A/N: G'day fellow readers. The following two chapters (separated here for readability) may or may not turn out to be too AU or OOC for some of you to follow. So, I wanted to take a moment and thank everyone for coming with me this far. As for the rest of you fine folk, please enjoy the update, and I hope to have more soon.
"Tell me," John Autry asks, "do you remember when you became self-aware?" Kate arches an eyebrow at the unexpected starting point. "Uh, no, wait," he adds. Both hands rise and thread together in the air before him with his elbows set upon the table. "How do I put that better? Is it consciousness? Forgive me, this isn't something I'm in the habit of discussing quite like this. Do you know what I'm trying to ask?"
"Under the circumstances, I think so," Beckett offers, though her tone is uncertain. "You're talking about being conscious of our mortality, the consequences of our actions—coming of age realizations, right?"
The Sergeant smiles again, if minimally. Given the rareness of even that much, it counts. "He told me you were intelligent too. You're batting a thousand so far." There isn't time to preen even if she were in the mood. He carries on with a nod, "Yes. That's what I meant. When we were young, Richard's favorite stories were mostly bildungsroman, which are—
"It's German," Kate offers with a cocked eyebrow, "for a story following the psychological and moral formation of a protagonist who's exploring the transition between adolescence and adulthood. Technically, it's more a subset of the genre, because many cultures use a literal age as the delimitation rather than emotional maturity, which is automatically, often erroneously implied. We're here for a history lesson, John, not literature."
"You're bearing with me like I asked, aren't you?"
Beckett looks pointedly away. "I don't remember agreeing to that."
"Ah, but do you remember when you became self-aware?"
She purses her lips, but gives him a point for the clever transition. "It's tricky for me to answer that."
"Oh?"
Beckett shifts her weight in the chair and pauses for a sip of coffee. He's still waiting patiently as she lowers it back to the table. Le sigh. Fine. "I was an early bloomer, I guess. My parents had this way about them. I remember the first and only time my Dad spanked me. I was, what...three at the time? Yeah. We were at a little bodega and I wanted something—who knows what now. Candy or some toy probably. Dad said no, and I was like a little volcano, blew my top right then and there. Well, he picked me up, carried me out to the car thrashing and howling all the way, and then put me over his knee in that quiet corner of the parking lot."
She pauses as a flit of amusement rocks her upper body. "I remember it because it was such a shocking thing. And it hurt, you know? He didn't injure me or anything, of course, but he had a firm hand that night. Still, I was more surprised than anything. Dad set me upright afterward, looked me square in the eye, calm as can be, and told me 'That kind of behavior isn't going to work, Katie. You're going to have to find a different way.'"
John studies her without reaction, but she can sense interest in the minutia of his body language.
"There was something about the way he said it, or maybe it was the expression on his face. It made me think. And he saw that. He calls it my first glint of mischief."
"That's brilliant," the Sergeant remarks with an admiring shake of his head.
Kate smirks briefly. "That's how my folks were. They tried their best to make me use my noggin. You might say they steered me into self-awareness through a subtle use of influence. But," she continued, her humor pulled apart like smoke in a strong breeze, "the game all changed after my mother was taken from us. I don't want to call it regression, but it would be fair to say that I became goal-oriented even to the exclusion of self-awareness. Long story short, I found my equilibrium again over time and through therapy. So, to answer your question, I started young, but with the interrupt involved I don't feel like I really hit that marker until I was in my twenties."
"It was the same for me," the other agrees with another nod. "Different methods and causalities, but the final timeline matches. Over the years I've asked other people about their experiences regarding the matter. The answers are interesting, because we all reach that point, more or less, but there's no accounting for when. The most common answer I receive is early-to-mid twenties. That's why we term it coming of age though—its a long process of rinse and repeat. Some people do hit it in their teens though, and still others discover it quite early in their lives."
Beckett smirks again. "Are you gonna tell me that Castle is still waiting for his moment? Even I have to give him more credit than that. Granted, some days I wonder. You can take my word for it though: he's all man."
