52. Can you bob, can you weave

She has a perfectly peaceful hour in the perfectly quiet bullpen, right up until Montgomery saunters in with a smug smirk – clearly they’re top of the stats again – notices her lurking behind her desk, and stops smirking very abruptly. Then he acquires a rather dangerously I’m-in-charge-here smile – at least, his teeth are showing, so it must be a smile.

“Ah, Detective Beckett,” he says smoothly. “Just the person I wanted to see.” 

It had been a good day.  Mostly.  Now it certainly isn’t.

“Come into my office, so that you can brief me.”

“Sir,” she says resignedly, and stands to follow him.

“Now, Beckett,” Montgomery says, once they are behind the closed door of his office. “You reported yesterday that you had an appointment booked with a therapist last night.”

“Sir.”

“I have no intention of asking about it.” Montgomery notes the sag of relief, swiftly followed by the return to parade rest.  “Ease down, Beckett.  In fact, sit down.”  She does.  There is more than a hint of collapse about it.  “However, I told you to provide me with your plan for dealing with this situation.  So, Detective, report.”

Beckett grits her teeth, stiffens her spine, and begins.

“Twice weekly therapy sessions. Sir.  Until the therapist is happy that we’re done.”

“Okay. I expect you to attend every one, whether or not you have a new case.  I assume you are scheduling them out of working hours, so that should be no problem.”  He pauses.  “How is your dad?” 

“My dad is fine. This won’t affect my work, sir.”  Loud on the air is don’t bench me again. 

Montgomery considers, briefly. “Okay, Beckett.  But I’m adding a stipulation to that.  You don’t do anything more to assist Mrs Berowitz – or Mr Berowitz.”

“But sir, my dad is” – she scrabbles to find an appropriate word, without success – “helping Mrs and Mr Berowitz.”

Montgomery is, yet again, blindsided. “What?  Whose idea was that?” 

Beckett looks around for some source of inspiration that doesn’t involve the word Castle, and fails to find it.

“Castle, and Dad.”

“O-kay,” says Montgomery, weakly. It’s by no means assent to the position.  “Okay,” he says more briskly.  “You don’t do anything more with the Berowitzes than listen to your Dad.  No searching round Manhattan to find him, no liaison with other precincts so they find him for you.  No meeting up with them if your Dad doesn’t ask you to go with him – and no sneaking round so you get him to ask you.  You need to step back from all this.  If there are cases involving alcohol abuse, you will recuse yourself from them.  There are plenty of other homicides for you to take.”  He stops.  Beckett’s looking fairly white and miserable.  “At this time, I won’t mention this to your team or to Castle.  It’s up to you if you do.  You will keep Castle as your unofficial partner, though.”  He doesn’t say because he’ll keep you out of trouble.  “At the first hint that you’re not obeying orders, though, that will change.  If you can’t stick to this, you’ll be benched till you can, unpaid, and your record will reflect why.  Neither of us want that.”

He peers at her again, and drops the Captain. “Beckett, you’re still the best detective I’ve got.  I want you to stay that way.  You have to work with me on this, or you’ll burn out.  That won’t help anyone at all.”  He returns to brisk command.  “So that’s settled.  Dismissed, Detective.”

Beckett trails gloomily out of the Captain’s office and back to her desk, then changes her mind and trails gloomily to the break room where the construction of an extremely large mug of coffee does not lift the gloom by any noticeable margin. At least now there will be a target face on the punch bag.  Several, in fact.  Everybody, she decides.  Absolutely everybody.  She trails gloomily back to her desk again and picks up the case file.   Gloomily.

Her mood is marginally improved when Ryan doesn’t start getting on her case again. It improves a little further when Esposito merely reminds her that he’s going to kick her ass on the sparring mat at lunchtime, and therefore absolutely no-one is pitying her or treating her differently or trying to talk about it.  Now, if she can only manage to speak to her father and keep clear of Montgomery, everything will be okay.

When Castle wanders in, later, he’s oddly pale and shaky. However, since he’s also brandishing coffees for both of them, she’s not inclined to question him.  (Besides which, if she asks him anything he might ask her something. Not desirable.  Not now.  Not yet.)

