13. Ring out for Christmas

Castle is also extremely relieved to wander off. Not hauling Beckett into Interrogation and forcing some answers out of her – especially when he isn’t quite sure of the questions he wants answers to – is definitely the best plan but equally definitely forcing some answers is the plan which he wants to implement.  So he removes himself from temptation and from a situation in which his rising irritation is likely to pre-empt common sense.

He is, in fact, quite seriously annoyed with Beckett. The proximate cause is that he’s caught her in an outright lie.  If she’s never had an upset stomach then she was quite definitely lying to him when he brought the mince pies round.  The secondary, tertiary and quaternary causes are all the other little niggles that he’d thought about last night and that are back in full force.  He doesn’t like being lied to, for any reason.  He also doesn’t like unsolved mysteries and unanswered questions.  And finally, he especially does not like Beckett being a liar, a mystery, or a question.  It gives him that same squirmingly unpleasant sense in the pit of his stomach that he’s not important enough to her for her to tell him the truth: that he’s still second-best. 

He trudges home, unamused and unhappy, with none of his normal ability to see the bright side of life. By the time he gets there, some twenty minutes later, his annoyance has hardened into determination that Beckett will tell him the truth.  A last sliver of sense tells him not to pursue that tack today, or tomorrow.  After Christmas.  It’s not as if he was intending to be in the Twelfth before then, anyway.  He’s got plenty to do before Christmas Day.  (And if there isn’t enough to do to keep him away, he’s perfectly sure he can find things to do which will.)

The loft is empty, which probably means that his credit card limit is rapidly getting full. At least the card his mother knows about.  Castle looks around at the comfortable, cheerful, Christmassy loft and is himself comforted and cheered.  He really does love Christmas-tide, he thinks.  All the good things in life are summed up in it.  However tough his early life had been, Christmas had always been full of laughter and love and happiness, and he’s done his very best to ensure that his family have the same now.  He’s sure Beckett will have a good time with her father, he thinks – and rapidly pushes the thought of Beckett away.  He doesn’t need to think about her till after Christmas.  He doesn’t want to, either.

On Christmas Eve Castle wraps his way through another pile of amusing, silly, or just plain mischievous stocking presents, and then concentrates happily on pre-preparing a Christmas dinner that would feed not just the three of them but thirty-three. And every time he catches a stray thought of Beckett peeping round his mind, he shuts it off, no matter how attractive it might be to think about her snuggled up to him.  He mashes some sweet potato, and concentrates harder on the food, and resolutely does not think that he could just pop over to the precinct and say Merry Christmas to everyone.  It’s more difficult than he would have expected, had he thought about it, which is unconsciously even more irritating.  The sweet potato is mashed smooth before he’s even noticed he’s started.

Beckett notices that Castle doesn’t drop by on Christmas Eve and doesn’t think twice about it. He’s sure to be busy at home.  She blocks off the stab of pain that she won’t have nearly such a pleasant time.  There’s no new body, there is a lot of very tedious paperwork, and it will be Christmas tomorrow and she is not looking forward to anything after her shift is over.  It’s worse, because she has the following days off and she has no plans.  She doesn’t want to have plans.  She certainly doesn’t want to have any conversations with Castle in which he might ask difficult questions that have answers which she doesn’t want to give.  She’s too brittle, at this time of year, to answer, and she can’t stand the pity she knows she’ll see if she did. 

She buries her head in her paperwork and resolutely does not think that it would be nice if Castle did drop by. It’s surprisingly difficult, and the feeling of impending trouble and the squirmingly unpleasant knowledge that not only has she lied flat out to him but she’s been caught – and at some point pretty soon she’s going to either need to explain why or feel uncomfortable every time she sees him – does not help.  By the end of the day she has a tension headache that is, for once, not entirely caused by the thought of tomorrow.  It’s a familiar companion, this time of year.

