167. Are you ready?

He starts with the good parts. Somehow, his wonderful daughter has managed, by hook, crook, luck and judgement, to talk his mother round to believing that a new apartment is all her own idea. That’s amazing. Even better, Alexis will steer her round all the possibilities, which leaves him with time (tomorrow) to talk to his financial adviser and attorney. He’d rather be shadowing Beckett, but if he gets this fixed then with a little luck Beckett will soon feel like arriving here.

The bad parts, though, are also legion. His mother clearly didn’t trust him to take care of her, which stings. He’s always taken care of her, as soon as he was successful, except while she was married to that fraudster. He has no idea why she would think he wouldn’t carry on. She’s jealous of him, which is equally biting. About the only bright spot is that she isn’t jealous of Beckett, though he knows who – and what – he’d bet on if she were.

He has a sudden memory of first O’Leary, drawling simplify at them; and then Dr Burke, repeating the three C’s. Didn’t cause, can’t control, can’t cure. Or, more simply still – not his problem. It’s something his mother will have to work through for herself. As he’d said to Beckett and she’d pushed back at him: you do the best you can and it’s nobody’s business to judge you.

Okay. It still stings. No doubt it will continue to sting for some time. But stings notwithstanding, it’s not his problem. He’s got what he wanted, and courtesy of his amazingly brilliant daughter, his mother has now come round to being happy about it. He realises that somewhere in the last few moments he’s registered the sound of the closing door, as his mother and Alexis go out.

He pads out, makes himself a very large mugful of excellent coffee, returns, and pulls his laptop towards him. He reads back the previous couple of chapters, to reacquaint himself with the story line he’s pursuing and continue smoothly. Words unroll in his head and flow out through his fingers. He sinks into his new Nikki-world and loses himself there.

Hours later, he emerges from extended creativity: hungry, thirsty and desperately in need of straightening his back and shoulders. Once he’s attended to the urgent necessity of flexing his spine, he realises that he hasn’t shaved either, deals with that, and then emerges from his office to find that it’s six p.m., and Alexis and his mother are planted firmly on the couch discussing two out of the fistful of apartments in a manner that indicates that it’s a straight choice between them.

“Dinner?”

“Ah, Richard darling.” Matters have clearly gone well. “I can’t decide between these two.” Castle looks down at two specs. “This one has more room, but this one’s better arranged for having impromptu rehearsals, and the piano would fit.”

“You’re taking the piano?”

“Well, of course. It’s not as if you ever play it.”

“That was relief, Mother. Please take the piano.”

“In that case, this one.”

His mother hands him one of the apartment specs. He flicks an eye down it and finds that it’s located in the East Village, which he should have expected. “Room for visitors?”

“Of course.”

“I might want to stay at Grams’,” Alexis says with a very knowing look. Castle bestows a paternal growl on her.

“Okay, Mother. I’ll start everything moving tomorrow. Now, dinner?”

Dinner is generally acknowledged to be a good idea, and not long thereafter, is being eaten in more harmony than has obtained in the Castle household for some weeks. Castle goes back to writing after dinner, and manages considerable productivity before he stops for the night. Tomorrow, he thinks, is going to be a busy day.

Castle calls his attorney as early as he can, and having secured an appointment scheduled for ten, then calls the realtor to make sure he gets the correct apartment. Having got this far, he doesn’t want some rich dilettante to steal it out from under his mother’s nose. (He entirely fails to see the irony in his dislike for rich dilettantes.) He’d rather be at the Twelfth, annoying Beckett in public and giving her the good news in private.   He just hopes a body doesn’t drop in the next couple of hours.

Fortunately for Castle, it doesn’t. He has a short, efficient discussion with his attorney; an even shorter and more efficient discussion with his financial adviser, who tells him that he’s underweight in property and that this will be an excellent long-term investment, which Castle takes with a small pinch of salt; and then makes the realtor very, very happy. She’s even more happy when he says that he wants to have the deal done and a moving in date of before the end of the month. Cynically, he expects that the speed means that her commission will be calculated this month too. However, it’s done.

He bounces off to the Twelfth in a very school’s-out manner. Unfortunately, in the bullpen, school’s in. There is an atmosphere of diligence and high work rate, which is not notably diminished when he presents Beckett with her morning coffee.

“What’s going on?”

“1PP wants the cold cases reduced, again.”

“I didn’t think you’d got many.”

“No, but we need to take our share from the others. Same as last time – remember? Fresh eyes.” She gestures at the pile of folders on her desk. “Feel free to take a few, but try to keep the way out theories to a minimum.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.”

“Respect the dead, dude,” Esposito says from over his shoulder. “Murder ain’t no game.”

