147. What we talkin' about?

Castle waits until a civilised and decorous eight-fifty-five a.m., and then calls Dr Burke. Rather surprisingly, the receptionist puts him straight through.

“Good morning, Mr Castle.”

“Hello. I need to talk to you.”

“Yes? Is something wrong with Detective Beckett?”

“No, not really. No more than usual. It’s her father. Jim.”

“Mr Beckett? Did yesterday’s brunch meeting not go well?”

“Um… I’d better start at the beginning.”

Dr Burke thinks that starting at the beginning would be profoundly helpful, which Mr Castle’s commentary so far has not been. However, if Detective Beckett is not discomforted, the present issue can undoubtedly be overcome.

“Please do.”

“We had brunch. Jim hit a couple of sore spots. He asked Beckett about the Academy, and she brushed him off and shut it down. Awkward. Jim was hurt. Then Beckett asked him if he’d talk to my mother” –

“Whose idea was that?”

“Beckett’s. She’s going to discuss it with you tomorrow before anyone does anything.”

Dr Burke is intensely relieved by that statement.

“Anyway. She asked him, but then she said she wouldn’t sit through it again. Jim was really hurt, on top of the earlier problem. So he was winding up to insist that he’d only do it if Beckett was there, and I just knew that would be a total disaster, so I told her she had a smudge on her nose and she ran off to check” – Mr Castle sounds quite proud of his resourcefulness – “and I told Jim to back off. So he did.”

So far, so normal, Dr Burke thinks. He does not really understand why Mr Castle has rung. “Mm?” he emits, hoping for something that will justify this use of his valuable time.

“Anyway, the rest of brunch was pretty awkward. Beckett wouldn’t give Jim any sort of an in, and then he asked us over for a meal and she stalled that too. So it wasn’t exactly a success, but they didn’t fight. It was all very careful.” Mr Castle pauses for breath. Dr Burke is still entirely unsure as to why Mr Castle has rung. “When we got home, Beckett was really upset. I think she expected it to make everything a lot better, but it didn’t really, and she was disappointed in herself. So you need to know that. I was thinking, but I thought I’d better not say any of it to her in case it affected your grand plan” – Mr Castle is acerbic – “in some way you haven’t explained.”

“And what were your thoughts?”

“Well. First off, Beckett was at the Academy after she walked away. She was top. Top of everything, pretty much. They practically saluted when she walked in. She ought to be their poster child. But she hustled me past it all so I couldn’t see it. Actually, so she couldn’t see it. And I think that actually all it does is remind her that she – she thinks – failed her father, whatever success she had. So she doesn’t like talking about it at all. Just like she never talks about how she got where she is. She made it faster than anyone, pretty much, and never says anything. So her dad asking about it hit her where it hurts and I don’t think she’s mentioned this to you because there’s so much to deal with.”

“Mm,” Dr Burke says in heartfelt agreement. However, this is normal, usual, and perfectly in line with the rest of Detective Beckett’s treatment. It is very useful to know before tomorrow’s session. None of it, however, appears to be the implied issue relating to Mr Beckett.

“I – er – felt a little guilty that I’d shut Jim down like that, so after I got home I called him to explain why. He got really riled up, and kept on about how he knew how to deal with his daughter, which is total crap because if he did he wouldn’t keep making dumb statements that upset her, and treated me like some half-baked teen boyfriend, and anyway he lost his temper and I lost mine and I’ve told him he can make his own damn mistakes with Beckett because I’m out. I never had any brief for him, it was only about what Beckett wanted, and she’s got permission from you never to see him again if this doesn’t all work out. So I’ve pretty much had it with him, and you likely need to know that, because I guess it’ll all blow up again Friday.”

Oh, dear, Dr Burke thinks. Mr Beckett has really acted most unhelpfully. Mr Castle had been very supportive of Mr Beckett, and now Mr Beckett, no doubt through his inability to deal with his daughter’s maturity, has left Mr Castle aggrieved and in no mood to assist him. It is quite possible, it occurs to Dr Burke, that Mr Beckett is jealous that his daughter has turned to Mr Castle to provide her with the love and stability which she needs.

