137. I don't know why

Dr Burke pauses in his reception area. Mr Castle is there, meditatively chewing the end of his pen and contemplating his notebook. He is remarkably peaceful, considering the roiling emotions in the rooms around him.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Both Mr Beckett and Detective Beckett are considering different points of view.”

“Oh.”

“Your insight was correct, Mr Castle, but I could have wished that you had not revealed it tonight.”

“Huh?”

“I had been planning to discuss that point of view at the next session, when Mr Beckett was not here.” Dr Burke does not mention that he expects that Mr Castle would not have been there either. “Instead, I now have to contend with Detective Beckett trying to understand her father’s point of view at the same time as he is trying to comprehend hers. It is undesirable to have to manage both at once.” Mr Castle nods, once. He does not look particularly penitent. “The next time you have an insight, I should be grateful if you would discuss it with me first, so that we can agree the best way forward to ensure that my attention to Detective Beckett is not divided.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Dr Burke sighs. “Mr Castle, Detective Beckett’s case is complex.”

“You don’t say.”

“Therefore introducing random factors is, to say the least, unhelpful. Please do not make this more difficult than it already is.”

Finally, Mr Castle appears to have appreciated the point which Dr Burke is making.

“Okay,” he says, more agreeably.

“Detective Beckett is considering your point. I must attend to Mr Beckett, for a short time. There is little time left in this session.”

Dr Burke returns to the room containing Mr Beckett.

“Would you like some more tea, Jim?”

“No. Thank you,” Mr Beckett adds, after a noticeable pause. “I get what you say, Carter. But I’ve missed out on so much and she’s never really told me anything about her life since… It’s always been smiles and sunshine, but thinking about it there’s never been anything tangible. I barely knew about her last boyfriend – certainly never met him. It’s only since she met Rick that she’s let me know anything, and that hasn’t exactly been much. She talks to him, though.”

“You need to separate the matters which require reconciliation from the matters which are normal and expected. What do you believe requires reconciliation?”

“The same things that there were the first time.”

“Mm?”

“She thinks she abandoned me. That I haven’t forgiven her. That I don’t want to be a family. Or that I do want to be a family just as long as she keeps saying how high every time I say jump.”

“Indeed. That is an accurate summary.”

“But I’ve told her I don’t think that. I’ve told her I don’t blame her, that I want to be a family. I just want her to be happy again.” He hunches into himself. “Why doesn’t she believe me?”

Dr Burke waits. Mr Beckett remains silent.

“I suggest that the question of why your daughter does not believe you is one upon which you should think further. I must return to her. Before I do, I should appreciate your views on whether you would wish to continue the game tonight? I shall ask your daughter the same question.”

Mr Beckett shrugs, dispiritedly. “If Katie wants to. I don’t see what good it does, but if she thinks it helps…” He trails off.

“I will return momentarily.”

Dr Burke returns to the other room, noticing in passing that Mr Castle has ceased to chew his pen and is scribbling rapidly. His handwriting is atrocious.

“Detective Beckett?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you been able to arrive at any further thoughts on Mr Castle’s suggestion?”

“If I’d walked away from me…” Dr Burke follows her thought, although he cannot help thinking that many patients would be far better off if they did walk away from themselves, leaving their troubles behind them. “If I’d walked away from me when I needed… oh. I’m thinking that he needed support. But I should know that it wasn’t support. It was enabling. Al-Anon were really clear on that.”

“Indeed. An important realisation. Now, we have little time left, formally. You may end this session, continue to consider that realisation, and try to understand in the light of Mr Castle’s suggestion and that realisation, or we may continue the session between you and your father, or we may complete your game. We could, alternatively, combine the latter two.”

Detective Beckett considers the options, briefly. Dr Burke expects that she will choose the first option, and finds himself to be perfectly correct. It is Detective Beckett’s following words which are unexpected.

“Stop now,” she says. “But… but do you think that I could have the usual session on Tuesdays but one with Dad every Friday?”

“I have no objection. I suggest that you ask your father if he is also content with that?”

