141. We are family

“Does it matter if you cannot?”

Detective Beckett gapes at Dr Burke. “Of course it does!”

“Why?”

Detective Beckett emits another peculiarly strangulated noise.

“Detective Beckett,” Dr Burke says, managing patience, and after a noticeable pause in proceedings, “please tell me your age.”

“What? Twenty-nine. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“And you are successful and respected in your profession?”

“Yes.”

“And you are in a serious relationship with Mr Castle?”

“If you don’t count that I can’t face his family in his home, yes. So what?”

“So you are a mature adult” – Dr Burke feels that this is a reasonable statement, despite many proofs to the contrary – “in which case, whether you wish a relationship with your father or not is up to you. There is no real reason to have one, unless you wish it. You are not dependent on him, are you?”

“No, but he’s my Dad.”

“That is true. However, once you are an adult, you have the choice whether to maintain a relationship with him or not. You are not dependent on him for support: financial or emotional. Therefore you need not, after due consideration, forgive him, and you need not blame yourself or feel in any way guilty for that decision. However, you must think very carefully over a sustained period about which is the right choice to make.”

“But if I don’t forgive my dad I won’t be able to sort out Castle’s family.”

“That is not quite correct. If you do not come to terms with a revised relationship with your father, whatever that relationship may be or indeed if there is no relationship at all, then you will not be able to deal with Mr Castle’s family.”

Detective Beckett continues to stare at Dr Burke as if he had developed coloured spots. She emits some more strangulated noises. Dr Burke changes tack.

“Detective Beckett,” he says sharply, to cut through her stunned state. “Please explain to me your recent dealings with your acquaintance, Medical Examiner Parrish, with Detective O’Leary, and with Mr Castle; in each case since Mr Castle arrived at the Twelfth Precinct.”

“What on earth has that to do with anything?”

“That is what you are here to uncover. Please undertake the exercise.”

“Lanie… Lanie and I’ve been friends a long time. Met at college. But then she started getting in my face about everything and telling me I was doing everything wrong. We fell out. I didn’t need that.”

“Mm?”

“Castle, O’Leary, Ryan and Espo forced an, um, intervention session. We patched it up. I’m seeing her Thursday,” Detective Beckett adds.

“Mm. And Detective O’Leary?”

“Met him when I was a rookie. He arrested me,” Detective Beckett says blandly. Dr Burke raises a surprised eyebrow. “I was on a Vice op. He bought the cover.” Ah. Much is explained. “Anyway, we got to be good pals. Worked together for a while.”

“And more recently?”

“I went to collect David Berowitz – the drunk – from Central Park Precinct. Castle tagged along.” Ah yes. Dr Burke remembers Mr Castle mentioning that occasion. “O’Leary was there. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but he was pretty pleased to see me. He and Castle hit it off – O’Leary was messing with Castle, which was pretty funny – and I think they’ve seen each other a couple more times than I know about.”

Dr Burke thinks that this is almost certainly the case, and admires Detective Beckett’s ability to deduce events from almost no information at all. If she would only apply her deductive skills a little more logically to her own situation, matters would progress a great deal more easily. Not, however, more rapidly. In Detective Beckett’s case, more haste would certainly produce less speed.

“Three weeks ago, there had been a quarrel between yourself and both Mr Castle and Detective O’Leary” –

“How did you know that?”

“Deduction,” says Dr Burke, as blandly as Detective Beckett had said arrested a moment ago – “How did that arise?”

“O’Leary was pushing on the sore points. He never did that. He was always just there when he thought I needed him. I never asked him, he just showed up. This time he was pushing.”

“And Mr Castle? You have, I am aware from him, had a number of disagreements, but for our present purposes the earliest one will suffice.”

“He thought I didn’t care about Dad. He didn’t get it. He thought I’d abandoned Dad.”

“Given your unstinting support for your father, that must have been very painful.”

“Yes,” Detective Beckett says shortly.

“Thank you. Now, I should like you to consider the common factor in each of these breaches.”

There is a short silence.