“I think he’s trying to be a parent but he’s getting it all wrong. He wants to know what he’s missed, but until Beckett believes he never didn’t love her she’s not going to want to talk about any of it.” Mr Castle makes an aggravated noise. “I wanted it fixed because Beckett wanted it fixed, but I’m not sure that’s the best thing any more. If he can’t even be careful of what he’s saying at your place, he’s not taking it seriously.”

Mr Castle sounds completely exasperated. Dr Burke considers that he may have reason, and further that Mr Castle’s strength and stability has led all of them to overlook the possibility that Mr Castle is also under considerable strain. Some reassurance seems both justified and indicated.

“I am grateful that you told me. I am in agreement with your conclusions as to Detective Beckett’s reasons for ignoring her successes, and I think that not mentioning it to her was the correct course of action. Tell me, Mr Castle, have you considered training as a psychiatrist? I think that you exhibit many of the traits that are required.”

Mr Castle splutters wordlessly. He does not sound as flattered as he should do. It is by no means everyone who would be a good psychiatrist.

“I also believe that you are correct about Mr Beckett. I will endeavour to speak to him separately. I am sure that he is having considerable difficulty adjusting to Detective Beckett’s trust in you, when he wishes to re-establish his position as her parent.”

“He wants her to look at him like Alexis looks at me. It’s not going to happen, though. She’s grown up.”

Mr Castle sounds quite unhappy about that. It occurs to Dr Burke that Mr Castle must be under some stress as he hopes that his own relationship with his daughter does not disintegrate as this one has.

“Mr Castle, is there anything you wish to discuss from your own perspective? You have unstintingly supported Detective Beckett, but that is a substantial commitment. You are welcome to contact me if there are matters which are troubling you, even if they are not directly related to Detective Beckett’s treatment. Your feelings are important too.”

There is a surprised silence. Dr Burke concludes that Mr Castle had not considered his own situation and sources of stress.

“It’s fine.”

Dr Burke does not press. Such would be counterproductive. “Are there any other insights of which I should be aware?”

“No. Not that I’ve noticed. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, indeed. However, you have a remarkable facility for observation, which has been extremely helpful. Tomorrow’s session with Detective Beckett will be made much easier thereby.” Dr Burke has a further thought. “How did Mr Beckett react to your irritation?”

“He tried to call back a few times. I didn’t take the calls.”

“Mm. No doubt that was wise. Does Detective Beckett know any of this?”

“Not unless she’s spoken to Jim. I didn’t tell her. She’ll probably interrogate me today. She knows something’s up.”

“You have my sympathy,” Dr Burke says dryly. “It appears to me that Detective Beckett might be a ferocious interrogator.”

“Yep. Anyway, I need to go. I said I’d be at the precinct this morning. Bye.”

“Goodbye. I shall most likely see you on Friday.”

Dr Burke considers the ramifications of this latest twist in the Beckett tale. Mr Beckett needs recalled to the reality of a daughter of twenty-nine, not nineteen, and the ever-increasing certainty of a son-in-law of forty. Mr Beckett cannot behave as if that relationship is a teen romance, since it clearly is not. Dr Burke resorts to a delicately soothing pot of tea, and contemplates his next moves.

Dr Burke is quite clear that he need not approach Mr Beckett until after tomorrow’s session with Detective Beckett, unless Mr Beckett should himself make contact. However, he will need to meet with him. It is quite profoundly unhelpful that Mr Beckett should try to progress matters further or faster than Detective Beckett would wish. Dr Burke is perfectly aware of the likelihood that issuing ultimatums to Detective Beckett will be counterproductive. Surely Mr Beckett must have known this: if nothing else, from her teenage years? He sighs heavily. Really, these Becketts are very troublesome. Just as Detective Beckett is finally reaching important conclusions and progressing well, her father fails to guard his tongue and, worse, through hurt pride and jealousy, forces a quite unnecessary breach with Mr Castle, who remains the key source of support for Detective Beckett and who is coping with quite enough stress without Mr Beckett increasing it.

Dr Burke sighs again. He had hoped that all this was on the point of resolution. Detective Beckett’s case is on the point of resolution. Unfortunately, he can see a need to deal with Mr Beckett. He makes another pot of tea, and allows himself a consolatory chocolate cookie.