“Yes…”

Detective Beckett does not appear to be greatly enthusiastic about making her request. However, Dr Burke will not do so for her when he considers that she and her father need to improve their direct communications. Considerably more openness is required, and no opportunity to practice should be neglected. Any step, no matter how small or unimportant it seems when compared to the major issues still outstanding, represents progress. Dr Burke believes in the value of continued small steps, and has been known to become quite voluble when it has been suggested that progress is only achieved in substantial leaps. In his experience, such leaps are only effective when founded on a number of seemingly trivial achievements.

Detective Beckett stands up and begins to make her way to the room in which her father is still present. Seeing her, Mr Castle falls into step beside her, providing her with an almost unnoticeable brush of fingers which nevertheless causes her to straighten and gain courage.

Mr Beckett startles as all three of them enter. Dr Burke observes that he seems old and defeated.

“I think we should stop now,” Detective Beckett says baldly. Mr Beckett sags unhappily. There is an uncomfortable pause. “But… Dad, can we do another session Friday? Or every Friday?” Detective Beckett has rushed that out as if she is afraid of rejection. The effect on Mr Beckett is, however, astonishing.

“You want to keep trying? Of course. Of course I will.” His previously dull eyes have brightened; there is emotion in his voice. He appears almost ready to embrace his daughter. She, however, does not appear to be embraceable. She is standing very close to Mr Castle, without, nevertheless, touching him.

“Okay. Well. Good,” Detective Beckett emits, embarrassedly.

She moves to the table and begins to put the Sorry game away. She is, Dr Burke observes, on the opposite side of the table from her father. He has no doubt that this is deliberate. He also has no doubt that Detective Beckett does not wish to deal with any more emotions or complexities than have become evident this evening. As a side issue, it is possible that she does not want to endure affection which she feels unable to reciprocate, and which lack of reciprocation will hurt her father. Therefore she has chosen an indirect method of avoidance.

“Would… Katie, would you bring the game again? Or I could.”

“Um… okay.”

Detective Beckett clears the last items into the box, with care.

“Good night,” she says generally, and leaves with despatch.

“Night,” Mr Castle adds, and leaves with equal speed.

Mr Beckett and Dr Burke remain.

“Are you sure this is progress?”

“Yes,” Dr Burke states. He is quite content that substantial progress is being made.

“Night, then. See you on Friday.”

“Good night.”

After everyone has left, Dr Burke rinses his teapot and cups, and considers with some satisfaction that tonight’s session, while apparently unproductive, has proceeded largely without major emotional upheavals and with a great deal of thinking on the part of both Becketts. Considering the events of the previous two sessions, this can be regarded as, in comparison, a stunning success.

Matters are still progressing in entirely the right direction. He almost looks forward to Tuesday. Almost.

“I would have won.”

“Huh?”

“I’d have won. If we’d finished the game.”

“You would not. I was winning.”

“No you weren’t. I was. Your dad had just Sorried you.”

“So? I had had a man closer to Home than you did before that. I was winning.”

“If you say so. I’ve got a better thought, though.”

“What?”

“Dr Burke was losing.”

Beckett grins nastily. “That’s true.” She sounds very satisfied by that.

“Let’s go back to yours and celebrate the metaphorical demise of Dr Burke.”

“Okay.” Beckett yawns widely on the word.

“Takeout for you, sleepyhead.” She wakes up a little and growls dangerously. “Takeout for me, then, if you don’t want any.”

“I do. I’m hungry. Let’s have pizza.”

Castle taps at his phone and arranges for pizza. He also, remembering previous occasions, arranges for soda and ice-cream.

They arrive more or less coincident with the delivery. Castle sneakily pays when Beckett isn’t looking, affects an air of complete innocence when she regards him beadily, and declines to allow her any role in reimbursing him at all. This is not astonishingly popular.

The pizza, however, is astonishingly popular. Beckett inhales hers in practically no time at all, and is wiping her fingers while Castle is still contemplating his last two slices. She fixes him with a hurry-up glare until they are done, and is on her feet clearing the plates before he’s swallowed the last mouthful.

“What’s the hurry?”

“Ice-cream.”

“That’s my line.”

“So copyright it, if you think it’s yours.”