Castle notices that Beckett is pallid under her make-up, and she’s exuding a kind of miserable irritation, undoubtedly enhanced by her lack of sleep. He’s certain that she didn’t sleep well, and he’s equally certain that it’s all down to her having had a therapy session.  His general idea that he shouldn’t ask, but should quietly find out and then magically appear – hey presto! – at her door at approximately the point she finishes a session and gets home, solidifies.  Now, yesterday she’d gone at the end of shift, so she’d said, so that’s around six, so say an hour, and then half an hour to get home, that’s seven-thirty… okay, eightish is about right.  So all (all?) he has to do is work out when she’s going.

But for now, he’d far rather soothe his hangover with coffee and have a very, very quiet morning, or what’s left of it. He sits down very gently and tries not to wince every time Beckett turns a page or taps her pen.

At lunchtime, instead of going out for food – Castle doesn’t want any food that isn’t a nice bland starch based recipe, such as, say, plain toast – the four of them traipse upstairs to the gym. Espo and Beckett disappear to change, Ryan loosens his tie, and Castle plumps down on the nearest cleanish piece of floor and tries to decide if his head is sufficiently securely attached to his body to attempt to turn it.  It proves possible, but painful. 

He forgets about his head when Beckett reappears in a close-fitting sports tank and shorts, hair tied back. In fact, he forgets about absolutely anything and everything.  She’s limber, lithe – and lethal.  Gorgeous, sexy – and deadly.  He hadn’t put together the potential for her to wreak havoc on unsuspecting suspects with the comments O’Leary had made about sparring.  It must have been the fuzzing effect of the beer.  Esposito’s ripped body is a lot less interesting.  Ryan flops down beside Castle and metaphorically offers him the popcorn.

“This should be good,” Ryan notes idly. “Beckett needs a workout.”

For the first while, it’s interesting, if you’re into the technicalities of punching and kicking a bag.   Sure, the speed and only marginally controlled venom is impressive – and terrifying – but it doesn’t really tell Castle anything, though it’s all grist to his writer’s mill.  He does pick up, after a bit, that Espo is exerting some effort to hold the bag, and concludes that Beckett packs a punch. 

Beckett and Espo take a brief break, tip down some water over on the other side of the gym, and have a discussion which involves low but forceful tones, quite a number of evocative gestures, and finally, on Beckett’s “No, Espo. No holding back,” a gesture of resignation on Espo’s part and some satisfaction on Beckett’s.  They put out the mats in the empty space in the middle of the gym in a well-practiced fashion, and begin.

Now this is interesting.  Fascinating.  He can’t take his eyes off it – not least because if he so much as thinks about blinking he will miss something crucial.  It’s fast, focused – and certainly on  Beckett’s part, furious.  She’s going for broke: ramming in hard strikes and breath-stealing kicks; but somehow Espo’s never quite where they would really hurt him.  Espo’s playing defence: putting out hits of his own, but mostly allowing Beckett to vent all her stress and frustration out there on the mat.  Castle watches in sheer admiration of Espo’s skill and courage, because he is damn sure he wouldn’t want to be sparring with Beckett in this mood.  He can see why she spars with O’Leary occasionally, too. 

“Espo,” Beckett snaps, “I thought I said no holding back?”

“Have it your way, then. Don’t blame me if you ache later.”

“My problem. I need a workout, not a game of pat-a-cake.”

Castle doesn’t follow what happens after that. It’s a blinding whirl of flying fists and feet and hard cracks and harder falls.  Mostly, it’s Beckett falling, though somewhere she’s learned how; but Espo hits the mat a couple of times.  Finally, she taps out.

“Okay, I’m done.”

Espo pulls her up to sitting, and she drops her head on to her knees and breathes hard. He hands her the water-bottle, and she drains it: sweat running down between her scapulae, sweat dripping on her face, her complexion now red, beginning to fade down back to her normal tones at the edges.  She scrubs an arm over her face and flops back to lie on the mat, exhausted but smiling.

“That’s better,” she says. “Needed that.”

“Shoulda done it when I first said, Beckett. It ain’t good for you to get outta condition.  You’re slow.”

Slow? That was slow?  Castle looks at Ryan.

“Yeah,” Ryan whispers. “When she’s with it, Espo goes down a bit more often.  He still wins, though.  He doesn’t give her concessions – she’d not like that.  He’s been holding back a little today, because she’s been sick, an’ because she hasn’t been in the gym for weeks.”

Castle looks back at Beckett, who is slowly standing up to go through a series of warm-down stretches, wincing slightly already.

