124. The skill to survive

“That having been established, shall we return to the main subject of this evening’s session?”

“Okay,” Detective Beckett says, with considerably more intelligence and attention than had been evident previously.

“I had asked you to consider your own actions and feelings, the latter in particular, whilst your father was under the influence of alcohol; and to relate those actions and feelings to the three Cs: causation, control, and cure. Have you had time in which to consider these matters?”

“Yes.”

“And what conclusions have you drawn?”

“I thought – felt – I’d caused it. So I cut my hair and coloured it. But right from the beginning I had to do everything. Keep up appearances.” Her mouth twists and her voice is bitter. “Control what other people saw.” She breathes.

“How did you feel about that?”

“I… I hated it. I shouldn’t have had to do everything. I shouldn’t have had to pick up all the pieces because my father couldn’t make a single decision.” She breathes deeply. Dr Burke is reminded that Mr Castle is only just outside, as her fingers flex and bite on the couch cushion. “But I did. Then I cleaned him up and poured away the booze and collected his sodden drunk self from every precinct in Manhattan. I thought it would cure him.”

“Detective Beckett, tell me with complete honesty how you felt about your father during the two-year period about which we are talking.”

Detective Beckett says nothing. Her face is – Dr Burke dislikes descriptive language, but he can think of no other word – broken. He infers that she does not wish to admit her own feelings, and that she is still ashamed of them.

He allows the uncomfortable silence to continue, and fills it by reviewing the most interesting book which he has been reading: a historical discursion on the diseases prevalent in mediaeval Europe and their effect on the mobility and economic power of the workforce. It had been quite fascinating. It had not previously occurred to him that one could trace freedom of movement and indeed the later rise of unionisation to patterns of epidemic illness. Most interesting.

“I… was… resentful,” Detective Beckett drags out. “I hated that he couldn’t support me. I had to do everything and he wouldn’t or couldn’t do anything and then he blamed me anyway because I looked like her. He didn’t love me enough to stop drinking and I hated it. All he ever wanted was for me to come and save him. Pick up the pieces. Even when I wouldn’t any more he kept calling. He was always drunk. He wasn’t a parent any more. He’d checked out the day Mom died. He missed my graduation, he missed my passing-out parade. He doesn’t even remember that he did.”

“But you have never told him of your feelings?”

“No. We’ve been through this.”

“We have. But I wish you to say again why you did not do so, when he made his amends.”

“Because I thought I just had to grow up and get over myself. Because I couldn’t bear to do anything that might send him back to the bottle. Because I thought he loved me and wanted to be a family and I really, really wanted my family back. I didn’t have anyone else.”

“Now, what do you think?”

“He needs to know,” Detective Beckett says miserably. “He’ll be so disappointed in me.”

“Why?”

“For not getting over the resentment.”

“He will be disappointed, or you are disappointed in yourself?”

Detective Beckett is, once more, brought up short.

“I have said before, Detective Beckett, that you must first forgive yourself. Why do you feel that you should not resent your father’s behaviour, except that your first therapist told you that your feelings were of no account?”

“Because you’re supposed to forgive people. Not store up grudges and resent them. Everyone expects you to forgive.”

“So you are disappointed in yourself because you have not lived up to the expectations of others. Have they been in your position?”

Detective Beckett shrugs.

“When you attended Al-Anon, did others not speak of their feelings?”

“Yes.”

“Did they not admit to anger, and resentment?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. It appears to Dr Burke that Detective Beckett had, possibly deliberately, forgotten that experience.

“Detective Beckett, was your therapy before or after you attended Al-Anon?”

“During. The therapist suggested it. But Al-Anon wasn’t helping so I stayed with therapy.”

“Why did it not help?”

“It conflicted. The therapist said one thing, the group said other things. I thought the professional” – there is a very hard edge on that word, with which Dr Burke is entirely in agreement – “would know best.” She inhales, exhales, inhales. “Of course, the therapist was wrong.”

Dr Burke gives mental thanks. “Indeed,” is all he says, however. “So what does that tell you?”

