Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.
"Good morning, Kate," Dr. Burke asks as soon as she settles into her seat.
"Good morning," Beckett replies, happy to see her therapist but wringing her hands already. "Thank you for clearing time on your schedule to see me."
"Certainly," he replies kindly, hiding his shock that Detective Beckett had reached out directly. "I'm glad you called. Would you like something to drink?" he offers, surprised that she hadn't walked in with her ubiquitous coffee cup.
"No, thank you," she replies with a rueful chuckle. Unclasping her hands and extending one in front of her, she tries to hold it still but the shaking is unmistakable. "I think I've already overdone it on caffeine this morning. Didn't sleep well," she explains with a shrug.
"I'm sorry to say that dark nights and uncomfortable dreams are not unusual after traumatic events and periods of high stress," he reminds her, harkening back to their earlier discussions. "But I still oppose the notion of sleep aids or medications to…"
"No," Beckett interjects quickly. "I agree. I don't want any drugs. Not again," she vows, her stomach clenching at the thought of returning to the endless collection of colored pills and tablets she had to choke down after her surgeries.
"I'm glad to hear that," Dr. Burke replies, refusing to hide his satisfaction at her response. Far too many of his colleagues are far too willing to address problems, real or imagined, with a prescription pad rather than a thoughtful ear or question. "Perhaps, then, it was the substance of your dreams that was disconcerting?"
"It's Castle," she answers, prompting Dr. Burke's feeling of satisfaction to evaporate on the spot. The Detective is more than enough of a therapeutic challenge, but importing concerns from her partner is starting to challenge his usual methods. He's not a couples' counselor, but he's starting to wonder if it's possible to help Beckett without also helping her partner.
"Did he not react well to your suggestion of a counselor?" Dr. Burke asks, suspecting the answer he shortly receives.
"I…," Beckett trails off, looking like a chastened school-girl. "I haven't been able to talk to him about it yet," she admits, flushing at the thought of her failure. "He's just seemed better these last few weeks so I didn't think…," she trails off, looking down.
After several long moments of silence, she manages an unprovoked confession. "I was too scared to say anything," she admits in a voice Dr. Burke can barely hear. "And now… now something's very wrong."
"Sir, we need backup. Fast," Beckett says urgently into her phone.
"What's wrong?" Gates replies quickly, the cessation of paper-shuffling noises in the background convincing Beckett that she has her boss' attention.
"Things are getting ugly here," Beckett answers. "The victim is Thomas Washington, son of…"
"Henry Washington, the preacher," Gates completes the sentence. "Dammit, the last thing we need is a race riot. Is that what's going on?"
"There're already several factions in the group of onlookers, and tempers are getting heated. The attorney for the white supremacist group just showed up and he's already shouting about free speech and rights of assembly," Beckett scorns.
"And Washington?" Gates asks, though with the phone partially muffled as she's also talking to someone in her office, probably relaying orders already.
"He's not here yet," Beckett answers, hoping that the father of a murdered son has some support. "But some of his people are and they're understandably furious."
"Tactical situation?"
"Bad," Beckett admits, casting another look around. "We're bottled-up in a dead-end alley. The scene's almost processed, so we should be done here soon. But if they rush us, we'll either have to go through them to get out or fall back into the ME's van."
"The van," Gates replies immediately. "I don't want to see any altercations with the public up on YouTube," she continues with a shudder. "I've got five cars rolling, should be there in about ten minutes."
"Thank you, sir," Beckett answers, her tone of voice making her gratitude clear.
"Detective," Gates adds, growing somber. "How did Thomas die?"
"He was beaten to death," Beckett answers in a low tone. "Looks like multiple assailants. There are defensive wounds," she continues, pausing slightly out of respect and revulsion. "He was still alive when he went down. But they didn't stop. Lanie says there are stomping wounds. The ones to the head are the likely COD, but his chest and pelvis were also targeted. And…," Beckett starts to add before cutting herself off.
"And?" Gates prompts, wanting the full story.
"And they disrespected his body afterward," she croaks out, heart breaking. "They didn't stop the beating for a long while," Beckett nearly falters in her recitation, "and they spit on him before they ran."
"Dear God in Heaven," Gates murmurs, devoutly enough that Beckett finds herself making the sign of the cross, an impulse she hasn't felt in many years. "That poor, poor boy."
