83. Everybody hurts

Lanie is pleased to see her, if a little twitchy. Then again, so is Beckett.  Not everything is entirely fixed, though it will be in time.  Both of them are a touch wary.

“Hey, Kate.”

Three months ago, that would have been Hey, girl, what’cha doing here when there’s no corpse for me?

“Hey, Lanie. Got a minute?”

“Yeah, what’s up? Bored of the boys?”

“Bored of cold cases. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“You want to borrow my lip gloss?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Beckett regards Lanie suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have no make up on. You never wear no make up.  You probably got born wearing eyeliner.  You got no lip gloss on.  Now, not that you aren’t far too hot without it, but what’s up?”

“I was sparring at lunchtime, and I’ve hurt my wrist.” Beckett holds it up so Lanie can see.

“Hurt bad enough not to brush your hair? Ouch.  Okay, let’s take a look.”

Lanie delicately presses on Beckett’s wrist.

“Ow! Shit, Lanie, that hurt.”

“I think we need to take a better look. C’mon, girl.  I think we need an X-ray.” 

“Really? It’s just a sprain.”

“Who’s the doctor here?”

“You are,” Beckett grumps.

“I am. Now, is there any reason you shouldn’t have an X-ray?”

“What?”

Lanie glints extremely mischievously. “Is there any chance you could be” –

“No!”

“Don’t scowl at me. You know I’ve gotta ask.”

Beckett hates X-ray machines. And they hate her.  They never give her good news.  She’s sure, somewhere in the back of her mind, that they tell the doctors that bones are broken when they aren’t, just to annoy her.  She knows this is ridiculous, but so is the way her wrist hurts.

Lanie arranges her to Lanie’s satisfaction, retreats behind the plexiglass screen and takes her X-rays.

“Well?” Beckett asks impatiently.

“Well, girlfriend, you won’t be pleased to know” – Beckett groans – “that I think you’ll have to wear a compression bandage for a bit.” She sighs in relief.  “For once, you haven’t broken it.  So come back to my office and I’ll find you a temporary one, and then you go see your own doctor to get properly checked out, something a bit better and a physio schedule.”  She rummages in a drawer and finds one.  “What were you doing to get hurt like this anyway?”

“Sparring with Esposito.”

“You don’t normally do that much damage with Espo. Thought he was quite careful – thought you were careful – not to go full on.”

“I was a bit irritated.”

Lanie quirks an eyebrow. “Have you taken too many painkillers to go for a drink?  Good cure for irritation.”

“I’ll stick to sodas, but yeah.”

Beckett thinks that a drink with Lanie – even if it’s soda – would be good. Try and repair them a bit more.  She hasn’t missed – pain or not – that Lanie hasn’t asked why she’s irritated.  So she’s trying, and Lanie’s trying, and she’ll try some more.  She’s missed Lanie, she realises.  Even if she was trying to pretend she didn’t.

“Okay, let’s go.”

They settle at a nice, relatively quiet bar suitable for a conversation, and order drinks and, after some discussion, food which can be eaten without needing two hands.

“I landed on my wrist,” Beckett says, out of nowhere. “Caught Espo but good, though.  He’ll ache tomorrow too.”

“Work the irritation out?”

“Helped. Wish it had been the shrink I was hitting.”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t like him,” Beckett says crossly. “He thinks he’s so clever.”

“Mmmm?” emerges sympathetically from Lanie.

“He keeps asking me questions. Wants me to talk about the past.  I didn’t go see him to deal with the freaking past, I went to deal with now.”  She drinks her soda defiantly.

“Now?”

“Sorting out things.”

Lanie does not jump up from her chair and dance around the restaurant cheering loudly. She manages to confine her delight at Kate’s admission to a high-pitched squeak, and then manages not to ask three dozen questions in one breath.  She is not Motor-mouth-Writer-Boy, after all.  She manages not to say that, too.

“Dealing with families. Dealing with alcoholics.  Captain benched me.  I’m not having that again.”

Lanie makes some sympathetically encouraging noises, and makes sure her wine and Kate’s soda are replenished. Kate emits more words, Lanie makes more sympathetic noises, and so the evening progresses, until it’s time to go home, not late.  Just like how it was.

Castle makes his way to Jim’s apartment with a combination of trepidation and sympathy. Jim opens the door almost before he’s finished knocking, a ghastly desperation in his eyes.  He looks old and tired: the lines around his eyes etched deeply.  But on the table is an open can of Coke, not an open bottle of whisky; a folder of notes with his law firm’s logo on the cover; the room tidy, the same photos still there.  Jim is coping, though also on the table is a very creased AA booklet: obviously much read, splayed open.