John chuckles quietly, broad shoulders stirring. Wow. Look at you go, like an emotional caterpillar shedding its cocoon. Ich bin impressed. "Nope. I like it when he makes me wonder, but there's no argument from me that he's hit that developmental benchmark. Actually, I'm familiar with the first time Richard talked about the fact that he would die one day. My father told me about it, I mean. I don't actually remember. We were only five."
"Five years old?" she shoots back wide-eyed.
John shrugs one shoulder. "It's not exactly rare to be that young when achieving some comprehension of death. We're speaking of degrees, mind you. A lot of kids realize it, or are told about it, and that's that. It's little more than an interesting wrinkle of their personality, not something they dwell upon. Others, however, apply their new understanding of mortality to their patterns of behavior and decision making, the way most adults do. That doesn't necessarily make an adult, of course. The gift, if that's what it can be called, is the potential for a result, not the guarantee of one. Self-awareness grants neither intelligence nor wisdom. Likewise, it doesn't make us better people. In fact, there are some who associate too much awareness too early in life to the development of psychopathy. Critical-thinking processes develop disproportionate to the ability to empathize with others. One is outpaced by the other."
"What a cheerful thought. I could've been a contender," she deadpans. "Wait...five years old." She sits forward meaningfully, growing tense and frowning. "What exactly are you saying about Castle?"
"No, no, no," John replies hastily. "Nothing like that."
Beckett shifts in her chair again and crosses her arms, discomfited despite the reassurance. He asked her to bear with him. That was a simpler request at the time. "Get to the point then, John."
"We are, I promise. What we're talking about is relevant. Just not the way you inferred." She makes no reply, and at length he carries on. "Uh, where was I? Oh yes. Early awakenings like that aren't rare per se, but they are uncommon. Generally speaking, kids are allowed to be kids. You may be thinking of child-abuse victims now, or similar cases where trauma might pave the way for an epiphany on the subject, and to be fair that does result in certain cases, but not as often as you might think. There is, after all, a distinct difference between being taught to fear or respect fire, and comprehending the fullness of what fire is capable of. The truth is, the scientific consensus regarding the developmental timing of self-awareness is hit and miss. There are simply too many factors to be certain."
The subject is unsettling, but this seems to be an evening ear-marked for such. Kate doesn't let herself get swept away, but shakes her head with a sway of her hair and gestures lightly. "Go on."
"Getting back to Richard, I mentioned the day he first expressed his own cognizance of death. We were in a summer daycare together back then. I had trouble falling asleep during nap-time. Bad dreams. When that part of our day came about, he would tell me stories to help me fall asleep. Well, he told them to myself, Genie, and Laura. The four of us were always thick as thieves."
"Genie. Castle mentioned her. Your wife, right?"
The Sergeant sighs. He almost smiles, but doesn't quite. "Yes. The fact that he spoke of us is worthy of note. We never met Meredith or Gina if that tells you anything. Richard's always kept Montauk and The City at arm's length from one another. We know Alexis, but out of respect we've kept our distance. To her I'm just another cop and Genie is simply a housekeeper. She doesn't know about any of this."
Is that why you hide this, Rick—for Alexis' sake? It's not a shocking theory. And yet it is. Castle has always expressed the preference for honesty with his daughter. Some things obviously don't qualify. It would be a conundrum though; as a sole caregiver he would need his daughter's complete confidence in him. Being a victim often engenders a very different outlook even when it probably shouldn't. Survival is no sign of weakness, but some people can't make that leap. The ambivalence churning through her veins keeps her thoughts tangled for a time. John doesn't interrupt them. At length Kate scoots the matter aside. She explores the unknown name instead. "Um, he didn't mention a Laura."
"No." John moistens his lips and those dark orbs lower to the table again. "I don't expect he would. Laura was Genie's monozygotic twin sister." Was? Oh...oh my goodness, please no. Don't say it. Not a kid. "She was taken from us along with the four women involved in this case." Beckett winces hard and stands. She begins pacing the limited space on her half of the room in an otherwise inexpressible agitation. "Richard and her were especially close."
