85. My own design

Much as Castle would like to take Beckett to bed and make love to her for some time, the problem of her wrist prevents it. He compromises by snuggling her in and then kissing her smoothly and searchingly until she’s relaxed into him and is nicely responsive.  Which would have been fine if she hadn’t retaliated in kind, which leaves him very ready to be responsive and definitely not relaxed at all.  For someone who can’t really employ their arm, she’s doing a lot of damage.  He was sure she wasn’t ambidextrous.  He may have been wrong.

He stops her by tugging her usable arm out of dangerously intimate places and putting it where he can see it. Beckett pouts at him, clearly unimpressed.

“You’re no fun,” she grumps.

“I’m plenty of fun,” he contradicts her, “but I’m not damaging you further. Cuddle in and be content with some gentle making out.  Like this,” and he kisses her teasingly, and then harder, and then she kisses him back and presses in.  He holds her tightly.  “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“Yeah,” she drags out. “I’ll be fine, now you’ve been here.  Makes it all better.”  Her gaze drops away.  “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Castle embraces her more tightly still. “Any time, Beckett.  Every time.  Promise.”

“Me too.” He raises eyebrows in question.  “If you want to talk.  Or search.  Any time.  I… have resources.”

“You would use NYPD resources?” He’s astonished. 

“Better use than for finding Mr Berowitz.”

“Yeah…” He shouldn’t really say the next bit.  Technically – well, not so technically – it’s a breach of his undertaking.  “When I was writing Storm, I shadowed someone in the CIA.  They poked about for me.”  He holds his breath.

“The NYPD can’t compete with that,” Beckett says, disappointedly, and leaves it there. She doesn’t seem to be interested in whom he shadowed.  “But if you want me to take another look…”

“Maybe. But the NYPD has other advantages,”  Castle drawls lazily.

“Oh?”

“This one right here.” He tucks her firmly back against him and runs a big hand over her back.  “You’re a definite advantage.” 

Beckett curls into him. “I am?” she husks, clearly very ready to take any opportunity to move away from her earlier unhappiness.  “Are you trying to take advantage?”

Castle kisses her in response. “I thought I already had.  If you hadn’t hurt yourself, I might let you take advantage of me.  Seeing as you can’t, you’ll just have to settle for this.”  He invades again, finding not the slightest resistance, and when he’s had his fill of making out, Beckett is tidily settled back on his shoulder and very soft and Kat-ish.  His hand runs up and down her back without any intelligent input from his brain.  Her eyes are half-closed, her breathing gentle, and all in all she seems to have become calm.

“Castle?” arrives sleepily at his ear.

“Mm?” He was perfectly happy nestled warmly together.  Thinking is an effort that isn’t required.

“Castle,” Beckett says again, very uncertainly, “could we…”

“Mm?”

“…could we maybe go back to the Hamptons?”

Castle jerks into life, which was a mistake, because he’s jarred Beckett’s sore wrist and she is muttering vile words at it. Not at him, though that clause may be missing the word yet.

“The Hamptons?”

Beckett instantly retreats into herself. “Not if you don’t want to.”  He gapes at her.  “Okay, it was a dumb idea.  Never mind.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“You do?” She sounds surprised.

“But we can’t go this weekend. Next weekend.  I’ve got to make arrangements.”  He peers down at the scarlet tip of her ear which is all he can see.  “Why?”  The embarrassment level of the atmosphere increases markedly.  “Why, Beckett?”  An indistinct murmur rises.  “Didn’t get that.”

“Everything was easier there,” she rushes out. “Nothing to worry about.  Just…”

“Mmm?”

“Just you and me.”

Castle has a sudden rush of blood to the head as he considers the implications of that statement. It sounds very like Beckett hoping for a reprise of that extremely pleasurable and very successful weekend almost three weeks ago.  It also sounds like Beckett hoping for a little bubble in which she need not think about anything but them.

