143. An analyst's care

Thursday is all paperwork and hassling labs, Lanies and legworkers, otherwise known as uniforms. Beckett-flavoured cases are thin on the ground, though not so mundane muggings-leading-to-murder or domestics-leading-to-death. The team complains to each other that murderers have no class or style these days, Castle shows up for long enough to discover it’s all paperwork and promptly leaves again, and nothing whatsoever of any interest happens at all. Come six pm Beckett is jonesing to burn every sheet of the vast quantities of ridiculous forms, and is consequently utterly delighted when Lanie calls her with a meeting point which involves the very civilised surrounds of Matilda’s in less than half an hour.

A nice easy evening with Lanie is just what she needs: food that isn’t a burger or takeout, maybe a small glass of wine, no deep and meaningful conversations and absolutely no therapy.

“Well?” Lanie asks meaningfully, two sips into her lurid pink cocktail.

“Well what?” Beckett asks, a certain flavour of dangerousness tainting her question.

“Well, you and Writer Boy, girlfriend! What else?”

Beckett wrinkles her nose at Lanie and then buries it in her glass. The tiny amount of white wine she actually ingests bears no relation at all to the length of time she keeps the glass tilted up.   “You might have been asking about cases, or the weather, or yoga, or my running times.”

“Kate…,” Lanie says warningly, “why would I want to talk about any of those when we could talk about men?”

“Men? Have you found a boyfriend you haven’t mentioned? Come to think of it, Esposito’s been looking pretty happy lately…”

Lanie spits her wine out. “That gun-toting meathead? The one who doesn’t know Merlot from an M-16? What do you think I am?”

“Cute,” Beckett says wickedly. “I saw you wiggling your hips all the way out last time you came by the precinct.”

“You shouldn’t be watching my hips. You should be watching your boy’s,” Lanie says. “Anyway, I’d rather have that gay mountain of yours than that macho idiot.”

“O’Leary’s amazing, but he won’t be ditching Pete for you. Wouldn’t ditch him for Castle, either – did I tell you about that?” Beckett snickers evilly, and relates the tale. “So O’Leary pulled his usual trick of smothering me and Castle gave him the stink-eye” –

“Ooohhhh,” Lanie interjects salaciously –

“Shut up – so O’Leary started hitting on Castle and it took him a few minutes to realise. You should have seen his face.” Beckett snickers some more, joined by Lanie’s evil snurk.

“Nice,” Lanie says appreciatively. “Now, you and Writer-Boy.”

“Yes?” Beckett says blandly.

“Details, girl, details.”

“Nope,” Beckett says, not blandly at all.

“No?” Lanie wails. “Not even one little titbit?”

“Nope,” Beckett says, with a firm inflection that means not a hope in hell, Lanie.

“But you are dating him, aren’t you?”

Beckett says nothing. Her blush says everything.

“You are!” Lanie squawk-squeals. “I knew it, I knew it! ‘Bout time!”

“Smugness is not attractive,” Beckett says dryly.

“Told you so.”

“Nor’s that.”

“Don’t care. Told you so.”

Lanie knocks back her luminous pink cocktail – Beckett is sure it wasn’t on the menu but Lanie had talked the bartender into it – or leaned forward so he got a good view down her front, more like – and squeaks happily.

The rest of the evening is fairly calm, though Beckett has to fend off a certain amount of not-particularly-subtle efforts to find out if Castle’s reputation is justified. They pack up at the close of their meal quite content with each other. Back to normal, in fact.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett, Mr Castle. Your father should be here imminently. Would you like to set your game up now?”

“Hey. Sure.”

Dr Burke takes advantage of Detective Beckett’s arrangement of the game to indicate to Mr Castle that he would like a word with him at some convenient moment. Mr Castle looks briefly worried, then confused, then clears his expression when Dr Burke adds a few words of reassurance. All of this is encapsulated in the short moments which Detective Beckett takes to place the small men correctly. Dr Burke believes in the efficiency of a well-organised mind, which assists him to achieve the results which he does. As he finishes, Mr Beckett appears, and the game begins.