Castle arrives at the Twelfth in a less than happy mood, and is only slightly soothed by Beckett’s appreciation of his coffee offering. There’s no interesting case: it’s all the same pop-and-drops that hadn’t been intriguing last week, and to be honest the only reason he’s here and not at home is that he doesn’t want to have another row with his mother when he’s already fragile.

Beckett sneaks a look at Castle from under her lashes and determines pretty quickly that he is feeling upset – still – which he doesn’t want to talk about. Despite her burning desire to haul him into Interrogation and find out what is wrong, she manages not to unleash her inner Torquemada. Just. She ponders while dealing with the tedious business of cross-matching phone records, and remembers something.

“Castle?”

“Yeah?” He looks up from his phone. Surely now Beckett’s going to interrogate him as if she were the Inquisition?

“I need some shooting practice. Do you want another go at the range? We can take Espo and Ryan if you want, too, and finish up after with a beer.”

Wow. That was absolutely not what he expected. He brightens up. “Can we have a competition?”

Castle appears to Beckett to have had a sudden thought. “Remember our last bet?” he says, voice dropping to a fur-lined growl and dripping with sexuality. “You lost. You promised me another Georgian meal and you haven’t paid up yet.” His eyes sparkle. “Double up?” His smile is openly predatory and wriggles from her optic nerves all the way down to some very different nerves.

“Okay.” If she wins, she’ll think of a suitable prize. If she loses, well, she likes cooking for Castle and she certainly likes the aftermath. Actually, heads she wins, tails she wins. She really likes those odds. Castle smiles lazily. It seems he likes those odds too. He’s totally cheered up, which is a relief. “Straight after shift end. Shall we invite the boys?”

“Nah. I want you all to myself when I win.”

“You mean you don’t want to share my khachapuri?”

“That too.” The lazy smile acquires an edge of wicked suggestiveness. Beckett declines to enquire further.

“Okay, just us.” She gives him a smile which darkens his eyes and tenses his fingers, and then drops her gaze down his body, which is pleasingly reactive. “But I’ll win.”

“You think? We’ll see about that.”

The day passes by without any great breakthroughs or indeed any new, Beckett-flavoured cases. The grinding grunt-work of policing is all that there is. Castle, however, is quite happy. Beckett’s thought up a way of cheering him up, which he wouldn’t have thought of or been able to suggest, and when he wins, he’ll have an even better way of being cheered up, which might involve eating but may not involve Georgian food. He even tops his high score on his current favourite time-wasting game.

“Right. Ten shots, best aggregate score wins.”

“Okay. When I win, we’ll agree dates for the meals you’re going to cook.

“When I win, I’ll have twenty-four hours to think up my two prizes,” Beckett scoffs.

Castle smiles in an offensively superior fashion.

“You’re not going to win, so you won’t need the time.”

Beckett growls. “You wait. Every time you brag that you’ll win my prizes get more elaborate.”

“Oh, Detective Beckett. Such misplaced confidence. Just you wait.” He smirks wickedly. “After all, I wasn’t far behind you last time.”

Beckett is nevertheless quietly confident that she will win. Castle was a surprisingly good shot, but she’s the one who’s qualified – and retested regularly. She’ll need to think up a good prize – actually, one has just popped right into her head. Castle can take her back to the Hamptons. That would be just perfect. Really, really perfect. Every time they’ve gone it’s made everything so much better. She smiles brilliantly, and then she has an even better idea, which is that if she loses she’ll cook these Georgian meals in Castle’s oversize Hamptons kitchen. They can take all the ingredients with them. She is utterly delighted with her own cleverness. In fact, she could have that as a prize whether she wins or loses. Perfect. Utterly perfect. She even bounces, just a tiny bit. This causes Castle to look first deeply suspicious and then deeply worried. Beckett does not do anything to alleviate either. After all, she’s now come up with a way to ensure that she wins, whether or not she scores highest.

They file into separate booths and don ear defenders. Beckett sights carefully, and shoots her ten rounds cleanly. She’s certainly trying to win. She doesn’t like losing, and even if this is a win-win bet she does not feel like caving in, even if it would make Castle very happy.

