Chapter 11: 11. Wish I was at home
The loft is as brightly Christmassy as ever, and in fact Beckett is convinced that there are even more presents piled under the excessively large – but beautifully decorated – tree. She wanders over to it, and finds that it’s hung with an eclectic combination of bought and made ornaments: some clearly made by a very small Alexis, some that look as if – she would never have expected that – that Castle made them. There is a particularly delicate wire snowflake that catches and reflects the light, which she’s just reaching out to when Castle reappears behind her with two glasses of wine. Beckett jumps, and snatches her hand away guiltily.
“It’s okay, Beckett. It’s not nearly as fragile as it looks.” Unlike, Castle thinks, Beckett: who currently seems to be far more fragile than she looks. He is not at all sure, despite her denial, that she wants to be here, and her normally expressive eyes are dully shuttered. But she’s never shy of making her point, so he can only assume that whatever is wrong is not being made worse – and may be made better – by her being here.
Beckett reaches back to it, and runs her fingers carefully over the silver-gilt wire. “It’s lovely,” she says, without a hint of a quiver in her voice. “Did you make it? It doesn’t look bought.” She’d had two little wooden Christmas trees to hang on the ends of the real one they’d always had, once. One her mother had made. One her dad had. They’d been lost, and she’s had no time nor inclination to make one of her own.
“Yeah… for Alexis,” Castle replies, with a hint of embarrassment. Beckett turns round, and finds him almost on top of her. He steps back, hastily. “Have some wine.” She takes it from him, and repairs to the couch, settling herself in a corner, the wine held in front of her like a shield. Castle doesn’t follow her.
“What are you doing there, Beckett?” he asks.
“Drinking my wine?”
“No, no, no. You need to be over here.” She raises a quizzical eyebrow. “I have to make the dessert. So you need to come and sit at the counter so you can admire my skill.” Her eyebrow rises a little higher, connoting complete disbelief. Castle’s voice drops into a tone that shouldn’t be permitted. “Skill is critical, Beckett. Precise movements, careful control, the perfect quantity to leave you wanting more.” He smiles wickedly. “You can’t possibly appreciate it if you’re all the way over there. How would you join in?”
“I’m quite happy to watch you do all the work. Just like you watch me do all the work in the precinct.”
“C’mon, Beckett,” Castle wheedles. “I can’t talk to you if you’re all the way over there.” He acquires a wholly faked look of horror. “You won’t get any more wine if you’re there. Disaster!” A very odd flicker runs across her face and as swiftly away again, before Castle can place it. He’s about to employ some more persuasive words – and possibly gestures – when she appears to give in to his entreaties and comes over to sit at the counter. A very discreet flick of glance shows him that her wine is, if not untouched, barely started. In the back of his brain, neurons start to spark.
Spark is damped down as he concentrates half on his bread-and-butter pudding and half on a light, sociable, and bantering conversation in which he absolutely does not mention the Christmas Day shift, mince pies, Christmas decorations and parties, or the fact that Beckett is barely sipping her wine. He’s a little unamused that Beckett has come to dinner but doesn’t actually seem to be wholly happy about it. He’d rather she’d simply declined. Fortunately, at that point Alexis comes bouncing down the stairs, full of the joy of the season, and likewise full of conversation. Beckett is perfectly nice to Alexis, interested in her chatter and fully attentive to her, so Castle really has no reason at all to think that there is some constraint in the air.
But there is. He can’t put a single finger on what is wrong, but something is very wrong. Beckett’s being sociable and friendly, Alexis is enthusiastic and happy, and he ought to be pleased and reassured. It’s just that whatever Beckett’s voice and expression is saying, her eyes aren’t saying anything at all. Which is a little upsetting, and a very little annoying, made more so because there isn’t anything tangible to be upset or annoyed about. She still isn’t drinking her wine, either. Maybe he’ll find out what’s going on now dinner’s done.
Beckett has consented to coffee – if she’d declined he’d have been considering committal proceedings, or possibly a referral to the ER – but though she’s still producing bright, bantering, and above all normal conversation he has the strangest feeling that she’s thoroughly miserable. He takes their coffee through to the study in the faint, lingering hope that he can find out what’s wrong. He ushers her in, shuts the door, and pulls her quite firmly into his arms.