It appears to Dr Burke that Detective Beckett is trying to make amicable conversation. She enquires about her father’s work, and tells an interesting tale of a recent case. Dr Burke is sure, however, that she has censored some of the more gruesome details. Still, it seems to have involved rather more intelligence to solve than Dr Burke had thought normal for the sordid business of homicide, and the involvement of the university and cutting-edge research is certainly interesting. The game progresses smoothly. Dr Burke is more successful than the previous occasion, though Mr Castle appears to be winning. Still, it is a moderately interesting game, and anything which makes the interactions between Detective Beckett and Mr Beckett less painful is still to be welcomed.

“I thought about what you said,” Detective Beckett says to her father. “You were right. Till you chose a good option, I didn’t have any.”

Mr Beckett blinks, very hard, and draws in a deep, painful breath. “I’m sorry, Katie.”

“I know. I know you don’t remember any of what you said. I’m trying to work through it.”

“I don’t… whatever you need.” Mr Beckett blinks again, and changes the subject with a very sharp swerve. “I’m really looking forward to brunch. I have to say, though, that I’m surprisingly popular this weekend.”

“How so?” Detective Beckett asks.

Mr Beckett grins a gamin grin which Dr Burke considers gives him a close resemblance to his daughter. “Well, yesterday I got a call from your mother, Rick, suggesting I come to brunch.”

“What?” arrives in ear-blowing stereo volume from both Detective Beckett and Mr Castle. Dr Burke is also wholly confused by this development. Everyone appears to be confused. Mr Beckett also appears to have been deafened.

“So,” Detective Beckett says in clear, confusion-cutting tones, “what did you say?”

“Oh, well, I was a bit surprised, because you’d said that Rick was coming on Sunday, so I explained to Martha. She apologised for being a bit late with her invitation, and hoped I’d have a good time.”   Mr Beckett appears to become aware that Mr Castle has turned an unbecoming shade of suffused purple.

“My mother called you? Tell me you didn’t tell her where we were going.” Dr Burke hears with some trepidation the note of absolute fury in Mr Castle’s voice.

“Uh, is there a problem? She was so nice and interested, I thought we were just making conversation. I got on with her really well at yours.”

“So she winkled all the details out of you.” Castle’s fury has not diminished.

When Castle’s questioning is followed up by Detective Beckett, some trepidation becomes appalled realisation that yet another unqualified amateur is attempting to interfere in Dr Burke’s treatment. Even his fellow professionals, all unquestionably at the height of their skills, would have difficulty in following the unique and eclectic requirements to deal adequately with Detective Beckett. This is unconscionable. However, it appears that both Detective Beckett and Mr Castle are equally enraged by the intrusion.

“Castle’s mother rang you?” Detective Beckett says, ice and acid edging each precisely enunciated word. “I assure you that her motives were not a simple desire to be sociable.”

“No,” Mr Castle says. “She’ll turn up.”

“Uninvited. I didn’t invite her for very good reasons. Alexis isn’t invited either.” Detective Beckett takes a slow, chilly breath. “I’m not ready for all of you together.”

“I believe that,” says Mr Beckett. “Oh, I do believe that.” Dr Burke observes a considerable similarity of expression and tone which has arisen between the faces and comments of both Becketts. Mr Beckett does not appear to be impressed by Mrs Rodgers’ (Dr Burke recollects with his usual precision that she does not share a name with Mr Castle) misleading of him. “Rick,” he says, as coldly as his daughter, “what precisely is your mother doing?”

“Dad, this is not Castle’s fault.”

“I know that. However, since it’s his mother who seems to have taken it upon herself to interfere, he can start the explanations.”

“You are not going to bully Castle.”

“You’re my daughter and I’m not having his mother messing this up.”

“That’s not his fault. He’s told her to butt out.”

“It hasn’t worked, has it?”

“He threatened to evict her if she didn’t stop. What do you suggest he does, shoots her?”

“If he can’t keep you safe I don’t think” –

“Keep me safe?” Detective Beckett yells. “I do the keeping safe around here. You don’t have the right to say that. He’s the one who’s got my back.”

“I can fight my own battles,” Castle bellows, in order to be heard over the Beckett family row which has suddenly developed. “And I can deal with my mother, too. Both of you be quiet!”

Dr Burke raises an impressed eyebrow at both Mr Castle’s bravery and his volume. Both Becketts are reduced to silence.

