ick! No, these are some mental pictures I surely can do without. I can't hold back a disgusted shiver. He shakes his head and I like to think I've spotted a brief expression of thoughtfulness, maybe even nostalgia, behind his mostly neutral mask. I guess he is considering something, and I'm getting antsy now. I wish he would just say whatever he wants to say so I can go back to my usual complicated life, and start to block out this little whatever we're having here.
"Not that one. I'm talking about what happened afterwards." Ok? "When I found out about you, I didn't want to hide it anymore, but the family wasn't quite pleased with your mother being an actress."
My eyes widen at his statement. Was he trying to tell me that I wasn't welcome just because my mother was an actress? Sure, you wonder why your father didn't stick around long enough for you to know him. I had always been comforted by the fact that he hadn't even known about me, that my mother wasn't able to tell him about my existence. But he is a god. He knew all along. And this, what he is saying, simply isn't acceptable. A churning and all consuming feeling settles in my guts and starts spreading from there. Anger. I straighten my posture and school my expression. I'm used to handling rejection. I would turn away but I still have to know, especially now. Why the hell did he come to tell me all of this?
"Your uncle wasn't pleased," he seems to feel the need to elaborate, maybe wants to answer my unvoiced questions. "He was so not pleased at all that I had approached one of his charges. So the question of how to deal with the consequences caused some..." Was 'the messenger' looking for a fitting term? "Well, it caused disturbances. It really wasn't very pretty. And she was so talented, a rising star, with a great career just about laid out in front of her. I couldn't take that away." Was he rambling?
"Anyway, to preserve peace and order we were eventually asked to come to an agreement. He won't turn his back on her as long as I stay away. I'm not going to go into details now, since as I explained before, we're actually not supposed to have this conversation at all."
I guess my look can only be described as being dumbfounded when I stare at him speechlessly, only to recall what I'm facing here: in front of me stands a Greek god, Hermes. He claims not only to be my father, but also that he abandoned me because of jealousy issues a brother of his - another god obviously, considering his mention of her profession maybe Apollon as the master of the muses, or Dionysos maybe? - may have had because of my mother. Well, his story for sure fits into the image of your usual Greek myth. But who would have thought about putting mother or me into the role of supporting characters in such a narrative? I would never ever have fabricated something unbelievable like this. Does mother know about it? I discard that thought with a slight shake of my head. The way I know my mother, she would never let go of the opportunity to bring something like this up at least once, even if it was only in jest. And if she didn't learn about it, if he never told her, then why tell me? Why now?
"Wait, does that make me immortal or something?" I can't help but ask. Suddenly, excitement wriggles its way into this mess, creating a completely new set of questions. There was plenty of stuff one could do with that kind of life expectancy, everything actually. That definitely changes perspectives. Oh wow, one day I could be the one who had experienced what will be history then, it will be a little bit like time travelling.
"No." Just no? Maybe invincible then? That sounds reasonable, considering all the times I actually shouldn't have come out alive at the face of hazardous situations, just like David Dunn in the movie. It may not have been a train accident or something, but there were always the occasional gun-fights, Beckett's burning apartment, a locked freezer, a dirty bomb and plenty of other opportunities for the Grim Reaper to make his call. But we've survived all of them in the end.
"Invincible?" therefore drops off my tongue, immediately followed by him shaking his head.
"Nope." Ok, I suppose I would have discovered that earlier if it had been true. If I was honest, I'd contracted enough injuries to rule that one out on my own.
"Maybe some special skills," I muse. Flying, yes. He's Hermes so it's got to be flying, doesn't it? That's so cool.
"You're not a superhero, Richard." I know, but wouldn't it be cool? After all what's the sense in learning your father is a god, a real actual god – I still can't quite wrap my mind around it - if you don't get something from that?
