67. Is it me you're looking for?

She really tries to think it through: in the shower, through her morning coffee, through a long run, through a convoluted set of yoga forms, and through lunch. All she achieves is a mind as twisted as her most complex asana.  Eventually, she shrugs, goes out for the afternoon to an exhibition that proves to be considerably more interesting than she’d thought, and tries to ignore the unhappy thoughts nibbling at the corners of her brain.  They’re still munching on her mind as she falls into bed, and gnawing on her neurons when she wakes in the morning.  She has no idea where to start.

Monday comes and goes: a new body drops but since it was a simple shooting over a cheating husband and a cheating wife, it takes them approximately three hours with the aggrieved spouses of the husband and wife respectively to have the charges signed, sealed, delivered and the DA’s problem. It might have occupied more time if either spouse had had the brains to hide the gun, or even wipe the prints off it.  Honestly, no class and no brains either.  They can’t even watch cop shows, or they’d know how to do it. 

Castle is volubly bored by mundane murder, and makes up for it by all sorts of ridiculous theories and, where the boys can’t see, scorching flirting and stolen touches. The new case hasn’t seemed to make Beckett any happier, and if she chews her lip any harder it’ll bleed.  It’s already swollen and almost bruised, which is not good.  He tries to show support in more practical ways: buying her lunch, making her coffee, making her more coffee, producing some candies, making her more coffee, and eventually simply producing a constant supply of coffee which appears to have less effect than pure filtered water would have.  If he’d drunk that much coffee he’d be dancing on the ceiling.  Beckett doesn’t even twitch, and at the end of the day simply says to him that she needs time to think about tomorrow’s therapy session on her own, with a pained, forced smile that he doesn’t believe in for one instant.

He’s shrugging his own coat on when Ryan and Esposito skulk up to him and suggest, rather forcefully, that they would like a little chat. Not this again?  He thought that they were all past that. Still…

“Sure. Where shall we go?”

They settle on yet another sports bar.

“Ryan,” Espo says, with a smile that has too many teeth in it for friendliness.

“Yeah?”

“If you tell Lanie where we are I’ll have you hitting the mats for the next month, okay?”

Ryan squirms guiltily and puts his phone away. Castle watches with some interest.  Clearly Ryan thinks that Beckett and Lanie should patch things up, and is prepared to interfere.  Espo’s game, however, is entirely unclear.

“What’s up with Beckett this time?” Espo opens, as soon as they’re seated in the bar. “Leaving at shift end twice a week for the last two weeks, looks like she got run over by a truck, an’ every time her phone rings she acts like someone slugged her.  Thought you said you’d got this?”

“I have,” Castle says mildly. “If I didn’t she’d likely still be benched.”

Esposito’s jaw drops. “What the fuck is goin’ on here, Castle?”

Castle finds himself somewhat between a rock and a hard place, or the devil – in the form of Esposito – and the deep blue sea, the bottom of which is where his relationship with Beckett will be if he isn’t very careful. On the other hand, Beckett needs her team.  The best she’d been in days had been at the end of sparring with Espo, and whilst he absolutely hates seeing her taking the hits and the bruises afterwards he has to admit that it had worked.  He’d thought last week that the boys would be vital to holding all this together for long enough for Beckett to fix herself, and he’s seen nothing to change that thought.  However, he can’t give away private information.  Hm.  Tricky.  Very tricky.  He takes a long pull at his beer, and hopes for inspiration.  It doesn’t really arrive.

“Look, guys, is Beckett screwing up the team?” Two heads shake.  “Is she messing up on the job?”  Definitive shakes, again.  “Is she pulling sick days when she isn’t sick, or messing you around?”  More shakes.  “Okay then.  She needs to know you have her back, just like you always do.”  Equally definitive nods.  “She needs to be part of the team.  She doesn’t need picked over and hassled.”

“Told you so, Ryan,” Espo says firmly. Castle ignores the interjection.

“She’s having a rough time but she’s not gonna thank any of us for pushing her when she doesn’t wanna talk – not that she ever wants to talk, but you get my drift. She’s got to work it out herself.”  He makes a face.  “Lanie tried pushing, and look where that’s got her.  Beckett needs you just like she always did.”

“Yeah, but what’s wrong?” Ryan asks, and then emits an “Ow!” as Espo punches him in the shoulder in a less than brotherly fashion.

