101. Hopes and betrayals

She pulls up at the precinct, parks tidily with her police ID on display, and walks in. Sergeant Hardon is on the desk.

“Detective Beckett, hello,” he says, and continues before she can even open her mouth on a greeting. “Have you come to pick up that Berowitz guy? He’s in the tank again. We called his wife: did she ask you to come by?”

“No. No,” Beckett says, trying not to let her voice rise in horror. “I dropped by to see O’Leary. He’d picked up some stuff for me.” She starts for the elevator.

“Detective Beckett? Kate?” comes from behind her.

Oh fuck no. Nooooooo!

“Kate, please? I need your help. Please?” It’s Julia Berowitz. Beckett turns, pulling on her professional persona as she does.

“I…”

“He’s worse.”

“That’s” –

“Looks like you two have some things to talk about,” Sergeant Hardon interrupts happily. “Take your time, Beckett. Don’t worry, I’ll call O’Leary and get him down here.” Sergeant Hardon is dialling before she can say no.

“Kate, you have to help me. David’s not well. I really need your help.”

It’s horribly familiar. She’s been there already. Julia leaning on her and needing her and making demands and forcing her to get involved.

“I can’t,” she says. “Orders.”

“But Kate, what will I do?”

Beckett can’t deal with this.

“Do what I told you,” she snaps. “Go to Al-Anon. Get therapy. I told you, you can only save yourself. Your husband is an alcoholic. He’ll pull you down with him. God knows, my Dad did.”

“I can help him. I can.”

“I said that, once. I can’t help you.”

Beckett doesn’t notice O’Leary coming out the elevator.

“You,” Julia spits viciously, “walked away from your own father and wouldn’t help him. You don’t help anyone, do you? Just dump them and carry on. You were supposed to help me and you won’t. How do you live with yourself? How can you just leave your own family like that?”

“I went back to my dad when he got dry and it was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made,” Beckett cries, pushed right over the edge. “You don’t get it, Julia. You never have. You will, though. Oh God, you will. He’ll abuse you when he’s drunk – no, he won’t hit you, but you’ll be cleaning up his mess until you can’t bear it any more, and then you’ll try and walk and you’ll feel guilty till he gets dry. If he gets dry. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Luckier than I was. Maybe he’ll kill himself first.”

Julia is standing, mouth open, wordless, white-faced in the path of Beckett’s fury.

“But then if he gets dry there’ll be different abuse. You’ll do anything to keep him sober. Because you think you love him. He’ll keep you dancing on a string, and you won’t even know it, until you get round to paying for therapy all over again. So get used to it, Julia, because you’ve just signed your life away. I didn’t believe any of it but it’s true. You might as well let him die now, because that way you’ll be able to have a life. Maybe.”

She turns away, fury and tears mixed on her face, then turns back.

“You haven’t been there yet. When you have, then ask me how I’ve lived with it. Because I haven’t. I put my whole life aside to support my father and I’ve wasted it. Ten years, Julia. Did you want a family? I did. You won’t have one. At least you managed the husband, but you won’t be able to care for a child and a drunk. Better give that dream up now.”

Julia is weeping.

“You’ll have to give up everything. I did. And at the end of it all you’ll have is nothing. Your friends’ll slip away. Or you will. Too embarrassing. But you think you can help him. You can save him. Because you love him. I loved my dad. But he didn’t love me and David doesn’t love you. The only thing he loves is the bottle. Good luck, Julia. You’re going to need it. Because one day you’ll wake up and walk out and you’ll wish he’d died. And then you’ll spend the rest of your life feeling guilty until you realise that he’s ruined your life and you’ll still feel guilty.”

She draws a shuddering breath, oblivious to O’Leary’s massive presence almost at her shoulder.

“You’re so shocked,” Beckett says bitterly. “You’d never walk away. Well, I’m no saint. I walked away to save myself and it still didn’t work. I’d have been better off if I’d shot him myself the first time I found him drunk. Not that you’ll believe me. But when you find he’s been abusing you, you’ll remember this and wish you’d listened. Enjoy your saintly martyrdom, Julia. It’s all you’ll have.”

She turns again, and finds her vitriolic fury wrapped into O’Leary’s giant chest and redwood-sized arms.

“Beckett,” he rumbles, “enough. C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

She doesn’t see his signal to the Sergeant, who nods. She’s shaking in his restraining arms as the flood-tide of her fury swallows her up; drowned in the wash of adrenaline-fuelled anger.