Castle raises his hands in placation. “Okay.” He lifts the top one. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything that might be a clue, or a new line of enquiry.” Beckett drains the coffee and sighs. “Never ends.”

“Are you allowed lunch break?”

“Yeah. I’ll need a break by then.”

“Good. Lemme buy you lunch.”

Beckett assesses Castle’s air of suppressed enthusiasm, and deduces that he must have made progress with his mother, but that he doesn’t want to discuss it under the interested ears of Ryan and Esposito. Since the boys are as bored with cold cases as she is, their ears will be more than usually interested, and she really does not want to discuss her private life with any of them.

Lunch time is reached without any major disasters or breakthroughs: simply the grind of police work. Some folders have possible new leads – very few – some are sufficiently old that lab techniques have moved on – also very few – but most have been properly investigated in the first place and there is simply nothing more to be done. However, it ticks the 1PP boxes, which keeps Montgomery happy, which means that the team is happy. Or at least they are not being subjected to one of Montgomery’s little chats, which are never productive of happiness.

“C’mon,” says Castle through a gaping yawn. “If I don’t get out of here I’ll turn into a dry pile of dust.”

“Thought I said no way-out theories?”

“That’s not a theory.”

“I don’t believe in premonitions either.”

Castle grins. “More like foresight?”

“Or clairvoyance.”

“Or certainty. Come on, it’s lunch time. My treat.” Beckett emits a demurring noise. “Nope. I’m buying.”

They wander out, Beckett fixing the boys with a hard stare which discourages them from following. Company is not required.

“So what happened?” she asks, before they’re even seated.

“Hurricane Alexis,” Castle says proudly.

“Huh?”

“Alexis laid into Mother, asked – yelled – if she was jealous of you” – Beckett startles – “she wasn’t, she thought you’d support her staying, just like Burke said – and then – God knows how – managed to talk her into believing that moving out would enhance her career and that it was the best thing for her.”

Castle surveys Beckett’s dropped jaw and gobsmacked look with considerable satisfaction, and lays his hand over hers, tucking his thumb underneath.

“Wow,” Beckett says, stunned.

“So I’ve seen my attorney and financial adviser and the realtor and it’ll all be done by the end of the month.”

Beckett makes a noise approximating to er-glurgh, followed by gleep. Castle grins smugly at her wordless state, and strokes his thumb insinuatingly over her palm.

“And then I’m changing the locks so you can come any time you like.” She gleeps again, sounding like a frazzled parakeet. “Cute noise, but are you going to use your words?”

She stares at him. He’s completely robbed her of all words and most thoughts. All she can think is already? She’s not ready to go there. Suddenly it’s all real and right here right now and she is absolutely not ready.

“Beckett? Kate? Kate, talk to me.”

She just stares, eyes wide. Castle thinks frantically, and fails to find a good explanation for what’s going on. About the only positive is that she hasn’t moved, either. She’s still sitting in stupefied silence when the server stops to take their order. She reels that off without thought or intonation and then goes back to her attempt at self-petrification.

“Kate, talk to me.”

“I… I…”

“Or at least eat your lunch so I know you aren’t going to faint on me.”

“I don’t faint!” she says crossly, shocked out her stupefaction.

“In that case, if you don’t want your fries I’ll have them,” he says, and sneaks a couple.

“Hey! Leave my fries alone.”

Castle raids another couple, purely to annoy Beckett and restore her to life. She tries to smack his fingers and misses. However, she does start to eat her lunch. Explanations are not forthcoming, but Castle will settle for her eating for now.

When she’s finished, nothing of any importance – indeed, nothing at all – has been said. Castle stands up. “C’mon, Beckett. Let’s have a nice walk to aid the digestion. We’ve still got a few minutes.” He pulls her up and walks out the door with her trailing behind him.

Tompkins Square Park is sunny and warm, and fairly shortly Castle’s taken his jacket off and is contemplating rolling up his sleeves. He doesn’t, mostly because that would entail detaching his arm from around Beckett, who has returned to being lost in some other world. He sits them down on a convenient bench in the full sunshine, tucks her in firmly, and then tips her chin up and kisses her briefly.

“What’s up?”

“I’m not ready.” Which means approximately nothing to Castle. “It’s too soon and I’m not ready. I need to talk to Burke.”

“Okay,” he says amiably. “You’ll see him tomorrow.” Under his amiability, his brain is whirring. He still doesn’t get what’s going on in Beckett’s brain, but pushing might well be the wrong idea. He cuddles her for a moment or two more, achieves no more answers than prior to lunch time, and then encourages her to return to the precinct.