Beckett breaks the long moments of uncharacteristic silence with some optimism. "We'll finish here soon and get out without enflaming any tensions," she promises. "Then we'll dive in. I'm sure…"
"The crowd," Gates interrupts, sounding almost aggressive in her desire to wrap this up. "Take video. I want to know who's there. If Washington isn't there yet, it's odd that there are so many bystanders there already. Some of the bastards who beat that poor boy might be the ones causing trouble in the crowd."
"Already taken care of," Beckett answers, unsurprised and unoffended by Gates' sudden investment in this case. "Castle said the same thing before the attorney showed up. He shot video while the boys and I inspected the body and got ME Parish's initial findings.
"Where is he now?" Gates asks. "We need that phone secured."
"He's holding the line next to LT," Beckett answers, marveling again at the simple image the two men present. Black and white, standing together to guard the mouth of the alley, LT as the strong, silent denizen of peace and Castle there to try to keep things calm with quiet good humor.
"Is that wise?" Gates asks, causing Beckett to frown at another sign of Gates' lack of faith.
"Yes, it is," she replies, perhaps a little sharply. "He's a civilian," she says to start her explanation, "so he's unlikely to provoke as much attention or photo-op potential as others. He's relatively calm, won't lose his temper," not if it might endanger me, she thinks but does not say, "and, in the worst-case situation, he knows how to take a punch."
"That's good to know," Gates answers. Her inflection makes Beckett think the captain was addressing only the last comment about Castle getting hit, not the whole of her defense, but she'll take it.
"I'd better go – we need to wrap up here and hold the line until backup arrives," Beckett interjects, wanting to get off the phone. "I think I can hear sirens, so we should get some relief soon."
"Go," Gates answers directly. "Secure that phone, finish processing the scene, and make a quiet departure. I'm counting on you, Detective."
"Yes, sir," Beckett replies, both annoyed and flattered by receiving some authority from Gates. Perhaps she's finally making some inroads with her new boss. With a small smile, she disconnects the phone and slips it into her pocket.
Her smile falls from her face as she looks back to the crowd, which is growing increasingly unruly. Castle's presence next to LT has attracted the ire of the supremacist faction, who've positioned themselves directly in front of them to hurl insults. Lifting her phone again, she films the scene, wanting to make sure they've got footage of the most disorderly participants.
With her phone raised, Beckett captures the scene as two of the supremacists rear back before lurching toward Castle, their spittle caught on camera before both launches land on Castle's shirt.
This is, technically, a form of assault and LT's moving toward the meager yellow-taped cordon to arrest both men even before Beckett lowers her phone. But before she can warn him off, Castle catches LT's arm and shakes his head, discouraging action lest if prove catalytic to this volatile crowd. To ease tensions, Castle lets go of LT's arm and instead pats him on the shoulder, showing no reaction to what's happened to him other than a gentle smile of forbearance.
Thrilled to see that he's handing this situation so well despite her latent concerns about any repressed anger, Beckett quickly moves to her partner's side. "Nice work – thanks for keeping this low-key," she says quietly as she nods toward the ME's van. "Now, come on. We need you over here."
With a curious look, Castle follows Beckett toward the ME's van. Any concern about leaving LT undefended seems to be assuaged by the increasing volume of the approaching squad cars. Esposito, noticing their movement, taps Ryan on the shoulder and starts toward LT to help hold the line.
"Now, don't get excited," Beckett starts as they move around to the back of the van, "but I need you to take off your shirt."
"What?!" Beckett hears in stereo, from Castle next to her and Lanie behind her.
"Two of our protestors over there just volunteered DNA samples," Beckett explains, gesturing toward the wet spots on Castle's shirt. "You can match them against what was left on the body, right?"
Looking solemn, Lanie nods. But Castle looks reluctant, especially for someone who's been so flirtatious for years. Beckett would've guessed that her partner would need little provocation to shed his clothes. "What's the matter, Castle," she asks, trying to tease him into cheering up, "do you need a police horse to set the mood?"
"Come on, Castle," the ME cajoles when Beckett's line doesn't prompt him into motion, "I need it while it's still wet," she explains with a scrunched nose, pointing at him with two fingers that waggle upwards to direct the removal of his shirt.
Oddly, having both women focused on him makes him even more disinclined to disrobe. Craning his neck, he's trying to come up with some alternative when Beckett and Lanie look at each other in confusion.
