A/N: I've been bothered by Beckett's lightness in the past couple of episodes. Too much change too fast from the woman we saw in the scene at the end of 4.01. And this is what's come of that worry.
Usual disclaimers apply – don't own the characters; no commercial infringement intended; all errors & OOC behaviour are my own fault.
Storm
Beckett's been bantering with the boys about how she knows Beau Randolph, the bad boy of college girl porn (and that's a story she will never tell), when she senses her control fading. The feeling of an approaching storm is becoming all too familiar. At least it's daylight, when the worst can be staved off. The effect at night doesn't bear thinking about.
She knows she has to get away before her mask of recovery slips too far. She's a better actor than anyone but Lanie knows, but she's not Martha and she really can't hide everything all the time– particularly from the boys. So with a saucy "I'll never tell" she heads for the mercifully empty locker room.
Her psychiatrist says the sudden descents are normal - part of the healing process; that she's strong enough to come through the blackness and noise. She's proved that because she was strong enough to ask for help. But she wonders as she looks at the little green pill on her palm. Rather than an umbrella, has she just found a crutch, the way alcohol was her father's?
She hates the drugs but she cannot bear the feeling of her control slipping one moment longer. The thunder is getting nearer and she has a job to do. A quick swallow, a splash of water on her face and Detective Beckett will be ready to face her audience again. Or so she tells herself for a moment.
"Oh god, Katherine, bad enough you are lying to everyone else, now you are lying to yourself! How much lower is there to go?" she snarls, looking up from the sink. The eyes that look back from the mirror are haunted. Haunted by ghosts of what might have been and what may yet be. Or what may never be, and those last are the ones that trouble her nights the most.
But there's no more time for introspection, as Esposito's hollering about the warrant coming through. So with a quick swipe of concealer under her eyes, a deep breath and a nod to way too many movies she smiles brightly, mutters "It's Showtime," and channelling Martha sweeps out of the locker room like she doesn't have a care in the world.
The thunder rumbles darkly as the door closes.
