53. You're my best friend

Beckett bends herself into another simple asana on her mat and hisses as her muscles stretch out. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bright idea to take on Espo at full force.  Still, she does feel better for it, even if she aches.  She holds the posture for a slow count of ten, glances at the clock, and notes that she’s spent over half an hour doing yoga.  That’s enough.  She’ll stop there, and draw herself a lovely hot, scented bath.  Mmmmm.

Her lovely hot, scented bath is delightful, for all of five minutes. After that, she starts to worry about the remarkable lack of contact since Monday from Lanie, who is not normally backwards in coming forwards; Sunday’s impending dinner of doom; and therapy generally and tomorrow in particular.  Her relatively contented mood cools with the bathwater, and when she steps out to wrap herself in a very large and fluffy bath sheet, although her body is soothed and peaceful (tomorrow might be different) her mind is roiling.

Naturally, that’s when her phone rings.

“Beckett.”

“Kate, it’s me.”

There is a short silence. She shouldn’t even have thought about Lanie.  Like some evil telepathic connection from a schlock-horror story, it’s brought Lanie’s not-so-dulcet tones right to her ear.

“Yes?” she says calmly. She is really not in the mood for Lanie’s efforts at psychiatry.  The real thing is quite enough.  She doesn’t need cheap imitations.  Irritation is already growing from her generally unhappy state.  Beckett rams it down.  “What do you want, Lanie?”  She just about manages cordiality.

“I wanna see you, seeing as our Friday night was interrupted. Thought you might want to go out this Friday?”

“Sorry, I’m busy already. Maybe another day?”  Maybe therapy has a single, solitary advantage after all.  A ready-made excuse to avoid Lanie in inquisitorial mode.  Still, she’s trying to be nice.  She doesn’t want to, though.  Lanie’s words and the bitter sting they had brought have definitely not faded, and Lanie’s actions of Monday morning and her attempt to open matters up in front of Beckett’s team hadn’t exactly improved their relationship.  She would have thought that a doctor would understand confidentiality.  She would certainly have expected it from her friend.

“I wanna talk to you.” Lanie sounds just as determined and annoyed as she had on Monday.  “You didn’t call me so here I am calling you.”

Beckett knew it. She couldn’t catch a break in a bucket, could she?  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry, but like I said, I’m busy Friday.  Another time.  When’re you around?”

“Busy? Really?”  Lanie’s disbelief is patent.  “Like you’ve been busy all the time already?  I wanna talk to you, face to face, like friends do.  You need to talk to someone.”

Beckett wasn’t aware that friends used terms such as you are fucked right up.  “Oh?  Like you talked on Friday and Monday?  If that’s what you want, no, thank you.  You made your point, and I don’t want to hear it again.  I’ll see you at work.”

“Kate, you need to listen” – And that just does it.  Beckett doesn’t even try to stop her loss of temper. 

“No, I don’t need to listen to you.  I don’t need you trying your half-assed analysis on me and I don’t need your half-assed judgements either.  Save them for your corpses and your friends.   I’ll see you when you’re next assigned to one of my cases, when we can both forget any of this ever happened.”

Click.

Beckett throws her phone at the couch and wishes it was at Lanie’s head. Any last traces of content have vanished.  She pulls on sweats, yanks out her iPod, sets it to the heaviest bass beat rock she can find, grabs her abused phone and exits her apartment before she starts breaking things.  Pounding the streets is a less expensive pastime than pounding plates into the floor.

Some way across town Lanie stares at her phone, considers the words save it for your friends and wonders just when Kate had decided to give up on ten years of friendship.  She’d been there for her in NYU, and since.  Surely she’s earned the right to tell Kate the truth without her blowing up like that?  It’s not as if they haven’t had some pretty direct conversations before.

It doesn’t occur to Lanie that Kate might no longer have been in a place to listen to truth put as bluntly as Lanie had, it certainly doesn’t occur to her that Kate is now firmly of the opinion that Lanie has judged her and found her wanting, and still less does it occur to her that Kate might think that Lanie’s the one who’s dropped the friendship.

Now in a very much less than pleasant mood, Lanie considers Kate’s behaviour and remembers that she had been going to have a detailed conversation with Castle, who is undoubtedly mixed up in this mess. Kate is not getting away with tossing their friendship in the trash like she just tried to.  No way, sister.  At least, not before Lanie’s put her side of the story.  Kate never used to behave like this, and it’s all started since just before Christmas.  It somehow doesn’t seem co-incidental.  Secure in her conviction that she’s doing the right thing for Kate, Lanie dials Castle.