Beckett mechanically works her way through cold case files for the rest of the afternoon, uncomfortably conscious that her reaction to Castle’s decisive actions is exactly not what she herself had expected and certainly not what Castle was expecting. She’d expected that she’d be relieved, and happy, and able to move forward with complete enthusiasm – or at least think seriously about it. Instead she’s terrified. Suddenly everything’s shifting under her: she’s losing the little footing she had in normality. She can sense Castle’s uncertainty as he sits by her desk, but she hasn’t a clue what to say to him. She wants this, but now that she can have it it’s all too soon.

At shift end she’s no further forward in cases or self-analysis. She glances at Castle, who is maintaining an expression of rather forced placidity.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly while waiting for the elevator. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong.” The elevator arrives before any words do.

Castle sneaks an arm around her, which he is not allowed to do in the precinct but which he has managed to conceal in the packed elevator, and withdraws it before anyone spots his action. They take a few steps down the street towards her cruiser.

“Want a ride home?”

“Sure.” Maybe in the car she’ll find some words. Okay, so she’s not running, and she’s managed a few words of – well, not exactly explanation but at least that she doesn’t know what the problem is – but he’s worried. They’ve talked about his mother moving out, so he simply doesn’t get this sudden bump in the road.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she says, now sounding irritated and upset with herself in equal shares, as if she’d heard his thoughts. He doesn’t hear the familiar ring of irritated with Castle, or the much more worrying upset with Castle, and deduces that her lack of understanding needs to be considered, and more, considered alone. Astonishingly, given his deductions, her hand arrives on top of his. Very briefly, since it’s rush hour in Manhattan and both hands are generally required for driving, but still, it’s a reassurance.

“Think about it,” he rumbles as they approach his block. “Till tomorrow.”

“Night,” she says, and leans over to kiss him. Castle takes advantage, cups his hands round her face, and indulges in a leisurely and somewhat assertive farewell, designed to ensure that she’s left in no doubt of his bona fides. Well, wickedly naughty fides, whatever that translates to. He should have paid more attention in Latin class.

Beckett fails utterly to understand her ever-increasing discomfort, despite the addition of those well-known brain foods, ice cream and strong coffee. She spends the evening worrying at the sensation, and awakes unrefreshed and even more annoyed with herself. Her day full of cold case files and Castle’s attempts to hide his concern don’t do a single solitary thing to improve her mood, and for once she leaves for Dr Burke’s with relief, not annoyance or trepidation.

“Hey.”

“Good evening.”

“Castle’s mother is moving out, and I can’t cope with it,” Detective Beckett blurts out, to Dr Burke’s mild surprise. “I don’t get it. I want to go to the loft and as soon as it looks like it’s possible without Martha getting in the way I spook.”

“Why do you think you are ‘spooking’?”

“I don’t know. All I could think was I’m not ready for this. It’s pathetic,” she adds acidly.

“Hmm,” Dr Burke emits. This is not an unexpected hurdle. “Let us consider this carefully. You have been aware for some time that Mr Castle was intending to ask his mother to move out. What was his reasoning?”

Beckett ponders. “She was interfering. She wouldn’t respect his boundaries.”

Dr Burke waits, expectantly. “And?”

There is a long period of thought. “He said” – she falters – “if I were to move in – oh, hell.” Detective Beckett puts her head in her hands. It appears that she understands her current issue. “I didn’t realise that was what it was. It’s…I’m not ready.”

“Mm. Has Mr Castle pressured you to move in in any way?”

“No…”

“Has he ever suggested that you do anything for which you are not ready?”

“No…”

“So why do you suddenly feel as if you are being forced to an action which you do not wish to take?”

Detective Beckett considers some more. “I don’t know,” she finally says, with an edge of irritation.

“Very well. Let us leave that for a moment. Instead, please consider whether you wish to move in with Mr Castle at all.”

Detective Beckett stares blankly at Dr Burke.   “You what now?”

“Do you wish to move in with Mr Castle?”

“Yes.” Detective Beckett could hardly be more definite.

“That is encouraging.”

It most certainly is. Dr Burke had little doubt of the answer, but there are occasionally complications which even he does not foresee.

“But not now.”

“That appears to me to be entirely reasonable.”

“Huh?”

“Detective Beckett,” Dr Burke says patiently, “Mr Castle is not asking you to move in immediately. In fact, he has not, by your own admission, asked you to do anything for which you are not ready. You have merely discussed a theoretical possibility, which may come to pass in future. Therefore it is entirely reasonable that you are unprepared for any move. In any case, such a change would be premature while you are still overcoming your previous issues with your father and Mr Castle’s family. I would, were I to be asked, counsel most strongly against such a move at this time.”

