27. I'm all done in

“Jim Beckett,” a firm, professional tone answers. Castle had half-hoped for a PA, but his luck hasn’t been in for weeks and it looks like that’s not changing now.

“Mr Beckett? This is Rick Castle.”  There’s a short, surprised silence on the line.

“Mr Castle. This is a surprise.”  Jim Beckett does not sound like the small, nervous man he’d met.  Jim Beckett sounds like the partner in a respectable firm should do: assertive and composed. 

“I wondered if you had some time to see me,” Castle says, rather more formally than he’d anticipated.

There’s a soft clicking which Castle accurately identifies as the checking of an Outlook calendar.

“I could see you at five. I don’t expect this is about a need for a new attorney, is it?”

“No.”

“Hm. Okay.  I can’t say I’m surprised, after meeting you the other week.  You didn’t strike me as a man who was shy about getting what he wanted.  Come to these offices at five and we’ll take it from there.”

Castle hadn’t wanted to wait till five. Castle had wanted to take Jim Beckett somewhere for lunch and thoroughly cross-question him about Kate Beckett.  Castle had thought, based on how Jim had looked on his previous meeting, that Jim Beckett would be an easy pushover. 

Castle thinks he might have been dead wrong. And since he has been dead wrong about most things, he starts to wonder why Jim Beckett today is so different from the man he’d met ten days ago in… difficult… circumstances.  Was he wrong then, or is he wrong now, or has he been wrong both times?  These Becketts… never who or what he thinks them.  But because one of them really matters, he’d better try to understand.

He frets his way through the day till it’s time to leave.

Beckett struggles through the day until shift ends at five, and without Montgomery needing to so much as twitch in his chair is gone before anyone can say anything at all. In fact, it takes Ryan and Esposito a few minutes to notice that she’s left.

“Beckett’s gone!” Ryan notes in amazement.

“Ha ha. Good joke, bro.”

“No joke. She really is.  Desk clear, purse gone, coat gone.”

Espo makes a big play of looking at the calendar, and then out of the window. “Nah.  Can’t have.  Moon’s not blue.  No national holidays.  ‘S not her birthday.”

“Maybe she’s got a date?”

Espo laughs so hard he starts to cough. “Beckett?” he wheezes.  “Beckett?  A date?  Today?  Date with a packet of Tylenol, maybe.”

“Huh?”

“Beckett was looking pretty green this morning. I’d say she was hung-over but we all know she never drinks that much.  If she’s not ill, I’ll eat my service cuffs, no ketchup.”

“Kate was ill?”

“Hey, Lanie.” Lanie ignores all normal conversational niceties.

“Kate is ill?”

“Sure looked like it,” Espo says casually. “She’s gone already.  Best thing for her.”

Lanie is nonplussed. Kate had shown no signs of illness yesterday.  Massive emotional stress yes, physical illness no.  She’s a doctor, dammit, even if she only doctors the dead, and she’s pretty sure she would have noticed the imminent signs of an illness bad enough to send Kate home immediately at the end of shift on only the following day.

“Okay,” Lanie says slowly. “I came over to see if she wanted some downtime, but I guess not.”  Her busy mind is working.  She doesn’t believe Kate is ill, but she does believe that she’s gone off to hide and lick her emotional wounds.  “Seeya, guys.”  She departs the precinct, and barely waits till she’s out the elevator before dialling Kate’s number.

“Beckett.”

“Kate, it’s me.”

“Oh.” That’s not a good start.  “Hey, Lanie.”  That’s only marginally better.

“Wanna come out for a drink?”

“No, thanks. Late night last night.  Bed early for me.”  Kate’s light, airy tone should be reassuring, but Lanie is anything but reassured, after yesterday.

“You okay, girl?”

“Sure. I just need a good night’s sleep.  My PJs are calling to me.”  And that’s no more reassuring than the last sentence, because it’s so completely Kate-normal it’s obviously fake.  “How about Friday?”  Now Lanie knows there’s something up.  Kate usually thinks about going out on a Friday night on Friday afternoon.  This feels like Kate putting Lanie off the scent.  Which means there’s a scent to be put off.  Hmmm.  Castle might know something.  He’d been a little off-beat all evening yesterday, too. 