"What's the matter, writer boy? Some lovely lady use your back as a scratching post?" Lanie teases. "Or do you have a tattoo from your youth that might prove a little embarrassing?"
When he doesn't answer, Beckett jumps in a little too abruptly, perhaps in reaction to Lanie's first comment. "Castle, it's nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, you still have your sports coat to wear afterwards. Let's go."
Sighing and letting his head fall, Castle shrugs out of his coat and hands it to his partner. "Not a word about this to anybody," he says in a low, fierce tone as he slowly begins unbuttoning his shirt, "including me."
Beckett turns to offer Castle some modicum of privacy, though she'd prefer otherwise. Lanie's soft gasp and heartbroken "Oh, Castle," provides more than enough excuse to turn back.
Castle's folding his shirt, ignoring Lanie's comments. With his back to her, Beckett gets her chance to inspect her partner. It's not the wide shoulders, slimmer-than-expected waist, or slope of his lower back that catches her attention, but the radiant and overlapping pattern of bruises. It looks easier to find the spots that are unblemished than those that are, and the mottled pattern makes it clear that old bruises haven't healed before new ones blossomed atop.
Handing his folded shirt to an uncharacteristically quiet Lanie, Castle turns to collect his jacket. In doing so, he confirms that the bruises aren't limited to his back. Nor are they likely limited to his torso, if the bruising around his belt-line is a fair indication.
She's opening her mouth to ask what happened when he lifts a hand with finger raised. "Not a word," he reminds Beckett as he takes his jacket and shrugs it on before moving off to watch the recently-arrived backup clear a path for their departure.
Dr. Burke sits quietly, trying to make sense of this development and its effect on his patient. "Do you suspect self-harm?" he asks quietly.
"No," Beckett answers quickly, "couldn't be. Too many of the areas would be awkward to reach. No," she says with a sigh, "someone else did that to him. Is doing that to him," she corrects, remembering again how some of the bruises were still blossoming.
"But he's said nothing?" Dr. Burke asks, though he suspects the answer.
"Nothing," Beckett reiterates morosely. "Not after I saw the bruises and not before."
Nodding, Dr. Burke decides it's time to bring her partner's situation back to his patient. "Why do you suppose that is?"
"Because he's worried that I already have enough to deal with," she answers, still no happier. "He's not gonna ask for help, at least not from me."
"Are you convinced he needs help?" the therapist asks. Noting her look of surprise, he offers a theory. "You've intimated that Mr. Castle has engaged in different types of risky behavior in the past. Might he be doing something that's causing these injuries?"
"I don't think so," she replies, looking pensive. "Castle's not really a 'Fight Club' kind of guy," she offers, though she makes a mental note to see if she can't raise the Chuck Palahniuk novel in general discussion with him to see how he reacts. "Though I'm sure there're enough stressors in his life, including me, that might make it look attractive. Besides, the bruising pattern doesn't match that theory."
"What do you mean?" Dr. Burke asks, reminded again that he's speaking with a detective.
"If Castle was fighting or doing something similar, there would be visible injuries," she postulates. "But none of the bruises are apparent when he's clothed – nothing on his wrists, neck, or face. It seems… calculated," she offers, visibly uncomfortable with her own conclusions.
"As if someone was trying to ensure the injuries wouldn't be noticed?" the therapist follows up, clearly uncomfortable with the potential implications. Watching her slow nod, he again tries to drive the discussion to resolution. "How do you plan to proceed?"
"I need to talk to him, right?" she answers, confident in her answer but not in her ability to carry it out. "Somehow. Even though he doesn't want to."
"Perhaps we can discuss how you might elicit some discussion outside the context of an interrogation?" Dr. Burke asks, masking his satisfaction at this turn of events. While the situation is dire, he might be able to use Mr. Castle's situation as a way to get his patient to advance in her therapy. "If you'd like some advice," he offers with an upturned brow, "I have a little experience in getting obdurate subjects to talk."
So profound is her dismay for her partner's situation that it's not until that evening, when she's preparing for bed, that she realizes Burke's comment was pointed at her. And even then, her concern for Castle outweighs her discomfort at the accuracy of her therapist's remark.
A/N: This story looks like it'll be about eight chapters. The first six are written and in various states of review. I just need to finish the last two. Hoping to wrap things up before the first weekend in December, when I'm going to meet some of my fanfic heroes in NYC!