92. All alone with the memory

Beckett is still pacing, still ramrod straight and iron-faced. Castle, unusually, has no idea what to do.  If she were in any way looking upset, as she had been earlier, he would take her in his arms; if she were infuriated he would do the same; if she were – miraculously – talking he would listen, and respond.  But she is doing none of those things, and he is quite seriously scared that touching her will spill her pent-up need – ten years of pent-up need – into a disaster that will ensure that it’s not just Jim who never comes near her again.  Dr Burke had said it is not unknown for such anger to be displaced on to…a party for whom the subject of therapy has deep feelings.  This is precisely the moment in which that just might happen, and he hasn’t thought about how he will deal with it at all.

He stays extremely quiet and doesn’t draw attention to himself in any way: thinking frantically. When Beckett had lost her rag with Lanie, he’d got away with sheer assertiveness and angry, rough, wholly dominant sex.  Which is all – he winces at the phrase – fucked up, but will work, because they’re so combustible together that the heat… is redirected.  But he doesn’t want to take the chance.  He also doesn’t want to leave while he’s so unsure of what to do.  Instead, he finds his notebook and stub of pencil, flips the leaves to a clean, removable page, and starts to make notes.

He’s covered two sides in bullet points before Beckett stops route marching through her apartment, and he hasn’t been hurrying. He puts his pencil down on a third page.

“What’re you doing?” she asks. It is not, Castle notes, her interrogation tone, nor yet a snap.  It’s curious.

“Well, you were thinking, so I started writing down my thoughts for tomorrow till you stopped. If you’d been any longer, I’d have left you a note and gone home.  I didn’t want to disturb you.”  He shows her a following page, on which is already written Beckett, gone home, don’t think too late. C. He doesn’t mention that he’d written that first, so he could say that whenever she returned to Planet Earth.  It all helps to create the impression he’ll say no to her.

Beckett flicks a glance at her watch and winces. “I was thinking.”  She changes tack.  “Do you want some more coffee?  That’s got to be cold by now.”

“Okay,” Castle says, agreeably.

Hot coffee appears. Beckett doctors hers with massive cream and spice infusions, which is probably a good sign, and then snuggles into Castle’s side, which is definitely a very good sign.  He drops his arm around her shoulders, where it clearly ought to be.  She puts her cup down, leans her head on his wide shoulder, and, rather to Castle’s surprise, nuzzles his neck.  It’s so unusual for Beckett to be simply affectionate that he doesn’t really think, simply lifts her legs over his lap, strokes her hair and down over her shoulder; eliciting a tiny soft noise and a definite snuggle in.

“Mmmmm,” she hums, and nuzzles in some more. Her hand creeps round on to his other shoulder, sneakily, as if he might not notice her cuddling him.  (There is no universe in which he wouldn’t notice Kate Beckett cuddling him.)  She’s quietly, subtly trying to offer up, yes, affection, without him quite noticing it – is that in case he might reject it?  Surely not.  But maybe this is not an evening where they should end up in bed.  This might be an evening where they are snuggly-close with a little intermittent kissing.  Who knows, they might even…

“Let’s watch a movie, Beckett.”

“Mmm?”

“Movie. What’ve you got?”  He displaces Beckett to a mrrowwl of displeasure and hops up to search out her movie collection.  “How many Schwarzneggers?”  He drops the volume of his commentary to inaudible very quickly on her reaction.  “Oooohhhh.  Mission Impossible.  Let’s watch that, Beckett.  I love Mission Impossible.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she says dryly. “Okay.”

Castle, since he’s there and Beckett doesn’t look inclined to move from her curled up position on the couch, works out her system and puts the movie on. When he returns he is less surprised than earlier that Beckett, who is rapidly softening into certainly-Kate and maybe-Kat, nestles back into him so that they’re back to snuggly-close again. 