“Shut up, bro. Don’t you get it?  It’s not our business till she tells us.  Stop flapping your nose.  It don’t help.  If it’s her dad she won’t wanna talk about it, an’ if it’s not she still won’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay, man. I won’t.  But…”

“Yeah?”

“But will she be okay?”

There is a short, pointed, silence.

“If we let her get on with it, and just make sure we’re there if she needs us, then yeah,” Espo says. Castle nods, and hopes that it will be that simple.  Espo smiles evilly.  “But it won’t let her off sparring.”  He clearly has a thought.  “What’re we gonna do about Lanie?  She’s been harassing us like a panhandler on speed.”

Castle shrugs. “Dunno,” he says bluntly.  “I’m not getting in between those two.  I like living, with all my arms and legs.”

“Why won’t she talk to Lanie?”

“Ask Lanie. I don’t know.”

Castle firmly turns the conversation away from the problem of Lanie and away from Beckett and fortunately everybody follows the hint.

Beckett waves the boys off, notices Montgomery’s interested look, and takes herself off before he can make it an order or, worse, ask questions. More running, more yoga, more not-listening to her phone.  More failing to work out what she wants to say to Dr Burke.  It’s very irritating.

Tuesday passes with equally mundane murder. Come six p.m., Beckett departs in the direction of Dr Burke’s office, without explaining to anyone where she’s going.  She has noticed a reduction in the quotient of concerned looks from Ryan, which is a relief, though there has been no reduction in the number of times Espo’s put her on the mat at lunchtime.  Lanie has mostly stopped ringing her.  Her father has not, but it’s just the same thing over and over again, and she simply doesn’t believe him.

Dr Burke has undertaken some focused contemplation of the correct way in which to encourage Detective Beckett to talk, which is a necessary precursor to being able to consider the correct way to assist her in overcoming her issues. He has arrived at the slightly unexpected conclusion that the blunter style of questioning which he had employed, granted that he had done so out of mild irritation, had been surprisingly effective.  He considers further, in order to be sure that he has understood his proposed strategy from all viewpoints, and then nods his head positively.  He has determined that when Detective Beckett has been questioned previously, it is most likely to have been in a court room.  It is therefore also probable that, being accustomed to and comfortable with a judicial and direct mode of questioning, she will continue to respond more effectively to such a form.  He sets his strategy accordingly, and awaits Detective Beckett.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett.”

“Hello.”

“You said on Friday that you wanted to be able to deal with encountering alcoholics at work. Is there anything you wish to add to that statement?”  Strangely, Beckett finds that Dr Burke’s quasi-judicial, cool style is very helpful.  She’s used to this.  It’s oddly… well, comforting.

“I don’t want to get drawn into their problems again. It’s not helpful.”  Dr Burke nods, approvingly.  It would indeed not be helpful.  “And…”

“Mm?”

“I want to be able to get through seeing Castle’s family. Without being upset.”

Dr Burke allows himself to raise his eyebrows. This is not an addition that he had expected.   He had expected to have to lead Detective Beckett to that issue.  Of course, it does not assist with her father, unlike the opposite direction, where resolving the issue of her father would have resolved the issue with Castle’s family.  However, the issue of her father can be pursued at a later time.   He rapidly reorganises his thinking, and smiles professionally at Detective Beckett.

“Where would you like to begin?”

“My job.”

This is no surprise to Dr Burke. The vast majority of his patients start with the easiest – or apparently easiest – area.  It is quite possibly also the case that, if this is not the most important outcome for Detective Beckett, it is only secondary by a very small margin.  He continues on in the judicial style upon which he has determined.

“Please tell me the circumstances in which you met the Berowitzes, in more detail than at our previous sessions.”

Detective Beckett describes the meetings in rather more detail, with a wealth of completely professional commentary on the case. However, she is unusually reticent about the evidence which had led her to the conclusion that Mr Berowitz was an alcoholic.

“Mm.” Dr Burke regards Detective Beckett somewhat beadily. “You say that you recognised Mr Berowitz as an alcoholic immediately you attended their apartment to advise them of their son’s murder.  On what grounds did you conclude that?”

“His eyes were a little unfocused and bloodshot. He had hand tremors.  There were marks on the table where a glass would be placed.  The whiskey bottle was in very easy reach.  He’d been sucking breath mints, at ten a.m.”  Detective Beckett stops there.

