55. Don't send me no doctor

Beckett gets through the day only by relying on immense quantities of coffee, even more candy, and a vicious, laser-concentrated focus on the cold cases. She’s now fairly certain that Montgomery is giving the team a brief break – he’s been known to do so in the past – but she’s bored rigid by it.  Still, it’s Friday.  She has the weekend off.  She only has to get through tonight’s session.

Tonight rolls around all too soon. Funny how each individual minute took an hour, but collectively her eight-hour shift (plus the overtime before it began) took a total of five minutes.  Where’s relativity theory, and in particular time distortion, when you need it?  At least the boys have been normal.  Normal for when they’re bored, anyway.  They’ve been playing pickup basketball hoops with scrunched up paper balls.  Espo is currently one hundred points ahead, which according to him translates to ten beers.  Ryan is objecting to the ratio, and to the likely cost.  Beckett had hit the makeshift basket five out of five times and then declined to play any more, to Ryan’s rather too obvious relief.  Just as well he didn’t know it was sheer luck.

She clears her desk and decamps without ado but with depression at the thought of the hour-long session ahead. It is perhaps very lucky that she is gone fifteen minutes before Lanie arrives in search of her, exhibiting the tenacious aspect of a determined and annoyed Rottweiler on the scent of its prey.

“Where’s Kate?” she asks. Well, it’s more of a demand.  The boys exchange looks.

“Hey, Lanie,” Ryan says dryly. “How are you?  Nice to see you too.”

Lanie growls. “I was looking for Kate.  Where is she?”

“Gone already.” The boys are not inclined to be helpful.

“Oh.” Lanie deflates, and scowls blackly at Beckett’s empty desk and chair.  Unsurprisingly, the furniture does not react.  “Where’d she go?”

“Dunno.” Though they had speculated wildly, and come down on going out with Castle.  “Didn’t say.”  Espo has a good idea.  “Thought she might be meeting you.”

“Not tonight.” Lanie manages not to say that’s why I’m hunting her down. She won’t come out with me.  The boys look identically uninformed.  Lanie sighs in frustration.

“Seein’ as you’re here,” Espo says, in a further, and potentially pleasant if Lanie gets the stick out her ass, effort to distract her from Beckett-hunting, “wanna go for a beer?”

“Might as well,” Lanie grumps.

“Don’t trip over in your hurry,” Ryan snips. “You don’t have to come.”

Lanie doesn’t reply, another thought having hit her mind. “Castle been in?”

“Not since before lunch. No new body, he’s not interested.  I think he was a ghoul in a past life.”

“I think you spend too much time with him. Past lives?  Get real, bro.  No such thing.”

They all depart in a cloud of muttering in search of some clarifying beer, which search is considerably more successful than Lanie’s search for Beckett.

Beckett halts outside Dr Burke’s office, gathers herself, and enters. It’s no easier today than on Wednesday.  It’s the same half-smiling, blonde, groomed receptionist, pulling up the details of her appointment with neatly painted hot-pink nails matching her lipstick, and pouting pleasantries to fill the silence; calm and collected behind her screen.  There is no delay in which to fret further or calm down.

Dr Burke’s room is painted in a carefully chosen shade of delicately serene pale blue. He’s not behind his desk, but in an armchair in a slightly darker toning blue, opposite another matching armchair and couch.  The general effect is undoubtedly intended to be soothing.  Beckett would rather have walked naked into the fiery furnace in place of Daniel with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego than walk in here.  She is not soothed at all, and has the squirmingly unpleasant feeling that Dr Burke knows it.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett,” he says: formal and precise.

“Hello.”

Dr Burke pushes his glasses up his nose in a habitual gesture which he knows to appear slightly fussy. “The last session was, as you know, simply an introductory meeting, so that I could understand your history and the issue which you wish to resolve.”  He pauses, expecting Detective Beckett to make some comment.  She does not.  He continues, without emphasis.  “You provided me with permission to speak to your previous therapist, and to obtain copies of their records.  I have been able to do both, prior to this meeting.”  He waits again, in case his patient should make a comment on this occasion.  Again, she does not.  “The discussion and the review of your notes which I have conducted were helpful, to a degree.”