Slender digits push through the detective's hair as she pauses briefly with her chin lowered, hazel eyes pinned upon the polished floor. "God damn," she whispers. There's nothing else to say. Her mind is all awhirl.
John keeps going, filling in the dreadful silence. "Our mothers knew each other. That's how we ended up together to begin with. They were all pregnant at the same time. They came from different economic statuses, but they attended the same local Lamaze classes and became fast friends. They even threw one huge baby shower together at Montauk Point Light. Half the town showed up. Uh. We were all April newborns. First Rick, then the girls, and then me."
"Baby bear," Kate says with a sad smile. Her companion doesn't, but the grimness of his expression lessens some. "Okay, so you were all five years old, and you had trouble sleeping," she prompts, because the only way through this is forward and her urgency to finish this is mounting ever higher the more she hears.
"He told me: 'You gotta get better, Johnny.' Actually, he was still pronouncing it as 'Yohnny' at the time. 'J' is one of the latter consonants kids pick up. So," her companion soldiers on, "'You gotta get better, Yohnny, 'cause I won't always be here to help you sleep.' That's what he tells me one day, out of nowhere. My father said that the woman working at the time overheard him. She was upset that he knew. Genie and I didn't hear the conversation that took place between her and Richard, or if we did we didn't get it. Laura did though and she started bawling inconsolably." Once again the officer's mouth fashions itself into that almost-smile. "Poor thing. As you can imagine, her upset spread like wildfire. Soon enough Richard and our poor caretaker were standing in the middle of a storm of tears and wails from all of the other kids there with us." John exhales a soft chuckle, but his eyes are melancholy.
Beckett doesn't trust her voice enough to even open her mouth, let alone attempt speech. She isn't moved to tears easily, and indeed she is not presently, but the woman isn't made of stone either.
Mercifully, John doesn't look over at her. He's staring at his hands, though as for that, the infrequency of blinking suggests he's leagues away. "From that day on Richard was a little different." A line of consideration intrudes upon the man's otherwise smooth brow. "I don't know if that was the actual moment he realized his own mortality. Indeed, I hope not, because it was certainly the one he learned that his actions bore consequences. I know, because from that point forward he stopped wondering about things with me. I do remember that. 'What're you gonna be when we grow up?' I'd ask. Or 'Do you think we'll be friends forever?' And he'd give me this quiet little smile and turn the question around on me or distract me in some other fashion."
Beckett's fingers hover at her mouth in an unconscious attempt to hide. They're trembling lightly.
John notices. "You see where this is going?"
I have since you started down this road, damn you. Kate shakes her head sharply, not in denial, but in the refusal of answering. "Don't stop," she grits.
"Uh, it took an adult's perspective for me to look back and realize what he was doing, how awakening isolated him from the rest of us. From everyone really, because he was too young to understand that most adults would've known what he was going through. He didn't want to upset anyone again, and he didn't know what was okay to speak of in terms of avoiding that outcome, so he kept far more than was necessary to himself. That moment in our daycare set a tone, you see: the kids and the only adult in the room reacted poorly. We unwittingly taught Richard to hide. It's no one's fault really, just a tangle of perfectly dreadful timing." John's tenor rings a little deeper as he says so, strained by grief. "It was only the following summer that what happened...happened. And then he was gone." One of his hands lifts with the fingers bunched skyward. He expels a breath across the tips and spreads them apart, mimicking, she imagines, the death-cycle of a dandelion when its fluffy white pappi are scattered by the wind. "Just...gone. Both of them."
Six years old. Beckett faces the opposite way, which is the only modicum of privacy the room allows.