“Was there anything else, perhaps in Mrs Berowitz’s behaviour?” Dr Burke is endeavouring to work his way towards Detective Beckett’s own experiences by investigating the symbols and symptoms which she had recognised. 

“She… the way his wife was watching him.   He didn’t get it, first off – not like the relatives usually do, but more than that, like it took time for the words to soak in.”  She winces at her own phrase, much to Dr Burke’s interest.  “And…” there is a significant silence during which Dr Burke makes no sound or movement, “I recognised the look on the wife’s face.  She was worried, and scared we’d know, and sorry for him, and trying to cover it all up.  Just like I used to,” Detective Beckett finishes bitterly.  “Just like I did.”

“How did that affect you?”

“I was okay. It brought back memories, sure, but I was fine.  I could deal with them.”

“Please describe the memories which this meeting occasioned.”

Detective Beckett shrinks into herself. Clearly this is an area she would prefer not to have to explore, which tends to indicate, in Dr Burke’s experience, that it is an area which is important.  He waits.

“It started very small. Before I went back to college, he’d have a drink at night.  Maybe a couple, but he never got drunk.  Maudlin, maybe.”  That is a very interesting word choice.  “Like it helped him grieve.  So I went back to Stanford.  At first he was sober when I called – I called a lot.  But then it got more, and it started not to sound right.  So I saved up and came back.”  Her voice and face constrict.  “He was drunk when I got there.  I wanted to surprise him.”  She looks guilty.  “And I wanted to see how he was when I wasn’t there and he didn’t know I was coming.”

She stops, face furrowed in recollected pain, lost behind her eyes in the suffering of ten years past. Dr Burke thinks, a little fancifully, that she is now that shattered nineteen-year old. 

“He was a mess. But he looked so happy to see me – and then he said Johanna!”

Even Dr Burke’s professional calm is dented by that statement.

“He thought I was Mom. The whisky was right there in front of him.  Spilt.  There was a puddle on the table.  Not on the floor.  That came later, when he’d drunk so much he couldn’t control his body.”  Dr Burke manages to control his revulsion at the thought.  Detective Beckett stops again, for longer.  The corner of her mouth is twisted.  Silence stretches out between them.  Detective Beckett’s eyes are blindly staring back into the past.  “Then he worked out it was me.”  The sentence is ejected from Detective Beckett’s mouth.

Dr Burke, not a man given to the use of overly descriptive language, thinks that each word has fallen between them as did the bombs on Pearl Harbour, or the nuclear devices on Hiroshima and Nagasaki; all to the same devastating effect. Here, he realises, is the beginning of all Detective Beckett’s issues; the initial trauma.

“He said I thought you were her. I wanted her.  Go away.  I don’t want you, I want Johanna.  And he downed the glass and started to cry.” 

Detective Beckett looks, momentarily, as if she might cry. However, she does not.  This concerns Dr Burke. 

“What did you do?” he asks. First, he will explore Detective Beckett’s actions.  Only then will he progress to her emotions.  They still have some time in this session, though he is not at all sure that he will not have to overrun for a few moments.

“I went upstairs. Unpacked.”  There is a small hitch apparent in her speech.  “Came back down,” she says tightly.  “Took the bottle and poured it all away.”  Another hitch.  “He wasn’t happy.  I told him to go to bed and pushed him in the direction of his room.”

Dr Burke resists, with considerable difficulty, his temptation to ask how Detective Beckett had felt through this sequence of events.

“He went. He still hadn’t said he was glad to see me or used my name.  He just staggered off to bed.  He was wasted.”  And yet another pause.  “Then I went through everywhere I could think of and poured every drop of alcohol down the sink.  Everything I could find.”  Detective Beckett breathes in, slowly.  “I didn’t know then that they always hide it.  Always lie that there’s no more.  Just lie.  I thought if I poured it away he wouldn’t be tempted and we could fix it.”  She draws another breath.  “I didn’t know I couldn’t fix it.”  Her voice hardens and becomes bitter again.  “I only found that out a week ago, really.  Water under the bridge now.”

Dr Burke allows Detective Beckett to gather herself. He is treading very carefully.  She is not, he had immediately discerned, a person who enjoys discussing emotions, nor, he thinks, is she a person who is swift to reveal them.  Gaining her trust is crucial, and he is certain that he does not possess it yet.

“After you had cleared your home of alcohol, what did you do next?”