“That I should believe the feelings of the people who were in the same position as me?”

“It would certainly be an area to consider. No two people’s experiences are ever precisely the same, however.” He smiles gently. “Now, you have said that others at Al-Anon expressed anger and resentment. How did you feel about those people?”

“Huh?”

“How did you feel about them?”

“I knew where they were at. They were all trying to deal with the same stuff I was. I suppose I felt sorry for them.”

“So you did not feel that they were responsible for their own suffering?”

“No.”

“Why then do you feel that you are?”

“What?”

“You are blaming yourself for not being able to deal with a situation that you did not cause. Until you can stop blaming yourself, you will make less progress than otherwise.” Dr Burke steeples his fingers, and continues. “I consider that it would be useful for you to tell your father the whole story of his addiction, from your perspective, at the earliest time at which you feel able so to do. I have come to the conclusion that this will be the key to unlocking the situation. Although I have said, and strongly believe, that you will be unable to forgive your father until you forgive yourself, I also do not consider that you will be able to forgive yourself until you have established for yourself your father’s feelings. I suggest that you consider carefully when that meeting should be.”

“Friday,” Detective Beckett says definitively.

Dr Burke is surprised that she wishes to undertake this meeting so soon, but naturally does not show his feelings.

“Very well,” he says. “I shall contact your father directly to arrange it.”

Detective Beckett nods.

“Would you like to discuss anything else?”

“No, thank you.” She stands, as Dr Burke politely stands too, and is ushered out of the room and into Castle’s waiting presence.

“Good night,” she says.

“Night,” Castle adds.

“Good night, Detective Beckett. Mr Castle.”

Dr Burke watches as Mr Castle wraps his arm around Detective Beckett in a comfortingly protective fashion, and goes back to his office to consider what he will say to Mr Beckett.

It is now a week and a half since the tempestuous session at his office. Detective Beckett’s desire to bring matters to a head has arrived some considerable time earlier than he had expected, and in fact he had warned Mr Beckett that it might be some weeks before any contact might be made. He meditates on the situation for a few moments. The solution, now, is extraordinarily simple: the execution of that solution is extraordinarily complex. Detective Beckett must hear that her father forgives her, that he accepts his responsibility for the original trauma, and that he does not blame her for either her actions or her feelings. That, Dr Burke contends, is simple. However, Detective Beckett must then believe her father’s position, internalise it, and so have a foundation for her own self-forgiveness. Having done that, she may then truly forgive her father. Only after she has forgiven her father, will she be able to be comfortable with Mr Castle’s family at his home.

Dr Burke consults his watch, and on discovering it to be still before eight concludes that there would be no harm in telephoning Mr Beckett now. He considers that it would be unconscionable to allow Mr Beckett to suffer further when, by advising him of the potential for a meeting on Friday, Dr Burke can also inform him that his daughter’s state does not give cause for concern. He dials.

“Jim Beckett.”

“Mr Beckett, this is Dr Burke.”

“Dr Burke? Carter? Is everything okay? Is something wrong with Katie?”

“No, nothing. She wishes to have another session with you, this Friday.”

“She does? Friday? I thought you said that would take time?”

“I thought that it would indeed take longer,” Dr Burke says calmly. “It appears that time out of Manhattan with Mr Castle has allowed her to clarify her thinking to such an extent that she is prepared to embark upon another session at which she will be, in my opinion, in a place where she can also begin to listen to and absorb your point of view. You will recall that she was not so prepared, ten days ago.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I believe so,” says Dr Burke reassuringly. “A word of caution, however. Despite the good intentions of both of you to listen to each other, it is still quite possible that there will be high emotion and that the session will be paused, or stopped. Do not regard this as failure. Psychotherapy is not, you will appreciate, as seen on television.”

“Nor is law,” Mr Beckett says dryly. “I get it. This isn’t going to be a quick fix.”

“Unfortunately not. I believe a short session with you prior to Friday might be helpful?”