Dr Burke’s discernment of matters which might be helpful to him in this course of treatment had not arisen from the quality of the therapy which Detective Beckett had received. He considers that to have been mediocre, at best.  No, the assistance he had acquired had been from the insight into the personality of Detective Beckett with which his conversation with the therapist had provided him.  He is already inclined to describe it as complex.  The previous practitioner had not, it is clear, fully appreciated the difficulties associated with treatment of an uber-alpha personality; which is used to and expects success, and is consequently highly motivated to believe that they have achieved it in all circumstances.

Even had the previous therapist appreciated that issue, it seems extremely unlikely from the quality of the notes, treatment and indeed discussion, that they had possessed the experience or strength of character to treat Detective Beckett successfully, and indeed it is already Dr Burke’s view that they had not done so. Dr Burke had, albeit with some difficulty, refrained from pointing out his professional colleague’s misconceptions concerning the speed of Detective Beckett’s apparent resolution of her issues.  Such rapidity should have been a warning signal, not a matter for self-congratulation, and had the therapist taken the time to become familiar with current practice, as detailed in Dr Burke’s own ground-breaking, regularly cited, paper, they would have known that the position was by no means resolved.

“So. Let us begin, Detective Beckett, with you telling me about the precipitating event: your mother’s murder.”

Detective Beckett relates the tale. Dr Burke notices almost immediately that she is reporting it as if she were reporting to her superior officer.  Her rendition is wholly factual: almost evidential, and contains no emotion whatsoever.  He does not consider this a good sign.  Repressed grief is very unhealthy, and frequently, he has found, is productive only of resentment.  Yet Detective Beckett believes – or has said that she believes, which Dr Burke does not consider to be at all the same – that she has wholly forgiven her father.  Dr Burke is wholeheartedly sceptical about this conclusion.

He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and surveys Detective Beckett. “And now, please tell me again what happened following your mother’s death.”

Again, the story is related in emotionless, factual terms.

“You underwent grief counselling at the time, and then therapy several years ago, whilst you were not in contact with your father.”

“That’s right.”

“Your father has since undergone treatment and has become, and remained, sober for a full five years.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Detective Beckett, what has prompted you to seek counselling at this juncture?”  Dr Burke does not quite understand the factors which have precipitated the current need.  Five years of sobriety is substantial progress.  Detective Beckett has yet to mention any immediate trigger for this appointment.

There is a silence. Dr Burke detests hyperbole, but Detective Beckett’s face is deathly pale and it is clear to Dr Burke that he has already asked the critical question.  He would have preferred to lead up to that more gradually, but in his experience it is unusual for the precipitating factor also to be the key question.  Normally his patients are quite content to relate their ostensible reasons for attending therapy.  This patient, however, is not.  His professional instincts are aroused.

The silence continues. Detective Beckett appears to be upon the verge of emotional upheaval.  Dr Burke waits, without breaking the silence.  He has found this to be a technique which normally results in his patient becoming obliged to fill the emptiness.  Strangely, it does not appear to be working in this session.  He delays for a further period, until it appears that an answer is unlikely to be forthcoming in the near future.  Shortly before he determines to change the direction of his enquiries, however, Detective Beckett speaks.

“I caught a case before Christmas.”

There is an accent on Christmas which does not go unnoticed by Dr Burke.  He will consider that later.  He makes a minor note, and attends once more to Detective Beckett. 

“Young man, killed in a drive-by shooting. His father was an alcoholic.  It brought back memories.  His mother wanted to cling to me.  So I tried to tell her where to get help, but she wasn’t listening.” 

Detective Beckett’s eyes and voice are quite lacking in expression.

“I… got irritated with her. She wouldn’t help herself at all.”

“I see. Quite understandable,” Dr Burke says sympathetically. 

“She wouldn’t accept that she couldn’t do anything and she’d kill herself trying. She wasn’t listening to anything we said.”

“We?”