“Went to bed myself.”

“Mm?”

“When I woke up” – Ah. Detective Beckett has avoided any description of her actions after going to bed, presumably because that would involve revealing her feelings – “I had breakfast, and Dad woke up.  He was sober.  Hung over, but sober.  I think he was sober. Then he was – seemed – pleased to see me.  He said he’d been lonely, and it was a one-off, and he was sorry and wouldn’t do it again.  He said he needed me, I was the only thing he had left.  So I said I’d call more often, and we were good.  So I thought.   I didn’t know then that they always lie.  Always.  I went back to college and I phoned more often and for a while he seemed better.”  Detective Beckett pauses again.  “He was just hiding it.”

A very strange expression passes over Detective Beckett’s face, and she stops speaking for a moment. “I never talked about it.  I couldn’t talk about Mom with him.  It upset him so and I couldn’t deal with that.  If he started it he just got upset.  I never started it.”

“Is it possible,” Dr Burke asks cautiously, “that you wished to talk about your mother’s death with him?” He is certain that Detective Beckett had so wished, but had already started to avoid subjects which she thought might trigger an unpleasant outcome.  In some ways, this is a response that he has seen in cases of domestic abuse.  Avoid the triggers.  Detective Beckett appears to have developed it remarkably quickly.  Then again, Dr Burke considers, she had received an utterly devastating blow.

“I…” Detective Beckett trails off. She does not appear to have an answer to that question.  Instead, she looks at her watch.  “Time’s up,” she says.

“Only if you wish it to be. We can continue for a few moments.”  Detective Beckett shakes her head.  “In that case, I will see you on Friday.  Before we meet again, however, I should like you to try to consider whether you would have wished to talk about your mother with your father, and why.  I should also like you to start to consider how you felt about these events.”  He watches irritated confusion bloom in her face.  “In order to ensure that you can deal with encountering alcoholics in the course of your work, you need to understand your own feelings, which stem from these early experiences.”  The irritation dies away.

“Okay. I get that.  Thank you.”  She leaves.  Dr Burke considers that his statement had been entirely true, if partial.  He is relatively content with the manner in which that session had progressed.  Friday’s session, however, may be considerably more difficult.  He puts it out of his mind and turns to the relatively simpler matter of shooting-related PTSD.

Beckett removes herself to home at some speed, unconsciously hoping that distance from Dr Burke’s office will provide some distance from the absolute horror with which his suggestion has filled her. Intellectually, she can see, understand and even agree with his reasoning.  Emotionally, it’s appalling.  The slightest thought of going through it all again is terrifying.  She hates the very idea of it.  But Dr Burke had hit the one point that could have made her consider it.  To be able to do her job right.  And he hadn’t said it… but maybe working out her feelings will make her pathetic, petty envy of families (Castle’s family) go away. 

She’s dealt with plenty of things she didn’t want to do in the past. At least this one might have a positive outcome.  God knows the others generally haven’t.

Lost in her own head, she doesn’t realise that someone is knocking on her door for some time. She pads across, and is less surprised than she should be when she recognises Castle through the peephole.  She opens the door with immense relief.

“Hey, I brought dinner,” he says. Beckett just looks at him, apparently too tired to comprehend the concept of food.  He puts the takeout bag down and hugs her, which seems like a good start.  “C’mon.  I’m starving.  Well, not literally, obviously, but I’m really hungry and you look like you need a meal but I didn’t think you’d want to go out so I brought your favourite Thai and ice cream which will melt if you don’t put it in the freezer so let’s do that.”

“Did you actually breathe at any point in that sentence?” Beckett snarks, as he moves them toward the kitchen and freezer. Then she catches sight of the ice cream.  “How did you know that was my favourite?”

“This?” He waves the Ben & Jerry’s carton of Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz around.  “I didn’t – but now I do.  Besides, it was coffee.  It was bound to be one you liked.”

“What do you like?

“New York Super Fudge Chunk.” He pulls a carton of that out too.  “I don’t mainline caffeine.”  Both ice cream cartons arrive in the freezer.

“You’re quite hyper enough without that,” Beckett mutters. Castle pouts for the sake of it, and mentally cheers that Beckett has managed an attempt at normality.

“You should take advantage of my energy, not complain,” he smirks, and smiles suavely. His arm stays firmly around her, hand on her hip, even while the takeout migrates into the oven to heat up.