“They each opened up something I didn’t want to open,” Detective Beckett says reluctantly.

“Mm. In brief, they hurt you.”

“Suppose so.”

“And your reaction to being hurt?”

Detective Beckett cringes. “Stop seeing them.”

“Indeed,” says Dr Burke, without the slightest hint of any condemnation. “As the old saying would have it, a burnt child fears the fire.” Detective Beckett makes a face at the adage, but does not protest. Obviously, she can see the evident correctness of the sequence of events. “I expect that you have used the technique in other, similar situations. We need not repeat those: it will add nothing to the point.” He observes Detective Beckett’s look of relief with sympathy. Increasing her discomfort will not assist.

“Please consider your recent reaction to your father.”

Realisation dawns.

“He hurt me. So I stopped seeing him.”

“Indeed. Therefore, you need to consider carefully whether you believe that he will not hurt you further, before making any decisions on the nature of your continuing relationship, if any.”

“But I can only do that if I see him.”

“Indeed,” Dr Burke says again. “You may, as you have already indicated, see him here, in a joint session. You suggested that you would continue to bring your game, in order to produce a feeling of normality. You may also wish to undertake other activities with him: you mentioned brunch?”

“Yeah. With Castle.” Detective Beckett makes a face. “He can referee.”

Dr Burke considers that a short discussion with Mr Castle during Friday’s session might be profitable. Referee implies a worryingly confrontational meeting.

“I see no disadvantage to planning such an outing,” he says calmly. “It will certainly assist your thinking, if you wish to do it, but it will not in any way be harmful if you do not. I would counsel against undertaking this brunch if Mr Castle cannot be present, however. The presence of a supportive third party may not, in the end, be required, but should be available if needed.”

“Huh,” Detective Beckett says, thoughtfully. Rather more briskly, she then consults her watch. “Time’s up. I’ll see you on Friday. Good night, Dr Burke.”

“Good night.”

“That was weird,” Beckett says from somewhere under Castle’s chin.

“What was weird? And why are you hiding down there?”

“I’m comfy. I’m not hiding.”

Castle is not entirely convinced of this. Beckett has been quiet and thoughtful since he showed up, though for once not in any way distressed. That in itself would set his curiosity twitching, but she’ll talk when she’s ready and pushing, as he has so painfully discovered, does not improve the conversation.

“About Sunday.”

“Yeah?” Oooohhh. Maybe one itch of curiosity will be scratched.

“I think I’m going to invite Dad for brunch. Same place as last week. Er – will you come too?”

Beckett sounds ridiculously uncertain. Of course, that may be because it’s set fair to be an uncomfortable way to spend a Sunday morning. On the other hand, brunches with his family haven’t exactly been the feather-bed comfort he and especially Beckett might have liked.

“Okay.”

Beckett immediately snuggles in more tightly. Castle automatically curls his arm more tightly. He doesn’t even have to think about that any more, it just happens. Pavlovian reflex, or something like that, which is fine as long as Beckett retains a similarly Pavlovian reflex to snuggle in.

“Tonight’s session was weird.”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Make that mmm noise. Dr Burke does it all the time.”

Castle does not wish to resemble Dr Burke in any way. He abruptly changes his mode of speech.

“How was it weird?”

“We got through a lot. A few things made sense.”

Castle very much wants to ask what, Beckett? He just stops himself humming mmm again.

“What you said on Friday made more sense. I don’t think like an alcoholic. I think like the relative of an alcoholic. So Dad says something and I think he means something else.” Castle draws a supportive little pattern down her arm and up again. “He said he valued your help.”

Castle chokes, splutters, wheezes and practically faints in shock. “Okay, that’s the weird bit covered.”

“Yeah,” Beckett says feelingly. “That was seriously weird.”

“I still don’t like him,” Castle says rather childishly.

“He knows that too. He said so.” Castle splutters some more. “He said you were projecting your own feelings on to him. He was really big on projection. You, me… Ugh.” Castle remains speechless. “The other weird thing was that he said it didn’t matter if I forgave Dad or not, so long as I came to terms with it.”