Castle pouts, and then comes over to the freezer to find out if Beckett is intending to share the ice-cream with him. Somewhat to his surprise, he finds that she is, although the ratio of ice-cream is approximately 80:20 in favour of Beckett. This division does not seem entirely fair. Challenging it does not seem entirely sensible. He eats his miniscule portion with a considerable degree of pout (even if he has lots of ice-cream and toppings at home which he can eat at any time he likes) which is a considerable degree faked. Beckett is strung out, despite the snark, and ice-cream will help. Still, no need to let her know that he’s noticed. Far better to pout, and better yet to steal a few kisses.

He tries. Beckett threatens him with the spoon, which approaches far too close to his knuckles for comfort. He essays another raid with his spoon, and is further threatened. Her hand follows his away from the bowl, and he swoops in and steals a mouthful.

“That’s mine!” Beckett squawks.

“You’re mine,” Castle says smoothly, takes advantage of her indignation to remove spoon and bowl from her hands and put them down elsewhere, and then turns her into him and kisses her firmly. Happily, kissing her swallows her objection. Even more happily, she’s instantly responsive, melting into him and curving in and generally ending up right where she should be: right there in his embrace.

Some very pleasurable kissing later, Beckett has migrated into his lap and has snuggled into him in a pleasingly familiar and affectionate way. On the other hand, she is now leaning on his shoulder and not kissing him any more, which is familiar but not pleasing. It means she’s thinking over the session. At least she’s cuddled in close.

“At least Dad recognises I had no good choices,” she says, out of the blue. “I guess that means he sort of understands where I was.”

“Yeah,” Castle says carefully. He thinks that Jim understands precisely where Beckett was, but Beckett has to work her way to that. When she does, she’ll – probably – understand that if Jim understands then he is also sincere when he said she wasn’t to blame.

“That fits with Dr Burke saying – everyone saying – it was right to walk away.”

Castle does not cheer. He wants to, but he manages not to. That’s a huge nearly-stride forward. Now if she’ll only take the next logical step…

She doesn’t.

“How could he think that I’d just leave him to die? I’d already lost Mom. Why can’t he see that I couldn’t lose him too?” She takes a quick breath. “It’s my job to protect people. Why doesn’t he see that that meant him too? Means” – the accent on the present tense is very audible – “him too.” Another breath. She’s tensing up right there in his arms. “Everyone else sees it.”

Castle pets reassuringly, drawing little patterns on her arm, and declines to comment. In particular, he does not say he’s still stuck seeing you as a nineteen year old, even though he is pretty certain from Jim’s behaviour that he is treating Castle like his daughter’s early boyfriends (again: that’s really getting old) and therefore that he may well be failing to realise that she’s all grown up. Dr Burke’s words to him about keeping his insights to himself had stung a little, but he can’t fault their sense. Unfortunately. He really does dislike Dr Burke’s incessant correctness, and especially his incessant cleverness. A putative character is already in his head, and the more he sees of Dr Burke the more he thinks that it would be ample and well-justified revenge to turn him into a full-blown character. Dr Burke will, naturally, receive a copy of that book, with a very personal dedication. He smiles ferally at the thought, and relapses into inspiration.

Beckett continues to contemplate under his petting. She doesn’t get any more tense, but she isn’t relaxing any either.

“On Tuesday I need to talk about why Dad doesn’t see that I needed to protect him. And about what you said, about thinking he’d react like I would. I still don’t get that properly.”

“You’re too tired,” Castle points out, prompted by her gaping yawn. “Think about it when you’re not so tired.” He plops a kiss on the top of her head. “Bedtime.”

“Is that an offer?”

Castle smiles. “Only if you want it to be.”

Beckett yawns again. Castle wraps her in a lot more closely and tips her face up.

“You’re half asleep already. It would be very unflattering if you fell asleep. I’d never recover from the humiliation.”

“Till the next day,” Beckett attempts to snark. It doesn’t really come off.

“I’m not taking the chance. Bedtime, Beckett. I’ll tuck you in and kiss you goodnight, if you like.”

“I’m not a toddler.”

Castle looks her up and down, appreciatively and with heat. “No, you are not,” he says, and traces an intricate pattern down her front. “I certainly wouldn’t be doing this” – his fingers wander rather more intimately – “with anyone who wasn’t totally adult.”

“I still don’t need tucked in.”

“Need? No. Want? Maybe.” He widens his eyes at her hopefully. “Don’t you?”