“Drink?” Jim asks.

“Coke, if you’ve got one.” Jim finds a can in his fridge and hands it over.  “Thanks.”

“Why’re you here?”

“Because Beckett needs you.”

Jim makes a hurt, angry noise. “Don’t lie to me, Rick.  If she needed me she’d take my calls.”

“Don’t be as pigheaded as your daughter,” Castle fires straight back, blowing any chance of sticking to his vague plan to be tactful and gentle. “Honestly, the pair of you are two dumb peas in a stupid pod.  First she won’t talk to you because she’s hurt and now you’re doing just the same.”

“What the hell? Did you just come here to rub salt in?”

“No, I came here because I’ve got a way to sort this out. If you’ll climb down off your high horse long enough to listen. If you actually want Kate ever to see you again.  If not, just say.  I’ll leave.  She’ll be safe with me.”

“You bastard,” Jim says bitterly. “You’ve got a daughter.  How’d you feel if she didn’t take your calls?  Of course I want to see her.  She’s the only reason I ever crawled back out the whiskey bottle.  Now she won’t even speak to me.  Walked away, just like the last time.  I haven’t fallen off the wagon and she’s still walked away.  I thought we were a family again.  I thought…” his voice cracks.  Castle realises that Jim’s eyes are red and slightly sheened.  “I thought she still loved me,” he says brokenly.

It’s all so frighteningly reminiscent of what Beckett herself had said. Castle stays silent, and pulls his normally ebullient personality inward, letting Jim talk.

“I thought I’d done everything to make amends. Told her the story, begged her forgiveness for all the hurt I caused her.  And I thought she gave me it.  She listened, and we cried, and I thought it was all better, because she was always there if I needed her.  It was… we were just like family again.  And now Katie doesn’t want to be a family any more.”

“She never talked about it?”

“She let me spill out everything, and I asked if there was more, and she said no, that it was enough.” Jim pauses.  “You can’t imagine what it felt like when she came to rehab.  I didn’t call her till I’d been there nine months.  First six I dried out.  Fell off, but I kept trying: a minute, an hour, a day at a time.  Every day, it’s one day at a time.  I promised myself if I could stay dry more than three months I’d call her.  I had a picture of her… Finally I made it.  When I saw her come in, it was like God switched the world back on.  She was so bright, so real.  I haven’t had a drink since, either.  I couldn’t let her down again.”

Castle blinks to clear his eyes.

“She looked so happy to see me.” He stops, tears bright in his eyes.  “And now she’s gone.”

“I think I can fix this,” Castle says, very gently. “I think I can help you and Kate fix this.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Castle shrugs. “Up to you.  Trust me, or don’t trust me.”

“Do I got a choice?” Jim says, with that same revolting misbegotten grammatical construct that his daughter uses.

“Yeah. Trust me and we can try and fix it.  Don’t trust me and it won’t get fixed.”

“Hobson’s choice, then.” He sounds more defeated than hopeful.  “What do I need to do?”

“I want you to come see a shrink with me. He’s treating Kate” –

“Katie’s seeing a shrink? Why?  What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s got some stuff to work through. Anyway, the shrink wants to talk to you – he’s already talked to me – to help Kate.”  Castle looks straight at Jim.  “Will you?” he asks simply.

“Yes. But…”

“Right.” Castle really does not want Jim enquiring into what’s wrong with Beckett.  He doesn’t think that he’s in any way equipped to explain, and anyway that’s what Dr Burke is paid for.  And if there’s a very well-hidden sense that Dr Burke deserves the pain of explanation in payment for hurting Castle’s Beckett, it’s not making itself known to Castle’s conscious mind.  “I’ll arrange for you to see Dr Burke – I’ll come if you want me to, but I expect you’d prefer Ed? – and let you know.  He does out-of-hours sessions.”  Castle manages a rather pained smile.  “It’s not much fun, but if it’s going to sort things out…” he leaves the bait trailing.

“It’ll help Katie?”

“Yeah. You’ll help Kate.”

“Do it,” Jim says, decisively. “She did everything to save me.” How can I do less hangs between them in the air.

Castle drains his Coke can. “Thanks,” he says.  “I’d better be going.”

“Rick… how is Katie?”

“She’s doing all the right things,” Castle says carefully. “She’s got her friends, and if we get this right, she’s got you.”

“And you.”