There is another lengthy pause. We is clearly a part of this issue.  The woman who could not be helped is also a part of the issue.  Both are undoubtedly small, and less significant than the real triggers.  However, it is a start.

“Dad and I.”

That is something of a surprise. Dr Burke allows a small tinge of that surprise to reach his face.

“Why was your father involved? I had thought you said that this was a homicide case?”  He couches his question in delicately inquiring tones.  It seems to him most unusual that a detective’s father would be involved in a case.  He is entirely unsurprised, already, by the silence that results.

“The case was closed. But she kept ringing me for help.  Her husband went missing and I had to find him.  After that we asked Dad to talk to her.”

Hm. A different we.  “Who was with you when you asked your father?”

“Castle.”

“Who is ‘Castle’?”

“Richard Castle. Author.”

Ah, yes. Dr Burke is aware of the celebrity author. He has never read one of his books, as he dislikes both murder mysteries and thrillers.  Neither, he has found, are normally written with sufficient care or indeed intelligence to deal with the complex psychology which would usually be found to underlie the protagonists.  In any event, he prefers non-fiction, and when not pleasurably engaged with the latest research in his field, is most partial to history.

“And Mr Castle’s involvement?” Really, had he known that homicides were being followed up by completely unqualified people he might have objected more strongly to his tax bill.

“Castle shadows me. Research for his next book.  So he follows me around to see how a real Homicide team works.”

“But you have just said that the case was closed. Please would you explain Mr Castle’s involvement in a closed case?”  This time the silence is expected.  The very slight colouration of Detective Beckett’s cheeks is not.  Hm.  Mr Castle’s involvement is, obviously, not solely confined to homicides.  Dr Burke decides not to pursue that avenue until it should become obvious that it is necessary.

“I went out to find the husband. Castle insisted on shadowing me when I went to pick him up and take him back to his wife.”

As yet Detective Beckett has not provided any clarity to Dr Burke as to Mr Castle’s involvement in her father’s discussions with the bereaved woman.

“After that” – Dr Burke detects that there has been a considerable evasion in that term of timing – “Castle suggested that since she wasn’t listening to me she might listen to Dad. Seeing as Dad is an alcoholic.”

Detective Beckett’s verb tense is very revealing. Most relatives of alcoholics who have controlled their addiction refer to it in the past tense.  Detective Beckett has used the present tense.  Hm.  How exceedingly interesting.  The broad outlines of at least one of Detective Beckett’s issues become partially clearer.  Detective Beckett is not wholly convinced of her father’s sobriety.  Dr Burke makes no mention of that deduction.  It is not likely to be helpful at this early stage.  A little more information, however, would be.

“Let me be sure that I have understood. The wife of an alcoholic, whom you had encountered on a case which you have solved, later contacted you for advice and assistance in dealing with her husband.  You provided her with appropriate advice on the potential sources of assistance, did you not?” Beckett nods.  “She continued to seek emotional and practical support from you, which you continued to provide, including searching out her husband when he went missing.  How often did she ask you?”

“Three times.”

Dr Burke decides that the risk of upsetting Detective Beckett by probing a little more deeply is justified. “How often did you search for him?”

There is a silence which Dr Burke accurately identifies as containing guilt, pain and embarrassment.

“Twice.”

Dr Burke awaits expansion and thereby enlightenment.

“The middle time he was already safe at a precinct. She could go get him herself.  She didn’t need me to.”

“How did she take this refusal?”

“She went and got him.” Dr Burke is perfectly certain that this is not the whole story.  “Then she called me looking for more help.”  Interestingly, Detective Beckett’s voice is beginning to show some emotion.  He considers that it is irritation, rather than any fellow-feeling.  “I couldn’t tell her anything more than I had, but she just kept looking for a better answer.  There wasn’t a better answer.  There’s never a better answer.  She couldn’t save him because he didn’t want to save himself.”

“Did you say that to her?”

“No.” Detective Beckett’s tight-pinched lips indicate that there is more to that, too.  Dr Burke makes another note.

“And when did your father talk to this woman? Was it before you searched for her husband the second time?”

“After.”

“Who was present?”

