Close Encounters 7

Her father knew everything that had transpired - everything - and yet he still treated Castle like a son. They had brunch, the three of them, the next day, sitting at the round kitchen table, and Jim was smiling and telling stories about the fish that had gotten away.

They left around noon, after Castle had used his good knife to help dress the fish that Jim had caught, and Kate was the one who drove, laughing at him. He could still smell fish guts on his fingers, even though he'd washed his hands five or six times afterwards.

Sasha slept in the backseat, came awake and barked sharply once when Kate turned up the radio. But the wolf seemed to like the music, and she pushed her nose into the window, so Castle reached around and rolled it down for her. Just a crack. The air coming inside made Sasha ripple with pleasure, and she spent the rest of the drive with her tongue out and her face to the wind.

When they arrived home, walking in the front door was something he didn't even know he needed. He was in yesterday's grimy clothes, he could still smell fish, and his sleep had been off and on, but he was home. They were home. And it settled something in him.

Kate's fingers trailed at his back as she moved past him; he caught her hand and squeezed before letting her go. She unclipped Sasha from the leash and the dog bounded to the kitchen; he could hear her lapping up water.

"Tomorrow is the play," she murmured. "I'll get us tickets?"

He took in a breath. "Yeah. Okay."

She winked at him, moved for the stairs. "I'm taking a shower. You?"

"My fingers are fishy," he said solemnly. "Are you sure?"

"I think I can handle it. Just don't put them in my mouth," she murmured, lifting an eyebrow as she got farther up the stairs.

He came after her then, dropping the keys on the entry table as he climbed the steps. She laughed and pushed on his shoulder, but he snagged her around the waist and nipped at her neck, licked the skin as she shivered.

Her hum traveled through him, made him lift her up off her feet, and she slid her hand back, gripped the nape of his neck. He moved his lips up that muscle, bit into the tender place under her ear. She writhed into him, but he was already dragging her down the hallway.

When he got to their bedroom, she twisted around in his arms and attacked his mouth, her hot hand pushing in under his shirt and scratching down his abs. He grunted into her kiss and stroked his tongue across hers, backing her up, resolutely heading for the bathroom.

She wriggled away and stripped her shirt off, hair bouncing as it went over her head, and he reached for her pants, wanting to help, wanting to touch. Her fingers were at his, unbuttoning, and her mouth loose and heated along his jaw, a laugh tumbling out and turning the air liquid with desire.

They stumbled backwards over the threshold and he reached for the shower door, opened it to fumble for the faucet. She growled and suddenly her hands were pushing his pants down, her body rocking hard into his.

Castle found her mouth for an intense kiss, seeking all of her, needing it all, and everything running circles in his head was finally quiet.

Nothing but her.

"We're going to my mother's play," he said carefully.

Dr King didn't move a muscle.

Castle took a breath. "Tonight. It's tonight. We already bought the tickets."

"I bet your mother would have procured you two tickets. Left them at willcall."

Castle rubbed two fingers down his thigh and nodded. "Right. I'm - she would."

"I hear a question in that."

He tapped his knee and lifted his gaze to Dr King; the man was settled back in his chair and had that expression. Unhurried, all the time in the world. Castle had no words even with unlimited time.

Dr King broke first. "Are you looking forward to tonight's performance?"

"Mine or hers?"

Dr King only smiled.

"Dreading it," he muttered, and tilted his head back into the chair.

Dr King let him continue on in silence.

He fisted his hands and had to relax, moved a finger up to his collar and worked at loosening his tie. He wore suits to work every day but this one night of business attire was already choking him.

Kate's body leaned in close to his and she adjusted his tie, her fingers cool and deft. He gave her a quick look and she was smiling softly at him, looking amused.

"You're having fun, at least," he sighed.

"I am, actually."

"I hate you."

"I know, sweetheart," she murmured. Her fingers felt good at his neck and she managed to ease his tie a little more, let him swallow. The subway was crowded and they sat close, the lights flickering as a station passed, and she laid her hand on his knee and stroked.

"When we go back to your dad's," he started.

She rubbed her thumb over his knee, scratched at the material of his pants. He laid his hand over hers and took it, felt his chest easing as well.

"My dad's?"

"After the reception, I want to sit out on the dock and stick my feet in the water. And have you stand there and do that thing - like you did when we were there. . ."

She was smiling at him, that wide smile, and she brought his hand up and kissed the back of it. She lowered her voice and leaned in closer even as his pulse jumped; she could still do that to him.

"You mean when I stripped off my clothes and jumped in the water?"

"I mean when you stripteased me to death," he finished, but he felt himself relaxing again. Watching her smile at him, watching her remember.

"My dad will be there."