“Rick Castle,” slides smoothly from the phone.

“Castle, it’s Lanie.”

“Hey, Lanie. New body?  It’s usually Beckett who calls.”

“No, I wanna talk to you.”

There’s a surprised, and suspicious, silence.

“Really?” Castle asks, not precisely receptively. “Why?”

“Because Kate told me what she said to you but somehow you’re still around, so that means you know why Kate’s done her best to shove you out.”

“And?”

“And you might just be the only person on the whole damn East Coast who’s managed to change her mind about anything. So what’s going on?  Why’s Kate shoving everyone away now?”

Castle doesn’t feel shoved away, as it happens, but he’s not discussing that with Lanie. “You’re her friend. Why aren’t you talking to her?”  He manages not to put any inflection on that.  Inside, he wants to shout why the hell are you all asking me and not speaking to her?

“She won’t talk to me. I called up to invite her out tomorrow and she simply said she was busy.  I don’t believe her.  She’s found an excuse every time for a fortnight.  So what’s up with her?”

Castle is not having this. Nor is he having cosy confidential chats with Lanie.  He goes on the offensive.

“What’s up with you?” There’s a strangled noise down the phone.  “You’re the one who had lunch with her Monday last, and then you were pissed with her Monday night.  You’re the one who was trying to make something of it in the morgue on Wednesday.  You’re the one who was complaining Friday when she got called away from your girls’ night.  You’re the one who was leaning over telling her off on Monday morning in the middle of the bullpen.  So what’s up with you, because from where I’m standing it looks like you’ve shown her you don’t want to play nice, not the other way round.”

Lanie gibbers and gobbles and fails utterly to find any coherent speech or thought in the face of this unexpected attack. Castle waits, and says nothing more for a moment, until it becomes blatantly obvious that Lanie isn’t able to say anything.

“What did you say to Beckett on Friday night, Lanie?” Castle asks coolly. There is more silence.  “Look, I know you said a lot.  I know you told her she needed help.  What exactly did you say?”

“That’s between her and me.”

“But it’s okay for you to try and get me to tell you what’s private between her and me?  Double standards, Lanie.”

An infuriated growl emanates from the phone. “You’ve been around ten minutes.  I’ve been her friend for ten years.  Don’t you guilt me.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re very good friends right now,” he says with no small degree of malice.

Lanie loses her temper, just as Castle had hoped. Lanie’s filters aren’t great when she’s angry, and she is certainly very, very angry right now.  “You arrogant asshole, I just want Kate to get back to normal.  She’s all fucked up and she needs help to fix her life.”

“So that’s what you said to her?”

“Sure I did,” Lanie yells at him. “Someone had to tell her!  You think I was going to let my best friend keep killing herself without trying to help?  She wasn’t listening to anything else I said.  She spilled for a whole half hour Monday last and then she ran off and hasn’t said three useful words since.   What do you do for your friends?”

Castle is silenced in his turn – but not for long. “I don’t push them further under the surface just because I think I know best.”

“Yeah? Who d’you think you’re kidding?  You’re the one who started all this off.”

Castle loses his own temper. “Think what you like.  I’m not getting in between you and Beckett.  You two screwed it up, you two fix it.  Bye.”

Click.

Lanie stares at her phone and then indulges herself in what would, were she still three, be described as a screaming tantrum. She’s been cut off by first Kate and then Castle and she hasn’t learned a damn thing that would help.  Well, she is not fucking having it.  Kate Beckett is going to listen to her.  She needs help and Lanie Parrish is damned well going to make sure she gets it.  She doesn’t stop swearing for some time, and after that she spends some high-quality time planning painful and complete revenge on Castle and everything up to committal for Kate.  It doesn’t soothe her temper in the slightest.

Beckett, having run for some distance, is marginally calmer. Or doesn’t have breath under which to continue swearing, more like.  The further she runs, the more anger is squeezed sludgily out of her, and the calmer she gets.  After a mile or three, she’s almost back to normal. 

