Chapter 22

Castle jerked, gasped, and then took possession of Beckett's lips without a pause. Robes, he discovered anew, had major advantages. For a start, one tug of the belt would make a robe fall apart, revealing the gorgeous body beneath. He didn't even need to stop kissing Beckett, which was also good, because kissing Beckett was always, always preferable to not kissing Beckett.

Of course, there were other ways of kissing Beckett…and happily, the bedroom, and his enormous bed, was right there. He stood up, with Beckett still in his arms, though her feet were on the floor (an intact spine was a necessary part of the next few moments), only then lifted her, and took the few strides necessary to settle her right in the centre of his bed. He kissed her hard again, and then stepped back, stripped to his boxers in the minimum time necessary for Beckett to appreciate the show – the little golden flecks dancing in her hazel eyes and the slight dilation of her pupils were a definite clue to her appreciation – and then turned his attention to appreciating her with kisses: all the way from the lips on her face to the lips…not on her face, spreading the robe open as he went. She wriggled, then writhed, then, as he appreciated all the way down to the hot, wet goal, whimpered.

Beckett certainly appreciated Castle's intense appreciation. In fact, the only thing she could concentrate on was the extent to which he was appreciating her – Castle! His mouth had performed surely-illegal acts – ohhhh Castle! Do that again! He did it again. And again. And then she lost count along with breath and brain, because there was only sensation and then magnificent explosion. She wasn't cold in the slightest any more. She was scalding.

Body heat, she thought vaguely, ought to be shared. She would. In just a moment, when she might be able to decide if her head was still on her neck and all four limbs existed. Right now, she'd just enjoy being held, petted, and generally enveloped in love and Castle. Just for a moment.

Castle heard Beckett's breathing slow and deepen, and realised with some amusement that she'd fallen asleep again. He could wait. They had all evening, and all night. For now, he'd simply curl around her, keep her close, and luxuriate in togetherness.

A little later, when it became clear that Beckett wasn't going to waken any time soon, Castle slipped off the bed, dressed, covered Beckett with the robe, and returned to his study and his writing, in which pursuit the afternoon and early evening passed without him noticing.

When Castle dragged himself out of his creative crevasse, he found Beckett quietly reading on the couch in the family room, still wrapped in his robe. He hadn't noticed her go by, but then, if he was deep in his writing, he wouldn't notice a troupe of dancing elephants in front of him.

"It's dinner time," he said. She looked up and smiled. "Come help make something."

"What?"

"I don't know. Let's see what we've got, or we could order in pizza."

"Pizza sounds good," she said hopefully.

"Okay." Castle, who knew exactly how Beckett liked her pizza, briskly ordered, threw a bottle of white wine into the fridge, and then smirked happily. "How shall we occupy the time till our pizza arrives?" His expression implied that making out wouldn't be the half of it.

"Scrabble?" Beckett acquired a thoroughly sardonic expression. "Or Monopoly?"

Castle pouted theatrically. "I was thinking of something less competitive and more co-operative," he purred.

"Mm?"

"Building houses of cards, perhaps."

Her jaw dropped. "You what now?"

Castle laughed. "Nope. But your face…and no, I'm not playing competitive games with you because we'd be sure to argue. I like to win. You like to win. That's a disaster right there."

Beckett humphed, but she couldn't really deny it. Before she could think of a good argument, Castle bounced off to the fridge and produced the bottle of California white, pouring with abandon. By the time they'd talked about the wine, the pizza had arrived, and by the time they'd eaten that and drunk the wine, their thoughts had turned to other matters, which took them to bed without much further ado.

The following morning, Beckett pulled herself into good order, with the ghastly spectre of her session with Burke looming bleakly ahead. She didn't want to go. This was not news. Even though she'd thought hard, come to reasonable conclusions, and could therefore show him that she should be cleared, she was gloomily sure that he'd have some reason to delay. Castle, whose eyes clearly showed his understanding of her reluctance, had agreed to remain behind. It didn't stop him catching her into a comforting hug, and murmuring soothing nonsense into her hair. She would so much rather have stayed right there, where he would keep her safe.

