65. Pieces on the ricochet

“Good evening, Detective Beckett.”

“Hello.”

Detective Beckett appears perfectly calm. This does not improve Dr Burke’s view of the coming session.  At this early stage, Detective Beckett should be evincing some signs of upset, tension, or unhappiness.  None is apparent.  Dr Burke is concerned.  There are two possible reasons for this lack of tension.  The first is that Detective Beckett has not thought about the situation at all.  This seems vanishingly unlikely.  The second is that she does not intend to participate fully, or at all, in any of these sessions.  That is entirely possible, and quite intolerable.  Dr Burke has no intention of being used to validate an entirely incorrect worldview, nor will he confirm Detective Beckett’s release from therapy until he is satisfied that she has addressed her issues.  He cannot, of course, force her to seek or accept treatment.  He can, however, ensure that his views on the efficacy of that treatment are recorded.

It would be wholly incorrect to suggest that Dr Burke’s professional pride is pricked. His professional pride is engaged.  Detective Beckett requires assistance, and he will provide it.  He determines upon a course of action which is much more direct than he would normally employ.  It is, he knows, a highly risky strategy.  However, he does not believe that subtlety is likely to succeed.

“Detective Beckett,” he begins, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, “on Tuesday you informed me that your relationship with your father had steadily improved since he became sober, and that since Christmas he had been more paternal, is that not so?”

“Yes.” Detective Beckett says nothing more.  The silence that follows is not at all inviting.  Dr Burke, however, is impervious to the lack of invitation.

“You mentioned that you saw him every week, on Sundays. Did you see him last Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how your evening went, please.”

“It was fine. We had dinner, we talked, I went home.” 

“What did you discuss?”

“He was making sure I was okay after the stomach bug, and asking about the dinner I had with Castle.”

“Did you discuss anything else? In particular, do you ever talk about the past?”

“No.”

“Why not?” He contrives to sound interested, rather than accusing.

“We’re through all that. It’s not relevant now.”   

 “If the past is not relevant, why are you here?  What do you hope to achieve?”

Beckett is finding, despite her intentions to use this session to relieve her feelings, that it’s far harder than she had thought actually to begin doing so. She doesn’t know where to start, and into the bargain she now has no idea at all what therapy might achieve.  And, of course, therapist or not she is deeply uncertain that anyone could listen to her bitterness and unpleasant feelings without judging her, and finding her wanting.  Everyone else has, after all.  Well.  Everyone except Castle.

Detective Beckett appears to be lost in thought. Dr Burke cannot believe that such an intelligent woman did not have an outcome in mind.  It is, of course, possible that she had previously had an outcome in mind which has now become irrelevant.  He changes tack, slightly.

“While you are considering that, let us also explore a different matter. You have unstintingly supported your father.”  How very interesting.  Detective Beckett quite plainly winced.  “However, it does not appear that you have required support yourself.  It must have been very difficult for you, especially at Christmas time.”  He is genuinely sympathetic.  “How did you cope?”

“I worked.” Dr Burke raises his eyebrows in an inquiring fashion.  “Took the Christmas Day shift.”

“Do you still do that?”

“Yes. Other people have children and family commitments.”  Dr Burke does not react to that inadvertent admission.  Why should Detective Beckett not consider that she has family commitments, given her weekly visits to her father?

“This year, you said that you had encountered a case before Christmas which had involved an alcoholic. Did that not cause you some difficult moments?”

“No.” On Dr Burke’s look, another few words emerge.  “No.  She needed justice, and I found it.”

“And afterward? She continued to lean on you, looking for support, but she would not accept that the support she sought was not the correct solution.” 

Ah. That has touched a nerve, too.  How very interesting, again.  Her father, lack of family commitments, and the wrong answer.  Dr Burke is beginning to perceive a pattern here. 

“My father told her the truth. She didn’t like it.”

Dr Burke draws his bow at a venture, so to speak. “How did you feel about what your father told her?”

“I…” Detective Beckett’s control of her expression has faltered.  Her face has contorted.  It is difficult to tell whether that is disgust or distress, as she has ducked her head, presumably to hide her visage.