She stops to stretch a little, and realises that she’s reached Spring Street subway station and beginning to creak where she’d hit the mats earlier. At that point she also realises that she didn’t bring her wallet.  She turns the air blue around her, and is fortunate that nobody takes offence.  Still.  She growls viciously under her breath.  Then she has a thought.  She has her phone.  She is only five minutes’ run from Castle’s loft, and there is a good coffee bar between there and here.  (She knows every good coffee bar on Manhattan.  She could answer quiz questions on them.)  She could call him, he would lend her the subway fare, and she could get home easily.  She dials.

“Beckett?” he answers.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“What can I do for you this fine February evening?”

That’s a little odd. He sounds marginally stressed. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I wasn’t expecting you to call this late.”

“It’s only – oh. Sorry.  I didn’t realise it was nearly ten.”

“So what would you like? Bedtime stories?  A different style of coffee in the morning?  Some de-kinking?  My wish is your command.”

“Isn’t that your wish is my command?”

“Well, we could talk about my wishes if that’s what you want.”

Beckett groans, and then remembers she wants a favour.

“Castle,” she stutters slightly, “I need your help.”

“Sure. Anything.”  He sounds surprised – and sincere.

“I’m at Spring Street subway, and I forgot to bring my wallet out.” She forestalls the question.  “I was running.  Can you meet me at the Cupping Room Café on West Broadway, and lend me enough to get me home?”

“That’s disappointingly simple, but okay. I’ll be about ten minutes.”

Beckett breathes a very audible sigh of relief. “Thanks.  See you there.”  She picks up her feet and keeps running.  Standing around even for those few moments had chilled her.

Castle looks rather blankly at his phone and wonders how normally sensible, (except where alcohol and her father are concerned) safety-conscious Beckett managed to land up down this end of town without a wallet. It seems unusually stupid, which is not an adjective he normally associates with her.  Still, since no-one else is in tonight: Alexis staying at a friend’s to study and his mother God-knows-where, there’s no problem about going out.  There will also be no problem about driving Beckett home.  She won’t – undoubtedly won’t – come into the loft, and he’s not even going to ask her, but she won’t have to.  He bounces out happily, without forgetting his wallet, keys, or coat.  She’s actually asked him to help fix a problem.

When he reaches the café Beckett is tucked into – or, given that it’s February and technically still winter, has fought her way into – a corner by an old-fashioned iron stove. She looks very cold and very cross.  Neither surprises Castle, who manoeuvres himself between the tables towards her, unwraps his scarf, and announces his presence by snuggling it round Beckett’s neck and then compounding his mischief by kissing the top of her head.

“Hey,” he says, superfluously. “Want a coffee?”

Beckett looks a little uncertain, and then shivers. “Something hot, please.  Really hot.”

“Hot chocolate. You look really chilled.  Come here.”  He sits beside her instead of opposite and tucks her in.  “How far did you run?”

“From home.”

Castle gapes. “Why?”  He stops.  “Actually, never mind why for a moment while we get hot chocolate.  They have white hot chocolate too, if you like it.  I do.  They’ll even put cream on it if you want – do you?  Whipped cream?  Nothing succeeds like excess, Beckett.”

“Please.”

Castle orders rapidly and then returns to tucking Beckett in and keeping her warm. “What is this, Iron Man training?  You were sparring with Espo all lunchtime, and you’re out running this evening” – his hand skates over her back – “and I deduce from the tank top that you were stretching through your yoga forms earlier.”  Beckett wriggles as his hand slides more seductively down her spine.  His deduction is right, but for entirely the wrong reason.  However, that’s going to be a pretty pointless discussion.

“What was up with you?” she asks, as an alternative to answering.

“Me? Nothing’s up with me.”

Beckett fixes him with a piercing glare. “Something was.”

“And something was or is up with you. I won’t share if you don’t.  That wouldn’t be fair.”

“What is this, kindergarten?”

“Fair’s fair.” He pouts.  Under the pout is some suspicion of Beckett’s motive for both running and forgetting her wallet.  The motive has a distinctively Dr Lanie Parrish induced loss of temper feel about it.  He can surely sympathise with that.

The hot chocolate arrives, and Beckett dives in. This is deeply unfortunate.  The last thing Castle needed with Beckett curled into his arm as if she belonged there (but she does) was the tip of her pink tongue protruding from her lips and delicately lapping the cream from the edge of her mug.  It’s bringing back some very, very pleasurable memories of Kat.  He retaliates in kind.  Purely in self-defence, of course.  Well. Impurely in self-defence.  His arm tightens around her until she’s squished against him in a very pleasing fashion and not going anywhere at all.  Not that she’s trying.  She’s wriggling very slightly to snuggle in.  She’s still wearing his scarf, too.