Suddenly she remembered. He'd take care of her – and she'd slay the dragons. Burke was just another dragon to be slain. She straightened her spine, plopped a brief kiss on Castle's mouth, and stepped back. "Later," she said briskly, and strode out, Detective Beckett to the very core.

Behind her, Castle admired the return of his detective, and even managed a tiny hint of pity for Burke. He didn't know quite why Beckett had suddenly found herself again, but he applauded it. He liked (loved) his full-force, full-on, jump tall buildings in a single bound, not die from a bullet to the heart, Beckett. She'd slay dragons – and that, he understood, was what she was about to do. Slay the Burke dragon, and her own demonic dragons, in one fell swoop.

Beckett, buoyed up on her own confidence in her dragon-slaying abilities, swung into Dr Burke's treatment room with head high and back straight.

"I worked it out," she said, almost before she'd sat down.

"What did you 'work out'?" Dr Burke asked, noting with some interest her assured demeanour. He had not, to date, seen Detective Beckett in such a mood, and it was really most impressive. She had previously presented in a state of unhappiness and uncertainty. He began to comprehend her professional success.

"It was only partially correct," she said. "Part of it was not being able to control things, and part was me trying to control things but being downright wrong." Her face twisted, and then smoothed. She consciously relaxed into the armchair.

"I see. Perhaps we might go back a stage?"

"Sure."

"Explain, please, the relevance of control. At our last session we had discussed your subconscious tendency to punish yourself, but I do not recall that we discussed control."

Detective Beckett squirmed in her chair, and stared at the soothingly blue carpet.

"Kate?"

"It was Castle," she muttered. "He said it was because I couldn't control what was going on and I was punishing myself for not being able to."

Dr Burke leaned his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers. "Mm?" Mr Castle had, once more, put his finger squarely on the issue.

"But he wasn't wholly right."

"Expand?"

Detective Beckett explained. Dr Burke listened carefully to Mr Castle's thesis, as amplified by Detective Beckett's thinking. His fingers tapped together, and then relaxed on to the arms of his chair. It appeared that Detective Beckett's thinking had been to some purpose, albeit he considered that her renewed confidence sprang from a belief that he would clear her to return to duty at the close of this session. That was unlikely, although, he thought, it might be possible to return her to desk duty if the rest of this session progressed favourably, and then to full duties after only a few further sessions: maybe as few as one or two if Detective Beckett showed that she had indeed understood her subconscious motivations.

"I understand," he said. "You have indeed identified an important contributor to your issues." He regarded her closely. "Do you think that you would realise, now, if you were falling into the habit of working, or overworking, when that work would not achieve results?"

Pleasingly, she did not immediately assure Dr Burke that, of course, she would. Had she done so, he would not have believed her, and he would have considered that she had not, in fact, understood the point.

"I…maybe." Suddenly, her face cleared. "But Castle would. He would tell me. If I asked him." She smiled. "Different Band-Aids."

Dr Burke entirely failed to understand the reference. However, there would be no harm in Detective Beckett relying on Mr Castle to assist her. Mutual assistance was an important component of a healthy relationship. "Indeed. I suggest that you ask him to do so."

Detective Beckett nodded, not entirely enthusiastically.

"Now, let us address your choice to lie to Rick in the context of your need to control your surroundings. You have said that Rick is not controllable."

"He never does what he's told," she grumbled, though Dr Burke detected a note of affection and a fond look in her eye. He waited. "He…I…I couldn't deal with his feelings. But I could control how I reacted. And then…I didn't know if I'd be ready. So – so I tried to control it by pretending I didn't know that he was. Till I knew about me."

"You are saying that because you could not control whether or not you would recover fully, you attempted to control the situation in another way: by deferring the discussion." Detective Beckett nodded, shamefaced. "But rather than simply asking for time, you lied." She nodded again. "Why did you lie?"

She stared at Dr Burke. "Uh…"

"You must seek to understand why you lied, instead of simply asking for time."

Detective Beckett rose from the chair, stalked to the window, and stared out into the December sleet and chill. "Cowardice," she said to the air.