She doesn’t see Julia weeping unstoppably behind her as she sees her shambling, drunken husband brought up from the cells.

“Keys, Beckett.” O’Leary’s bass doesn’t register. He takes her small purse and roots through it, finding them. He hasn’t lost contact with her for a second. “Where’s your car?”

“Front.”

“C’mon. Home time. You ain’t right.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Nope. You can’t drive like that. I’ll get you home and then you can do what you like.”

Beckett doesn’t object further. It’s not going to work, and O’Leary’s so big that she can’t stop him doing whatever he’s going to do. She slumps into the passenger seat and closes her eyes. O’Leary knows where she lives: she doesn’t have to tell him.   Slow, silent tears refuse to stay behind her eyelids, and she turns her face to the window. She’s cold, and she’s tired, and she should have stayed gone: that way she’d never have seen Julia Berowitz again.

When O’Leary pulls up and parks she’s superficially composed. He walks her up, produces her key, follows her in, and steers her to the couch. “C’n I have a coffee, Beckett?”

“Sure.” She rises from the couch and aims for her bathroom. O’Leary doesn’t ask any questions at all. As soon as she’s out the way and the kettle filled and on he pulls out his phone and taps out a text to Castle.

Beckett back. Problem at precinct with some woman picking up same drunk when I met you first. B lost it. Brought her home. He presses Send and puts the phone away just in time for Beckett reappearing. She pulls down two mugs and instant coffee. O’Leary receives a normal strength dose. Beckett’s has double that. Again, he doesn’t say a word. Beckett doesn’t offer an explanation, only creamer for his coffee. Since inside his deceptively bulky frame, drawling accent and general hayseed persona O’Leary is actually pretty bright, he has taken the lesson (and a great many conclusions that he’s fairly sure Castle would have preferred O’Leary hadn’t drawn) from Castle’s truncated tale, and has decided that the best offense is quite definitely not to ask anything and not to push any further at all. He sits down next to her, cramping her into the corner without at all meaning to (these tiny little couches are no good. His is much bigger) and pats her shoulder, wordlessly.

Beckett drinks her coffee and neither accepts nor rejects O’Leary’s presence. Her day went to hell the moment Julia reappeared, so it can’t really get any worse. She maintains rigid control of her expression and her tear ducts. O’Leary’ll be gone shortly, and she can wash, change, and decide what to do. Alone. She can pack, and leave. Go away. Somewhere. Somewhere no-one wants anything from her.

She finishes her coffee. “You done, O’Leary?” she asks.

“Not quite. Don’t have your asbestos throat.” He pauses. “You sure you’re okay? Sounded pretty worked up, back at Central Park. I can sit a spell longer, if you want some comp’ny for a minute.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you wanna talk…”

Beckett’s eyes flare into furious life. “What, so you can tell me what I ought to do all over again? Like Thursday? Tell me I’m missing the point? No thanks. Tell me I’m screwing up? You already did that. Not your problem. Not your business.”

“You tryin’ to pick a fight with me, Beckett? ‘Cause it ain’t gonna work. Iffen you think I can’t tell that you were cryin’ all the way home an’ you’re just waitin’ for me to leave so you can start again you’re wrong. You need a pal.” He stops for a half-beat. “Or two. An’ I think the other one just arrived.”

“Get out of here,” Beckett says, very quietly and very intensely. “Leave. Now. You had no right. Just because we were pals back in the day.”

“No. Sometimes bein’ pals means doin’ things you won’t like. Like now.” O’Leary gets up and opens the door to admit Castle.

“This is my apartment, and I want you both to leave.”

Castle and O’Leary look at each other, with almost identical expressions, and O’Leary shuts the door behind them.

“No-one’s going to make you do anything, Beckett. Whatever you want to do is up to you. You can go to Dr Burke or not go, or go to the Hamptons or not go: whatever you decide. But right now you need a friend – or two – and we’re here. No-one here wants anything from you. Needs anything from you.” Castle takes a careful breath. “I was wrong yesterday, but you misunderstood me too.   It’s still up to you. It’s always up to you.” Castle moves further inside, closer. O’Leary stays back. “C’mon. You don’t need to say anything now.” He sits down, careful not to touch her.