It’s…comfortable, Castle thinks. Almost like when they were in the Hamptons.  They discuss – argue – about the film; they’re physically close but it’s not the scorching, spectacular sex (good as that is); they’re not emotionally (Beckett’s not emotionally) all over the place. Beckett, in fact, is not in evidence at all.  Kate-Kat is.  Despite the fact that she’s clearly seen the movie a lot, each time there’s an exciting bit she yips and wriggles and even clutches his knee.  That tickles, which is something he’d rather she hadn’t discovered, because he can see the possibilities for mischief and mayhem rising in her eyes.  Which gives him a good excuse to hold her, and both her mischievous hands, more tightly.

In fact, it’s just plain nice.  Kat’s laid her head back on his shoulder and he’s leaning on her and despite the point that he hasn’t actually so much as kissed her since… wow.  Since Sunday.  Castle decides that this is just plain unacceptable, rather than nice, and since the closing credits are starting to roll it’s a good time to restore the situation to acceptability.  He nuzzles his nose into her hair to find her ear and then kisses its edge.  She turns a little towards him, which makes it much easier to bring her legs back over his and cosset her into his frame, and then to drop a line of tiny peck-kisses along the line of her cheek and then jaw and then to arrive at her lips, which are already a fraction parted to meet him.

After that he doesn’t bother thinking any more. Kissing Kate-Kat is far too good to spoil it with thoughts, and she seems to be as happy with soft, affectionate, undemanding making out as he is.  Unfortunately it has to come to an end, which is signalled by an enormous yawn from Kat followed by an embarrassed flush of colour.

“I think it’s your bedtime,” Castle says, only a little annoyingly. Surprisingly, this is not followed by mutilation of his ears or nose.

“Yeah.”

But Kat, who is curled up disturbingly pettably in his lap, doesn’t move. Castle has a rush of roguishness with an added dose of rakishness and exhibits it by grasping her bridal-style, standing up (no-one mentions the wobble that nearly tips him down again) and transporting her to her bedroom to drop her gently on the bed.  She sits back up and tugs him to sitting on the edge, and then kisses him.

“Thanks,” she says. “The movie was a good idea.  Just what I needed.”  She peeps, a little uncertainly, through her lashes at his face.  “Did you…”

“I had fun too,” Castle says, not making a joke out of it. “I’ve got Mission Impossible II and III.  Shall I pack them on Friday?”

“Mmm, yes.” She yawns again.

“Bedtime.” He grins.  “Where’s your teddy bear?”

Kat casts him a searing scowl which gradually morphs into a sly, seductive smirk. “I grew out of teddy bears when I discovered men,” she purrs.  “I hope you’re not suggesting I need to go backwards?”

“No,” Castle says happily. “Only for the nights you don’t have me.”  He drops a swift kiss on her nose, which is scrunching up cutely, and a slower one on her mouth.  And then he slips out of her arms, before he doesn’t slip anywhere at all except into her bed and then her body.  “I have to go home.”

“I know.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come by the precinct.  I need some observation time.”  And I want a chat with Espo. Or Ryan.  Maybe Ryan first.  Get the story about that sparring match.

It’s not until Beckett is dropping into sleep that she realises that Castle had left with his notes. She’d been so intent on making coffee and being affectionate, hoping that she’d made up for her lapse into pacing and thinking, that she’d forgotten to ask about Castle’s thoughts.  Maybe when she’s sorted her own thoughts out, which will not be tonight because her thoughts are still not ordered.  She needs to sleep on it, and let that straighten them out.  She’ll go in early, and in the familiar environment of evidence, clues, witnesses and simply cop work, she’ll be able to apply Detective Beckett rather than drowning in Katie. 

She isn’t going to be her father’s Katie any more. But she might yet manage to be Castle’s Kat.