“Okay. You take care of yourself, girl.”

“Sure, Lanie,” Kate says, with exactly the same exasperated almost-affection that she always does. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Well, now. What is Lanie’s girl doing?  Lanie supposes it’s marginally better than the complete shut-out that Kate had applied yesterday, but she doesn’t get the feeling that Kate’s really planning a full-on girls’ night with civilised drinks (not many), good food, and a proper conversation about how she is.  She’d force her way round, but she’ll feel a complete dumbass if Kate’s in PJs and she wakes her up – and Kate’s not exactly going to be pleased if Lanie does disturb her.

Beckett has gone home to investigate the headache-curing properties of Tylenol and some bland food. Toast.  Or maybe grilled cheese, or mac ‘n’ cheese.  Something very simple and undemanding.  She’s trying very hard not to think about anything that happened since this time two days ago. 

She takes her Tylenol – no need for the heavy-duty Advil now – and changes out her tailored work garb into soft, warmer yoga pants, t-shirt and sweat top, puts some Kraft packet mac ‘n’ cheese on, adding butter and some black pepper to improve it slightly, and pours a large glass of water. She’ll get to coffee, later.  It won’t stop her sleeping.  It never does.  And she will go to bed early.  She will get herself back on track.  She’s had her meltdown moment for the year.  Time to get straightened out and fly right.

She mops the floor and, despite the freezing February air and flurries of snow, opens the window to remove the slight but sickening smell of the spilt – she assumes she spilt it – vodka. Then she finds the bottle, on a higher shelf than she could have reached in the state she was in, tips the remnants down the sink and runs the water for long enough to rinse all the odour away, and throws it into the recycling chute.  She has a gut-wrenching knowledge of how it reached that shelf.  Another thing that she really didn’t want to remember.  Goes right along with the memory of his warm hands round hers this morning.

She eats her dinner at her table, closes the window. Then she puts on a Dobie Gray album, and pulls out her yoga mat, and begins on the slow, smooth forms that need all her muscle control and concentration.  She hasn’t worked through them for – oh.  Weeks.  No wonder she’s stressed and stiff and unhappy.  It’s too cold and slippery underfoot to run, and Espo was right, she hasn’t been in the gym for weeks either.  She needs to get herself together.  If she’d been paying attention to what she should have been doing to keep herself grounded then she wouldn’t be in this state, she tells herself, and ignores the stab of conscience that tries to tell her she’s lying.  She’ll be fine by Friday, and go out with Lanie, and everything will be back to normal.

But a still, small voice keeps talking in her head. It sounds exactly like Castle had earlier.  You need to know what you said. Let’s talk, and make it right. Later.  Yoga doesn’t overcome or silence the words.  She keeps working through the forms, perfecting them, but all the time the words are there.

Castle ensures he is smartly put together and in business mode when he leaves to meet Jim Beckett. He is not at all sure of what to expect, or indeed what he wants to say, or ask.  It doesn’t seem to matter which Beckett he encounters, every single one of them confounds him.

Reception put him in a clean, corporately decorated boardroom, supply him with coffee and leave him to wait for Jim. They don’t seem surprised to see him: presumably that’s professional practicality.  A few moments later Jim enters, dapper in a well-cut suit, wearing a tie.  Castle feels nervously underdressed without a tie of his own, even though he hates them, and is glad he’d put on a smart jacket and dress pants, at least.  Jim extends his hand and shakes firmly.  Castle takes a good look and notes again the harsh-cut lines around his eyes, and a slight air of uncertainty, well covered by a professional poker face.  He hides that well on the phone.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Castle opens, hiding his own considerable uncertainty as to the wisdom of this meeting under formality and a steady voice. Earlier, it had all seemed so easy, fuelled on his desire to fix matters and (not that he’s admitting it) some shame-fuelled annoyance with Beckett’s inability to tell him anything or to trust him. Trust me all in all, or not at all.  She’s aiming for door number two.

“Nice to see you again, Mr Castle.” Jim produces a surprisingly gamin smile, making him look instantly ten years younger and giving him a considerable resemblance to his daughter. 

“Rick, please.”

“Rick. But only if you call me Jim.”

“Okay.”

“So, why did you want to see me?”

