Title: Good For You
Disclaimer: I like to think AWM doesn't get weird looks for writing in coffee shops.
Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.
Chapter 38:
"Castle," Kate warns as he goes to assist his mother through the door to their lobby.
"What?" he mutters back as she cuts him off, allowing Eduardo to get the door for Martha.
"She's not an invalid," she tells him, smiling to Eduardo.
"She was just in the hospital," Castle bites back, watching his mother warily as she walks slowly across the lobby toward the elevator.
"And she's just fine. You need to lay off," Kate continues.
"She's—I'm not—jeez," he decides as they catch up to his mother, who, to her credit, is standing tall by the elevator, dressed to the nines.
"I do have ears," she informs them, seemingly amused by their argument.
Kate blushes and gives his mother an apologetic look, but he's unfazed. "Let's hope those genes make it through. We could have ninja children."
That'll show Kate. Being overbearing his ass. He's just being considerate.
"Richard, I can cross the elevator on my own," his mother tells him, gently pulling her elbow from his grasp.
"Ass," Kate adds as she follows them into the car.
He frowns at her, but she shakes her head, reaching out to take his fingers between hers. He sighs and tries to refrain from glancing at his mother every three seconds. She's fine. She is. She won't be taking a marathon walk or anything for a few days, but she's going to be just fine.
He follows his ladies out of the elevator, watches as Kate handles the keys and opens the door, holding it for his mother. Sure, holding the door open is fine, but a friendly hand is too much?
Kate gives him a look, as though she can hear him whining, and he rolls his eyes. She locks up once he and Martha are inside, and then he feels her at his back, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck before she slides around him and asks Martha if she'd like some water.
"I think I'll just head up, dear. Thank you," his mother says, giving them both a tired smile.
He takes a single step toward the stairs, and his mother sighs, glaring him off. What is it with these women? He just wants to help. What's so wrong about that?
So he watches anxiously as his mother slowly climbs the stairs, her hand tight on the banister. But she makes it.
"Wake me in an hour, would you?" she calls down to him.
"Make it two and you have a deal," he shoots back.
"Fine," Martha says, giving him a wave before she makes her way down the hall.
Jack had been planning to take her home—was taking time off, apparently—but he'd been called in for a small crisis, and wouldn't be free until the evening. Castle had wanted to take care of his mother, but now, now he thinks maybe it would be better for Jack to take her for the rest of the week. Perhaps she'll be more open to help if it isn't from her son.
"Water?" Kate asks, and he turns to look at her, watching him from the kitchen.
"Got anything stronger?" He walks over and slumps down onto one of the bar stools.
She hands him a glass of iced tea and he chuckles, looking over at her where she's resting against the far counter.
"You look like you need a nap," she says softly.
He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, closing his eyes for a moment, somehow exhausted by the simple act of getting his mother from the hospital. It shouldn't be this hard.
"Come on."
He opens his eyes and finds Kate there beside him, gently tugging him up and away from the kitchen. He follows her as she guides him back to their room, lets her sit him down on the bed.
"Alexis will be here in a few hours for dinner with Jack, and you should—you're pale, and I don't think you'll like my foundation."
He gives her a small smile and lies down. She watches him for a moment, then moves to unlace his shoes, her fingers light and soft against his feet. See, he's letting her take care of him. What's so wrong with doing the same with his mother?
"Eyes closed," she chides gently.
"Come 'ere," he says, scooting back across the bed and motioning for her to join him.
"I should do the dishes and probably call my dad," she protests, even as she sits there by his hip, running her hand across his shoulder.
"You don't have to do chores."
"Someone needs to do them."
"Doesn't need to be you." He grabs her hand even as she laughs at him. Why is she laughing at him?
"Castle, who else is going to do the dishes?"
"The—um, I'll—oh," he lets out. Well, yeah, but still. She could— "Nap with me, then I'll do them and you can relax or something."
She eyes him, head tilted to the side. "You aren't going to sleep if I go take care of things, are you?"
He shakes his head emphatically, very close to getting her to lie down with him. "Not a wink."
