Chapter 8

Beckett turned away, stomped back to the couch, and retreated into its corner with the demeanour and approachability of a trapped wolverine. Castle left her there, and went to make more coffee, which he hoped would give them both space to calm down. He couldn't believe how downright dumbass Beckett was being. How could she not see that her reasoning was totally wrong? How could she believe that others' weakness was down to her; that she wasn't weak herself, but stronger than she could imagine?

How could she think that they wouldn't have held her up through the case, if she couldn't stand on her own?

He growled furiously at the coffee machine, slapping mugs on to the tray as they filled, completely blindsided by his rage at Beckett's idiocy.

The coffee slopped on to the tray as he crashed it down on the table in front of the couch. "Drink," he ordered. Beckett didn't move, didn't reach for the coffee, and didn't look up from her knees. "Coffee," he snapped. "You never refuse coffee."

"I don't want it. You didn't even ask me if I wanted any, you just shoved it on me. Just like you're shoving your cod analysis at me. I don't want that either and I don't want to be here. I want to go home. Or I want to be left alone, but you wouldn't even let me do that." She turned away from him, hunched into a small, angry lump.

"Fine. Sit there and sulk if you like, but you know I'm right. You just don't want to admit it because then you'll have to admit you've been dumb."

Beckett surged off the couch, heedless of the pain in her knees, and fled upstairs, slamming the guest room door behind her hard enough that it should have smashed the hinges to smithereens.

Castle stared into his coffee mug, caught between his palms, and wondered where his famously amiable temperament had gone.


Beckett flung herself on to the bed, so angry she could barely think. Fortunately, she'd managed not to fling herself on the damaged arm, but she didn't care. Castle was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She did trust others and she wasn't trying to punish herself for anything at all. But however hard she tried to push them away, Castle's impassioned, infuriated words rang in her head like the tolling of the bells. She rolled over, and stared blindly at the ceiling; hurt, angry tears running unnoticed down her face. She couldn't cope with Castle yelling hard, contemptuous words at her: calling her stupid, telling her she was doing life all wrong.

She wanted to go home and deal, alone, with all the unhappiness and the collapse of any chance of fixing herself so she could have a relationship with Castle. It was pretty clear she'd screwed that up too, hugs and small kisses notwithstanding. He would never have yelled at her like that if he thought that he wanted a relationship with her. She turned back over and buried her face in the pillows.

It occurred to her that she could simply wait until the small hours of the morning and sneak off home, but that would be even more cowardly than anything else she'd done to date. She wasn't going to worm her way around a direct statement of I'm going home. It felt like cheating.

But she wanted to go home. Somehow, in her tired, injured, washed-out state; Castle's disapproval bit harder than anything else. He had no right to question her choices or actions, she told herself. No right at all.

The squirming in her stomach should have told her she was lying to herself, again. He might have no right, but that didn't mean his words were wrong. Instead, she decided it was because she'd eaten more dinner than her stomach or the antibiotics appreciated, and lay there, miserable, until it should settle.


Castle, still annoyed, drank his coffee, drank Beckett's coffee, and then messaged Gates to inform her that Beckett's injuries had been treated and she was attending the shrink's office. Details were not required, and he wasn't going to provide them. If Gates wanted details, then she would have to ask Beckett.

He didn't understand at all how Beckett could have come to any of her erroneous conclusions, and he understood even less why she couldn't just listen to him when he was obviously right. How could she not see what she was doing? He poured himself a finger or so of Scotch, retired to his study, and shut out the world: opening his latest manuscript, where Nikki would behave sensibly and not ignore obvious truths.

Nikki, after an hour of trying, would not behave sensibly at all. She wouldn't listen to Rook, and no matter how he tried to write her, every time he attempted to make her listen, she didn't. Just like bloody Beckett, he thought, and wasn't at all happy to remember that Nikki had grown from Beckett and behaved like her most of the time.

Like now. Beckett wouldn't listen, Nikki wouldn't listen (and he invented her, for God's sake, so she should listen) and all in all, the evening was a complete disaster. He poured another finger of Scotch. It didn't argue with him, unlike Beckett or Nikki.