Castle swallows, as Jim waits quietly. The air in the room is still.  “You know I’m shadowing Be – your daughter.”  Jim nods.  “For my next book.  Likely it’ll be a series.”  He stops.  That’s not relevant.  “This was a bad idea.  I shouldn’t have come.”  He shifts in his chair, preparatory to standing.  “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Don’t worry, Rick. You haven’t wasted my time, yet.”  Jim’s still friendly.

“To do it right I need to understand Beckett – Kate, so my character is based on her but isn’t her. She won’t let me because she thinks it’ll hurt you.  I promised her I wouldn’t use you – and I don’t want to use you – but she doesn’t believe me.  So I need to tell you that whatever she tells me won’t go in any book.”

“Why?”

“Because then she might believe it.”

“Would it be true?” Castle’s temper incinerates at the question. One damn mistrustful Beckett after another.  He bites out his answer.

“It would be. But since you have to ask me to my face if I’m a liar, I think we’re probably done here.  I can’t make either of you trust me, all I could do was tell you that.  Now I have.  Thanks for your time.” 

Castle stands up, infuriated with himself. He should never have tried this: it’s likely made matters worse.  Why he thought that speaking to Jim Beckett would improve the position escapes him.  He really should have learned not to act on his impulses by now.  It’s the same Beckett brick wall all over again.  Must be inherited.  Or genetic.

“Sit down,” Jim says firmly. Castle doesn’t.  “Sit back down, son.  Katie protects.  It’s what she is.  She thinks she’s protecting me, and maybe that’s true, but I heard you pair arguing all the way down the hall and it didn’t sound like it had much to do with writing any book to me.”  He acquires that gamin look again.  “Sounded to me like her mother and me used to be…”  Castle gulps.  What if he’s triggered Jim’s memories?  “Don’t worry.  I’ve come to terms with that.  The meetings help.”  He pours himself some water, and gestures at the coffee.  Castle shakes his head, still standing, hand on his jacket.  “I told Katie to patch it up with you.  She needs a friend.”  There’s a rather knowing glint in Jim’s eye, for an instant, swiftly altered.   He drops his eyes to his water glass, and suddenly slumps a little, becomes the smaller, uncertain man Castle had first met.

“So, because… because I met you already and I liked you, and if you were lying to me you’d not be walking away without trying to get the story… If you were lying you’d be wanting the story from me, but you’re not. So sit back down, and I’ll tell you it.”   Castle sits, finally, waits while Jim gathers himself, slips into listening mode: creating the atmosphere where people simply talk.

“You know the bare bones. I told you, the other day.  Thought you were her friend, from what she’d said.”  He breathes slowly.  “For two years she tried to pull me out it, and then she walked away.  After that, I bumped along the bottom, but it took a long while to realise, and then I tried to fix it myself.  Didn’t work.  Finally I went to AA.  If she hadn’t stopped trying to save me, I’d never have come out it.  I’d be dead.  I couldn’t lose Katie too, and that’s what pulled me through: knowing that if I didn’t fix myself I’d never see her again.   After three months dry, I called her.  She’s been there for me ever since.  Gives me the strength to carry on, because she had the strength to walk away.”  Castle thinks that Jim’s told this tale before, probably at his meetings, maybe to others.  “The craving doesn’t go away, but every day I don’t give in is another win.  I just keep putting one foot in front of another, and if keeping the mask on is too much, Katie’s always there.  She keeps me strong.  I only have to talk to her, or see her, to remember why I stay sober.” 

He looks up, his expression raw. “She saved me, by walking away.  She saves me every day, just by existing.  She carried me, when I couldn’t stand.  I tell her so, and she should know it.”  There’s silence, emotion heavy in the bland, corporate room.  Jim looks down again.  Castle has no words.  This is not a conversation that’s to be repeated, ever.  Remembered, but never repeated, except perhaps in summary, to Beckett.  “But I worry about her, now.  She should have a life of her own.  She should be telling me about friends, not just her team.  I thought when she talked about you she might…” he trails off.

“She might,” Castle says, unbidden, and manages to stop before he reveals to Jim that Beckett is drowning in guilt. Jim doesn’t know that: so much is clear, and Jim ever knowing that is likely to be a very, very bad idea.  Castle is still surprised that Jim said anything, never mind as much as he has.