“Yes, probably.” Mr Beckett does not sound enthusiastic, but he is co-operative. How fortunate.

“I have an open session on Thursday evening, at six thirty?”

“Okay. Thanks for calling. Appreciate it.”

“I shall see you on Thursday, Jim.”

Castle collects Beckett as she exits the treatment room, runs a rapid, assessing, and unnoticed gaze over her, breathes a silent sigh of relief that she appears relatively unscathed and he will not have to dismember Dr Burke, or make Beckett think that he agrees with her plans to do so.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

“Yeah. I’m tired.”

“Want me to drive?”

“Not that tired.”

Castle smirks. “Have it your own way. I’ll have my own way later.” Beckett quirks a very sardonic eyebrow at him, and simply smiles inscrutably at his comment. Still, she doesn’t object to his hand on her knee.

“Do you want dropped off?” she asks, instead.

Castle emits a surprised noise. “Why?”

“You were out all night last night. I thought…”

“It’s okay. As long as I don’t stay out tonight. Otherwise I’ll probably be grounded for a week, and what fun would that be?”

“Not much – for you. We’d all have homicides to deal with: you’d just have to hear about it,” Beckett points out mischievously, and starts to parallel park before Castle can wreak revenge.

It takes until they’re inside Beckett’s apartment with coffee, comfortably tucked into each other, for Castle’s curiosity to spill over.

“How did you get on?”

“Survived.”

Castle leaves that where it lies. “Good,” he says, and sips his coffee, restraining, albeit with considerable difficulty, his curiosity from making any further enquiries.

“We agreed that Dad should be there on Friday.” Castle chokes. “Try again. Listen to him. Work out the truth.”   Her face twists. “Try to fix this mess, one way or another. I can’t stand it hanging over me any more.”

“Up to you, Beckett,” Castle says supportively. “It’s always up to you.” He takes another drink of his coffee, makes a small face at discovering that it’s already tepid and rather nasty, and grins. “How about something nicer to talk about?”

“What?” Beckett says with considerable alacrity. Castle deduces that she would rather talk about anything else than Friday, and goes along with it, despite a searing desire to find out what exactly she is planning before it’s dropped on his unsuspecting (if not precisely innocent) head.

“You know I said Mother wanted a spa break?”

“Yes?”

“She’s found one. This weekend.”

Beckett’s jaw drops. “She doesn’t take things slowly, does she?”

“Hurricane Martha?” Castle says. “No. More like headlong, runaway train style. Anyway, she’s kidnapped my credit card and my daughter and informed me that they are all off this weekend – Friday night, to be precise, and won’t be back till late on Sunday. If it wasn’t for Alexis telling her that there’s no way she’s missing school, they’d be there for a week.”

Beckett acquires a slightly lopsided smile. Castle rambles on.

“Personally I don’t see the attraction, but Mother says it re-energises her, and with this new part – the audition she was telling everyone about on Sunday – she needs to even out her chakra balance and attain mental centrality. Though how she can find her centre when she can’t even find the English language escapes me.”

Beckett snorts with laughter.

“No, really, Beckett. Chakra balance is vitally important to Mother’s visualisation of her part. Don’t mock it.”

“Discussions about chakras always make me think of the word tantric,” Beckett says innocently and very distractingly.

Castle’s eyes flare. “Oh? Something you’d like to share, Beckett?” he says. “I thought you did yoga?”

“I do.” She leaves that hanging, purely to provoke Castle. Her yoga classes do not involve tantric anything. Castle’s mind, however, is clearly provoked to thoughts of the most usual accompanying word. He’s looking extremely predatory and not a little dominant.

“I give a very good massage, straightening out all the kinks in all seven major chakra points.” His voice is deeper, a lazy drawl that could act as massage oil all on its own. It flows over Beckett’s skin and leaves her sensitised without so much as a touch.

“Can you?” she husks in return. “You know how to stimulate chakras?”