She sighs and crawls into bed, nudging him to get his legs off their throw blanket so she can haul it over them. He grins and tugs her in, settling himself at her back, his arm over her stomach—a big Kate teddy bear to ward off the nightmares.
"The things I do for you," she lets out, but he can hear her smile.
He leans forward and kisses the back of her head, nudging her hair away so he can breathe her in and nestle his nose into the crook of her neck. She relaxes under his arm and then squirms, working her cell out of her pocket. He watches over her shoulder as she sets an alarm for an hour.
"Sleep," she orders quietly.
"Could do something else," he mumbles into her hair.
"Later. We can unpack my bathroom stuff."
He blinks sluggishly for a moment. "Is your bathroom stuff sexy?"
She laughs, her body trembling under his fingers, rubbing against his chest in a way that's delightful and comfortable and warm. "Could be. Sleep so you find out."
(…)
After dinner finds them all in the living room, his mother reclined on the couch, Alexis on one side, Jack on the other. Castle sits in one of the armchairs, watching as his daughter and mother try to include Jack in a conversation about internet-hyped theatre. It's surprisingly entertaining—makes him feel a little better about the fact that Kate and Alexis do the same to him.
Kate steps out of the office carrying his laptop and navigates her way across the living room with ease, despite the fact that she's got her eyes glued to the screen. She comes to stand in front of him and then looks around him, seemingly surprised to find herself without somewhere to sit down.
He's about to get up to move somewhere where they can share the laptop, but she just plops herself down in his lap, laughing as he huffs.
"Paula just sent me these," she says, shifting until she's cradled in his lap and he can see the screen.
"Oh, wow," he lets out, looking over the mock-ups for the invitations for the Benefit. "You like it?"
She nods and trips her fingers over his shoulder. He's surprised. The cover is a picture of them—a candid someone must have taken at the precinct at one point or another. The photo is black-and-white, and they're figures are mainly silhouettes, but it's obviously them; they're standing side by side, backs to the camera, staring at a blank murder board.
The NYPD and Black Pawn Publishing invite you to attend
The Write a Better Story Benefit
in support of the Johanna Beckett Scholarship
"The Write a Better Story Benefit?" he asks softly.
She meets his eyes and nods slowly, looking bold and shy at once, as if his—as if his approval means something to her.
"I thought," she pauses and glances toward the rest of the family, who are making absolutely no effort to appear otherwise engaged. She laughs and then smiles as she looks back at him. "I thought it was fitting. My mother didn't write like you do, but she was trying to do the same, to rewrite the endings of other people's stories."
"I—uh, wow," he manages.
"And since it's being thrown by Black Pawn, and we discussed using our limited press to promote the benefit, I just thought that it should encompass that—you, us."
"Kate," he whispers. "I'm honored. I didn't—thank you."
She shakes her head and leans in to brush her lips over his cheek. "I love you," she tells his skin before pulling back to look over at his family.
"I think that's wonderful," Alexis tells them. "When is it?"
"Paula's thinking the week before Christmas. Invites need to go out the beginning of next week. She thinks we won't turn a huge profit this year, but it's better to get it set up as an annual rather than wait a year for a bigger bang," Kate explains.
He and Paula went back and forth about that, but he won't mention it to Kate, especially considering that he was the one pulling for a later date, a longer invitation period. But seeing how happy it's made his fiancée, how much it means, what she named it—he agrees with Paula now. It's worth it, if for nothing else than the closure it can give Kate, can give both of them.
"Do you have a dress yet?" Martha asks. Alexis perks up beside her, and he can already see a plan forming in his daughter's eyes.
"Lanie and I tried, but struck out," Kate admits.
"Perhaps we can make that an outing," his mother suggests.
"We should get it soon, in case it needs alterations," Alexis adds.
"Yours too," Kate shoots back.
Alexis' eyes widen and he opens his mouth, about to tell her how utterly ridiculous it is to think that she wouldn't be invited, but Kate beats him to it.
"We shouldn't match, but something complimentary, you know? For family pictures. There'll probably be a bit of that, right?" Kate continues, looking back at him, ignoring the way Alexis' mouth has just flopped open.
