At the mention of physical trauma, Castle remembers his injuries and raises a hand to tend to the crown of his head where the brunt of the abuse occurred. "I've seen melons at the Whole Foods that looked better," he admits, palpating his gourd as if he's trying to piece it together through topographical phrenology. "Alexis and my mother tell me that I still look pretty, despite the trauma." He flashes Beckett a bright, over-enthusiastic grin. "My agent should be thrilled."

He swirls the dust motes around the bottom of his glass and takes another sip. Beckett's handling her liquor better than he expected. No -- that's not necessarily true. Part of Castle knew that Beckett would take after the cultural stereotype of the Irishwoman who could hold her liquor. Her mouth is stained red-orange by the drink. He feels a pang of remorse for not coming over earlier.