"Cowardice is not a notable feature of your previous behaviour, as reflected in your records. Why do you think you resorted to it in this instance?"

There was a long, painful silence. "I was in control," she finally admitted. "I could decide when to reveal the information. Just like with suspects."

Dr Burke blinked. He had not expected Detective Beckett to realise that so quickly. "Mm?"

"I thought that I could just…wait till I had more facts. I didn't have any facts, and I couldn't think with Castle always there."

"So you have said."

"And if he thought I hadn't heard him then it took some of the pressure off." She paused, still staring out of the window. "It gave me some control when I didn't have much." Another pause. "I didn't have any. So I lied."

Dr Burke considered that if Detective Beckett were not close to tears, her emotional control must be unhelpfully rigid. However, all that he said was, "So, once more, we return to the point that you felt that you must be in control at all times." He steepled his fingers. "Why is that?"

"It always worked before."

Dr Burke waited, but Detective Beckett said nothing more. "Please explain." He avoided revealing his irritation by a hair's breadth. If only Detective Beckett would talk. She had occasionally done so, but invariably that did not last.

"I always achieved what I wanted. School, Academy, detective."

"And Rick."

"I didn't want him around at the beginning. But I couldn't get rid of him."

"And now?"

Detective Beckett's shoulders relaxed by a revealing fraction. "He's good to have around."

Dr Burke thought that, considering that she had admitted to being in love with Mr Castle, that was a remarkable example of understatement. He did not challenge it. The easing of Detective Beckett's body told its own tale, and he need not derail this session by inviting unnecessary conflict or extraneous issues.

"You have, you say, achieved everything you sought to achieve by maintaining control of your life." She nodded, not turning around. "You have identified that because you were unable to control your mother's untimely death and your father's descent into alcohol abuse, you attempted to control the other aspects of those events by working harder to solve her murder, long past the point where such work would achieve results. Control, in the form of hard work, had always yielded results for you. It is entirely understandable that you had tried it again." Dr Burke sat back in his chair, and crossed his legs at the ankle. "You stepped back from both your father, who rescued himself; and your mother's murder case."

Detective Beckett turned around. Her face was pale, and expression was notably absent.

"I did not," Dr Burke added judicially, "suggest that that was the wrong decision. Quite the reverse." A hint of colour returned to her cheeks. "Regrettably, in your previous therapy, this coping mechanism was not uncovered: most likely because there was not a pattern of behaviour. But" – he held up one finger as it looked as if she might speak – "you had stepped back. It was not until you encountered another situation in which you had no control: your shooting and the uncertainties associated with your recovery; that you had to resort to imposing control in an unhealthy manner."

"Overworking," Detective Beckett bit. "I know this."

"In part. You did overwork. You applied the techniques that would be successful in your profession to your personal life, and then, understandably guilty about your lie, worked harder and harder to demonstrate that you were worthy of love. In all of this, you sought control of an uncontrollable situation." He steepled his fingers at his chin. "You have deduced this, but are you sure that you understand it?"

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, spun once more to the window, shoulders slumping. "No," she whispered.

"That is the first step to understanding. You are aware of the entirety of your issue. Our further sessions will help you to gain a full understanding, so that you do not resort to unhealthy methods of controlling any situation in which you find yourself, and so that you may reason out for yourself whether the situation is beyond your control."

"I just want to get back to work."

"Indeed. I consider that it would now be beneficial for you to return to desk duty. I will provide your captain with an appropriate, limited, clearance. Full clearance will take place in due course."

"I see."

Detective Beckett appeared a touch dejected, but Dr Burke was perfectly certain that she should not yet return to full duty.

"We will revisit the position after each further session, the first of which, I suggest, is on Monday. We should maintain momentum, having made considerable progress."

"I guess."

"You have made progress. I expect that future sessions will rapidly build upon it. I shall see you on Monday." Dr Burke smiled. Detective Beckett managed a weak movement of her lips, and left without further ado.