"Well, it's making me a demi-god, right?" 'Your ego didn't need anything more to finally take off, did it, Castle?' Oops, since when has the voice of reason that is meant to ground me, started to sound like Beckett? I hush it immediately, instead waiting for an answer from my visitor. If this turns out to be the previously suspected show – because it's still too crazy - and the hidden cameras will be pointed out to me shortly, then I'll at least relish every minute of it.
"Technically," he's tilting his head to both of his sides vaguely. So that's a yes? "But one needs to earn his place among the heroes, needs to give proof that he is worth it," he explains. Fair enough.
"Funny to hear that from the guy, who proclaimed himself to be an Olympian god." The corners of my lips quirk into a grin as I dig out my share of knowledge on Greek mythology.
"So there's at least something there on classical education." He nods appreciatively, and as it seems yet again mirrors my smile. I still don't get it though. What would be the point in being a god's offspring if there wasn't anything special about it.
"But be sure, you have always and will always be in my favor, if you give me the chance." Ok, that's just nothing. What favor would that be? He must have seen my skeptical look because for once he added something to his statement.
"You should be aware of the fact that you are a lucky man, Richard. In fact, one may say that you're someone whose dreams usually come true," he pauses as my mind is flooded with all the images of things I never managed to achieve despite all my efforts, crowned by the less than spectacular but nonetheless most precious idea of having a plain and normal family, which I neither grew up in nor managed to provide my own daughter with. My frown apparently gives my doubts away.
"It's actually the reason for this," Hermes gestures between the two of us. "You have to take chances, Richard," he remarks emphatically. My frown only deepens. Really? Maybe he doesn't know that much about my life after all. "I can only grant you luck if you let me," the man adds.
"I do," I counter, mentally going through all the situations I've risked not only money or some other material good but even life itself: it's what comes with being the partner of a cop. And I've actually done pretty well, haven't I? At least, I'm still here. He obviously doesn't agree with me, and shakes his head vigorously as if he was trying to forget just how stupid I am.
"I don't talk about jumping head first into every dicey situation present, but about risking yourself; put your whole self on the line when needed. You seem to have forgotten how to do it, and I can't let that happen," he prompts.
What does he mean then? I quickly try to shove away the image of Beckett that seems to suddenly have taken over my mind. After all, she perfectly epitomizes risking oneself in every way in a professional context on one hand, and not risking oneself when it comes to your personal life on the other. She's shown plenty of that, of running and hiding instead of confronting a situation that might end up hurtful. She hasn't rubbed off on me, has she? She's got her reasons though, as annoying and maddening as it may be. I know that. And I've taken her hints that she's trying. Well, at least I suppose that's what she was talking about at the swing set. I'm about to go over the conversation when he cuts into my thoughts, drawing my attention again.
"It's good to be patient, Richard, but it must not lead you to miss out on your chance of happiness. As I said, you need to take chances," he smiles knowingly. Maybe he's guessed what I was thinking about. Does he know? What is he suggesting?
"I do. I did," I once again reinforce. I told her about my feelings, didn't I? But she doesn't remember, and that's probably for the best. Hermes seems to disagree as he shakes his head. Does he think I'm not forward enough on the issue? Well, then he may not know Beckett after all. It's like dancing on thin ice with her, one wrong move and your lungs fill with water before you know it. It's been years and I'm still trying to figure her out, causing all too many cracks on my way. Sometimes, it was better to stay close to the banks even though you know that you can't show the most delicate figures there. Did I just go for an ice dancing metaphor here? More importantly, is he right and I'm too afraid to risk what I have for what we could have? I know we could be amazing together, I've already seen glimpses of that. But I do also have a summer full of experience to know what it would mean if it doesn't work out. We'd crash and burn, no survivors. Am I holding back because of that? Am I too afraid to lose what little we have to aim for more than just friendship? Am I wrong about her? Would she take the leap with me? What if she laughs at me; presents another secret lover like she did last year with Dr. Motorcycle Boy, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. What if it's serious this time? I don't know if I would be willing to take that. I would probably need to walk away for good.