“Okay. My mother appears to have decided to interfere. I’ll deal with her. Jim, you told her where brunch was?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s go somewhere else, then. Jim, you pick. If I pick my mother will know where, she already knows Beckett’s preference, but she won’t know yours.” He takes a deep breath.

Dr Burke interjects before anyone else can speak. “That was exceedingly interesting,” he says calmly. Every eye turns to him, every jaw dropped. “Jim, can you remember the last time you and your daughter had such a disagreement?”

Mr Beckett thinks. Mr Castle acquires a look of happy realisation which indicates that he is following Dr Burke’s line of thought. Detective Beckett continues to appear glacially furious. Words are clearly roiling behind her compressed lips.

“Not since I got dry,” Mr Beckett says, eventually, and then realises what he’s said.

“Precisely,” says Dr Burke, a little dryly. “It may have come about in an exceedingly unexpected way, but I consider that there has been an important occurrence. Detective Beckett, since your father became sober you have endeavoured not to disturb him with any disagreement, is that not correct?”

“You didn’t even get mad with him when he suckered you about Schickoff and Schultz,” Mr Castle says. “Anyone else wasting your time like that you’d have eaten alive. Like eating those live octopuses in South Korea that I saw on a travel programme…”

“I do not think that the consumption of live octopi” –

“Octopuses. Or octopodes. It’s not octopi. Everyone thinks it should be but actually it’s not” – Dr Burke observes both Becketts rolling their eyes in synchronised irritation at the diversion.

“or the etymology of the plural form is relevant to the current discussion.” Dr Burke favours Mr Castle with a stare designed to reduce him to a proper sense of the importance of the main point, without irrelevant digressions. Though why would anyone wish to ingest a live octopus? Surely it would wriggle, and endeavour to escape? He condemns himself for being drawn in by Mr Castle’s insanity, but cannot repress his shudder at the gastronomic atrocity.

“The important point here,” Dr Burke continues with emphasis, “is that Detective Beckett and you, Jim, have disagreed. It does not appear to me that either of you is dismayed or unduly disturbed by this occurrence. I surmise, therefore, that it is perfectly possible for you to inform your father of the truth of your feelings or events without your father being put at risk. Is this not the case?” He turns to Jim.

“Sure it is. I’m not that fragile any more, Katie. I’d rather hear the truth – though I don’t want to go back to how you were at sixteen, always arguing.”

“I’m twenty-nine. It’s not up to you what I do.”

“I’m still your father” –

“And I’m all grown up.”

“Enough,” Dr Burke says. “Jim, Detective Beckett is indeed an independent adult. Detective Beckett, I can assure you from personal experience that parenthood and concern for one’s child’s happiness does not cease when they turn twenty-one.”

“You have children?” Detective Beckett says with unflattering amazement.

“Yes.”

Detective Beckett and Mr Castle exchange astonished glances. Dr Burke and Mr Beckett exchange the amused glances of the elder statesmen confronted by the young and callow.

“Shall we return to the game for the few minutes which remain, or should you determine a new location for your Sunday brunch?”

“We’d better agree a new place now.” Mr Beckett thinks for a few seconds. “Let’s go to Kitchenette, at 1272 Amsterdam. It’s a bit basic, but” – he smiles gently, with a tiny hint of blush – “I like that it’s not too formal or pretentious. I’ll call them as soon as we’re done here. Ten suit?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Castle says bitterly.

“For sure. You didn’t explain why your mother was so keen on knowing where we were, Rick.”

“That’s simple. She was going to interrupt.”

“You said that. You didn’t say why.”

“I can answer that,” Detective Beckett says very coldly and very angrily. “Castle’s mother thinks she can provide me with motherly advice which will sort all this out. If she tries it,” she continues over Mr Beckett’s disbelievingly appalled spluttering, “she’ll find out that I don’t need or want another mother. I’ve still got one parent and I wasn’t planning on finding a substitute.”

Mr Beckett gasps. “Katie… d’you mean that?”

Detective Beckett stops in her enraged tracks. Mr Castle moves up beside her and slips his arm around her: there if she needs him. There is a stunned silence, which Dr Burke observes with considerable interest.