"Your dad was there then," he said, his own smile growing.

She laughed and shook her head; her hair stayed perfectly held back, caught by pins and some feminine magic that he could never understand. A slight curl in one strand wound around her neck and did things to him.

"My dad wasn't there that day, Castle. What do you take me for? That weekend he was gone."

"Ah, fishing," he nodded. Her hair and the straight line of her dress that went to mid-thigh, sexy and beautiful and playful. A dress that made her look like a runway model or a magazine cover shoot, and a smile that curled his guts and made him willing to do anything.

Even go to a damn play.

"But I can ask him to leave that night," she murmured then, something delicious and dark in her eyes. "I'll send my dad away and maybe we both can go skinny-dipping in the moonlight."

He grinned widely and already he could picture it, already the promise was enough.

"So be good tonight," she finished. "Be good for me."

Her fingers caressed the side of his face and she leaned in, pressed her lips lightly to his.

"I can be good," he promised.

"You can stop staring," she hummed. Her smile stretched even though her back was turned to him.

"I'm not," he said easily.

"You are. You still are."

"Never."

She turned her head even as she walked down the theatre aisle, saw him looking, of course. She held her hand out and he took it, tugged her back a little so that they pulled even. She darted into him and kissed his neck, brushed her thumb over the lipstick that she'd left.

"You look quite handsome yourself, Castle." In her heels, she was practically the same height as he was, and she got to see the beautiful blue spark in his eyes.

"Well, then," he laughed, the two of them making their way towards their seats. "Handsome. Nice to hear some unbiased confirmation about my rugged good looks."

"Did I say handsome?" Kate tugged his hand and brought him closer, their hips bumping. "Castle, sweetheart, you're a gorgeous man."

His laugh spilled out at that, a few people turned their way, but she couldn't care less. Kate raised their joined hands and kissed the side of his face again, and then she turned and found their seats, pulled him after her.

As they settled in, his arm came around her shoulders and his fingers danced at the side of her neck. "If I was staring, it's only because you're gorgeous yourself. And you don't let me off easy. You're always going to push me to do the right thing."

She turned and studied him in the soft amber light of the theatre, her knees brushing the back of the seat in front of her. "Does that mean we're going backstage to meet your mother?"

He just sighed. He looked a little chagrinned, and she realized that wasn't actually what he'd intended when he said that.

"I guess it does," he said with a shake of his head. "I guess we are."

She reached out and gripped the nape of his neck, massaged the knots that were already forming there. "Don't worry, Rick. I got your back."

It was an off-off-Broadway production called 'According to Goldman' that featured a starred cast of older actors. It was good, and amusing, and it probably held a lot of appeal to someone well-versed in American film; it showed the evolution of movies with an edgy streak.

That person wasn't Castle, but he could see why his mother was in it. And Kate was laughing; she'd leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, fingers tapping at her lips or her body sitting up straight whenever something struck her in the scene onstage.

He liked watching her more than the play, but he had to admit that when his mother was out there, her voice certain and emotive, it tugged at something in him.

She'd made him run lines when he was a boy - a small child. He'd run lines with her before he even knew how to read; she'd repeat them to him, tell him his part, or they'd watch the film version first, let her play off whatever he could manage to come up with.

He hadn't been good at it. He didn't remember now what her reaction had been. If she'd been frustrated with him or if she'd berated him. He had no memory of the after, only of the scent of his mother as she whirled around him, the kisses on his cheeks when she'd been successful with a scene they were practicing, the thrill of being helpful.

Nothing else.

But it was a stark contradiction to the lessons his father had taught him, and the methods he'd used to instill those lessons.

Kate had been right; she was usually right.

It wasn't that his mother deserved the chance to know him. It was that Castle himself deserved it. Even if Martha could never explain, even if she never told him why she'd left him to his father, Castle deserved more.

It was time he took it.

Martha looked absolutely bewildered when they approached her outside the theatre. Kate hadn't been able to convince the stage manager to let them through, but they'd decided to wait outside the exit doors and see if Martha showed.

His mother's face lifted into a dazzling smile and she wrapped Castle in her arms as if no time had passed.

"Darlings, you came," she said warmly, cupping Castle's cheek and patting it. She turned to Kate and embraced with the same enthusiasm, but her words in Kate's wear were whispered and desperate. "Thank you so much."

"Martha," Castle said in greeting, inclining his head. "Could we. . .take you out?"

"That would be lovely, dears," she said magnanimously. She wormed between them, an arm sliding through each of theirs, and led the way down the block.

Kate glanced over at Castle, but he kept his face resolutely ahead, grim and suffering in silence. It would be up to her to get things going.

"Martha, the play was fantastic."