That's one way to console his kid, he supposes, watching as both Martha and Jack chuckle quietly. "Probably," he agrees. "Paula hasn't mentioned what you've discussed in terms of publicity, and the types of publicity."
"Well, we're not auctioning you off this time," she says easily, winking at his mother.
"We made a lot of money for MADT on that date," Martha exclaims.
"What date?" Jack interjects.
"Oh, Gram auctioned Dad off for charity a few years ago. Was that the date you came back from wearing your soup?" Alexis chimes in.
He groans and Kate lets out a loud laugh, jostling the laptop and digging her delightful but bony butt into his leg. "Yes, it was," he grumbles. "You could have helped me."
"Oh, come on, Castle. How could I have passed that up?"
He glares at her, but his mother and daughter are giggling together, a flush on Martha's cheeks, and he gives up, conceding defeat to a delighted Kate. She hefts the laptop onto the coffee table and then readjusts in his lap, brushing her fingers over his shoulder, as if that undoes the torture of that horrible date nearly five years ago.
"Why did you get covered in soup?" Jack asks, but his eyes are on Martha, clearly enjoying her merriment—a proof of life and vivacity.
Castle can so relate. "My date was extraordinarily clumsy. Knocked down a waiter, and in the process, sent our table flying. Thus, the soup covered suit—it couldn't be saved."
The group laughs and he takes it. Maybe he can't help his mother recover, but he can help her laugh. And that's important, right? Laughing, going on with life, being normal, like the hospital never happened. All that's changed is that his mother holds a glass of water instead of wine. Come to think of it, that's a huge thing.
"Hey," Kate says softly while the others recover.
"Hi," he mumbles back, tearing his eyes away from his mother—his mother, who has her own alcohol issues that might just be fixed by this new diet. His mother, sober. He can't remember a single time in his life when his mother didn't drink at least a glass of wine a day—hardly too much, but often not so little.
Kate follows his gaze to his mother's water glass, and he feels her fingers tighten on his shoulder, and her lips find his cheek a moment later. He squeezes her knee and she smiles against his cheek.
"So, if not a ride-along or a date, what kind of stuff will you be doing?" Alexis asks, bringing them out of their little bubble.
"We'll take pictures for a two page spread in the Ledger," Kate tells them, relaxing against him. "The article should focus on my mother's case, her struggle, and the value of the work she did. Paula says there'll be some stuff about me, and your Dad in there too, and it'll close with information for giving donations."
She glances at him, and he smiles, impressed. It sounds like a good plan—a way to up donations even with the late invitations. And it makes it accessible, known, so students will know it exists once there's enough money—the whole point, really.
"And you'll take pictures for other papers as well," Martha says.
Kate nods. "I've been advised to practice my smile, and, I quote, 'find a pose where I don't look put-upon.'"
"Really?" he groans. "I'm gonna kill her."
Kate laughs and shakes her head. "No, she's right. I was put upon, at the time."
"That reporter was pretty irritating," he agrees, lifting his head to meet her eyes.
"By you, you dolt," she says, flicking his ear. "The reporter was annoying, but you posing with those strippers was worse."
"Strippers? At the precinct. Da-ad!" Alexis exclaims.
"Models. They were models," he says quickly while Martha laughs and Jack regards them all with mild horror and curiosity. "They were models," he repeats, looking at Kate. "And they told me to."
"Uh-huh."
(…)
He looks down at the photo album, running his fingers across the lightly worn brown leather. The pillows are piled at his back, and the soft sounds of the sink fill the room as he sits in bed, staring at this album.
He takes a breath and opens it to stare at the photo of his mother at the hospital, cradling her infant son to her chest.
He turns the page and smiles at his toddler self, following after his mother as she walked an empty stage, a script in her hand.
Another page, and he's seven, peeking out from behind a curtain as his mother gives an audition. He doesn't think she got the part, and has no idea how she got the picture, but he can see the sand bag that fell on him still swinging in place above his head when the photo was taken. He was under for two days for that, nearly gave his mother a heart attack.
He feels the bed dip and shifts over to make room for Kate as she curls up beside him, reaching out toward the album. She doesn't move it though.