It very nearly works. There’s a hint of a melt into him… and then it’s very clearly Badass Beckett, not Kat. She stands straight and absolutely unyielding for a second, then steps back. Castle lets go of her without an argument.
“What’s wrong, Beckett?” There’s more than a hint of irritation in his voice. “You’ve been off all evening.”
“Sorry,” she says apologetically. “I’m tired. I didn’t mean to spoil dinner with you.” Which she hadn’t. She’d only come because she couldn’t think of a way to refuse without upsetting him. She’s rapidly deciding that that had been a very bad idea. She’d have done better to upset him a little bit much earlier and then gone home and let them both get over her refusal than come, try her hardest to make nice while all the time battling furious resentment and – say it, Kate – jealousy at a proper father-daughter relationship, and clearly not quite succeed. She wants to go home and let out all her misery and resentment and try to get over her stupid, selfish, pathetic feelings on her own.
“I’d better go home and get some rest.” She smothers a yawn. She is, now that she has stopped and solved the case, actually, genuinely, weary. Not just tired, which a good night’s sleep might solve, but weary in body and soul. She needs a break from the relentless round of cases they’ve had. Maybe it’ll be quiet for the next few days.
Castle is still looking at her with a certain amount of aggravation, though her apology seems to have lowered the previous tension, and disbelief. It really doesn’t help her mood.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says politely. “If there’s spare dessert, could I get a doggy bag?” It’s exactly what she would say if she wasn’t feeling so raw. Castle smiles, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes.
“Sure, Beckett. Let me put it in a box.” And he does, all the time sure that something is wrong that she won’t tell him. It never crosses his mind that she might find the homely, warm and welcoming atmosphere of his loft and family difficult to deal with. Why should it? She’s never mentioned anything that might give him the impression that she would. She’s still got her father and she’s sharing a family Christmas with him. The earlier spark of neurons has been quite quenched by his annoyance at the constraint and tension, and, he discovers, he’s actually quite glad to see her go, not least because he still cannot put a finger on why he thinks something is wrong, and seeing her here is merely accentuating the problem. Anyway, it’s not like she seems to want to stay. Which aggravates him more, which he knows perfectly well is because he’s frustrated. He doesn’t like either frustration or aggravation, especially when he neither wants Beckett to stay nor wants her to go.
When the door closes behind her he pours himself another large glassful of his excellent wine – and that’s another annoyance, she’d hardly drunk any of it and he’d been sure she’d love it – and relieves his confusion by playing shoot-‘em-up games till he’s killed enough monsters to be relatively sanguine again. He wanders out to find Alexis raiding the fruit bowl – can’t she raid chocolate, or his alcohol, like any normal teen? – and decides to probe a little.
“Did you think Beckett was a bit off, pumpkin?”
Alexis looks at him with some confusion. “No. She was just like normal.”
Oh. “Not tired, or upset?”
“No, dad. Just like normal. She’s more interested in what I’m doing than your other friends. Why?”
“Nothing. I just thought…” Clearly he’d been wrong about what he just thought. Alexis would be quick to notice if there were an atmosphere. She’d always noticed when it was Gina. And now he’s been a little short with Beckett, who will certainly have noticed, and who will let it pass her by, never ask about it, and generally give him the impression that she has no desire to talk about anything at all which might possibly involve real emotions. Whether she has any desire to talk or not. Which irritates him all over again.
Beckett has gone home, changed into leggings and a t-shirt, and is going through her yoga forms with perfect muscular control and immense self-discipline. Her body is totally obedient to her commands. It’s doing nothing for her roiling mind at all. Normally she finds that the effort involved to control the poses forces her to concentrate on something other than whatever has wound her up, but even when she moves from backbend to tree she can’t stop thinking about how petty, selfish and nasty her feelings are.
She also can’t stop the feeling of squirming unpleasantness that Castle, who is not short of intelligence or perception, either has, or is just about to, work out how mean-minded she is. Then she feels even worse.