“She should,” Jim says, and stops. Suddenly he smiles.  “You’ve got a daughter, too.  Bet she doesn’t listen to you as much as you think she should.”

Castle grins in return. “Nope.  But then I don’t listen to her as much as she thinks I should, either.”  There’s a moment of fatherly solidarity.

“Katie always does what she thinks is right. Even if people get hurt along the way.  It’s fine when she’s at work: that’s her job.  She’s not so good at seeing that it’s not always the best way outside work.  It can be a little tricky to convince her that she’s wrong.”  The gamin smile peeps out again.  “Good luck, Rick.  I hope I’ll be seeing more of you with Katie.”  It turns to a mischievous grin.  “Preferably at a slightly lower volume.”

“Thanks,” Castle says very sincerely. “I think the second part might depend on your daughter, though.”

Jim sniggers. Positively sniggers.  “I think you might be good for her.  She could do with a friend who won’t be pushed around.”  He extends his hand to Castle, shakes firmly.  “Thanks for coming by.  Brave step, son.  Now, one more thing.”  Castle looks down at him, bemused.  “That game shop where Katie got my Christmas present – what’s the address?”

Castle gives up and laughs. “Got a piece of paper?”

He goes home in a better mood than for weeks, changes out his constrictingly formal clothes, and manages a civilised dinner with his family without mentioning anything much about the day except a lengthy complaint about the boring nature of cold cases and paperwork. Then he collects himself together and departs for Beckett’s apartment.

He can hear music faintly through her door: an older style that he doesn’t recognise. He knocks firmly to be heard over the music, and is astonished that the door opens.  Beckett is (yet again) in sweats, with her hair messily tied back, and is gazing wearily at him, as if she knows that he’d just keep knocking till she let him in.  There’s a yoga mat on the floor and a used plate by the sink.  He steps inside, closing the door behind him.  Beckett’s already turned away from him: all he can see is her hunched shoulders, her defensive posture.  Shutting everything out, or away.  Shutting him out, just like she’s done since Christmas, just like she’s doing with Lanie, just like she’s doing in the precinct.

And suddenly he can’t bear it any more. He takes two fast steps and spins her round, into his arms: holding her tight against him and turning her face up so she can’t avoid his eyes.  “We are going to talk about this.  You’re not going to avoid it any more.”

“Because that’s what you want.  And you always get what you want, don’t you, Castle?  Fame, fortune, family.  Fucking me, literally and metaphorically.  The story, whatever it takes.  What about what I want?  Or doesn’t that count?”

Castle doesn’t move, and doesn’t let go. He had expected this outpouring of vitriol, this last-ditch defence.

“You want someone you can rely on.  Someone who’ll support you.  You just never said so, till yesterday.”  The fight and anger and stiffness is all sucked out of her.  Abruptly, he’s holding her up.  “Don’t you need to know what happened yesterday?  What you said?”  He’s almost coaxing, softness in his voice, walking her backwards to her couch, never letting go, nestling her into him, petting gently: enough determination to show her that he’s not going to be put off as easily as before. 

“It doesn’t matter,” comes defeated from her lips. “You’re going to keep pushing till you get what you want.  What’s the point in fighting it?”

“Why fight, if you want it too? I told you’d got me wrong, just like I got you wrong.”   She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t fight; she doesn’t try to move closer or further away.

“Just remember that I told you I couldn’t bear seeing your family. When you start to hate me because I can’t be what you think you want.  When you walk away again because you need something I can’t provide.  You want someone who doesn’t exist.  I’ve used me all up, Castle.  There isn’t anything left for anyone else.”  She pulls herself out his arms and stands up.  “When someone tells you who they are, you should listen.  I’ve told you who I am, over and over.  Why won’t you just listen, and leave?”

“Because that’s not who you are.” The calm tones don’t reach her.  She’s backing away from him towards the window.  “I’ve been listening to your actions, not your words.  And they don’t match.”

She laughs, once, with no humour at all. Bitterness pours through her voice.  “Don’t match?  Don’t match?  Let me put it simply for you.  I walked away from my own father when he needed me most.  I’ll do the same to you.  Save us both the trouble, Castle.  Walk away now.”

“No.”