"Oh, thank you. It's a plum role."

"Really funny stuff. How'd you get the part?"

"My agent called - she's a little terror, Paula is, really - and she'd found the casting for it. They specifically wanted the infirm."

"The infirm?" Kate laughed. She swore she saw Castle's lips twitch.

"Oh, you know. All us old farts."

Castle grunted at that; Kate knew it was to keep from laughing, but she grinned and squeezed Martha's arm in encouragement.

"It's such a clever use of actors and scenes from movies," Kate prompted. "Castle? Weren't you telling me about that one film?"

He sighed and his shoulders hunched, but he merely shot her a baleful glare and started talking about his limited knowledge of movie icons.

And Martha seemed to really listen.

It was always easier than he was afraid of, Kate had found. It was always so much worse in his head.

Martha had led them to a wine bar just down the street from the theatre; they ordered desserts and if the conversation ran aground a few times, it didn't seem to dampen Martha's spirits.

Kate found Castle had eased somewhat at her side, that when he spoke, his words were less grave and more natural. She held his hand under the table and did her best to keep things going smoothly.

Still, she should've expected Castle would bring it up.

"My father is gone," he said into a silence. "Black is gone. He left."

Martha paused mid-bite, her fork still in the air, cheesecake waiting to be had. Kate sighed inwardly and squeezed Castle's fingers, but he didn't seem to get the message.

"So if you were worried about him. . ."

"Oh, darling, I'm - even if he's. . .there's still so much that can go wrong."

Kate stiffened at the unexpected information, felt Castle go rigid as well. Something had happened between them then. Something caused Martha to be cagey about the truth.

"Martha," she said softly, suddenly wanting to press the older woman for details. To finally know.

Castle's hand in hers was so tight she thought he might break her bones, but she held on, watched the woman shift in her seat and bring her wine to her lips.

"Mother," he said then. His voice sounded choked. "Just - tell me. What he did. Because if I know, then I can do something about it."

"Nothing to be done," Martha sighed. Her eyes shifted back to his and there was a sheen in them that could be pride or sorrow. "It's over now. Too late."

She felt Castle go still beside her; probably his disappointment was crushing, more so because there'd been a moment where they'd both thought that Martha might reveal her secrets.

And then Castle leaned in. "We've been going to therapy," he started. Kate shot him a swift, surprised glance but he didn't look at her. "It's helped. Us. Me. It's helped and - this is something I need to know, Mother. I need to know why you left me to him."

Martha made a fluttering movement with her hand, pain etched into her forehead as she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

Kate turned her head and put her cheek against Castle's shoulder, closed her eyes to the back of the booth. Martha had looked so frail for a moment there, so beaten, and Kate couldn't do it to her.

Castle was quivering at her side. Actually shaking. She could feel his hands in fists, the taut line of his thigh next to hers.

"Please," he got out.

Kate sucked in a breath and lifted her head from his shoulder, turned back around to face Martha.

If the woman was going to deny her own son some answers even after he'd begged-

Kate could do it to her. For Castle. She could, most definitely, interrogate this woman.

"Martha," she started. "I know you want to tell us. You want it to be known. Just. . .tell the story."

Martha pressed a hand over her eyes and closed her mouth.

Oh no. Kate was not having that.

The story came out of Martha in fits and starts, like the truth was being dragged from her bodily. Castle sat with his hands on his knees and tried not to lean in and badger her, she was his mother, but it was a near thing. Kate was doing all the talking, thank goodness, leading the witness to deeper revelations.

Martha had a flair to her story-telling that made him feel like he was five years old again. And at the same time, there was a heavy rage in him that had begun to build, layer by layer, until he wasn't sure he could speak.

"I was a single mother, and I took up the role as if it were the greatest of my life. I threw everything I had into it, and if everything I had wasn't enough, there was nothing I could do to change that. So I refused to think about it."

Of course she had. She could never be wrong.

"Martha," Kate said quietly. "I know you did everything you could. And if you just couldn't do it anymore, we'd understand."

"No, no one can possibly understand," she said dramatically. "Katherine. You have no idea what it was like."

He fisted his hands and pressed his back to the booth, tried to keep from stalking out. He tried to tell himself that he didn't want this information; he didn't need it. The woman wasn't even talking to him any longer. She was addressing everything to Kate.

"My son was the rapscallion - always in trouble, always making mischief. That devlish gleam to his eye and that sly smile. He got away with murder."

But she was gazing at him now - both women were, actually - gazing like they were smitten. Kate and Martha both, and it was Kate who reached out and squeezed his knee but it was Martha who put a hand on his forearm and patted him.

His chest was too tight, his shirt banding at his biceps like he was the damn Hulk.