“I get the impression,” Beckett says very dryly, and considerably more wakefully, “that any tucking in is for your benefit not mine. In fact, being a detective and all, I detect that you are actually hoping for me to change into my nightwear, preferably somewhere you can watch.”

“Curses!” Castle cries theatrically. “My nefarious and dastardly plans are known.”

“Yep.”

He pouts, equally theatrically. “You are no fun.”

“Nope.”

“So can I tuck you in?”

Beckett looks at him with wide, amazed eyes. “After everything I just said you’re still asking?”

“Okay, I won’t. I’ll take my disappointed, devastated, dismal” –

“I know you’re a writer. You can stop alliterating now” –

“self home, and dive into despairing despond.”

She collapses into giggles. “No more alliteration. Why not think about what I actually said? Which did not, note, include a particular word.”

Castle pauses, and looks quizzically at her. “You didn’t say no, did you?”

Beckett quirks an eyebrow. “Work it out. You’re the one who’s supposed to be a writer.”

“I am a writer,” Castle says, offended.

“Pay some attention to the language, then.”

Castle mutters darkly to himself, thinks back over the conversation with total recall, and grins.

“You were just messing with me. That’s not nice, Beckett. I’ll need to deal with that. You should be nice to me.”

“You should listen.”

“I do listen. I listen to you gasping when I do this” – he draws a neat little circle around her breast – “and I listen to you moan when I do this” – he takes her mouth in one surging, conquering movement – “and I listen to you calling my name when we’re in bed and I’m teasing you.”

“And I listen to your crazy theories and incessant chatter in the precinct,” Beckett says with more snark than at any time since five p.m.

“Now you’re just being contrary.” Castle smirks, mischievously. “You were messing with me, anyway. So now I’ll just mess with you. Bedtime, Beckett, and I am definitely tucking you in.”

He shifts her off his lap, stands up, picks her up, still smirking.

“Why are you picking me up?”

“I want to. Proves my manly strength.”

Beckett makes a very unimpressed face. “Is that what you call it? I call it showing off.”

“But you like it. You like being swept up into my arms. It makes you feel cherished.”

Beckett is silenced. It does. She does like it. She curls her arms round Castle’s neck and leans into him as he conveys her to the bedroom. The next thing that happens is that she is placed – sitting, humph – on the bed.

“There. Now you need to get ready for bed.” Castle sits himself down on the stool at her dressing table and adopts an attitude of happy expectation.

“Tell me, Castle, have you heard the word voyeur?”

“Yes, and I think it’s entirely appropriate. Watching can be very enjoyable, if participation isn’t on offer.”

His voice has dropped into a furry baritone growl: heat banked below the words.

“You didn’t listen carefully.”

“What didn’t I listen to?” Castle asks.

“The words, wordsmith.”

Castle tries to rerun the conversation, again. What use is near-total recall if Beckett keeps sandbagging him? His recall is really not assisted by Beckett undoing her pants. Slowly, and with a wholly unnecessary sensual little smile. Her fingers are moving wickedly over the flash of dark fabric beneath. He closes his eyes, which produces a cross noise, and reviews the previous conversation without the immense distraction of Beckett disrobing. Actually, without the immense distraction of Beckett.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. She hadn’t actually declined his original offer, either. He’d declined his own offer.

“Beckett,” he says dangerously, “Beckett, are you messing with me again? You don’t look tired to me any more.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Make your mind up, Castle. First you tell me I’m tired, now you tell me I’m not. You make me an offer, and then you retract it. You take me to bed, and then you sit on a chair six feet away.” She smirks nastily. “I guess I’d better just put myself to bed. Night, Castle.”

“Oh no. You don’t get to mess with me any more.” Castle stands up and prowls across the three steps to Beckett. “You’ve been messing with me for the last quarter hour. No more messing.” His hands close around her waist, and draw her up to standing and then against him. “Oh dear,” he points out insincerely. “Your pants seem to have fallen off.”

“And that had nothing to do with you pushing them, did it?”

Castle acquires a saintly mien. “No.” Saintly changes instantly to seductive, and he leans in very slowly to take her mouth with complete authority and considerable assertion. He lifts off. “But that had everything to do with you messing with me.”