Beckett grumped back to the subway and Castle's flat, disgruntled and disappointed. She'd done all the thinking, her arm was almost better, her knees were almost better, and Burke still wouldn't give her full clearance. She supposed, grumpily, that at least she would be back in the precinct, but desk duty meant that she'd be under Gates' eye all the time, which was highly undesirable. Gates had been far too quick to spot her injury, and far too quick to put her on medical leave. And that was without Gates having a good reason to keep a beady, unpleasantly intelligent eye upon her.

By the time Beckett reached the loft her black mood approached the intensity of a black hole. She entered with a scowl that would have demolished armies, and certainly caused Castle to blink.

"Hot chocolate," he said instantly. "With whipped cream and marshmallows. You need to have chocolate."

Beckett looked up at him with huge, exhausted eyes. "He won't clear me for more than desk duty," she emitted. "I don't want desk duty. I want to catch murderers." She dropped on to the couch. "Gates will be awful. She'll watch me like a hawk and if I put so much as a toenail out of the precinct she'll have my ass." She slumped, head in hands. "I'll hate it."

Castle thought about hugging her, and then thought that if he began to hug her now, the hot chocolate wouldn't happen. He whisked off to the kitchen to make it, and shortly returned with a huge mugful, lavishly crowned with whipped cream, marshmallows, sprinkles, and even a maraschino cherry, neatly centred at the very top. It probably had the calorific value required to feed a small village for a week.

Beckett stared at it, and then at Castle, and back at the hot chocolate. She assumed that there was some liquid beneath the mountain of cream, and she supposed that she should find out, but she was utterly dejected by Burke's refusal to give her full clearance. Her hands wrapped around the hot mug, which didn't warm the cold ache around her stomach and chest.

"Try it," Castle suggested, sitting down and curling a strong arm around her. "My special recipe, guaranteed to be the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted."

She didn't rise to the bait, but she did swipe up some of the sprinkle-covered cream. It was nice. She lapped up some more, and discovered the liquid underneath. Like Castle's warm chest and firmly encircling arm, it was comforting. Not, however, comforting enough to remove the sting of not being cleared fully.

"I just want to get back to work," she said miserably.

Castle thought. "It's only been two weeks, and you're already cleared for desk duty. Your arm isn't totally healed yet, and your knees are still a little scraped. It's amazing that you've pulled it together this fast."

She muttered something that might have been shouldn't have been benched at all. Castle studiedly didn't react, though he profoundly disagreed.

"What will you do?" he asked instead.

"Go in Monday morning. I'll see Burke early, so I can be in on time."

"That gives us the weekend," Castle enticed.

"I need to go home."

"Why?"

"I need to get back to normal. You've been looking after me all this time, but your family will be back soon and you" – she stopped.

"What?"

"I can't deal with them," she said. "I can't deal with noise and fuss and if I was here all the time they'd want to talk and ask questions and there's nothing wrong with them but I can't deal with that." She ran out of breath.

Castle said nothing.

"It's not you. It's me." She drew in breath, pained and scratchy, as he still said nothing. "I'm trying to tell you the real reason. Not lie." She drew another unhappy breath. "It's okay. I'll drink this and pack my stuff up. Your family comes first." She buried her face in her hot chocolate, then upended the mug, swallowed convulsively, and started to stand up.

Castle's arm held her down. "Nope."

"Huh?"

"Nope. You're not packing up now. Alexis won't be home till Sunday afternoon and Mother won't be home until the show closes, so that's anything from one day to one week from now."

Beckett spluttered.

"What? She picks the most appalling shows. On the other hand, it does mean she's always centre stage and the undisputed star, so…I guess it works for her." He hugged Beckett. "Stop being silly. You need quiet, sure. You don't want to deal with Mother's questions: that's fine. You told me the truth about why you need to go home – that's huge. Now, c'mere." He didn't wait for her to answer, but wrapped her into him. "Silly Beckett. You haven't upset me. I just needed time to catch up with it."

She sniffed. "I've finished my chocolate," she said.

"Want some more?"

She nodded, damply. Castle ambled off to make it, and one for himself.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Sorry about weird timings. I'm travelling.