Under the soothing influence of best single malt Islay Scotch, Castle gradually calmed down. He still wanted to shake sense into Beckett, but he wasn't going to do anything precipitate – such as charge upstairs and berate her further. Instead, he was going to do something he didn't normally have to do: think logically. He didn't like logic: preferring emotions and gut instinct to deal with personal interactions. Up till now, that had served him well, but if he wanted Beckett to do anything that wasn't retreating behind a slammed door – physical and mental – or to have any sort of a relationship, he'd better work out why she wouldn't listen.

He thought, assisted by the Scotch. And thought, and thought, and thought. None of his logical thinking helped him at all. There was no logic to Beckett's reactions to being told she'd gotten it wrong.

Oh. Of course there was a logic – the logic of emotion. Painfully, he thought that he'd hate to be lectured and told he was wrong from the get-go. He didn't even like reading Gina's constructive criticisms and minor edits, let alone the major ones where he'd messed up something crucial. (It did happen. Not too often, but it happened.) Not to put too fine a point on it, when she pointed out his mistakes, with brutal honesty, he went and sulked for a while.

Which was exactly what Beckett was doing, on a rather grander scale: her anger was a supernova to the flickering match of his post-edit sulks.

Far, far, too late, he realised that he'd hit Beckett with brutal criticism of how she'd behaved, and while he thought it was all correct, she had reacted about how he should have expected.

Badly.

Really, really badly. He was actually utterly astonished that she hadn't walked out the door already, though since she couldn't carry her bag – probably - and had no means of transport short of hailing a taxi on the street – since he'd said (shouted) that he wouldn't let Ryan or Espo in – she was probably making the best of a bad job.

Hiding, again.

Oh. Oh, no. She'd said she removed herself from bad situations to stop them getting worse; and that by running away she could fix herself without worrying that anyone else would get hurt. No wonder she'd demanded to go home, and then stormed off upstairs. She got hurt – he'd hurt her – and she ran away.

Well, he'd profoundly fucked up any chance of getting her to listen to him now. She wouldn't even open her door if he knocked.

You could try, his conscience suggested. He didn't agree. He'd told the truth, and he wasn't going to apologise for it. You told the truth in the most hurtful way possible and you didn't even realise, because every time she hurts herself you lose it along with all common sense, tact and diplomacy. It was the truth, he said firmly to himself. She injured herself and you lost it, his conscience said again. I don't lose it, he argued. Yeah, right. It's just like when Alexis scraped her knees. You lost it, Rick. You need to try to fix it too.

He hunched his shoulders, and sipped the Scotch. He wanted to fix it, but he also wanted Beckett to recognise the inconvenient truth: that her whole mindset around her shooting, her injuries, her running off and hiding whenever something hurt – was wrong.

Suddenly, the soothing Scotch produced a plan. Or at least, a wild-ass idea, which – only since Beckett didn't have her gun – wouldn't get him shot. Tell – no, suggest to – Beckett that her shrink should arbitrate. If he was wrong, he'd concede, if he were right (but he was), then she could.

Before he could think better of the idea, he drained his Scotch and hurried upstairs. He rapped on Beckett's door, waited through a short silence, rapped again and walked in.

Beckett was lying on the bed, face down, still fully dressed and with her nose buried in the pile of pillows. She didn't move or speak to him.

"Beckett!"

"Go away."

"No. I had an idea."

"So? I'm not interested. You go yell somewhere else."

"I don't wanna yell."

"Oh?" Her voice carried a razor's edge of disbelief, which cut Castle open.

He took a calming breath, before he did yell. "Look, you don't believe me. I don't believe you. Why don't we get your shrink to arbitrate?"

Beckett rolled over, swore sulphurously as she leaned on her damaged arm, and sat up with a jerk, which produced more swearing and left her disturbingly pale. Castle noted the tear stains on her face, and with some small semblance of sense didn't comment.

"You want to do what?" she spluttered. "You want to put your crazy theories in front of my shrink because you think he'll back you up?"

"Yep." Castle managed a smile. "And if he doesn't, you can say I told you so till Christmas."