“None better to stimulate your chakras,” he replies in a velvet voice that ruffles all of her nerves and rubs against her sacral and root chakras in a very stimulating fashion. Who needs massage? He can just keep talking. His baritone clearly has previously unknown abilities to resonate against synapses and slither down into her dampening core. “Now, if only I’d known that you liked massages, I’d have brought some oil.”

“Would you?” Beckett says, her eyes sleepy.

“Mmmm. Yes.”

“Mmmm. There might be some oil in the bathroom.” Beckett does not mention that the oil was a present from Lanie, at least a year ago, has never been opened, and she has absolutely no idea whether it will still have any of its scent or not. She can’t even remember what scent it had, if any. Massage oil hasn’t figured in her life since Will, and not more than once then. It hadn’t done anything for her, and she could achieve the same outcome on Will without needing oil, or indeed massage.

Castle rises, prowls off to the bathroom, audibly opens the cupboard, and emits a very satisfied growl which leaves every single nerve Beckett possesses singing with arousal. He returns with a small bottle and puts it on the table in front of them. A towel is flipped over the back of the couch. “There we are. It’s nicer if the oil’s warmed, though.” He wanders off again and returns with a small jug of hot water, in which the oil bottle is shortly floating.

Beckett looks at it. The bottle looks back. Castle looks at both of them. Then he ignores the oil, and places both large hands round her face. Then he begins, very carefully, gently, and delicately, to massage first her crown chakra, and then the third eye. His strong fingers rhythmically soothe Beckett into purring compliance to his touch: she is persuaded into lying down with her head in his lap where he can continue to stroke.

“Are you okay with me touching your throat,” he asks.

“Mmmm,” Beckett hums. Castle puts fingertips on the length of her neck, barely touching, rubs so lightly that a butterfly’s wing wouldn’t have been smirched. She’s a little tense: vulnerability not a feeling that leaves her comfortable, but as his hands remain light on the hollow she relaxes again and the pulse under the tips of his fingers calms and slows. He doesn’t stay there, though. He can sense that this is a place where she’s least easy with his fingers, though she likes his lips there.

His next stop will be her heart chakra. He walks the fingers of one hand down into the vee of her button-down, and undoes the first fastened button. His other hand reaches for the little bottle of now-warm oil, and opens it without needing to look, replacing it on the table. A soft scent of ylang-ylang drifts into the air. Another button falls away, and another, and another, until the shirt is wholly open and falling wide away from her chest and revealing a pretty white cotton bra. How fortunate: he can leave that there.

“Pretty,” Castle rumbles. His fingers ignore the chakra pattern and wander down to undo Beckett’s pants and uncover neat white cotton panties. She purrs, turning to an indignant noise when his fingers wander back upward. “I wouldn’t want to get oil on your clothes. We’re getting to the point where a little…lubrication… will help matters along.” He smiles lazily down into her hazy eyes. “Still want a massage, Beckett? Because if so, I think we’d better put the towel down. I don’t want to get oil on your couch, or on my clothes.”

“You could take your clothes off,” Beckett points out.

“I don’t think so,” Castle murmurs seductively. “This is your massage. Just lie back and enjoy it.” In direct contradiction, he sits and then stands her up, slips off her shirt and pants, spreads the towel out one handed (where does she get these bedcover sized towels?) across his lap and the couch, and encourages her back down with her head returning to his lap.

She smiles up. “I’ve to do nothing? Okay then, I won’t do this” – and she sits up to kiss him, briefly – “or this” – and she slides a hand over his chest – “or this” – and the hand lands up right next to her cheek, and that is not his or her cheek she’s palming. Her hands return to her sides, and she smirks. “But you said do nothing, so that’s what I’ll do.”

Castle tuts reprovingly. “You can’t provoke me like that, Beckett. Be a good girl,” he says patronisingly, and is instantly elbowed – “ow! and you will get your reward.”

Beckett glares up at him as he smiles sweetly. She looks very cute – and very sexy. Castle reverts to his original plan, which involves a great deal of carefully judged touching under the guise of massage, in which she will do nothing at all and he will reduce her to a puddle of satisfaction.