Beckett slides into her chair in the bullpen far too early, and almost instantly slides out again to make herself coffee. Espresso.  Lots of espresso.  The caffeine hits her brain almost instantly, too.  She looks at the paper in front of her and picks up her pen.  So.  Evidence.  The details of the funeral, its aftermath, and her return to NYU are noted down.  Each occasion on which her father had told her to go is added.  It looks appallingly similar to her homicide timelines, only there are far more data points.  Dates she’d gone to haul him out the tank. 

A memory takes her: years ago. The beginning of the end, in fact.  She’d been called, again, by Sergeant Hardon, up at Central Park Precinct, not long after she’d been moved to the Twelfth.  By that time she’d been called many times, from many precincts.  She could see the unwanted pity in every Sergeant’s eyes, in every precinct, each time she came.  And so she’d gone to Central Park, still in uniform, as soon as shift was over.  She’d forgotten that O’Leary had been moved there, or maybe she’d mistaken the dates and thought he hadn’t transferred yet. 

Every time she’d gone, every time before that when Hardon had called, he’d pretended it was the first time. Pretended that he didn’t know Officer Beckett, to save her pride.  Small mercy, to help her pretend in front of the NYPD.  She’d wondered, later, if perhaps he’d had more personal experience than she knew, but never asked.  She had enough to cope with, without the problems of others.

Anyway, she’d gone. Turned up and been ready to bail him out, take his filthy self home, the plastic sheet already over the back seat of her car, a bowl there, ready; all to avoid the vomit and urine staining her vehicle.  She’d learned that trick fast.  She’d been prepared for her father.  By then, she’d been used to it: the filth and the tears and the begging.  And the rejection for not being her mother.

She had not been prepared for O’Leary’s happy cry of “Beckett! You here to see me in my new shop?”  She’d turned, and seen him, and turned away.  He had no place in that scene.  It had been shaming enough when it was cops who didn’t know her, with whom she’d never worked.  And so she’d blocked him out, as if he weren’t there, as if she’d never met him, and taken her father home.

Two days later she’d been due to have a drink with O’Leary, to celebrate his transfer, talk about how she was getting on at the Twelfth. She’d seen the questions and the worry and concern on O’Leary’s massive visage, and avoided ever getting close to allowing him an opening.  As if he’d never seen anything.  He’d taken the hint.  She’d still made sure she was too busy to see him for a while, until she could be sure that he wouldn’t pry.  He hadn’t: small light in a dark world.  He’d done better than that, because the next times she was called he wasn’t there, and then… then there had been the final time she had, when he’d clearly seen her and pretended not to; and she’d known then that O’Leary was the sort of friend she really needed – one who would let her pretend that none of it was happening and not ask any questions, one who’d simply go out for beers and talk shop and – because he was gay and not complicated at all – give her a brief hug if she needed it, and sparring practice when, far more often, she wanted that, and be a plus one if required – and she for him – and never ask anything at all, ever.

And then she’d decided that she couldn’t do it any more. She couldn’t keep pretending it was the first time, or the second.  Couldn’t hide it from herself any more.  By being there for him, she was a guaranteed safety net.  An enabler, a co-dependent.  So the next time Sergeant Hardon called, she said No.  She wasn’t going.  Hardon had argued, and guilt-tripped, and damn close to ordered – though he knew he had no right to give that order and if he tried she’d disobey – but she hadn’t gone.  And then she’d gone to a bar in the East Village and begun.  O’Leary had called, and she’d already had enough to tell him where she was.  Not why.  Never, ever why.  Not long after, he’d shown up.  She hadn’t cared if he was there or not, but he’d kept a line of drinks in front of her and matched her glass for glass and taken her home at the end.  He’d made sure she was safe, but all she could force out were thanks, through the bitter taste of betrayal of her father and the gritted teeth holding back her hurt and pain and shame.

So she’d forced herself to invite him out, but it had never quite been the same again, even though he’d followed her lead and never mentioned it. She’d buried herself in work to be able to claim she was too busy to come out, when the truth was that seeing O’Leary was a jagged-sharp reminder of the day she’d walked away.  She hadn’t seen him much, buried herself in work to dull the pain and exhaust her so that she could sleep, until her dad called her from rehab, until O’Leary made Detective too.  And when Will had left, he’d been there to let her spar the pain away; the hurt that she’d never have a family outside her father because she couldn’t ever abandon him again. 