"What a beautiful boy," Martha murmured.

What?

"You were a delight," she sighed.

How did he go from being a rapscallion and a devil to a delight?

"He's still rather beautiful," Kate said, leaning in against him and - shit - making him blush. Maybe it was the rage that fed deep in his guts that brought the flame to his neck.

Martha laughed, a dry and forcefully gay thing - and then she released his forearm and took a healthy swallow of her wine. "Well, cheers to finding a woman who will see the beauty in you."

If he didn't get a straight answer, he was going to burst.

"Martha," Kate prompted, apparently privy to his innermost thoughts (he had no doubt). "Martha, can you tell us what made you leave him at boarding school?"

"I was a poor excuse for a mother. Really, I was," she went on, holding up a hand even though no one had tried to stop her.

"You weren't until that moment," he growled.

Martha's eyes jerked up to his with a vulnerability that scared the shit out of him. Instinctively, reflexively, he jerked forward and caught her hands in his, his breathing shallow, his five year old self demanding he protect everything innocent and charming in his mother. But Martha withdrew her hands from his and folded them against her chest, mouth quivering.

"Castle," Kate chided, and she moved around the table to sit with his mother.

And he was glad. Thank God for his wife.

Kate wrapped her arm around Martha and hugged her tightly, saw the relief flare in Castle's eyes. Because he'd wanted to, she could tell, but he'd been stopped by his own indignation.

She wrapped her arm through his mother's and held on tightly, kept her gaze off of Castle to study Martha. She hated herself a little, but she knew this was the moment to press. "Tell us what happened. I think it can only help. He's gone, you know. Black is gone."

"He's - I loved him once. I did. I have no idea what happened. One day he was mine and then the next day it was like I was everything despicable to him. He couldn't stand me. He said I made him weak."

Kate's skin shivered. She'd heard that before. Was it all women, or just the ones who loved their spies?

"Did he. . .keep track of you and Rick?" she murmured. "Did he try to see your son?"

Martha took a steadying breath and shook her head. "He disappeared. Without a trace. It hurt me at first, of course it did, but I quickly realized I was better off without him. He'd become churlish. Distant."

"Mother," Castle rasped, and Kate turned her eyes back to him but he was shaking his head. Unable to go on.

"Martha, what happened when Rick was five?"

The older woman took another gulp of her wine, didn't set the glass back down. Her other hand was still wrapped around Kate's on her arm, and she turned into her with a strange emptiness in her eyes.

"Darling Katherine. He came back."

She blinked. "Who? Black?"

Martha shrugged, but it was a bleak thing.

"Black approached you?" Castle said harshly. "When? Why?"

"He saw I'd been struggling financially. I couldn't afford day care, so I had you with me at rehearsals. You were a darling. You got into everything; I always found you coddled by some ingenue in her dressing room, make-up on your face, a huge grin. . ."

Kate couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of her chest, saw it breaking the tension in Castle's body too. She smiled at him. "Oh, sweetheart, you were the star of the show."

Castle rolled his eyes, but she saw the flush on his face and the sense of awe stealing over him. He didn't remember these stories and he'd never had anyone to retell them, so of course he was falling under his mother's spell.

What she wouldn't give for her own mother back, for a night like this, reliving old memories.

"When I found the boarding school - oh, it was a godsend. I'd needed that, and they were offering a discounted price, and how was I to know?"

"Know what?" Castle whispered.

"That he was setting me up. That he was squeezing me out."

Kate tightened her grip on Martha's arm, tried to lend her some support. She knew firsthand how conniving Black could be.

"What did he do?" Castle said. Kate could see the heat rising in him again.

"He'd send me reports about how well you were doing. On parent days, I could never manage to visit - I wouldn't know about them ahead of time or he'd lie his way around them. I meant to - oh, darling. I meant to."

"But he orchestrated things so that you never went back," Kate finished, the whole thing clear to her. "And then he convinced you - didn't he? - that a boy needed his father more. That a boy shouldn't be getting makeovers from pretty young starlets and watching his mother entertain men."

Martha closed her eyes.

"Fuck him," Castle growled. "Fuck the-"

"Castle," she hissed. Kate waited until his gaze met hers in a hot flash of confrontation, but he dropped his head and shut his mouth.

"Martha," she said quietly. "I wish it'd been different. But we don't blame you. Rick doesn't blame you. We know how Black can be."

Castle made a strangled noise and pressed his fists into the table top.

Kate took a breath and glanced up at Castle, tried to ask permission with just a look. He didn't seem to see her; he was staring at Martha.

She went ahead and did it anyway. "Martha, deceiving people was his job. He was a CIA agent. Castle's father was a spy."