“Detective Beckett?” She looks up for a brief instant.  It is enough for Dr Burke to observe that Detective Beckett is exhibiting a considerable level of distress.  “What did your father say that distressed you?”  He infuses concern and understanding into his voice.  Clearly there is a genuine issue here, and Detective Beckett is not deliberately evading him, as she had done on Tuesday, but is unable to overcome her reticence immediately.  He waits patiently, until she should be ready to say more.   While he waits, he considers that he had been too hasty in considering that Detective Beckett was not approaching therapy in the correct spirit.  He should have considered that on Tuesday she was simply unready to speak.  He will need to ensure that he curbs this tendency to draw conclusions too quickly. 

“He said I walked away. He says that saved him.”  Dr Burke cannot see why this should be so upsetting.  “That he had to realise that he wanted his daughter more than he wanted to drink.”  The growing note of hard, contemptuous anger in Detective Beckett’s voice is most concerning.  “It’s why I did everything the first time.  Why I kept seeing him.”  Dr Burke will need to return to that, but not at this juncture.  “But he lied.  Lied when he was drunk and lied when he wasn’t.”  Dr Burke is extremely surprised by that.  Extremely surprised.

“In what way has he lied?”

Detective Beckett’s reticence dissolves. From the spate of words flooding out on a tide of barely coherent anger, it appears that her father has – or Detective Beckett believes he has, which for present purposes amounts to the same issue – informed her that he no longer regards her as family.  It is quite unsurprising that she is very badly upset. 

“He said walking away saved him. Sure it did.  He didn’t have to look at me any more.  I was too like her.  He said he needed me, needed to be a family again, but it’s not true.  Never was true, likely.  He’d rather have a different family.  I’m not enough.”  Detective Beckett’s voice has returned to being cold, hard and completely controlled throughout the last few sentences.  “I might as well never have bothered.  I didn’t cause it, couldn’t control it and couldn’t cure it.  I thought being family for him, being there if he needed me, kept him safe.  It had nothing to do with me.  He ruined my life for five years, two when I was there and three when I wasn’t, and I tried so hard to show him I’d forgiven him, and I was there for five years more but it’s all been a complete waste.  He’s ruined the last five years too, and he’s spoiling my life now.”

“Now?”

“He wants to be part of Castle’s family. They’re more fun than me.  More like a real family.”

Dr Burke absorbs this information. The situation is certainly complicated.  He starts with the most obvious question.

“Mr Castle has a family?”

“Mother. Daughter.  They just loved Dad.”  The bitterness with which Detective Beckett infuses that statement is really quite extraordinary.  Dr Burke extracts the key fact.

“Mr Castle has a daughter?” Much has become clear.

“Yeah.”

“You have met her?”

“Yeah. Before Christmas.  After Christmas.  At Castle’s.”

“How often?”

“Twice before Christmas. Then once after, and then a couple of weeks ago.” 

“I see. How did your father meet Mr Castle’s family?”

“Dad and Castle forced me into a dinner at Castle’s. I had to go, so as not to upset Dad.  Wish I hadn’t bothered.”

“Why is that?” Dr Burke asks softly.

“Because if I hadn’t gone I wouldn’t have had to watch Castle being the sort of dad I don’t have, and I wouldn’t have had to watch my dad being everyone’s new best pal. I can’t bear seeing either.  I used to have a dad like that and now I don’t and I can’t stand seeing how it should have been.”

Detective Beckett is close to weeping. Dr Burke ensures that a box of Kleenex is in close proximity to her chair, and finds, to his mild surprise, that his much earlier irritation has been completely replaced by sympathy.

“He used to be like that. Then Mom died.  Then he found Jack Daniels because I wasn’t enough for him.  And then I did everything right and I still can’t be enough for him.”  Her voice drops.  “Still can’t really forgive him.  He did everything he was supposed to do and I can’t be good enough to forgive him.  So he found people that he likes better.  People who didn’t walk away from him.  Maybe he never forgave me.”

