fanofthegenre | [ a missing scene ]

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oom,
rick castle

[ a missing scene ]

Coonan dies on the floor of the precinct, his blood pooling out around him.

Beckett doesn't stay long after the body's taken away - just long enough to answer the necessary questions, fill in the details for the official report herself, give the information that proves a discharging of her weapon was necessary. She doesn't look at Castle for the rest of the night, and somewhere in the cluster of policemen and EMTs, he disappears, leaving the chaos behind him.

She heads back to her apartment - late, much later than she'd even anticipated, but she's far from tired and her hands are still stinging from the amount of time she'd spent rinsing them in the women's restroom hours before. She pours herself a drink and starts running the water in the bathtub, ready to soak and hopefully drink enough to pass out eventually.

Because otherwise, she's going to have an impossible time sleeping tonight.

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"You don't have to," he tells her quietly. 'Corner of his mouth perks, then settles into something more genuine than his near-forty years of pretending would suggest. "We're partners. I know you'd do the same for me."

Yes, absolutely, of course. Those words and more dangle on the tip of her tongue, but her gaze says it all, and she nods quickly, withdrawing.

The layers of the onion are going back up, one by one.

"I'm glad you came," she says, firm and confident.

He recognizes the change and it's like falling. Like they'd both been trying to make the leap from one side of a canyon to the other and had just barely scratched the far side with their fingernails before they fell short. He's sad for a reason he cannot define.

"I know you'd hate it if you thought I was checking up on you," he says. "Figured I'd have more luck if I brought some incentive along." He means the bottle of whiskey, of course, but somehow thinking that he could ply her with alcohol to get her to open up about what happened seems...what, manipulative? Dishonest? He hadn't meant to be. Hell, he likes to think that she knows him well enough by now to trust him not to play the authorial angle.

"No, it was surprisingly sweet," is what Beckett decides on saying, setting her shoulders, a few strands of hair sliding through the fingers of the hand she lifts to not-so-subtly twine around them.

She drops her hand once she realizes what she's doing, but the healthy flush in her cheeks remains. The buzz still hasn't worn off yet, and she clears her throat, fully prepared to redirect the conversation elsewhere when the next sentence just happens.

"I mean, it's not tequila, but then again, this isn't page 105, is it?"

Castle's stomach is now halfway up his chest, getting chummy with his heart. He can't have heard that right. Beckett wouldn't have memorized the love scene in Heat Wave, would she? There's fan devotion and then there's fan devotion. She knew it right down to the page and all of a sudden Castle's wishing he had kept his coat off because the whole room is starting to swelter.

He manages a grin, quick and tight, his eyebrows rucking toward his hairline. "In the business, we call that 'poetic license'," he says, unable to resist the temptation to goad her on a little bit. "You did a lot of cool cop stuff in the book, too."

It's less memorization and more having its location in the book drilled into her over and over, by friends and co-workers alike, until it's impossible for her to come across that chapter for herself without some kind of physical reaction.

"What, like fighting off the Russian in my apartment without a single stitch of clothing on? There's cool cop stuff, Castle, and then there's unnecessary gratuity." Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, weighted down by the whiskey, and she tries not to stumble on her words too noticeably.

"Sensationalism sells," he counters, repeating his publisher's oft-used maxim while a smile creeps across his face. 'Smile on Castle is either cloying or crocodilian. He's trying to find a middle ground in there for Beckett.

"Besides, I can't help it if you're..." he jumps his eyebrows toward his hairline "...sensational."

"Sensational," Beckett echoes, sounding out the word as if she's not used to hearing it in her own voice, dragging out each syllable.

"You talk that way to all your muses?"

"Only the ones who come with a six-figure advance for the next book." He's teasing her. It might not be fair given the fact that she's just loaded herself half full of whiskey, but Castle is Castle and this is now a creature like Castle flirts.

Wait -- is that what he's doing?

"Guess that means you're going to have to start working on getting those moments of inspiration out of me," she challenges, her chuckle low and husky.

It's sparring, the way they always do. The problem here and now is that her vision is reacting like one of those rearview mirrors: Castle is really a lot closer than he appears.

"You carry a firearm," he points out (although she's clearly not packing heat now -- not with the drawstring sweats and camisole). "I think I'll pick my battles."

"C'mon," she breathes, shaking her head, one of her hands carelessly twining fingers around the end of his scarf.