She goes to bed on a black cloud of unhappiness, guilt and resentment, and when her alarm sounds to start the day she is no better off. She hopes that Castle won’t show up today. Then she hopes he will, and they can just be normal. Then she hopes he won’t again, because he’s sure to ask questions and want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to talk about it when she can’t even work out what she thinks about it.
The precinct is full of bonhomie and everyone discussing their Christmas plans, Christmas shopping, Christmas visitors and Christmas meals. Except Beckett, who is pretending to concentrate on her paperwork and putting in a few comments every so often to make it appear that she’s listening and happy that everyone’s having a good time. She can already sense that half her bad mood is because of the imminence of her own flat, trying-too-hard, ignoring-history Christmas.
She does love her father. She really, really does. But she doesn’t like that she can never rely on him; that despite his twice weekly AA meetings she’s always a little tense around him, always a little suspicious that it won’t last. Five years, he’s been dry, without a single lapse, and yet she can’t quite make herself believe that it’s all better. She knows it’s never cured, only controlled. Therefore, she can’t talk to him about anything difficult, and sometimes she would really like a father’s advice, not just her friends’ thoughts. Sometimes she would like just to be unconditionally loved and to have someone that she could lean on without a shadow of a doubt about their view of her weakness.
But there’s no point being maudlin or grieving or resentful. She’s not going to have a parent, so there’s no point wishing for it. She’s had her bed made for her, and there’s no other choice but to lie on it. Alcoholism as Procrustes, in fact, fitting you into its frame whether you like it or not. She distracts herself with another pointless form. It doesn’t work. She mulls over the coming Christmas dinner: all bought from a good store, all easy to prepare. Her father will do that. He can do that. He can’t cook, though. Not like – she turns her mind away from that thought, because if she starts down that line she will lock herself in the restroom to cry with the memories of when home was like that, and crying hadn’t solved anything for five years while her father had his head stuck down a bottle and it won’t solve anything now.
“Beckett? Beckett!” It’s Ryan and Esposito, in stereo. “We’re all goin’ out after shift. You comin’? Lanie’s comin’ too.” Why not?
“ ‘Kay,” she says, and thinks nothing more of it.
At end of shift she’s done nothing but paperwork all day and is certainly ready for a change. Castle hasn’t shown up, which has allowed her to try to get past her unworthy envy, and a drink with the team sounds like a good plan. At least, she doesn’t have a better plan. She doesn’t, in fact, have a plan at all, except takeout and TV and her yoga mat. If she doesn’t sort her head out soon, she thinks bitterly, she’ll be so adept that she can take a second job as a yoga instructor.
She should have expected this. Castle’s sitting guarding a batch of beers and clearly waiting for them all. The boys are wholly delighted. Lanie is wholly delighted. Beckett is not wholly delighted. She’d only just managed to bring herself back to calm, and now she’s going to have to watch every word she says, all evening. Though she notices that Castle doesn’t exactly look overwhelmingly pleased to see her, either. There’s a distinct shadow behind his eyes.
At least, she thinks, some time later, Castle hasn’t asked any questions. He’s his usual self, and that means that Beckett can be her usual self, and everything is back to normal. She slowly sips her beer, and gradually sense comes to her. If the problem is her, which it is, when she’s at the loft, which it also is, then the simple answer is not to go to the loft. Easy. How had she not seen that earlier? Because you were too busy being pathetically envious and resentful, her mind answers. Well, now she won’t be. No triggers.
And if that’s childish running away from the situation, rather than dealing with it, well, she doesn’t let herself know it. She can’t possibly admit that seeing Castle and Alexis reminds her, as if it were at knifepoint, of everything she’s lost. She can’t possibly admit to her shamefully petty feelings, especially to someone that can’t understand them. She also doesn’t want to upset either of them by being unable to control her feelings – her control may be legendary, but testing it to destruction is plain stupid. She’ll be adult and friendly and just stay away from the loft till she can cope.
“I’m outta here,” Esposito says.
“Me too,” Ryan admits. “Tomorrow’s gonna be paperwork all day again. Least it means I can finish my Christmas shopping.” Esposito makes a disparaging noise.
“You still shoppin’? You bought up half the city, lookin’ at all the stuff you got every lunch break for a week. How’d you need more?”
“I got friends and family, Espo. Lots of family. An’ my family does Christmas big-time. Everybody round, big family dinner…” Espo groans.