Beckett stands up, walks to her bedroom, and closes the door behind her. Castle and O’Leary exchange glances. Both of them hear a single choked off noise.

“Time I got back,” O’Leary says softly.

“Thanks. See you. If I’m not dead.”

O’Leary grins widely. “Neither of us is dead yet. We’re already on the good side.” He departs, quietly.

Castle makes himself coffee and settles in for a long wait in which he intends to do precisely nothing for now except read one of Beckett’s books until she reappears and he can work out what she wants. Assertive sexuality is not going to figure in this discussion. It simply won’t work. Well. It would work, but it won’t solve anything for more than a short while and then they’ll be right back here in the same disaster all over again. He casts a glance at his watch. He’s got about four hours before Beckett’s due at Dr Burke’s, and at the moment he’ll be metaphorically sitting on the kerb outside. If an hour passes with nothing, then he’ll consider taking her in a coffee.

Beckett has closed the door on the world. Less than an hour back in Manhattan and everyone wants something. Julia-you’ve-got-to-help-me-Berowitz. O’Leary insisting he takes her home and tattling to Castle that she’s back. Oh yes, she sees that plain as day. O’Leary wants her to be home. She emits a choked-off, furious half-sob, and buries the rest and her face in her pillow. Castle turning up at all. Castle wants her to… what?

Who cares? He wants. They all want. Everybody wants something from her and she has nothing to give. She’s tired: bone-deep weary from supporting her father, waste as that has been; her team; the victims and their families. It’s only in the last few weeks that anyone, apart from occasional times with O’Leary, has supported her, and that’s been rocked by Castle’s insistence that she do it his way. She emits another miserable noise, this time muffled by the pillow. She’d only wanted to be able to stand down and stop with someone who didn’t seem to make any demands on her. Until he did, and it had all been too much for her and she’d lost her temper and lost all her ability to see the other side of the argument. Too many people wanted too much from her, and now she’s run out: Castle had simply been the last straw.

Castle reads without enthusiasm, punctuated by frequent glances at his watch and an inordinate amount of self-control to stop himself walking in on Beckett and pulling her into his arms for some of what Dr Burke had described as physical consolation and/or psychological safety. After an hour, he puts the kettle on, and constructs a trayful of one mug, creamer and spices; together with the French press. He has no idea how she might want to drink her coffee, today. It’ll be up to her. If, of course, she drinks it at all.

Once the coffee has brewed, he pours a mugful for himself, and takes the rest through to Beckett’s bedroom. She’s lying on her bed on her side, face pressed into a pillow. He puts the tray down on the nightstand, and retreats. As he exits, he says softly, “Coffee,” and then re-closes the door behind him.

Beckett doesn’t move when Castle enters. She expects nothing other than his usual behaviour: assertive physicality; and she isn’t going to invite that. She is vaguely surprised when there is a click on the nightstand, the single word coffee, and retreat. The aroma writhes around her head and into her nostrils.

She sits up, tucking the pillow behind her, and discovers that coffee is actually a tray which provides all known options for how she takes her coffee. It is, in fact, a caffeinated version of up to you, Beckett. The sight kicks her brain into some sort of life and actions. Mostly, the action is downing the first half mugful neat, without pause for breath. The second half is also black. Then she looks at the French press, and discovers that it contains only half the coffee that there should be. Conclusion: Castle has been drinking some of it. Conclusion two: he’s drinking it elsewhere. Her frazzled mind puts that together with his failure to use assertive physicality and, now penetrating, his words when he came in: I was wrong, but you misunderstood. It’s still up to you, it’s always up to you. And his conduct since he arrived here backs that up.

She drinks the rest of the coffee. Maybe it’ll help. Finishing the pot doesn’t help. She’s still too tired and too empty to think of an answer. She flops back on her pillows and fails to find any thought that isn’t I want to go away.

Then her phone rings. She doesn’t recognise the number, which right now is a good start. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone she knows. She supposes she ought to answer, but before she does the ringing stops. There is a short gap, and then it rings again.

“Beckett.”

“Detective Beckett. This is Dr Burke. Please would you confirm who will be present at tonight’s session?”

“Me.”

“Thank you,” Dr Burke says without a pause. In fact, he has said that before Beckett has really considered whether she has finished her sentence. “Previously, you had told me that Mr Castle would be attending. I will be perfectly happy, however, if he is not there.” There is a very slight emphasis on not. “This, after all, is your therapy and your family. Outsiders may be unhelpful. Perhaps you should inform him that he should not attend, or I shall do it for you if you so wish.”