Dr Burke perceives the entire picture. Detective Beckett has blamed herself for being insufficient to save her father from his descent into alcoholism.  She has then proceeded to blame herself for walking away.   She has laboured under the misconception, undoubtedly, although possibly inadvertently, about which he will keep an open mind, assisted by her father, that her presence is necessary for his continued sobriety.  Then, telling herself that she has done it all for love of her father, rather than out of misplaced guilt, Detective Beckett has endeavoured to assuage that guilt by being, effectively, constantly at her father’s beck and call. 

When Mr Castle had appeared on the scene, his relationship with his own daughter has provided Detective Beckett with the stark contrast that she had, Dr Burke expects, avoided. To add biting insult to already crippling injury, her father, untrammelled by guilt or any understanding that his relationship with his daughter was damaged and fragile, has been able to spend time in the company of Mr Castle and his family without the slightest qualm or feeling of discomfort.

“Not that it’s surprising,” Detective Beckett continues. “I can’t deal with any family.  I’m pathetically jealous of them and I can’t forgive my dad.  He probably realised it long ago.”  She halts.  “I originally came to therapy so I could deal with Castle’s family and sort my feelings out and not upset Dad by letting him know I hadn’t managed to forgive him.  Now it doesn’t matter.  He doesn’t need me so there’s no point in any of it.  He’s going to fit right into the Castles’ happy little family.  I’m not sitting through it again.  So all I need to do now is make sure I’m not going to be fazed if I run into some alcoholic on the job.”

Dr Burke is not at all content with that idea. Firstly, Detective Beckett is settling for a severely restricted existence; secondly, Dr Burke already considers that Mr Castle may have strong views on Detective Beckett’s mode of existence based merely upon his presence at the discussion with Mrs Berowitz, which is hardly the action of a man who is only mildly attracted; and thirdly Detective Beckett’s ideas are wholly misconceived.  Dr Burke does not consider it to be consistent with his professional ethics to allow Detective Beckett to continue to suffer under such misapprehensions, when he is perfectly confident that, with time, he can assist her to overcome them.

It is, however, entirely consistent with his professional ethics to allow Detective Beckett to think that he will assist her with her stated desire, as long as he does not say so. He would have preferred to continue this session for longer, but Detective Beckett appears quite exhausted, and it is unlikely that she will be able to focus correctly. 

“Detective Beckett,” he says gently, “our session has ended. Would you prefer that someone came to collect you?”

Detective Beckett shakes her head. “I’ve got my car.  I just want to go home.”

“Please make your appointment for Tuesday, when we can talk about what you have said you hope to achieve.”

When Detective Beckett has left, Dr Burke considers for a while, meditating on the correct way to use Detective Beckett’s desire not to be perturbed by any subsequent encounter with an alcoholic in order to guide her gently to resolution of her issues with her father. Were those issues to be resolved, then it is very likely that there will be little to no remaining difficulty with Mr Castle’s family, and in particular with his daughter.   He would greatly appreciate a confidential discussion with Mr Castle, but the time is by no means right to ask Detective Beckett’s permission for that.

Beckett sits in her car for a moment, thinking about whether to call Castle, before inserting the keys and starting the engine. She’ll just calm down on the way home.  When she’s parked, then she’ll call him without dissolving into pathetic tears all over him and second-guessing the whole of the therapy session on him.  That’s not a good plan.  Not good at all.  Best to use the journey time to advantage.

She drives very carefully, conscious that her mind is not wholly on the road or indeed wholly together, and that her normally twenty-twenty vision is somewhat blurred. She squeezes into a space, breathes slowly for a few seconds, until she can steady her voice, and pulls out her phone.  She ignores the messages on it, and brings up Castle’s number.  Another two breaths, and she dials.

“Rick Castle.”

“Hey, Castle.”

“Beckett,” he says happily. “Have we got a nice new body?”

“No, no dead bodies.”

“Oh,” he says disappointedly. “How about I come by and introduce you to a nice live body instead?”

It’s exactly what she needs to keep her composure. “Whose body would that be, then?”

“Mine, Beckett.” The deep tones trickle over her, suave seduction slinking over her.  “Mine.”  Somehow it sounds as if he’s claiming something other than his own body.