“That too.” Castle shies away from that discussion, as well.  “Will you be okay?”

“Yes. I’ll call Ed.  I’ve been doing a lot of that.”

Castle makes to leave. Just before he does, Jim’s voice comes once more.  “Will this work, Rick?”

“Yes,” Castle says confidently. “It’ll work.”

As he shuts the door, he hopes he hasn’t made a promise that he can’t keep.

He doesn’t call Beckett till later. It takes some time for the phone to be answered.

“You okay, Beckett?”

“Yeah. Went for a drink with Lanie.  I was just having a shower,” she says provocatively.  Castle draws in breath.

“Tease,” he says. He can hear the wicked smile down the phone.  “I saw your dad.”

“Oh.”

Just as well he wasn’t going over tonight. That’s killed any chance of a mood stone dead.  “He’ll see Dr Burke.”

“Okay.” There’s a silence.  “Thanks, Castle.  You didn’t have to get involved in all this.”

“I told you, partners.”

“Partners?” There’s another pause.  “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.  Night, Castle.  See you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow,” he says automatically, and stares at the phone as the call ends. A better partner than Espo, or O’Leary?  Did she really mean that?  But Beckett would never say that if she didn’t mean it.  He sits with a coffee and contemplates that statement for some time, perfectly happy.

Beckett wakes up next morning with her wrist somewhat swollen, Lanie’s ministrations notwithstanding, and very sore. She pops a couple more Aleve, which helps, and hies herself to the bullpen well in advance of Montgomery, so that she can – and she does – call her doctor to make an appointment for her lunch break without interested ears.

“Detective Beckett!”

Oh, shit.  Just what she doesn’t need.  She’s been carefully hunt-and-pecking at her keyboard to fill in yet another of 1PP’s ridiculous forms, and Montgomery has sneaked up behind her – they should bell him, like a pet cat – and spotted the bandage where her sleeve has slipped back.

“What is that?”

“I tripped, and landed on my wrist.” It’s entirely true.  The fact that she’d tripped over Espo’s outstretched leg as he was trying for a sweep-kick is a minor detail.  “I’m going to see my doctor at lunchtime.”

Montgomery looks at Beckett, glares at her wrist, scowls on generally disbelieving principles and, being unwilling to call her on a lie when he is sure she wasn’t lying, departs. Captains do not stomp.  That’s the only reason his gait couldn’t be described as stomping off.  Beckett breathes a little sigh of relief, unheard, and goes back to pecking at her keyboard.  She wishes Castle would show up, but he’d said he’d see her tonight, and she’ll respect that.  But she’s sure he would have taken her mind off her wrist.

The pain in her wrist doesn’t stop her thinking about Dr Burke’s – mistaken, they are definitely mistaken – ideas, unfortunately. So she’d changed her hair.  So she’d avoided certain topics.  So she’d evaded the truth so he’d love her.  It doesn’t mean she’d been abused.

It does. But Dr Burke is still wrong. He’s wrong, because it wasn’t deliberate.  She has to hold on to that, because otherwise everything is a lie.  Abuse is deliberate.  She saw enough of it on the beat to know that.  And that’s the difference.  Her father hurt her, but it wasn’t deliberate.

And having decided that, she puts it all out of her mind and concentrates on the cases till she has to see her doctor, who prescribes a slightly different bandage, suggests a sling and is firmly told it’s not required, informs Beckett that the sling was not an optional piece of decoration but necessary for two days to stop her using the hand and stressing the wrist further so that she has to wear it for a week instead, writes her a prescription for some stronger painkillers for night time, and provides her with an exercise schedule that she can start as soon as her wrist doesn’t hurt. Beckett grumps all the way back to her desk, and is not notably impressed by the boys’ unsympathetic teasing.

“Is that so you get out the paperwork?”

“Nah, it’s so she’s got an excuse for when I outshoot her.”

“It’s gonna cramp your style, Beckett.”

“What?”

“Cramp your style. No wheels, no shooting, no sparring, no take-downs.”

Beckett scowls at the innocent paperwork, desk, and keyboard, none of which burst into flame.

“Castle won’t be too impressed either.”

“What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t think books about paperwork will sell.”

“He’s got an imagination. He can use that.  And when this comes off you boys are dead meat.  But” – she acquires a truly evil smile – “since I can’t do anything with this arm, you’ll have to do more of it.”  She picks up a pile of files with her left hand and drops them between them.  “Enjoy,” she snarks.

Ryan and Espo look at her edged smile and admit defeat. Beckett’s satisfaction carries her through the afternoon, albeit floating on the next dose of Aleve.