The bullpen is very quiet, on Christmas Day shift. Minimum staffing to cover the day, and those that are there aren’t happy about it.  Except Beckett, who’d rather be there than in her solitary apartment or exchanging strained conversation with her father for any longer than she has to.  There are so many things that they don’t talk about: the past, the family, the season, the memories.  So many triggers to avoid.  If he ever does fall again, it won’t be her doing: she’ll have been the safety line that holds him.  No-one will ever be able to say that she should have done more, done it differently.  She’ll be strong for him, because he needs all his own strength for himself.  And part of that is sharing Christmas dinner, however hard it might be.

The time passes all too quickly, and there is no reason to delay departure. No bodies have dropped: even criminals and killers, it seems, celebrate the joy of Christmas Day.  Beckett forces her dragging feet to their normal swinging stride and makes her way to her father’s apartment on the Upper East Side.  There will be no problem parking, today.  Plenty of people are out of town with their families.  It also means that she can leave and be home as soon as she wants to be.  No hanging around in dingy subway stations waiting for a train packed with drunken revellers.  Or even sober revellers.  She doesn’t want to meet any revellers of any sort. 

She’s so very tired of doing this. So very, very tired of pretending that they’re normal.  She’d just like one Christmas where she went away, alone, and didn’t have to try.  She’d take an oil rig in Alaska, if it meant she didn’t have to try.  And then she feels bitterly unhappy and guilty that she doesn’t want to spend time with her father, who she loves, and who loves her.

She pulls up and parks close by, blows her nose and checks that her make-up is still presentable, puts her bright, sociable, love-you-Dad face on and rings his doorbell with absolutely no hint that anything at all might be preferable to Christmas dinner with her five year sober father.  Nothing is, because nothing else would be any better.

Dinner is delicious. Naturally.  It has no hint of Beckett’s own generally un-traditional cooking and consequent flaws in any attempt to cook a traditional Christmas dinner.  It also has no hint whatsoever of alcohol.  She had, as always, chosen the food with intense attention to detail and a wrenchingly painful conversation with the suppliers.  She and her father manage comfortable conversation about her job, the precinct, his work, and the ridiculously snowy weather, and don’t mention anything important.  Until her father smiles at her and starts down a new line.

“So, Katie, is the Rick Castle you keep mentioning the same Castle as writes books?”

“Yeah,” she answers, not particularly enthusiastically.

“How on earth did that happen?”

“He probably bribed the Mayor,” she grumps. “I don’t know.  I’ve got to put up with him following me around whether I like it or not.  He’s a pain in the ass.”

“You went Christmas shopping with him, Katie. That doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass to me.”  Her father’s eyes crinkle.  Beckett realises that actually he suddenly sounds more engaged with her life than for some time.  “And I really like the look of this game you’ve got me, so if Rick Castle can write books that you like and find games that I like I think I really ought to meet him.”

Beckett spits out her Coke. “Dad!”  Her father grins happily. 

“Joking, Katie. Joking.”  She splutters some more.  Just for a moment it’s all going well and it’s Katie and her dad, just as it should be.  Just as it used to be.

“Let’s play this game of mine, then.” And for another hour, it’s still just as it should be.  Beckett wins – by a short head, since neither of them are precisely experienced at the tactics and strategies, and makes them both coffee, and it’s been the most relaxed Christmas in years, so far.  But gradually they run out of things to say, and the game – third time takes all, and Beckett edges it – can’t make up for it entirely.

“Time for me to go, Dad,” Beckett says, mid-evening.

“Sure, Katie. See you soon.  Come and play this game again.  I’ll beat you next time.”

“You can try. I won’t make it easy on you.”

Some impulse she doesn’t understand sends her to hug him, in a way she hasn’t managed for a while. And just for a moment he hugs her back and he’s her father, there for her to lean on.

She makes it all the way into her car before the feeling fades; but fade it does. It’s been a good Christmas, relatively speaking: for the first time she thinks that her own Dad might be still there, somewhere underneath the fragility.  But she still knows, however good today has unexpectedly been, that his fragility still binds her to being strong. 