“But…”

“Mm?”

“I thought he had seen you?”

“Yes, but that does not entitle him to attend your sessions. They are private. I will not permit anyone to attend without your consent. That would be entirely unethical, and damaging. It is entirely up to you as to whether any person, including yourself, attends. The only compulsory attendee, of course, would be me, and even then should you ask me to remove myself for a few moments I would do so. In short, Detective Beckett, Mr Castle’s presence is dependent on your consent. As I have said, I will be content if he is not there.”

In his Midtown office, Dr Burke is trying a very risky strategy; although since at this point the alternative is no Mr Castle, which Dr Burke considers will court catastrophe, he believes it justified. He is trying, once more, to use reverse psychology on Detective Beckett. He has very little hope that it will work. If Detective Beckett is still angry, it will fail. If, as he hopes, she is now merely exhausted, there is the slimmest of chances that it might work.

“But…”

“The presence of amateurs is not generally recommended,” Dr Burke says in his most arrogant tones. “They are far more likely to do harm than good.”

Beckett’s temper flashes into searing life. “He’s better for me than you are,” she bites out. “At least he cares. You don’t, it’s just your job to open all the wounds back up. When you were a child you probably pulled the wings off flies. I’ll decide if he’s going to do more harm than good.”

In Beckett’s main room, Castle jerks into shocked alertness as her voice rises to audibility.

“As your psychiatrist, I consider that I would be failing in my duty to you if I did not point out the disadvantages” –

“If you’d really thought there were disadvantages you’d have pointed them out last time when I said I was bringing him.”

Dr Burke’s heart sinks.

“You just don’t want him there. In case he shows you up as the arrogant bastard you are. Well, he’s coming.” She swipes off, viciously.

On the other side of the door, Castle is slack-jawed with shock.

In his Midtown room, Dr Burke gives heartfelt thanks, wholly swamped by relief. He drinks his tea, and indulges himself in a stress-relieving chocolate cookie. Just one. He will need the rest of the packet for the period after Detective Beckett leaves.

In her bedroom, Detective Beckett surges off the bed, spends a precise and focused ten minutes in the shower and a further three minutes putting on her make-up perfectly; dresses for Interrogation, and stalks out. She is entirely unsurprised to find Castle still sitting on her couch, though she is marginally surprised – or would be, had she any attention to spare for it – to find him reading Naked in Death.

She stands straight and steel-stiff in front of him.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That it’s up to me.”

“Yes.”

“But you said you were going to be there whatever. How’s that up to me?”

“I was wrong, okay?” Castle pauses, and then jumps straight in. “But you were wrong too. I never meant that you just picked me up when you needed me. You don’t call half enough even when you do need me. We had this discussion. We agreed you ask, and I come if I want to or can. It was a bad joke yesterday, but it was a joke. I wasn’t trying to make a point.”

“So why were you telling me you wouldn’t let me keep you out of therapy and wouldn’t let me not go to the Hamptons?”

“Because I lost my temper, okay? You were desperate for me to go with you and then the next morning you turned straight round and said you didn’t want me there and I hadn’t a clue why. What did you expect? Then you wouldn’t tell me if you wanted to come to the Hamptons. It was your idea, and you wouldn’t say yes or no.”

“You might not even want to go after tonight.”

“That’s up to me. You weren’t giving me any clues. I thought you were backing out. Ditching me.”

“No. You weren’t listening and I… was scared, and everything about this makes me angry. Being scared makes me angry. You kept pushing me to see that Dad abused me and… and you wouldn’t give me time to think and I can’t stand being a victim. I’m not a victim.”

“No. You’re not. But.. everything makes you angry? Including me?”

“Not you. You were there and pushing and pushing and… and you’d said I was using you and” –

“We were both wrong,” Castle states flatly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want? Actually want, for you?”

“I want you to come with me,” Beckett says, and her stance softens, “please?”

“Sure. I always said I would if you wanted me there.”

“I want you there.” She stops. “I want… if you want…” All the harsh posture is gone, replaced by that same unhappy insecurity and inability to say what she wants. Castle doesn’t force her to the words. Not now. There will be enough words, only a little later than now, between her and her father.

“I want. Come here, Beckett.”