"Do you mind if I look?" she murmurs.
He shifts the album so it rests on their thighs and curls his arm around her, a silent invitation. She presses a kiss to his naked shoulder and traces the edge of the page with her fingers.
"You were a cute little guy," she says quietly.
He grins a little. He does. He was a cute little kid; it's true. He turns the page and laughs, half embarrassment, half amusement.
There he is, swimming in one of his mother's costume dresses as she kneels on the floor, fiddling with the bodice. He's glaring at the camera, hands clenched in little fists at his sides. He must be about eight years old, and he remembers it—remembers Ramona, his mother's friend, who took the picture. She laughed so hard and he nearly pitched a fit.
"Oh, God," Kate giggles. "You were so cute."
"Promise me that you will never use our son as a dress mannequin."
She laughs harder, but nods, tapping his little face in the picture. "I have Alexis for that."
He smiles. His children will have a mother. A mother and a father, together, happy—something he couldn't give Alexis, something his mother couldn't give to him, something Kate didn't get to keep.
"Hey," she says, bumping his shoulder with her chin.
"They get two," he manages. Before, when he thought of Alexis, he was so grateful for Kate—to give his children a mother that would stay. But now, now it's for him too, for her, for all of them.
"Two," she repeats.
"Parents. Two parents the whole time."
"Castle," she says gently, and he realizes he's gotten worked up, is tense there in their bed.
"I just—none of us had that. Nobody. Alexis lost Meredith. I never had a father. And your mom—none of us."
Kate frowns and takes the album from him, sliding it back onto her bedside before she shifts so she can look at him. She raises a hand to cradle his jaw. He turns his cheek into her palm, pressing his lips to her skin.
"It's been a long day," he says by way of explanation.
"Oh, no, you don't get to bow out of that," she says firmly and he laughs, startled. "You don't get to open that up and walk away from it. How the hell am I supposed to sleep now?"
"I—sorry?" he says sheepishly.
"Not—oh, you idiot," she grouses, tugging on him until they're both sprawled on the bed.
She rolls away and turns out the lights. He waits, letting her arrange them how she likes, until she's snuggled up beside him, both of them staring up at the ceiling.
"Things our kids get that we didn't have—barring freak accidents and police…issues. Go."
"Do not even go there," he growls, gripping at the hand she's slid into his.
"Just saying," she whispers, bringing their hands to her lips. "Go, Castle."
Now he just wants to roll her up and keep her close, because there is no certainty at all that his kids will have two parents. Either one of them could die in the field.
"Save it for when I go back to the precinct," she says, nudging his leg with hers. "Go."
He grumbles but pushes it away, gives in to this thing he started—him and his big mouth. "Okay, um, two parents at graduation."
She hums and squeezes his hand, wriggling a little next to him. "Two parents at the wedding."
This is starting to feel less fun, less joyous than he meant it to be; granted, he didn't really think they'd ever actually talk about this like this.
"One high school," he decides. That's not so sad. Sure, some of the boarding schools were lonely, but he did get kicked out for some pretty spectacular pranks, never mind the fact that for a bunch of them, he was trying to get kicked out.
"One home," she puts in. "Well, two. Wait, three? My dad's cabin would be nice for a Christmas some time—or camping."
"So, three homes. Average, for a little kid, you think?" he says, laughing as she digs her elbow lightly into his ribs. "Cool though—woods and ocean. Did you travel a lot as a kid?"
"Just to the cabin. I think we went to Cape Cod once too. But they both worked too much to take long vacations very often," Kate says, and he feels her shoulder rise and fall against his.
"Can we add travel, then? Across the country, out of the country? I didn't do any of that until it was on my own money," he says, struck by the image of them with kids, going to Disney land, the Caribbean, touring Castles with the Castles in Europe.
"Sounds good," she whispers. "No daycare."
"No daycare," he agrees slowly. Never—he never plans on putting his kids in daycare, or giving them a nanny. But that would mean—
"Once they're in preschool, maybe you consult every so often," she says softly. "But, not now. Let's not do that now either."
"Okay," he agrees. This is easy. That is hard. And they don't need more that's hard now—more hard choices of this or that. "Uh, oh! Home cooked meals. Every night. Most nights."