“I… I… I don’t know where we are yet. But I’m damn sure I don’t want someone else butting in and trying to be a replacement. No-one’s a replacement.” Detective Beckett reaches for Mr Castle’s hand and clutches it tightly. “I’m trying, Dad.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

“I think,” Dr Burke says with some satisfaction, “that we are finished for the day. This has been a most productive session. Mr Castle, if you would remain for one moment in order that I may give you a word of advice relating to your mother?”

“Sure. Beckett, is that okay?”

“Yeah. See you Sunday, Dad.” She colours very slightly. “Looking forward to it.”

“Me too. See you then.”

Mr Beckett departs, the set of his back some way more relaxed than Dr Burke has previously seen it. Detective Beckett gives him a moment, while she tidies away her game, and then leaves the room.

“Mr Castle, I had intended to discuss with you the problems you might encounter between Detective and Mr Beckett on Sunday: Detective Beckett’s comment that you were to referee having given me some cause for concern that the brunch might be painfully confrontational. However, after this evening’s session I am far less concerned about such an occurrence. I believe that we have made very substantial progress over the last two weeks and you have been an important contributor. That said, I am extremely concerned about your mother’s attempts to intervene. I need not tell you how delicately poised the position is at present.”

“No. But I can’t seem to keep my mother’s nose out.”

“Hm. Do you think that if she knew more she would intervene less? That is to say, would a discussion with me, assuming that Detective Beckett gave permission, be helpful?”

“No. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” Mr Castle quotes acerbically.

“Hm. That is certainly unhelpful. At this point, all I can say is that I shall be available to you if you wish to discuss any thoughts you may have, and of course I will remain available to Detective Beckett at any time.”

“We might need you as a character witness. Beckett made it perfectly clear that she wouldn’t tolerate my mother trying to mother her, and Beckett is pretty terrifying in full flow.”

“Indeed. However I am certain that I would assist in supporting a provocation defence,” Dr Burke says dryly. Mr Castle manages an appreciative grin. “Howsoever that may be, I cannot have Detective Beckett’s treatment damaged by ill-informed intervention. Please do your best to keep your mother away from Detective Beckett until after Sunday, and preferably after next Tuesday.” Mr Castle’s eyebrows lift. “Should Sunday pass off peacefully, and next Tuesday’s session consolidate all our gains, then I shall be much less concerned about Detective Beckett’s resilience and ability to surmount the emotional upheavals which an attempt to mother her might produce.”

“In other words,” Mr Castle says aridly, “she won’t be falling to bits after she’s reduced my mother to a small pile of dust.”

“Precisely. I see we understand each other perfectly. I shall see you next Friday, Mr Castle, but as I have said, if you need anything before then, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

Mr Castle departs, with thanks. Dr Burke seats himself behind his desk and contemplates with considerable professional pleasure the events of the last four sessions. He will, naturally, consider the value of the extraordinarily flexible approach which he has been forced to take as a result of the considerable difficulties caused by the incompetence of the previous therapist, whose disciplinary panel will be convened in the next week, and at which Dr Burke will be invited to comment. He will do so in excoriating detail. He is also already contemplating the papers which he will be able to write as a result of the experience. He is certain that no-one has ever mixed elements of couples’ counselling, joint sessions, play therapy and abuse therapy with the more standard elements of counselling the child of an alcoholic. Of course, he is also certain that nobody else has ever had to. That is why he is unquestionably the premier psychiatrist in New York.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. But I’m going to murder my mother.”

“Does that mean I have to get in line?”

“Yeah. Anyway, you’re not allowed to murder my mother, you’ve got to break me out of jail after I’m arrested.”

Beckett stretches marginally and takes his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go back to mine. Decompress.”

“That what you call it?”

Beckett smiles seductively up at him. “Yep. You need a bit of – hmmmm – decompression.” Her thumb slides over his hand, soothingly. “That was… surprisingly okay, for Dad and me.”

“Yeah,” Castle says heavily. “It would all have been great if it weren’t for Hurricane Martha making landfall on Manhattan.”

Beckett grips his hand more tightly and then releases him to unlock the car. “Let’s go.”

The ride is short and silent. Castle is squashing down his rage and a considerable desire to go home and reduce his mother to nothing. On balance, he’d better go with Beckett. Otherwise there will be global thermonuclear family war.