“That’s good,” she murmurs.

“You need to warm up. Hot chocolate is the best, especially with cream.”  He grins wolfishly.  “I like cream.”

“I’ll buy you a Jersey cow. You could call it Clarabelle, like the cartoon.”  Her eyes glint warningly.

“Or not. I don’t think there’s room in the loft for a cow.  Even if I managed to evict Mother, I don’t think cows can climb stairs and I don’t think Clarabelle would fit in the elevator.”  He pauses, and smirks wickedly.  “And I wouldn’t want to upset Horace or Goofy.”

Beckett splutters.   Castle removes the hot chocolate to safety and pats her on the back till she stops.  “No, Castle.  I’m sure you wouldn’t.  For all I know they’re your best friends.”

Castle acquires an entirely evil expression. “Espo and Ryan are my friends,” he says slowly.  “Surely, Detective Beckett, you aren’t accusing your own team of being a horse and a dog of limited intelligence?”  She turns purple and starts to splutter again.  “I wonder what they’d think of that?”

“You know perfectly well that’s rubbish,” Beckett squawk-stutters (squutters? Castle wonders unhelpfully) indignantly. “You’re just being annoying.”

Castle looks saintly. “It’s cheered you up, though.  You’re all nice and warm now, aren’t you?  Even if it is hot temper.”

“I was never hot-tempered till you muscled in on my life,” Beckett grumps.

Castle considers telling her that he knows that’s simply not true, and then decides that bringing Jim into this discussion is not going to improve the evening in any way at all. He changes tack.

“So how come you forgot your wallet? That’s not like you.”

“I was…” Beckett starts, and then stops. “Snap decision.”

Castle raises a rather quizzically sceptical eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be” – he takes his life in his hands – “the snap of Lanie Parrish, hm?”

Beckett regards him beadily. “Now, why would you think that?”  Realisation dawns across her face.  “Could it be because that’s the reason you sounded stressed too?  Lanie’s been calling you, hasn’t she?”

“She tried. Probably as soon as she’d finished calling you.  If she was as bull-headed as she tried on me, why haven’t you shot her yet?”

“Because if I do shoot someone, I need an ME to help me dispose of the body.”

Castle snickers. “Anyway, yes, Lanie called me.  I don’t think she loves me any more.”

“Newsflash, Castle: I don’t think she ever did.”

He pouts. “Everybody loves me.  I’m adorable.”

“And conceited.”

“You’re not denying the adorable part, though.” He turns huge pathetic eyes on her.  “So what did Lanie say to you?”

“Same as before. Talk to her.  Like I’m going to do that when all she does is tell me what she thinks I should do.”  Beckett sounds distinctly annoyed.

“Did you actually tell her you were going to start therapy?”

“No. It’s private.  And since she can’t keep her mouth shut and tried to call me out in front of the team in the middle of the goddamn bullpen, I’m not telling her anything that I don’t want on the front page of the New York Times.”  There’s a nasty silence, and Beckett tenses against him.  “You…didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

“No. So she yelled at me too.”

Beckett relaxes against his arm. “Didn’t think you would.”  She retrieves her hot chocolate and buries herself in it, emerging with a small smudge of cream on the tip of her nose.  Her hand is already moving to clean it off when Castle dips his head and kisses it away instead.  Her eyes flare wide.  “What was that?”

“You were all messy. All over cream.  So I couldn’t resist licking” –

“Shut up, Castle.”

“But” –

“Shut up.”

“You’re no fun,” he sulks. “And after I came out to save you, too.”

Beckett smirks. “Anyway.  What did Lanie say to you?”

“She wanted to know what was with you. Then she started yelling when I wouldn’t tell her.  Then I told her I wasn’t getting in between you and put the phone down on her.”

“Funny that,” Beckett says nastily. “I put the phone down on her too.  Oh dear,” she says insincerely.

“She did say one thing though. She’s really worried about you.”

“Yeah, right. If she was that worried she’d stop yelling at me.” 

Castle declines the bait. He thinks Lanie’s intentions are good. Her execution, on the other hand, is horrible.

“Okay, Beckett. Let’s get you home.  C’mon.”   He tugs her up and pulls her out, then tucks her back into his encircling arm and starts off towards Broome Street.