Not that her father would have cared about that.

She marks those dates in too, and looks down at the black staining pool on the page, blotting it, and takes herself to the restroom to repair the damage before anyone else should arrive and might notice. When she returns she’s dry-eyed and cold.

For five long years she’s supported her father and they’ve talked about nothing. She’s been too scared to open any subject that might expose the cracks, and he’s never tried.  She’d thought it was enough, for both of them.  But it seems like he’s been hiding just as much as she has, for darker reasons.  She forcibly tells herself that this is just another case, in which she’ll interview the prime suspect.  Just another interview, just another day.

She starts to construct her questions, which, compared to her timeline, are scanty: why did you tell me to go? Why then reverse it to stay? and after an hour’s concentrated effort in which she doesn’t let a single breath or look betray her feelings, is done till tonight.  As she folds up the two sheets of paper and puts them safely in her purse, Montgomery arrives, and seeing her, stops by her desk.

“Beckett.”

“Sir.”

“You’re in early.”

“Sir. Wanted to get a head start before Ryan and Espo start disturbing the peace.”  She forces a grin.

“Okay. How are things going?”

“Fine, sir. Wrist’s better.”  She wiggles and then circles it, to prove it.

“And your appointments?” Montgomery says meaningfully.

“Fine too. I think Friday will be the last one.”

Montgomery casts her a very sharp glance indeed. “Really, Detective?  I will require a clearance from your practitioner.”

“That’s fine, sir. I’m sure he’ll be quite happy to sign one.”

Beckett is absolutely certain that Dr Burke will not wish to treat her again as soon as she proves him to have been totally wrong. She hasn’t missed his belief in his own methods, and she can’t imagine that he’ll enjoy his oversized ego being spectacularly punctured.

Montgomery departs for his own office, wondering vaguely why Detective Beckett is so sure that she’ll be cleared by the shrink. It certainly doesn’t seem long enough to him, especially with that bullshit about the sparring last week.  However, he’s not a shrink and doesn’t want to be.  Managing his precinct is quite enough for him.  On the other hand, managing his precinct includes making sure his star detective (and the reason that they’re top of the stats every month) is okay.  Better than okay.  He needs her to stay on top form.  He flips over a few folders and finds the leave requests, and gently peruses Beckett’s.  She took the four days.  Hm.  She’s still got six to take.  She’d asked for them to be after spring break week, which kept her from conflicting with the family-style requests, but is in the mix with all the non-family requests.  He can’t have all his non-family requests in that week, and anyway, that’s still a month and more away: spring break’s not over till April 20. 

Beckett could use a break, he thinks impishly. He’ll see how today and tomorrow go, and make a decision on Friday.  Come to think of it, even for Beckett today must have started early.  Her to-go-cup had been in the trash can, and the mug on her desk only had black dregs in it.  That’s not a good sign.  He may be a desk-driving Captain these days, but he can still pick up a clue if he needs to.  These clues tell him that Beckett’s stressed.  Not very obviously, and certainly not at a level for which he needs to take action, but there’s a thread there.   However, she’s not on shift and not on call this weekend, so even if nothing more is needed she’ll have a break.  In fact, he’ll just make certain of it. She will not be sneaking into the bullpen to work.  He marches back out of his office.

“Beckett.”

“Sir?”

“You are off this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Any plans?”

“Going out of town for the weekend. Change of scene.”

“Good.”

Montgomery leaves again, with Beckett’s confused stare following him. She has absolutely no idea what that was about.  Actually, she really doesn’t care.   As long as he doesn’t bench her again for no reason then it’s all okay.

Shortly Ryan, and then Espo, turn up and she completely forgets about Montgomery as the day gets going.