She drives home, enters her chill, undecorated apartment, picks up her little amethyst bird and sits on the couch, stroking the cool stone mindlessly. Her parents had brought her it from Quito: they’d been while she was in college, and surprised her with it that Christmas.  Before.  She keeps it, because she loves it, and it’s the only memento in her home.  Something about the cock of its head and the little black stone eyes reminds her of her mother’s quick intelligence.  She couldn’t bear to have photos, but this… is okay.  More than okay.

Eventually, she goes to bed, dry-eyed.

Castle wakes up on Christmas morning in a mood of joyous expectation. He really does love Christmas, he loves giving people presents, and he loves the happy family atmosphere around him.  He’d been to the Christmas Eve service with Alexis last night, though he prefers the old-fashioned name Watchnight service, so redolent of the Magi, the shepherds, the Host above, and the world waiting for the Child to come, sung full-voiced and full-hearted the carols and the hymns, and gone home soothed and eased.

It’s Christmas morning, and Castle is blissfully happy.

He’s still blissfully happy at the end of the day. Christmas dinner was perfect – even his mother’s parts of it – his presents had been received with appropriate reactions – the wrinkle cream he’d given his mother as a silly, annoying stocking present had induced a very satisfying squawk and purple hue to her face, though the jade bead necklace he’d spent considerable time locating had made up for it.  He sits happily among the detritus of presents and wrapping paper and food and wine, half-watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the twenty-fourth time, and thinks that his life is really pretty much perfect.  He’ll have a lovely Christmas, and after Christmas he’ll go back to following Beckett around, get her to tell him what’s wrong and why she lied to him, and then spend some quality time reassuring her that whatever it is it’s not a problem.  Christmas is a season of goodwill and forgiveness, after all.

Beckett is back at her desk Monday morning, not particularly refreshed but rested. She’s not done a lot, these last few days: slept, read, cooked reasonable if simple meals, watched TV that requires no thought and involves no triggers.

It starts again immediately. Whatever peace there might have been over Christmas and the subsequent weekend, it doesn’t continue into January.  They are frantically busy.  The still-lingering effects of the financial crash, the global downturn and the general inability of people to control their tempers and their guns, knives or fists, has upped the homicide rate noticeably.  It’s as busy as it had been before Christmas: a conveyor belt of relatively simple murders.  It wouldn’t give her team any problem at all, except for the volume.  They’re not the only ones.  Every team is overloaded, and since Beckett and her boys are the best, and the fastest, they end up taking the brunt, helping out with everyone else’s workload as well as meeting their own.

There’s no time for anything, for a week and more. Beckett barely goes home, the boys are little better.  Castle brings them lunches and doughnuts and makes endless cups of coffee, but his particular brand of thinking isn’t required and there isn’t any opening for him to talk to Beckett alone.  Even if there were, she’s focused on the task and nothing else.

Castle turns up on Friday next, looking for inspiration, Beckett, and something a little more interesting than the banal, petty, domestic murders that are all there have been so far, nine days into the New Year. He finds none of these things.

“Hey, Ryan, Espo. Where’s Beckett?”

“Personal day. Won’t be in.”  That’s very strange. Personal day?  Not a sick day?  That, he might have understood.  Though he wouldn’t have put it past Beckett to struggle in anyway.  They’re absolutely flat out and Beckett, workaholic, obsessive Beckett has taken a personal day?  This is beyond weird.  His curiosity is triggered.

“No-one for you to annoy, Castle.” Esposito grins companionably at him.  “Need some help, though.  We’re as busy as ever.  C’mon.  Take a look at this one.  You’ll like it.  Wife caught her husband cheating and shot him.”

“So? That’s boring.”

“So after she shot him she cut off his dick and posted it to the other woman.”

Castle’s eyes open wide. “Really?”

“Really,” Ryan says, black humour on full display. “Added a note, too.  Suggested the girlfriend should have it stuffed and motorised” – Castle sniggers – “and that with a couple of AA batteries in place it would be better than the real thing.”  Snigger turns to full on laughter.

“The lady had style,” Castle says, eventually.

