Castle, possessed of a good Y chromosome just as much as the next man, watches her slink across her living room to tend to the stereo and -- oh god, of all choices -- Steven Tyler occupies the room with his extra large beanbag lips. Not that Castle pays attention to the melody. He's much more interested in the syncope of hips that's going on in front of him; Beckett's whiskey-induced reprieve has got her waist going like a slow-acting pendulum.

Castle swallows audibly.


No, no, no," his moral chorus is quick to chime in. Damn them for their perseverance; he though the last glass had shut them out for good. Still, it's hard to think objectively about one's partner when one's partner's mid-riff is peeking from beneath the bottom of her tanktop as she sways to Eighties rock.