Castle is only a little bit wrong. Beckett is hoping for a space of peace in which she can try to admit just how much she feels.  She can’t do it in Manhattan.  There are too many upsets: too much therapy; too many cases and people and everything pressing at her mind; too many of her problems getting in the way.  Out in the Hamptons, the first time, none of that had been there.  It had been – well, happy.   Easeful and happy.  Nothing in the way.  Maybe if there were nothing in the way again, she’d be able to say something more than partners.  She squirms closer, and curses her sprained wrist, and the advanced hour.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, Castle realises the time.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah.” She really wishes he didn’t, but he can’t stay.  Not without planning.  She closes her throat firmly on a pathetic plea of will I see you tomorrow?

“I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow, but…um…” Castle sounds almost as hopelessly uncertain as she had a moment ago, “…um, would you like to go for brunch somewhere on Sunday, but… oh, you might not want to because Mother and Alexis would be there too” – he droops – “so it would be too much. I get it.  You don’t have to because it wouldn’t be just us.  My family would be there and that wouldn’t work at all and” –

“Uh? Sunday brunch?”

“Er… yeah?”

“Uh?” Beckett emits again, completely flabbergasted. “Brunch?”

“A meal between breakfast and lunch.”

“I know what it is, Castle.”  And more to the point, she had already thought through, at the beginning of this week, the three reasons Castle’s family make her uncomfortable, and she’d decided that she really ought to be able to deal with all of them, so maybe she should try to cope?  If they’re not in the loft…  And besides which, she will prove Dr Burke wrong about something else.  She can cope with Castle’s family without having to deal with her issues with her father.  They’re not connected. “Where?”

“How about Balthazar?” Castle says, clearly surprised that she said yes even after finding out that his mother and daughter would be there.

“Okay. When?”

“Ten. I’ll make a reservation.”

“Okay. See you then.”  She turns slightly in his clasp and kisses his neck, being the only reachable part of him.  “But…” – she has to force the words out – “but you won’t be upset if it’s all too much and I need to…”

“It’ll be okay. I get it.  Nothing more than you can deal with.  It’s always up to you to decide.”  He smiles happily.  “I can always hold your hand to infuse you with courage.”

“Infuse? Am I a tea bag?”

Castle regards Beckett with admiration. “So hot,” he murmurs.  “That deserves a kiss.  To prove you’re not a tea bag.”  Which leads to another round of making out which does nothing at all to induce Castle to leave.  Finally he manages to tear himself away, put on his coat, and exit, not without considerable regrets from both parties.

Left to herself, Beckett makes herself not coffee, but a very soothing cup of camomile tea, and tries not to think that she’s made a really big mistake in accepting the invitation to brunch.   She can do it.  She can.  And she will show Dr Burke that she can handle a family situation now, not on his timetable.  On hers.  She will do this and it will work.

And on that note she finishes her tea and puts herself to bed, where she doesn’t dream at all.

Castle barely makes it past nine o’clock before phoning Dr Burke’s office. If he’d thought that there would be anyone there, he’d have done so at eight.  Or seven.  Or as soon as he woke up.  The necessity to wait has not improved his mood, even if on reflection Dr Burke had only pointed out what Castle himself had been thinking.  Fortunately, there is an answer.  If Dr Burke’s practice had been shut across the whole weekend Castle might have used some rather less respectable methods to find him.

“Dr Burke, please,” Castle says, coolly. The receptionist is entirely guiltless, and deserves courtesy.

“Certainly. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mr Castle.”

There are a few beeps as he is put on hold.

“Ah, good morning, Mr Castle. I have been expecting your call.  Do you wish to start by venting your understandable emotions relating to Detective Beckett, or by discussing your progress with Mr Beckett?”

Castle is left speechless and gulping. It takes him a moment to recover from Dr Burke’s cool commentary.

“We can start with me telling you that if you upset Beckett like that again I will have your head.”

“Mr Castle, you do not wholly understand the position.” Castle makes a noise reminiscent of an angry eagle.  “Detective Beckett’s previous therapist appears to have been utterly incompetent, and indeed harmful.  With the assistance of your comments, I have been able to uncover this fact.  However, that incompetence has left Detective Beckett with the ingrained behaviours which we discussed, which she is only now understanding: her reluctance to upset those for whom she might care, followed by, when the repressed anger becomes unbearable, a permanent breach which she has herself initiated.  She has followed this route with you, with Dr Parrish, and with her father, and no doubt with others beforehand.  It is of some note, as I had discussed with you, that the breach with you was not permanent.  It may be equally important that Detective Beckett appears to have mended relations with Dr Parrish.”  Dr Burke pauses.  Castle allows the pause to extend.