“Yeah, yeah, Espo. I know.”  She finishes her set of exercises by touching her toes and then stretching right the way up from tiptoes to fingertips.  “Okay, I’ll be down when I’m cleaned up.  I need some lunch after that match.”  She disappears in the direction of the showers.

Castle heaves himself up, carefully not wobbling his head, and leans on the wall.

“Not coming downstairs?” Ryan asks from the doorway.

“Waiting for Beckett. Least I can do is buy lunch in return for the entertainment.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Fun, isn’t it,” Ryan says happily. “I don’t do that.  Sparring, sure, but not like that.”

“I prefer the endurance machines and weights. Rowing’s good.  I don’t really spar.  I need my hands working.   I can’t write with no functional fingers.”

“If you change your mind, let us know,” Espo says on the way to his own clean-up. “We’ll be happy to teach you.  Never know when you might need it.”

When they all spill down the stairs, none of them notice Montgomery observing from his office, nor his satisfied smirk. That’s a step closer to normal.  He’ll pretend he hasn’t seen them sneaking off for lunch – huh?  Ryan and Esposito pulling out sandwiches?  What’s that all about?  Montgomery shifts a few behavioural calculations through his man-management filters and comes to the rapid and entirely correct conclusion that Ryan and Espo approve of Castle sweeping Beckett out to lunch without them to play lemons.  Hm.  That reassures him enormously.

Castle ushers Beckett into the elevator and simply says “Remy’s.”

“Okay. I’m starving.”

The booth at Remy’s is cool and quiet, which is good for Castle. He orders the largest soda available, and adds a very small, totally unadorned burger with a very small salad.  Beckett orders a middle-sized milkshake and a middle-sized burger with lots of extras and fries.  Castle tries not to look at it.  Not looking at it isn’t actually too difficult.  One moment it’s there, the next Beckett is delicately wiping her mouth and her plate is scraped clean.  It’s amazing.  He forces his own food down, and finds that he feels a lot better, after the first uncomfortable moment when the burger hits his stomach.

“Better?” they say in tandem, and both look a little surprised.

“Fine,” Beckett says, and flexes her shoulders carefully to make sure.

“Me too.”

“You sure you’re not coming down with something? You’ve been a bit white all morning.  If you’ve got flu, go home.  We don’t want your germs.”  But she’s grinning, and there might even be an undertone of affection there.

“You wouldn’t mop my fevered brow?”

“Nope. I don’t want the flu.”

Castle pouts, and gives her huge, pathetic, puppy-dog eyes. “Really?”

“Nope.”   She smiles evilly.  “I’ll send Espo round instead.” 

Castle cringes theatrically and retreats into his soda. Beckett drains the last dregs of milkshake.  “Time to get back.”  She stands up, winces, and stretches from top to toes, cautiously.  “Ow,” she says.  “I’m out of practice.”

“I could give you a massage,” Castle leers. “Smooth out all those sore points.” 

Beckett makes an unappreciative noise and precedes him to the door. Clearly that’s going to be ignored.  He tucks the thought away for later – if she’s wincing now, she’ll be really sore by the evening – and follows.

Back in the bullpen, Beckett gazes morosely at the cold cases pile, and then remembers that she was going to call her father. She thinks about that for a while.  It’s the middle of the working day, and he’s undoubtedly busy.  Not a good idea.  Not… normal.  He’ll think that there is something wrong, which is a consummation decidedly not to be wished.  He’s suspicious enough already.  It can wait till the end of the day.  Yes.  She’ll leave at shift end, and call then, once she’s home.

It nags at her all afternoon: the knowledge that she’ll have to field some undoubtedly difficult questions. She’s not spoken to him since Monday, and this is Thursday already, and he’ll be expecting her to come for dinner on Sunday as usual, because she said she would, and she doesn’t want to go, not that this is entirely new, and…and…and.  So many ands, but only one Kate.  She sighs.  Castle looks over at her from his file.  She avoids his glance, and so the afternoon passes.

Case files packed up, computer off, coat on – all consequent upon Montgomery’s piercing stare and clear implication that she should be gone already – Beckett departs the precinct trailed by Castle, who doesn’t seem inclined to let her be.

“When I get home,” she says casually, “I’m going to go out running. Stretch out the kinks.”

“I could help you with your kinks,” he says suggestively, just as Beckett had hoped.