She laughs. "Yeah. And at the table, everyone at the table, no work, no files."
"Did your mom read at the table?" he asks.
"They both did sometimes," she admits. "Not often, but those are the ones I remember more, you know? One of our last dinners together at home, all three of us just sat there together, doing work, and I—not for us."
"No work at the table," he agrees, turning his head to watch her as she looks up at the ceiling, eyes far away.
He's had a thoroughly idyllic picture of her childhood in his head, and he knows it was wonderful, but perhaps it wasn't so perfect. Of course it wasn't; nothing ever is. But it's real now, tangible, the little things she would do differently—normal things she would change, because everyone has them, murdered mother or not.
"Knowing their grandparents," he says quietly.
She sucks in a breath and squeezes his hand. "All three," she says. "Visiting my mom should—right? We should do that."
"If you want to. I'll take your lead on that," he promises.
"They should know her," Kate decides. "Did you not know yours?"
"I don't even know my father," he says, wincing as it comes out, somehow bitter and sad at once.
She turns and curls into him, reaching her arm across his chest as she rests her head on the crook of his shoulder. Her knee slides over his thigh and he turns his head to breathe her in.
"No alcoholism," Kate says on a breath.
"God, no," he agrees as he runs his fingers up and down her arm, staring over her head at the dresser, where all of their things are scattered together. "Open door policy."
She presses her lips to his skin. "Need more on that one."
"They can always come in at night," he explains. "Disruptive, but I don't—I almost never had anyone here when Alexis was little, or ever, really. But sometimes when I was a kid, the door was locked and I didn't want to bother her, but I, uh," he breaks off, embarrassed or choked up, or something he can't quite describe.
"You needed your mom," Kate says softly.
"And she was there, most of the time. I just, I had nightmares sometimes and the locked door was just hard," he gets out.
"They can always come in," she promises. "You'll probably regret that at one point or another," she adds, rolling her hips against him once.
He laughs. "I'm sure. But I'd rather that than the locked door."
"They don't sleep with us though," she says slowly, hesitantly.
"No, no," he agrees. "No, we go back with them. It worked with Alexis—made her room safe. A snooze is fine though. They're so cute in the big bed."
"They are, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. All starfished in the middle, with messy hair and these little feet. So cute. And then they hide under the blankets and think you can't see them, giggling like little spies."
"They do that too?"
He glances down at her and finds her watching him, amused and besotted. "I'm a sap," he defends, a little indignant.
"Color me surprised," she tosses back, letting her face grow into a grin. "It's cute."
"I'm a sap, and I'm cute. Great," he says, looking back up at the ceiling.
"Silly, embarrassing dad."
"Me? Probably am, yeah," he admits.
"No, I mean, I want that, for them. All the way through, from when they love it to when they want to walk ten paces ahead of us, to when they want you to be that for their kids," she clarifies. "Just—just be their dad the whole time."
"I promise," he says, bending his neck to press his lips to her forehead. "I'm only going to get more embarrassing with age."
"I'm sure," she says, and he huffs while she laughs, relaxing against him.
"Mom who doesn't leave for months for work," he says softly, dual images of his mother and Meredith giving him a kiss and walking out the door.
"Just for the day," Kate says. "And you guys can always come bring me coffee," she adds, smiling into his shoulder.
Oh, he wants that—wants to bring little hands and feet and pink tinged cheeks to the precinct with coffee and cookies for Mommy and the uncles. "Family breakfasts, once a week. Either home or we go out," he adds.
"Yeah," she says, and he hears it in her voice; the picture that's in his head is in hers too, of the two of them, and Alexis, and a little girl or a little boy—everyone around the table, laughing in pajamas and covered in syrup.
"It'll be good," he decides, his throat tight with it—with the story in his head they'll get to make come true.
"It'll be great," she corrects before she arches up to find his lips in a soft, tired kiss.
He may not have a father, and she may not have a mother, and their remaining parents might not be perfect, but they have them. And they get to take everything that was good, and all that was bad, and choose to give their children what is best.
They get to write a better story.