“Mm,” she hums, non-committally. “I suppose that would be an acceptable substitute.  I’ll put the kettle on.”

“See you shortly.”

Beckett swipes off, breathes very deeply, and attains the safety of her couch before she allows herself to release the hold she’s maintaining on her fragmented, fragile control. Castle will be here in a few moments, and he’ll cuddle her into that big, warm body, and it will all be okay.  It will all be okay.

Castle had been perfectly well aware that the call was from Beckett: that’s what caller ID is for.  He was merely extremely surprised that she had called, and therefore assumed a body.  Maybe he’d been wrong about her attending a therapy session tonight?  When she says no dead bodies, though, his heart leaps.  (Clearly his heart deals in clichés.)  Attuned as he now is to her voice, he’s fairly certain that she’s stressed, which implies therapy – and she’s called him afterwards?  That is new.  However, he can’t ask till she tells, so he makes a quick decision and falls into the familiar flirting that will mean that she doesn’t need to decide whether or not to tell him anything, but needs only to say yes or no.  Simple, easy choices.

When he reaches her apartment one look confirms his theory. She looks utterly miserable, and, as before, the cure for misery is to cuddle her in and not ask questions.

“That was awful,” she mumbles into his shoulder. He’s not entirely sure he was supposed to hear that.  He’s also not entirely sure she meant to say that out loud.  Common sense tells him not to say anything until she says more.  “Thanks for coming over.  Do you want coffee?”  Not the more he had been hoping for.

“Sure. Thanks.”  He pats her gently and drops a kiss on the dark hair before he lets go to amble after her to the kitchen and the coffee.

Coffee made and repatriated to the table in front of the couch, Beckett further amazes Castle by quite definitively nestling into his side and clearly expecting his arm to surround her. He’s quite happy with that idea, and complies, even though she’s now buried her unhappy nose in her coffee and isn’t exactly communicative.  His fingers tap out tiny rhythms on her shoulder as she drinks.  The coffee disappears in short order, but when she’s done she sits back into his clasp and leans on him.  She looks, observing her, exhausted.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.

“Tired.” There is a pause.  “I…” she stops again.

“What’s wrong?”

Oh, what the hell. He knows she was going to go, so why she’s backing off telling him escapes her completely. 

“I hate therapy,” she says bitterly. Castle draws her in and hugs her tightly.

“Don’t blame you,” he rumbles softly. “That why you’re upset?  C’mere and just let me hold you.  Nothing else.”  He gathers her yet closer, pulling her on to his lap and encouraging her head to lie on his shoulder.  Her harsh breaths scratch along his neck.  “You don’t need to do anything, just stay here and snuggle in.”  His voice changes from soothing rumble to joyful mischief.  “You know that it’s the universe’s plan that you sit on my knee, don’t you?  It must be.  You fit just perfectly.  You’re exactly the right height to sit there and plop your head on my shoulder and stay all neatly tucked in.”  He continues burbling blissfully, soothing her with an incessant flow of nonsense and silliness, giving her something to listen to which isn’t her roiling, miserable thoughts or Dr Burke’s focused formality.  “So you should sit here all the time.  Apart from anything else, it’s convenient.”

She musters up a glare: a poor feeble thing compared to normal, but still, it’s a glare. “Convenient?” she says, in the same tone in which Lady Bracknell disapproved of handbags.

“Sure,” says Castle, unfazed. “Convenient for hugs, conveniently keeping me warm, and possibly convenient for you.”

“How is it convenient for me? Beckett growls.

“Well, you like being hugged – at least you’re not killing me so I guess you do – and you like being able to stand down and lean on my shoulder, and when you’re in the right mood you like this.” He drops a tiny little kiss on the end of her nose, and smiles happily at her.  She growls again, but there’s no force behind it, so he kisses her nose again, and she turns her face up, still tired and strained, but her eyes are darker and he knows what she wants.  Knowing is assisted by her hand gripping his neck and pulling his head down.  It’s not terribly subtle, that.

Nor, of course, is kissing him.