The combination of satisfaction and Aleve (and Montgomery not appearing from his office to look disapprovingly at her more than twice) lasts all the way until she sits down in Dr Burke’s consulting room and meets his inquiring gaze.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett.”

“Hey.”

“What happened?” He gestures to the sling.

“I sprained my wrist sparring.”

“Does this happen often?”

“No.” Dr Burke waits.  “We were working out harder than usual.”

“Why was that?”

Detective Beckett regards him with an air of irritation. “I was frustrated with the cold cases.”  She pauses.  “And with what you said about Dad.  It’s not true.”

Dr Burke declines both the bait and Detective Beckett’s evident desire to provoke an argument. He does not argue with his patients.  Once they have listened to his indubitably correct conclusions, they do not need to argue.  They only need some time to process, and to come to terms with them.

“We will not pursue that further, then. Let us return to your issues with Mr Castle’s family.”  He does not miss Detective Beckett’s air of relief.  “They are all linked.  In short, Mr Castle behaves as a father to his daughter, and has strong, stable family relationships and behaviours with both his daughter and mother.  Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You simply want to be able to deal with this without being – as you put it – pathetically jealous.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Detective Beckett gapes at him.  “It appears, from what you have said, that Mr Castle is perfectly prepared to have a romantic relationship with you without you meeting his family.  So why do you think you need to resolve any of these issues?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Detective Beckett snaps. “Castle doesn’t come without his family.  If I can’t deal with them there won’t be a proper relationship.”

“Define proper, then, please.”

“Give and take. One where I’m not just leaning on him all the time.  Where if he wanted to talk about his family – Alexis is a teen girl – I might actually be able to listen and say what I did, or felt, or what Mom and Dad did.  Up till it all went wrong.  One where I could actually go to his place.”

“So you would like to be able to be involved with his family.”

There is a noticeably embarrassed pause. “Suppose so.”

“But – forgive me for stating the obvious, Detective Beckett – why do you feel you cannot be?”

“We went through this.  How many times do I need to say it?  Every time I see them I’m pathetically jealous and upset.”

“Upset?”

“Yes, upset.”

“So why did you go more than once?”

“Because I didn’t want to upset Castle. And then I didn’t want to upset Dad.”

“Why not? Presumably both of them would have understood if you had explained.”

“What? Hurt someone else because I can’t get over myself?”

“Why do you feel the potential that someone else may be upset outweighs your upset?”

“Because they’d have a reason. I don’t.”

 “You have a valid reason,” he says.  “It is perfectly normal to be upset and unhappy in these circumstances.”

“Ten years later?” Detective Beckett replies bitterly.

“Five. Your father has only been dry for five years.  Why do you persist in minimising the issue, Detective Beckett?”  Dr Burke’s tone is intended to sting a modicum of truth from her.

“Because it’s a pathetic little teenage reaction that I should grow up and get over. It didn’t need a therapist, it just needed me to behave like an adult.  And now that we’ve established that that’s my problem, I think we’re done.  It was all that the therapist told me was wrong last time and clearly it’s all that’s wrong now.  I don’t need to see you, I just need to grow the fuck up.  This is a waste of your time and mine.”

Detective Beckett stands up, clearly intending to leave and not return.

“Sit down, Detective Beckett.   Whatever your previous therapist may have told you, they were wrong.  This is not a pathetic little teenage reaction, and it is not something that you can simply grow up and get over.”  This had certainly not been apparent from his conversations with the previous practitioner.  Dr Burke thinks bitterly that he will not just have the therapist sanctioned, he will have them struck off.  By the time he is done with them, they will be unable to find a post on the checkouts at a mom-and-pop store in the back woods of Montana.  This is appalling.  How can Detective Beckett have been allowed to believe that her perfectly valid feelings of unhappiness are of no importance?  Worse, how could she possibly have been told that all that was required was to grow up and get over it?

Detective Beckett is looking at him completely blankly.

“Detective Beckett, you have been ill-served. Your upset has equal value to that of your father, or Mr Castle, or any other person.  But because you have been led to believe that it does not, you have consistently lied either by word or actions in order to continue minimising your own feelings in order to protect those of others.  When, understandably, the pressure of repressing your feelings has become too much, you have done your utmost to ensure that the source of that pressure has been permanently removed from your life.  Is that not so?”

Detective Beckett does not answer. Detective Beckett is, in fact, apparently incapable of speech or thought.

“Let us start again, Detective Beckett.”