It would only make Castle happy for as long as it took him to realise she’d thrown the game. After that, he’d be very unhappy, with cause. Winning is no fun if you’re allowed to win. It’s only fun if you win fairly. So she’s shot her best, and if she wins – well, they’ll both win. Not that she’ll tell Castle that quite yet. She’ll let him wonder. Anticipate. He might even try to persuade her thoughts out of her. Mmmmm.

After only a small number of veiled accusations that neither of them can be trusted to add the scores accurately, the range master is asked to do so. He takes his time. Beckett and Castle both smile, each sure that they have won.

“And the winner is…” says the range master, in the manner of the referee in the ring at a world championship belt boxing match, including irritating pause, “…Detective Beckett.”

“What?” blurts Castle.

“Told you so,” smirks Beckett.

“What were the scores?”

“Detective Beckett was one point better than you.”

“I won. I won,” Beckett says joyfully. “I won!”

Castle mutters darkly into his chest. He doesn’t look happy that she won.

“Come on, Castle. Let’s go get something to eat and a drink. Not Remy’s.” She thinks. “Mm. Steak. Buenos Aires restaurant, on East 6th.   Steak, red wine, and good desserts.”

“Is that your prize?”

“No,” she smirks. Her smirk is carefully calculated to say I know what my prize is and I’m not telling you yet. “We’ll go Dutch.” Not that Castle ever lets her pay without a serious fight, like for Sunday brunch. She’s going to resort to nefarious means, soon. Hiding his wallet, perhaps. In the Robbery evidence locker.

“Okay. But you have to tell me what you want for your prize.”

“Prizes. Two prizes. Double or quits, remember? It was your idea.”

“Stop being triumphalist, Beckett.   It’s not nice.”

“Like you wouldn’t be if you had won? Which you didn’t.” She smirks again.

“If I’d won, we’d be working out dates for two excellent Georgian meals. You don’t even know what you want.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What?”

“Wait and see.”

“Beckett, that’s mean. Stop teasing me.”

Beckett peeps through her lashes seductively. “I thought you liked it when I teased you,” she purrs.

Castle pouts. “You’re deliberately stoking my curiosity. It’s mean.”

“I could stoke your feelings.” She bites her lower lip. Castle draws a sharp breath, and catches her into his arm as they walk down towards Buenos Aires.

“Now I’ve got you. What’s the prize you want? Trip to the Moon? Designer” – he pauses, and she glares – “dresses?” She was sure he was going to say lingerie. The glare must have worked. “Dinner at Nobu?”

“None of the above. You’ll have to wait and see.” She smiles mischievously. “I will tell you that I’m going to enjoy it immensely.”

“But will I enjoy it?” Castle whines.

“I don’t know. Wait and see.”

“If you say wait and see once more I’ll… I’ll… well, you’ll be waiting too. Though I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it. The wait, that is.”

Beckett smirks some more as they near the restaurant. Perfect. They’ll have dinner, she’ll invite him back for coffee, and all she’ll need to do is say wait and see again. Her smirk alters to an angelically happy smile. This does not appear to reassure Castle. However, nestling closer into his encircling arm does. Win-win. What an excellent evening this has turned out to be.

Dinner is also excellent. Castle tries very hard to weasel the nature of her prize out of her, but she deflects and diverts and when that seems not to be working resorts to sliding her foot up and down his leg. That certainly does work. It also nearly killed him when he choked on his wine, but a hard pat on the back solved the problem.

“Want to come back for coffee, Castle?”

“Will you tell me what the prize is going to be? I need to know if I have to fund a Moon visit.”

“What if I wanted you to kidnap Dr Burke?”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t because that would be illegal and you’re still a cop.”

Beckett grumps and grumbles and grouses.

“So what’s the prize?”

She leads them out the door. “Wait and see.”

Castle leans down and growls darkly into her ear. “You’ll tell me. You’ll be waiting” – he gives that a filthy emphasis which squiggles down every erogenous zone and every sensitised nerve she possesses – “to be able to tell me.”

Beckett merely smiles in a satisfied fashion. Her smile continues all the way to the car, all the way home – especially when Castle’s wide palm plants itself on her knee and remains there – and all the way up to her apartment. She is still smiling when the door shuts behind them.