"I've forgotten most of the time between then and, oh, the following few years really. If I'm being honest," the Sergeant ventures, "I'm not sorry it's gone. Genie remembers. She's a steel trap in that respect, which just kills me sometimes. Not remembering feels like I've abandoned her to face it alone." His voice falls to an even quieter murmur. "Sometimes I imagine a scenario in which a random stranger approaches and offers me all of those memories back, like a bag full of magic beans. It's free of charge, except that I would have to go back and relive it all again in order to earn my recall. I'm not strong like Genie. Or Richard. Sometimes I accept that bag, but more often I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know what I would say if it ever actually happened."
Kate turns against her better judgment. It's a mistake. The big man's eyes are limned by a gleam of moisture along both lower eyelids. They are not tears—in the same way that the shadows in the room are not the greater entity of Nightfall. It's close enough to demand a swipe of her fingers across the slant of either cheek. She sniffs quietly, wetly, and dabs at her nose with her wrist. She returns to her chair and lowers heavily down into it.
John looks up several moments later, blinking, and clears his throat roughly. "Ah, goodness. I'm sorry."
Even to Kate's ears her voice is as thin as paper. "Don't be."
"No. This isn't even my story. I know better. It's not my intent to monopolize it somehow. God help me, even now I have the hardest time distinguishing where the lines are between us all when this stuff resurfaces."
The dark-haired woman lays a hand over one of his in a mute gesture of comfort. "Rick said that one of the reasons he held off with all of this until now was because it isn't just his story to tell."
Her companion straightens in his chair at that, nods once, and retracts his hands to curl them both around his coffee mug. "Even so, I appreciate your patience, Detective Beckett."
"It's Kate, John. Please." The other offers a small, wan smile in reply. Quiescence settles between them. They still have a long ways to go tonight, but neither proves eager enough to disturb the stillness.
It calls to mind a specific brand of silence which Kate sometimes awoke to in the middle of the night when she was a just a girl. The door to her bedroom would be almost closed with mere slivers of yellowish light bordering its dimensions from the glow of a lamp in the downstairs hallway. The softest murmur of the television would be audible if her father was still awake, or the stereo if it was her mother burning the midnight oil. Sometimes both of them would be up and even their modulated voices would reverberate upstairs to her bedroom, the first door on the left, to tease the very limits of their daughter's ability to perceive. Sometimes they would laugh, and it saddened her to be that close and yet removed from them.
That is how she feels now. So close to Castle, but inescapably held apart. He's the lure of light and sweet sound in the rooms downstairs—only vaguely heard and never quite understood.
When she was a girl those infrequent midnight awakenings came and went without her sneaking downstairs, or even to the top of them to listen a little more closely. She stayed in bed, because in the darkness of her room a little girl's fears clamored amidst the drumming of her heart, unfurling cautionary imaginings of slathering maws or taloned grips just waiting under her bed for her little toes to drift down towards the tufted surface of the carpeted floor. Those old fears were loud and demanding of attention just as much as they now seem lacking in feasibility.
There's valid reason to be afraid presently. Castle's monster proved itself real. She's guessing it rampaged within him just as much as it did out in the real world. Terror like that doesn't come with the same clamor as fear. No, the former steals upon the unwary with the barest of cold whispers, the most ancient adversary which moves unseen and unheard until the precise moment it designs to be known. It emerges from far more primordial places within the mind, as if humanity bore an inescapable genetic endowment of memory from prior ages when their species was young and vulnerable to tooth and claw. Kate feels a connection to that at times, things her mind cannot recollect but which her blood remembers where it runs deepest. Whether that heritage of dark and mindless violence actually belongs to men or besets them...she doesn't know. And that in turn is one of the definitive motivations behind the work she does: the yearning to comprehend.
Every inner stream and river, every wayward trickle and latent drip of that desire to know gathers slowly as she and John linger idly at the table together. It pools in her guts and spills into all of the hollowed places carved into her by the acidic burn of recent grief until she's brimming with this more potent, purposeful energy. Then Beckett leans calmly forward where she sits, her hazel eyes dry and clear upon the man across from her. "Continue."