"You have to gamble at high stakes to gain the best things in life. Better start remembering that and keep it in mind, Richard," he's trying to give me a lecture consisting of nothing but cliches obviously, and my eyebrow twitches skeptically. There may be some truth to it, but nonetheless the speech wasn't anything but annoying.
"Remember that luck usually smiles at you and have faith. You can't go wrong then. Better you lose high than you don't take the chance to win at all." I'm almost growling at him as he throws all those statements out like some mediocre guidebook. He obviously notices my dismay since he adds: "It may sound like a bunch of hollow phrases, but it isn't if you consider your relatives." And now we're back to riddles again, followed by some moments of silence. It now appears he has nothing more to say, and somehow I'd lost the desire to dig for more answers to all of my questions. It'll already take a lot of time to process what I learned today anyway.
We only stare at each other for some time until Hermes starts for a retreat: "You've got to go now but we'll stay in touch, Richard," he assures me, and for a moment his neutral smile seems to grow warmer. I wouldn't call it affectionate, but it's definitely pleasant.
"How?" it's out, even before I'm aware of the question crossing my mind.
"The Drachma, and crossroads," he responds and adds with a crooked smile, "I wouldn't mind a prayer every now and then though, and some offerings. I do appreciate some good booze after all. Honey and incense as well, money of course. And don't forget to take chances, son." The gravely uttered reminder is the last thing I hear as his glowing form dissolves, my vision rapidly starts to blur and I start to feel all dazed and confused, losing my orientation.
"Castle!" a familiar voice filters through the fog that has captured my mind, as a thick yet strangely comforting absence of light.
"Hey Castle, are you sleeping?" It's Beckett. I blink a few times before I realize that I'm actually sitting in the passenger seat of her Crown Vic. I remember. I must have dozed off when my body took over to fulfill its needs to make up for the radically shortened night. I must have been dreaming. It was just my very imaginative writer's mind putting together a harebrained story to entertain me when I slumped into the seat after visiting a crime scene in the wee hours of the morning. Should I be relieved or disappointed about that?
She's looking at me. Obviously she has been talking to me, too. I catch anger and amusement fighting with each other in her eyes. The corner of her lips may even twitch, nearly imperceptibly. And there is something else in her expression as well, something I can't quite decipher and don't even get the chance to since she averts her gaze quickly, concentrating her attention on the early morning traffic again as the lights change and she slowly puts pressure on the gas. A soft smile settles on my lips as I watch her. She unconsciously brushes away a stray lock tangling on her cheek. It must have escaped the messy bun she'd gathered her hair into before arriving at the scene. Eyes still on the traffic, her hand reaches out to the cup holder where she takes the coffee cup from that I brought along. A frustrated groan escapes her lips as she realizes that there's no more coffee left. I guess she's not any less tired than I am, especially since she'd stayed at the precinct to get her paperwork done last night when I had already bailed out. What would she say if I told her about my dream? How would she react to my story about a riddle-filled daydream of a god telling me to not waste any more time? But maybe it's less about the messenger than the message itself.
"Kate?" Maybe I am still too drowsy and my filters aren't quite in place, but I only realize which name I used to address her when she turns her head and frowns at me. Now I have to be careful in what I say.
I'm still looking for the words to either say something important, letting her know that I'd like to talk afterwards, or try to backpedal while I still can, when a movement behind her form catches my eyes. It's not unusual, but right now the hint of beige I spot through the window on the driver's side startles me. It's the UPS truck. Well, it's at least one of these, parked at the curb near the crossing. A man gets out and lifts a hand to his head, directly looking me in the eye, or so it seems. I've already waved back before I know it. I know him. It's him.
But everything was just a dream, vivid, yes, but still a dream. That's what it was, wasn't it? No matter how real it still feels, it wasn't actual Hermes visiting me in a small moment of falling asleep, was it? Maybe? If I was to put my hand into my pocket, I surely wouldn't find the Drachma there.
Would I?