"Oh, I will," Beckett scorned. "I sure will." Her face closed again. "Was that it? Because I don't want company."

Castle plonked himself down on the bed. "Too bad," he said. "I'm here."

She turned away, and buried herself among the pillows again. Castle, amused by her behaviour, gently pulled her out, avoiding her right arm, and tapped her nose chidingly. "Don't hide."

"Go away." Beckett glared at him.

Castle, impervious to the Beckett glare, smiled. "We need to decide how to put it before your shrink, too."

"I'm seeing him tomorrow. You can do it then. I want it out of the way so I can focus on something useful."

"Stop snarking at me. Come down and have coffee. That'll make you feel better."

"I'd feel better if you left me alone. Take your criticisms elsewhere. You're not my boss, my shrink or my dad."

"I didn't mean to say it like that," Castle said.

"Oh. Really. The wordsmith didn't know how to use his words. You expect me to believe that? You really do think I'm dumb."

"I don't! I just" – he forcibly lowered his voice – "I just hate it when you're hurt and I hate it more that you won't let anyone help you."

"That's my choice. Not yours."

"C'mon. You'd be upset if Ryan or Espo got hurt and wouldn't let you help."

"No, I'd respect their choices. They're not children."

"What if it were me?" Castle asked.

There was a noticeable pause before Beckett spoke. "You're an adult – allegedly – so that would be your choice."

"So you wouldn't be hurt if I ignored you?"

"That's just stupid. It would be your choice."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Yes, I'd be a bit hurt," Beckett spat. "But that wouldn't be your fault. It would be mine. So I wouldn't be taking it out on you and calling you dumb for making that choice, I'd accept it."

Castle winced. "I…okay, I lost it because you were hurt and I hate seeing" – he stopped, swallowed, continued on with force – "I hate seeing people I love hurt. So sue me for caring."

"That's not the point."

"It's a pretty good point," Castle contradicted. "I lost it and I'm sorry about that, but I'm not sorry about telling the truth. You can't sue me for caring about you."

"It's not up to you."

Castle metaphorically threw up his hands in despair, and completely changed tack. "Okay. We'll let your shrink settle it. Let's ignore it and just have a nice evening. You must want to have a coffee by now. You haven't had one for at least two hours and if you don't have one soon, Manhattan'll be in danger of destruction."

"I said I wanted to be left alone."

Castle batted big blue eyes, which didn't have any effect. "Please?" he wheedled. Beckett glared. "Pleeeeeeeasssssse?"

"Will it shut you up?"

"If I say yes, will you come down and have coffee?"

"No. Because I don't want to have company, I don't want to have coffee, and I don't want to talk to you."

"Hugs?"

"Go away!" Beckett yelled. "Take the hint and go away!"

Castle, defeated, did. He'd tried, he told himself. He'd apologised, and Beckett had thrown it back in his face.


In the morning, Beckett didn't show her face until Castle had repaired to his study, and then she only came downstairs for long enough to make a cup of coffee and trudge back upstairs. Castle, still sore at her behaviour the day before, didn't try to speak to her. Both of them told themselves that was just what they wanted. Both of them were lying.

Beckett, wrapping herself around her coffee with a mood as black as a double espresso, wished that she hadn't told Castle to go away the previous night; that she'd swallowed her pride and let him hug her. But then she remembered his angry words, and told herself she was better off without him if all he was going to do was yell.

Castle, sulking in his study and failing utterly to write anything worth the effort of tapping on his keyboard, wished that Beckett wasn't so pig-ass stubborn about everything. She should have accepted his apology and let him hug her.

At lunchtime, Beckett skulked downstairs, Castle skulked out of the study, and lunch (more chicken soup and bread) took place in almost total silence, punctuated only by please, thank you, and pass the bread/butter/salt. As soon as it was over, they skulked back to their respective sulks. Any watching kindergarten teacher would have recognised the behaviour instantly, and corrected it.

Dinner proceeded in the same way. After dinner, Beckett cast Castle a sidelong glance. "Can I have the Saran wrap, please?" she said neutrally. "I'd like to take a shower."