"Am I really all that intimidating now?"

He watches her thread his scarf through her fingers, brain stuck in a skipping record rut where the only thing he can actually process for a second is Tuh-tuh-tuh and so on. He finally rallies his sangfroid and passes on one of those Rick Castle grins. 'Kind that used to charm nuns.

"Off the record?" he asks, consulting the ceiling. "Not at all." A beat. "A little."

"I knew it," Beckett crows triumphantly, the end of the scarf spiraling loose as she releases it from its place entwined through her fingers, her hand now moving to rest against the outside of his arm and squeezing none too gently.

"Off the record, of course," she adds, attempting to maintain a faux-seriousness that quickly dissolves into another laugh.

"Well, you've got the pointy shoes," he says, pointing to her (now bare) feet. "And the elbow thing." He tucks his fist into his palm and mimes jacking a suspect in the jaw, albeit at a much slower (okay, a writer's pace). "Please, do me a favour: just tell me you're going to use your powers for good instead of evil. But if it is evil, at least let me tag along."

"Where else would you be?" Beckett points out, her brow furrowing in genuine curiosity, rendered almost innocent by the inclusion of the whiskey. Her fingers slide down the length of his arm to toy with the sleeve of his coat.

"We both know you're not going to stay in the squad car pretty much ever."

His eyes widen in faux surprise. He gapes theatrically for a few seconds, then begins to laugh. "I do believe we've had a breakthrough tonight! Here, let's celebrate --" he reaches for the bottle in her other hand and knocks back a heathy swallow. 'Brings some colour to his cheeks. God, how long has it been since he's had a stiff drink? It's hitting him harder than usual.

"Breakthrough, my ass," Beckett protests, but she's still smirking while he takes a decent swig from the bottle, her fingers fumbling to grab it for herself and pick up where he's left off.

"You're still not thinking about leaving, are ya?" she murmurs, pursing her lips.

He rubs his lower lip with the side of his thumb, brushing away beads of ninety proof condensation. His courage is up, as well as his blood/alcohol level, and it makes him bolder than he probably has a right to be. "I could braid your hair. 'Watch Sleepless In Seattle OnDemand."

Beckett flat-out scoffs.

"You know how to braid?" she asks, mildly incredulous, and then holds up a finger to his lips before he can answer himself. "Wait, wait. You have a daughter. Why m'I not surprised?"

His lips worm and squirm around the tip of her finger. He can't help but smirk. Beckett's touchy-feely when she's had a couple (or half a bottle). Castle isn't sure how far his sense of gentlemanly propriety will stretch as long as she's looking at him like that. "That I have a daughter?" he asks. "Birds do it, bees do it, even bestselling-authors-slash-cop-tagalongs do it, Beckett."

"No," Beckett answers, dragging out the lone syllable even as she shakes her head, dark tresses gliding back and forth over her shoulders with the movement.

"That you know how to braid. My guess is you're fully equipped for a girls' night in."

She eyes him expectantly, waiting for him to confirm or deny her assumption. Something tells her it'll be the latter unless she leans on him a little more - in the literal sense, which she does, her arms sliding around his middle.

His scarf is somewhere. Castle dimly remembers Beckett drawing it out between her fingers and then getting rid of it. Maybe she's holding it hostage. 'Not that he's incapable of leaving her place without his scarf, but it's a damn good excuse to stick around and find out where she's hidden it.

"You got any ice cream?"

"Do I have ice cream," Beckett mutters, shaking her head in something resemnbling disappointment. She lets go of him and spins on her heel, still humming Aerosmith under her breath as she shuffles down the hall to the kitchen.

There are a couple pints of Ben & Jerry's in the freezer, some more-consumed than others. Beckett plucks out two and readies the spoons.

Castle follows, scanning the floor for his scarf. Ice cream and whiskey don't exactly go great together, but it gave Beckett a reason to go into the kitchen -- and gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. This isn't like Beckett at all. Not that he's complaining -- not that he ever would complain if she decided to hang off his neck in a happy, smiling loop -- but slipping too comfortably into her invitation to stay isn't sitting right in his gut.

He trails her to the kitchen and stops at the butcher's block, resting his palms on the smooth wooden surface. He raises his eyebrows in approval at her choice of late night snack. "Dulce de leche," he says, turning one of the frosty containers around to see the label, "I kinda' figured you for a Rocky Road girl, actually."

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