“However, Detective Beckett will not be able to overcome her patterns until she confronts her past. To do so, she needs to face her own misapprehensions.  This is unlikely to be painless.  It appears to me that Detective Beckett does not like to own her weaknesses, nor is it easy for her to admit that she may have been wrong.”

“For sure,” Castle agrees before his brain can stop him.

“Therefore, it is extremely likely that Detective Beckett will be upset, possibly greatly upset, again. Having my head, as you so colourfully put it, will not prevent that.  It would be more productive if you merely made yourself available should she need you, as was the case yesterday.”

Castle growls in frustration. Dr Burke has just cut his argument off at the knees.  He had been looking forward to tearing him apart, metaphorically, and now he can’t.

“If it is any consolation to you, Detective Beckett did not hesitate to ask for you to be contacted.”

“Oh.”

“Now, Mr Castle, do I infer correctly that you have spoken to Mr Beckett?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He’ll see you. I expect he’ll want his sponsor about.  I think it would be a good plan if you saw him very soon.  He’s breaking up.  He has no idea why Beckett won’t speak to him.  But he’s still dry.”

“I see.” There is a soft tapping sound.  “Please let Mr Beckett know that I could see him on Monday, at six.”

“Okay.”

“Before you go, Mr Castle, I would be remiss if I did not point out that resolving Detective Beckett’s issues is likely to be painful for you. She will need your support, but although I hope that her evident feelings for you will prevent major conflict between you both, I certainly cannot guarantee that.  She may well be very angry with the situation, and it is not unknown for such anger to be displaced on to an innocent party, or indeed to a party for whom the subject of therapy has deep feelings.  Are you prepared for that?  If not, please take some time to think through how best you might deal with it.”  Castle swallows.  He had not thought of that.  “I would also still like to understand the way in which you and Detective Beckett reassociated.  I have an earlier session free on Monday, if you are available at eleven?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. Your assistance is quite invaluable.  Good morning, Mr Castle.”

Castle is left staring at the phone, wondering just how he’d been so effectively neutralised when he’d intended to turn Dr Burke into a small pile of ash and scraps.

Then he realises that he’d better tell Jim that he’s seeing Dr Burke at six on Monday. Another unpleasant call.  Still, no point in putting it off.  It won’t improve with keeping.  Not that it’s going to be pleasant at any time.  Castle makes a very unhappy face, which worsens as soon as he realises that he can’t call Beckett immediately afterwards and take the bitter taste away by seeing her, picks up his phone, and dials.

“Jim Beckett.”

“Jim, it’s Rick. Dr Burke – Kate’s psychiatrist – well, he’ll see you at six Monday if you can make it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Castle reels off the number for Jim to confirm the appointment.  “He’s pretty…er… thorough.  It’s a bit rough.  You might want Ed somewhere close by.”

“Thanks.” Jim doesn’t sound particularly thankful.  It sounds more like he’s resigned.

There is a short silence which doesn’t sound as if the call is finished.   It sounds very much as if there are dammed up words behind Jim’s certainly-gritted teeth.

“Rick,” Jim says, with an undertone of resolution, “why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Castle says in an attempt to buy time.

“Getting involved. Pushing me to therapy.  Fixing Katie.  Every time I ask you something you just say trust you.  Why should I?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Stop evading. What’s your interest in all of this – and don’t say it’s the writing.  I don’t believe you.”

“Are you asking me my intentions?”

“If that’s what it takes to get a straight answer from you, yes, I am.”

“How is that your business?”

“Whether she talks to me or not I’m Katie’s father.”

“Beckett is twenty-nine years old and it’s up to her what she does with whom.” Castle is sufficiently riled to revert to referring to her as Beckett.  “You don’t have any right to ask me my intentions.  The only person who can ask me that is Beckett.  We don’t need you or anyone else interfering.”

“But you’re quite happy to interfere between me and Katie? How’d you square that circle?”  The implication of hypocrisy does nothing to improve Castle’s rapidly worsening mood.