“It was supposed to be her and her husband, but he wasn’t there. He’d have been in a bar somewhere.  She tried to lie about it.  Anyway.  She was there, me, Dad and Castle.”  How particularly peculiar.  This is really a very unusual situation.

“Dad told her what it was like for him. I…” she stops.  Dr Burke observes her effort to maintain control of her face and voice with some interest.  Detective Beckett had clearly found the experience to be painful.  The question is, why?  If her father has been sober for five years, then it should follow that he has made amends to her, and explained his actions.  Detective Beckett, therefore, should not have found the repetition of his history to be as uncomfortable as it is evident that it had been.  Another issue is emerging from her commentary, which is very much more complex and deep rooted.  Dr Burke suspects that all is not well between Detective Beckett and her father, and further suspects that Detective Beckett is either not fully aware of this disconnect, or, more troublingly, that she is aware and is trying to deny it.

However, there is not time now to pursue that path. He will let Detective Beckett finish, and then the session will draw to a close.  He has, already, much about which to think.

“Mmm?” he emits, to encourage her to continue.

“It was ridiculous. She wasn’t listening at all.  It was all pointless.  I went home.” 

Dr Burke wonders very privately in what state and with whom, if anyone, Detective Beckett had left. It seems entirely possible that she had left alone, and in a state of some perturbation.  He considers that this will be an effective place to begin at their next session.

“I see,” he says, steepling and unsteepling his fingers. “Thank you.  That is very helpful.  Please make your next appointment with my assistant.  I think that it would be best if it were Tuesday, not Wednesday, to provide a sufficient time gap until Friday.”

“Okay. Thanks.  Goodnight.”

Were Dr Burke prone to similes, which he is not, or to exaggeration, which he is also not, he might have thought that Detective Beckett had run like a rabbit as soon as she were able.

Beckett removes herself from Dr Burke’s room, then office, then building as fast as courtesy and the necessity to make her next appointment allows. She makes it for Tuesday, and wishes she could find some way to avoid it.  She might have resolved that she needs to fix this – but she devoutly wishes that she could quit already.  But then Montgomery would know, and she’d be benched again, and…oh hell.

She goes home and rolls out her yoga mat, changes and returns to it. Maybe that’ll clear her head.  The alternative might be the liquor shelves at the all-night store, and she is – she has to be – better than that.  Still, she doesn’t begin yet: standing at the window, staring at the city lights against the night, the stars blotted out by the grimy yellow-orange of the street lights.  Her stone bird is in her hands, nestled between her palms, held as gently as a real bird would be: she’s mindlessly stroking its head, between its wings, over its tail.  Memory is not her friend, tonight.  She sets the small sculpture down on the table, just as a knock rattles the door.

“Castle?”

“Hey.”

Next thing she knows, she’s in his arms, head pillowed on his shoulder; inhaling large, muscular male. She simply stands still; slowly dissolving into his strength, letting him hold her up; too tired to move or care as long as he’ll be there with her.

Castle had timed his arrival extremely carefully to ensure that it was safely after Beckett got home. Leaning on her door awaiting her might just give her the wrong impression and/or get him arrested.  Instead, he’d planted himself in a café and forced himself to be patient.

When she’d opened the door she’d looked utterly miserable, and Castle’s hardwired reaction to misery is to try to make it go away by whatever method works: wine, chocolate or physical presence. This misery doesn’t need a choice.  Physical comfort is the correct, instant and instinctive choice.  He doesn’t ask her anything, he doesn’t say anything.  He holds her close, and strokes over her back; and then, after a moment in which she softens and sighs, brings her up and half-lifts her to the couch and firmly into him.  He stays like that for a time: her face hidden and her breath shallow against his neck.

“Still sore from Espo’s workout yesterday?” he asks eventually: a neutral subject that they can both pretend is a good reason to be tired and upset.

“Mhm.”

“Come here, then, and I’ll make it better.” His tone involves suave seduction and absolutely no soothing at all.  He points up his intentions by feathering across her back, and then slowly beginning to massage her shoulders, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruises.

She sighs again, and eases into the pressure.