“Sure she did. What she didn’t have was sense.  She left her fingerprints all over it and wrote the note in her own handwriting.”  Ryan shakes his head at the idiocy of murderers.  Castle stops sniggering and has a thought.

“How come if you’re so busy Beckett took a personal day?  She never goes home.  None of you do, when it’s this way.  Never seen her take a break.”

The boys’ faces turn identically blank. Castle’s instincts trip on to high alert.  They don’t know?  He doesn’t believe that for an instant.

“She always does,” Esposito says. Castle waits.  “Doesn’t matter how busy we are.  Montgomery always gives it.”  That all sounds true.  “She never says why.”  That’s true too.  It’s also entirely misleading.  Castle, who is extremely good himself at misleading through the careful use of absolute truth, spots the evasion without any effort. 

“Do you know why?” Esposito’s previously friendly face closes off.  Even Ryan manages a degree of coldness.

“Up to her to tell you. She don’t talk about it.  We don’t ask.”  They turn identically cool shoulders to him.  It’s very clear that there is nothing to be gained – and much to be lost – from pushing further.  The boys have been pretty welcoming, to date, but their loyalty is to Beckett.  He’s not going to get any answers here.

“Okay,” he concedes, gesturing apologetically. “Sorry.  What else have you got?”  The moment passes as they hunker down to another round of very tedious murders.  Castle sticks it out till lunchtime, when peering at indistinct CCTV footage has left his eyes metaphorically bleeding, buys lunch for everyone, and then slinks away to the catcalls and friendly hazing of the boys.

He sends Beckett a text on his way out. Came to the precinct for inspiration. Where can I find some?  RC.  There’s no answer by the time he gets home.  There’s no answer an hour later.  There’s still no answer after dinner, six hours later, nor by bedtime.  The needle on Castle’s internal meter for detecting oddities and mysteries is now firmly in the red zone.

Beckett has spent the day with her father. They’ve done this each year since he got sober: making sure he’s not alone.  If he were alone, he might be tempted, and if he were tempted, he might so easily fall.  He’d said spend the day with me, Katie. Keep me strong, the first year.  He hadn’t needed to ask twice, or the following year, or ever again.  Beckett had explained, only once, to Montgomery, and he’s never quibbled, no matter how busy they may be.  He knows Beckett will cover the time.

She never has her phone on, on this one day. She gives her father her full attention.  It’s the least he deserves: no distractions.  This year, they go out for lunch (burger and shake for her, burger and soda for her father) and then return to his apartment through the icy, biting wind and occasional flakes of snow to play Sorry and cards for the afternoon, and then after dinner to share coffee – but not memories – and play some more games.

Despite the improvement of Christmas, on this anniversary of their loss her father is withdrawn and quiet: the games, the lunch, the dinner not really helping. Conversation is strained and full of pauses: Beckett proof-reading every sentence before she says it in case it should cause pain.  But she can’t make her excuses and leave, not when every miserable look tells her that he needs her to stay.  She can’t take the chance that leaving will send him over the edge, when he’s so clearly hanging by a thread.

She goes home late in the evening, still carrying the burden of holding her father to sobriety. When she switches her phone back on, and finds the text from Castle, it’s too late to answer.  She’ll see him tomorrow, no doubt.

Strung out on the high-tension wire of the day, of locking down her own feelings to keep her father safe, it doesn’t occur to her that Castle might still be looking for some answers as to why she lied – he’s not asked about it yet – and certainly not that he might be curious why she wasn’t at work today. She’s far too tired to worry about might-bes for the next day.  They’re already horribly busy, and she needs sleep to recover from today and to be ready for tomorrow.

She wakes to her alarm – thankfully not Dispatch calling – and drags herself through the shower and dressing, finding it harder than she should to motivate herself. It’s always the same, the following day.  When they’ve been quiet, she’s taken a second day, but that’s not possible this year.  Work will help.  Or at least help her forget her father’s quiet desperation, his clinging to her.

She’s so very tired of being strong.