A noise that sounds something like er-glurp exits Castle’s throat. Dr Burke said what?

“He said that I just needed to come to terms with whatever the decision was and then I’d be able to deal with your family.”

The same noise extracts itself from Castle’s throat again and hovers in the air. He is truly shocked. Strangely, Beckett doesn’t seem to be quite so shocked. Then again, she’s had an hour or so to consider it. Fortunately, he is unable to vocalise any thoughts at all before he’s had a chance to think about them, on account of his throat being full of non-verbal noises.

“It’s like he gave me permission not to forgive Dad. I want to, but if I can’t he’s made me see that doesn’t make me the world’s worst daughter.”

“But you want to.”

“Yeah. I want to. But if I can’t… There’s still things I can do. I can still sort out how I feel about your family, and deal with that.”

Castle draws another little pattern up and down her arm. He’s not sure how he feels about this. Logically, which is not his preferred mode of operation, it makes sense, though he’d like to think about it. Emotionally, he doesn’t like it at all. He needs to work that through, though, because this is absolutely not about him. Something floats back through his head. Dr Burke had said you are hoping for a happy ending. Temper your hopes. Sometimes the best that you can hope for is a different pattern of interaction. Oh. He hadn’t liked it then and he doesn’t like it now. There must be a reason behind that, but he needs time and – well, space – to work it out. Fortunately Beckett appears to have relapsed into thought again, and while she is still comfortably tucked against him, there hasn’t been a hint of a romantic interlude since she kissed him (very thoroughly) when he got here. Just as well. He’s not feeling at all romantic right now: in fact, he’s feeling very, very uncomfortable and he needs to work out why. The last thing they need right now is some self-made disaster.

Beckett yawns widely, and Castle realises that it’s after ten. Time he went home. He says so, and follows up with a leisurely, but less than passionately possessive, kiss. Beckett quirks an eyebrow.

“Tired, Beckett. Dealing with Mother wears me down.”

Beckett pats him reassuringly. “I’ll clear a closet, if you want?”

“What, and disturb the coat collection? I couldn’t do that.”

“It’s okay. The coats will share the bed with me. You can have the closet.” She smirks evilly, and Castle kisses her a good deal less tentatively.

“Not likely. The coats won’t kiss you.”

“Guess not,” Beckett says mischievously. Castle growls, and kisses her again on his way to the door, a little desperately.

He thinks all the way home, but at the end of the cab ride he’s no more enlightened as to the reason for his discomfort than he was at the beginning. He wanders into his study, pours himself a drink, balances his feet on his desk and continues to ponder his unexpected qualms.

Well, that was the plan. Right up till his mother barges in, destroying the chance of quiet, peaceful thought.

“Ah, Richard darling.” That is not a good start. That frequently precedes commentary such as about my Saks account, or my off-off-off Broadway production, or I’m having a little party. On reflection, that start indicates some new disaster. Or as his mother would have it: a good idea. Only in her mind. “I had an idea.” He knew it. Oh, God. “I think that we should” – that would be the Royal we, then, because it surely isn’t including Castle or Alexis – “have brunch here on Sunday, and invite Katherine and her father.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Castle says with considerable relief at having an excuse which will not lead to an argument. “I’ve already got something planned for Sunday morning.”

“Oh?” Martha asks inquisitively. “What would that be?”

“None of your business,” Castle says, almost humorously.

“Have fun, darling.”

Castle would be a lot happier if his mother hadn’t waltzed out with an expression of considerable nosiness. No doubt he can expect an inquisition later. He can, however, prevent brunches or anything else happening in his loft, until everyone is okay with it.

He returns to pondering the problem of his considerable discomfort with the idea that Beckett might not be able to forgive her father. Dr Burke’s words sting now as they had when first spoken. But of course he wants a happy ending. All the loose ends tied up tightly, all the plot twists resolved, he and his Beckett set to live happily ever after. It was all falling into place. It’s up to her: it’s always been up to her, so why does this irk him?