"Sure," Castle replied equally neutrally. "Can you wrap your arm by yourself?"

"Yes, thank you." Beckett would have said yes if she'd had her left arm amputated. She'd have wrapped her right arm using her toes or teeth if it kept Castle out of her way. He hadn't even tried to talk to her. The fact that she hadn't tried to talk to him didn't stop her being hurt by that.

Castle handed her the Saran wrap without comment. He was hurt that she hadn't even tried to talk to him all day, and now she wouldn't let him help her with her arm. The fact that he hadn't tried to talk to her or offered to wrap her arm didn't stop his feelings being hurt.

Both of them, separately, sulked themselves to sleep, equally miserable and equally far too proud to admit it or take the first step to fixing it. Consequently, both of them slept badly and woke tired, unhappy, and in Beckett's case, in pain.


"Good morning," Dr Burke said cheerfully. His professional cheer was dented by the expression of distaste on Detective Beckett's face, which appeared to be directed at her companion. "Would you introduce me?" he added.

"This is Castle."

"Hey," Mr Castle said, also in no good mood.

"Will Mr Castle be waiting for you?" Dr Burke inquired. It would be reasonable to assume that Detective Beckett had asked him to bring her, and return her to her home.

"No." Detective Beckett failed to elucidate.

Dr Burke raised his brows. In that case, he did not understand Mr Castle's presence, but he was certain that all would be explained. "I see. He will return for you?"

"No."

Dr Burke waited for an explanation. Detective Beckett's expression of distaste intensified. "He" – she made an angry, dismissive gesture at Mr Castle – "thinks he has some marvellous insight into my behaviour and won't leave me alone or shut up about it till you arbitrate. But he's wrong."

"I left you alone all yesterday!" Mr Castle argued. "And I'm right!"

"You are not!"

"I consider," Dr Burke said firmly, "that this discussion would be more productive if it were held in my treatment room, rather than in my reception area."

Both Detective Beckett and Mr Castle became shamefaced, and scuttled into the treatment room without further ado. Dr Burke noticed that they were sitting as far apart as possible, and, with some amusement, that they were both sneaking glances at each other. He concluded that, while they were both evidently angry with each other, they wished to, as it were, 'make it up'. However, just as small children refused to be the first to 'make a move', so too were Detective Beckett and Mr Castle exhibiting an emotional stand-off.

"Now," he said aloud. "Kate, explain to me why Mr Castle" –

"Rick," Mr Castle interrupted.

Dr Burke gave him a quelling look. "Rick," he said smoothly, "is here. Rick, do not interrupt. You will have your chance to speak afterwards." Mr Castle subsided.

"He thinks I can't make my own decisions about how I deal with issues and I should do it like he says," Detective Beckett said. Rick opened his mouth. Dr Burke regarded him coldly, and he shut it again. "He won't leave me alone, so I agreed that you could settle it so he would just shut up and stop criticising and yelling and telling me what to do."

"So you do not wish me to arbitrate?"

"Yes, I do. That way, when he finds he's wrong, he'll shut up about it and let me handle my issues the way I want to."

"Mm," Dr Burke hummed. Mr Castle fidgeted in his chair, clearly anxious to speak. Dr Burke ignored him for a moment, considering. "I see. Rick, in brief, do you think that Kate is mishandling her issues." He held Mr Castle's gaze. "A yes or no answer will suffice."

"Yes," Mr Castle said firmly.

Detective Beckett tried to say something, but Dr Burke flicked her a glance and she quietened.

"I do not think it will serve any purpose to have both of you in the same room, since it is clear that you will not be able to resist the temptation to disagree," Dr Burke said. "We shall conduct this discussion separately. Kate, I am fully acquainted with your issues and the way in which you have been dealing with them. Therefore, I shall remove Rick to a separate room, listen to what he has to say, and then return to discuss his thoughts with you. Our discussion will remain confidential unless you request that Rick is allowed to listen or participate."

"Okay." Detective Beckett grudgingly assented.

"Okay," Mr Castle agreed.

Dr Burke conducted Mr Castle to a separate room, some way removed from the room in which Detective Beckett remained.


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