“You’re gonna tell me it’s crackers an’ party hats and bad jokes, ain’tcha?”
“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Ryan says defensively. “ ‘S traditional. Family’s important.”
“Sure is,” Lanie interjects. “I’m having the big family Christmas as well. Course,” she says very smugly, “I did all my shopping weeks ago.” There’s a chorus of disgust and Lan-eee how could you’s. “I’m just naturally organised.”
“Helps that none of your clients care about speed,” Esposito grumps. “You get to go any time you like. We gotta deal with all these real people, who – ya know – want answers.”
“I’ve got you guys always wanting answers,” Lanie squawks indignantly. “Always hassling, even when you know how long the tests take to run. They don’t get quicker for you asking.”
Castle sneaks a peek at Beckett under his eyelids and, when he finds she’s not looking at him, pokes her to attract her attention.
“Beckett, watch the floor show,” he whispers mischievously. “Better than the Comedy Club. Wanna bet that Lanie comes out on top?”
“No bet,” Beckett replies distractedly. “Espo’s got no chance.” She subsides back into her thoughts. Castle pokes her again. “What?”
“Watch, Beckett. Don’t you think that Espo and Lanie are arguing a bit obviously?” Beckett looks at him, dumbfounded.
“No.” Then she smiles, very, very evilly. “But you could test your theory…” She leaves an inviting gap for Castle to fall into, which he duly does.
“How?”
“Well, since I’m perfectly certain that you can find some mistletoe somewhere nearby” – Castle’s eyes begin to crinkle in mirth – “if you dangled it above them you might find out…” He snorts.
“You don’t love me, Beckett,” he says mock-pathetically.
“Nope. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me why.”
“You’re putting me in the line of fire.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Winding up Espo is one thing. Winding up Lanie is another. She must know all sorts of untraceable poisons and fatal implements. She’ll use them on me if I pull out mistletoe over her head.” He suddenly grins very, very evilly himself. “But she’ll forgive me if I put it over your head.” Beckett chokes on her drink and squawks on her own account.
“You do that and I will turn you into a colander and strain soup through you.”
Castle smirks in a gotcha fashion and sneaks a hand, conveniently under the table, on to her knee. It lasts a second before Beckett removes it by bending the thumb till his options seem to be limited to movement away or dislocation.
“No fair, Beckett. So now you owe me some other form of amusement.” Her jaw drops. Castle smirks some more. “I haven’t played Sorry for at least four days,” he says insinuatingly. She flaps her jaw a couple of times, to no effect. “Scared to lose?”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“You are scared. You know I’ll win.”
Castle had spent his day, which had not started precisely early courtesy of his shooting monsters until the small hours, fretting around the constraints he thought he’d sensed, Beckett’s lack of affection, and Alexis’s complete denial that there had been any problem at all. In the end, he goes with Alexis’s view, and concludes that since Beckett had spotted his irritation she’d been understandably reluctant to stay. He’d not gone to the precinct because he hates paperwork with a passion, and it bores him silly. And when he’s bored, he has a tendency to get into trouble, and some last vestige of self-preservation had told him that trouble, in this instance, would likely mean trying to wrench some answers out of Beckett, even though he’s no longer sure that there are any answers to have.
So instead, he’s come out with the gang, exchanged happy conversation with Ryan and Espo, bantered with Lanie, and watched Beckett sip her beer so slowly that it’s probably three years more aged when she finished the bottle than when she started. It could have petrified in that time. She’s been half-disconnected all evening, and she looks tired. Maybe that’s all that was wrong – and she’d said that she was tired, so that’s it. He’s been an ass, but she’ll let it go, because if she’s tired she might want to be soft, affectionate Kat later.
His opportunity arises after he declines to be murdered by Lanie for everyone’s entertainment. If he just prods at Beckett’s overweening pride a little, he’ll be able to go home with her. And sure enough…
“I am not scared you’ll win. Bring it on.”
And since the party’s breaking up anyway, it’s very easy for Castle to leave when the others do and to point out that since they’re going in the same direction they should share a cab. Even if Lanie does look thoroughly sceptical, she doesn’t open her mouth.
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