The whiskey level falls in small sips, the clock ticks on in small seconds, and Castle continues to try to find the roots of his unhappiness. Finally, his tired gaze falls on a picture of himself and a very small Alexis, holding hands, and light finally dawns, far too late for his sleeping habits. Family first, family before everything. He’d known this, months ago. He’s hardwired to protect and love his family, small as it is. Even at her most annoying (and she is currently intensely annoying) he would never leave his mother in any unhappiness or difficulty.

But Beckett might yet cut ties with her father. Lose her family – choose to lose her family. And he has a real, if previously unrealised, issue with that. So first off, he absolutely needs to work out what his problem is, because he’s spent weeks telling her that it doesn’t matter, that he’ll be there whatever, that if she splits with her father she’s still got him. But now it’s come to the point, and he’s jibbing, and he doesn’t know why.

Oh. He does know why. It’s right there in the picture in front of him. If Beckett can cut ties with her father, then, however remote the possibility, Alexis might cut ties with him, and that thought scares the shit out of him. The idea that his little family might fall apart cuts him to the core. Primitive, atavistic that may be, but it hits right at the centre of his soul. First his mother, and then he, had done everything to hold them together, even if everything else fell apart around them.

Okay, he’s worked out the problem. He doesn’t have an answer, but at least he knows what the issue actually is. He’s not sure how he deals with it if Beckett doesn’t want…

No. That’s not right. It’s got nothing to do with want. Only she can save herself. And contrariwise, she can’t and couldn’t save her father. She had to walk away once to save herself… and now she might have to do it again because she simply cannot cope with the pain. That’s not want. She wants to forgive – she’s just terrified that she can’t. If she simply didn’t want, then she wouldn’t be the woman he loves.

His first instinct is not to say a word about this. It’s his problem, not hers. She’s doing her therapy, and she doesn’t need more complications. He takes himself off to bed, half wishing she were there, half glad she isn’t, and tosses and turns through part-remembered nightmare and twisted sheets.

In the morning, logy, thick-headed and very much inclined not to emerge from his bed at all, Castle clings to a strong coffee and some rather solid bagels (had he not stored them correctly? Or is it just that nothing is quite right this morning?) and manages to answer precisely nothing with any sense. Fortunately this is sufficiently common that no-one bats an eyelid: assuming (Castle does not correct them) that he was writing very late. Alexis is shooed off to school, his mother disappears to her own pursuits without, thankfully, raising questions, and Castle returns to his study with a vague feeling of disquiet and another large cup of coffee, adopting the same pose as late last night.

Eventually, he realises that his disquiet is all down to not telling Beckett how he feels. All their problems have come from – well, mostly her – not telling the other how they feel. It would be a particularly dumb idea to start down that road himself. He remembers, suddenly, his odd and unpleasant feeling of second-bestness back when this all began. He shouldn’t inflict that on Beckett, even if she never knows it. It also occurs to him that he’s never quite told her how intrusive his mother is being, even if the not-quite-jokes about clearing a closet must have clued her in. She’s never asked, though – given him the space he’s tried to give her, until he’s ready to talk.

Urgh. He doesn’t want to talk, but they can’t go into Friday with this unresolved. That means tonight, because Beckett mentioned she was going out with Lanie tomorrow, and then it’s Friday. Urgh. He drains his coffee, texts Alexis, and rather than going straight to the precinct, goes to the gym to work out his considerable frustration on a rowing machine and then the weights. As a consequence, he doesn’t reach the Twelfth till well after ten, going on eleven, and appears to have missed Esposito and Beckett tag-teaming a ravaged bottle blonde hooker on the subject of Brett Selbright. That is not a good start.

The rest of the day is taken up with proof, more witnesses, and finally a confession. It’s very boring, comparatively. Brett Selbright had been set up by the bottle blonde hooker and beaten to death by her pimp. Ugh. Sordid, sleazy and nasty.

And, of course, now he needs to talk to Beckett. Today is not improving.