“But it felt like he was asking.”

“That is your interpretation.”

Detective Beckett relapses into silence again. Dr Burke hopes that she is applying a portion of intelligence to the issue. The matter, and the reasoning, is perfectly obvious, if only she would think clearly. Thinking clearly does not appear to be within Detective Beckett’s capability at this time, as the silence becomes protracted.

“Detective Beckett, please consider why you might interpret Mr Castle’s words in this way.” At last, Detective Beckett applies her intelligence.

“I don’t want to upset him?” Dr Burke waits. “Um… I know he wants to and it’s the same as with Dad: feeling I ought to do something more but not wanting to and feeling guilty about that?”

“Precisely. Please expand upon that concept.”

Detective Beckett takes a moment to gather her thoughts. When she does speak, Dr Burke detects the same tones as she had used when questioning him, and concludes that she is applying her professional skill to assembling the points she wishes to consider. “I didn’t expect that Martha would agree to move out so quickly. I thought it would take much longer, and I’d have managed more than a couple of brunches and a dinner, all of them in public. Suddenly she’s not an issue, but I’m nowhere near fixed and… and it’s all down to me again. If Martha wasn’t moving out it wouldn’t just be me being the hold up.”

“Mm?”

“But – but like I said to Dad, I should go as fast as I’m ready for. It’s just… I wanna get there,” Detective Beckett says, somewhat pathetically. “It just takes so long and I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to catch up and they’re getting impatient.”

“Mm,” Dr Burke says again. “Recall, if you please, the approach you took to your original therapy.”

“Oh. No. I know it can’t go too fast.”

That is reassuring. Detective Beckett was on the verge of making the same mistake as she had previously. Fortunately, Dr Burke is a far better practitioner – indeed, he is a practitioner, which is not, now, the case with the former therapist – than that whom Detective Beckett had attended previously, and the danger has been averted.

“It seems to me,” Dr Burke pronounces judicially, “that the person who is pressuring you is yourself. Why are you doing so?”

“I want this done,” Detective Beckett says, clearly annoyed.

Dr Burke raises his eyebrows, and gives her a hard stare. “I do not believe that that is the only reason. Please consider your previous patterns of behaviour and indeed your earlier words.”

Detective Beckett produces a fearsome, but entirely ineffective, scowl. Since she also appears to be complying with the exercise, Dr Burke remains unruffled. Intemperate reactions are a normal part of a therapist’s daily lot. They are very rarely personal, and even if they were, are transient.

“You’re saying I’m feeling guilty about putting my feelings first, again.”

“Indeed. Now, why are you feeling guilty, especially since Mr Castle is quite content to wait for you?”

“Because it feels like he does all the compromising and I don’t give anything back.”

“Mm. Describe an instance of such compromising.”

“He packed his family off to a spa weekend.”

“Yes,” Dr Burke says slowly. “He did. And then, despite your considerable trepidation at the prospect, you spent the weekend in Mr Castle’s family” – his emphasis is severe – “home.” He pauses, to allow the point to sink in. “When you related that episode to me, you informed me that you did not want to go in, nor to stay. Yet you did go in, and you did stay. In these circumstances, that is a form of giving back, or, if you prefer, your contribution to the compromise.”

“Oh.”

“We have come to the end of tonight’s session. Before Friday, I should like you to consider each occasion on which you believe Mr Castle has compromised, and then consider your actions or lack of actions in response. It would be helpful if you were to send me your thoughts beforehand, though I appreciate that this may not be possible. We will discuss your conclusions at our next session, before your father arrives. Mr Castle need not be present. You might also consider why you are feeling this guilt now, when you have largely overcome that issue. I suggest, in the light of these matters, that it would not be appropriate to have a joint session with your father this week, and if you are in agreement with that course of action I shall so advise him, in a manner which ensures that he does not feel any concern. You and Mr Castle will be seeing him, you have said, on Saturday, with Miss Castle, at your father’s apartment. I do not foresee any damage to your progress, therefore.”

Dr Burke recalls Mr Castle’s description of his mother’s words to Detective Beckett. It is quite clear from where these feelings have been triggered. However, Detective Beckett must work that out for herself.

“Okay. Bye.”

“Good night.”

Dr Burke realises that he did not hear the story of the murdered tennis coach, and expends a few seconds in regretting the lapse of memory which prevented him asking. He makes a small note, for Friday. Following that, he contemplates Detective Beckett’s issues, and makes a further note, for later consideration. He wishes to ensure that the course which he believes to be most appropriate is still appropriate after a night’s clarifying rest. He does not wish to be precipitate.