“Believe me, I’d rather not. If it wasn’t something Beckett needed I’d never have spoken to you.  She might need you.  I don’t.  So stop pushing me to tell you stuff.  It’s not gonna happen.  Are you going to go see Dr Burke or not?”

“Yes. Seeing as there’s nothing else I can do,” Jim adds acidly.

“You could try remembering that I’ve told you Beckett’s okay a couple of times now. That’s a hell of a lot better than you’d have got from her.”  Jim’s wince is palpable down the phone.  “I can stop that too, if you’d rather not hear from me.”

“You really know how to play dirty, don’t you? Got me right over a barrel.  Well, I sure hope you know what you’re doing, because if you don’t I’ll come after you with a gun.  You said this would work, so you’d better make it work.”

“All I can do is put the pieces in play. It’s up to you and Beckett to make it work.  I’ve got further in getting you back in than you could.  I can’t do any more.  Enjoy Dr Burke.  I don’t.”

Castle cuts the call, irritated and worried in equal measure. Jim’s temper is varying from desperate clinging to Castle-as-last-hope to regarding Castle as the enemy.  Although Castle is sympathetic to Jim’s plight, he’s not keen on being used as a punching bag and he is especially not keen on being grilled as to his intentions when he hasn’t discussed them with the object of said intentions.  Maybe in the Hamptons…

And on that note he starts to make arrangements so that he can be out of town from Friday night till Sunday evening next weekend without Alexis being worried or unaccompanied. It takes a little time, and involves calling in a few favours to achieve a double sleepover.  Alexis is, however, enthusiastic about the prospect of sleepovers, and more enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing Beckett at brunch on Sunday.  Castle rapidly makes the reservations, before there are no tables left.

Alexis skips off, perfectly happy with life, to be replaced by Castle’s mother.

“Did I hear mention of brunch, darling?” she carols.

“Yes, Mother. Ten, at Balthazar.  I’m sure their hangover drinks will suit you.”

“Pfft! I have never required a hangover cure.”

Castle makes a very disbelieving noise. “Should I remind you that I learned to make Bloody Marys before I left elementary school?”

“Don’t exaggerate, kiddo. You were almost finished junior high.”

“Before that I couldn’t reach the vodka.”

“That growth spurt of yours was certainly well-timed.”

“Mother…”

“Oh, whatever, Richard. Anyway, brunch?  To what do we owe this unusual pleasure?”

“Beckett’s coming.”

“Oh?” his mother says, very inquisitively. “I must say, I’d been wondering when she’d be invited back.  Is that nice father of hers coming too?”

“No. And I don’t want you to mention him.  Beckett and her father had a bit of a disagreement and it’s a sore point.  So don’t do anything to poke it.”

“As if I would be so rude,” Martha says, offended.

“I’m sure I can count on you never to be rude. Can’t I?”

“Of course. I’m offended you even asked.”

Castle raises an eyebrow. “In that case I’m sure we’ll all have a really good time.  Without questions.”

“Whatever, darling,” floats back to him as Martha exits with a flourish. This makes Castle very nervous.  His mother has a nasty tendency to try and “improve” matters.  Improvement is rarely the result of her efforts.  This has all the hallmarks of a potential disaster, but he can’t head it off.  He can’t tell Beckett he doesn’t think she can do it, because that’ll destroy any chance of her having any confidence in her own reactions – or in his – for weeks.  He can’t tell his mother anything more without breaking Beckett’s privacy.  This is going to be horrible.  Even if it goes well, it’s going to be horrible.  And just to add to the general quantity of horror, he’s got to see Dr Burke on Monday. 

In an effort to avoid all this horror, he turns to his laptop. Unfortunately, all he manages to think of are scenes of utter disaster in which Nikki shoots Rook, Rook’s mother, Rook’s editor, and then goes off on an Uzi-fuelled rampage through the streets of New York ending on the top of the Empire State building with biplanes surrounding her…

He jerks awake. His laptop is complaining that it has no power.  He has a sudden fellow-feeling for it.  He also feels entirely powerless.  He puts it on to charge and then calls Joe, in the Hamptons, to arrange matters for next weekend.  At least that’s under some sort of control.