“Maybe a bit later. I’ll call you if I need you, okay?”

“Sure. Always up for some kink-removal.”

“I’m sure you can get an app for that,” Beckett says very dryly, “or possibly therapy.”

Castle snickers, and departs. As soon as he’s out of sight, Beckett lets her shoulders slump, emits the deep sigh she’s been repressing for some time, winces at the bruises she knows she’ll have from hitting the mat as often as she did, and betakes herself home to have another hot shower.  After either a run, which is not looking astoundingly attractive on a gloomy, dank February evening, or her yoga, which has the benefit of being in her nice cosy apartment and close to her nice cosy bed, she’ll have the hot bath full of lotions and potions that she’d promised herself last night.

But first, she needs to call her father.

She puts it off till after her shower, justifying it by reasoning that if she draws too sharp a breath – her ribs hurt where she didn’t fall right, and she knows there will be bruises splashed across her skin tomorrow, but if it shows the boys that everything’s fine she’ll take that – her father might notice and worry that she’s been injured in the line of duty, and then she’ll need to explain.  Explaining is a complication that it would be better to avoid.

She soothes herself under the jets of the shower, bundles her hair in a towel and her moisturised self in a robe, and then slowly combs out the shortish locks, not bothering with a hairdryer. When it’s tucked back into a handy scrunchie, and she’s put on a t-shirt and shorts, she reluctantly picks up her phone.

“Hi, Dad,” she says brightly.

“Katie? I didn’t expect you to call.”

“Just catching up. What have you been doing?”

Jim produces a few sentences about work, new clients, and anti-trust law. “What about you, Katie?”

“Castle came for dinner Tuesday night.” It’s a distraction, though given her father’s clear approval of Castle she thinks that it’ll work nicely to convince him everything’s fine.

“That’s nice. You’re seeing a lot of him, suddenly.”

“He’s shadowing us. Of course I see a lot of him.”

“Anything you want to tell me, Katie? After Monday?  That sounded like he’s been seeing a lot of you.”  Humour dances in his words.

“Dad!” Maybe that wasn’t such a good distraction after all.  She doesn’t need her Dad (ugh) making insinuations. 

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about Castle, how about telling me how you are?” Oh God.  Stop worrying, Dad.  I don’t want to talk about this.  Ever.  She can’t upset him.  She just needs to work it through with the therapist and deal with it later.  If ever.  Maybe there’s a way to deal with it without ever letting on to her dad.  Dr Burke will know. 

“I’m fine, Dad. Everything’s good.  I could do with some more interesting work: all we’ve got are cold cases.  It’s not like I want anyone murdered,” she says lightly, “but it’s all a bit boring.”

“You didn’t sound fine on Sunday or Monday. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I had a bit of a stomach upset Monday.  It must have been that making me tetchy on Sunday, too.  I’m fine now.”

On the other end of the call, Jim’s face has the same expression as if he’d bitten a lemon. Castle, had he been there, would have recognised the expression instantly as the same one Beckett uses when she’s trying to think through the best way to break a recalcitrant witness.  He is dead sure Katie is lying to him, but he can’t force the issue down the phone.  He needs to see her, to be able to call her out on it.  She’d never backed down easily, even as a child.  If he could see her, he’d know which bit of her statement was a lie.  And he can’t go into the rest of the conversation he wants to have on the phone at any stage. Tetchy his ass.

“Glad to hear it. You take care of yourself, Katie.  A bit more healthy eating and a bit less takeout or food trucks, if you’re not busy.”

“Yes, Dad,” Beckett says with mock attitude.

“You listen to your dad, now. I’m still your dad and I still have nagging rights.”

“I’ll buy you a magnet for your fridge that says that, if you don’t stop it.”

Jim laughs, which Beckett hears with considerable relief. She’s got away with it.

“Okay, Katie. But you take care, you hear?”

“Stop fretting, Dad. I’m fine.  No need to worry.”

“I’m your dad. It’s part of the job description.”  It’s just as well that’s humorous.  She really doesn’t need that sort of statement.  One more reason to get fixed.  “So I’ll see you Sunday, then?”

“Yep. Looking forward to it – but only if you get another Fairway tart.”

“Cupboard love?”

“Yes,” Beckett grins. “For those desserts?   You bet.  See you Sunday, Dad.”

“Night, Katie.”

Phew. Done.  Another disaster averted.