fanofthegenre | [ case closed ]

Entry tags:

oom,
rick castle

[ case closed ]

"The ex-wife in the office with the fire ants," Beckett murmurs, juggling the ring of keys in her palm until she singles out the one she's looking for and slides it into the lock on her apartment's front door.

The case had wrapped all too easily after she and Castle had made it back to the city. Anne Gordon had confessed only after a little pressing in the interrogation room, and a secondary search of Cavendish's home had even turned up several crispy exoskeletons in the fireplace ashes from where she'd attempted to burn the evidence of the shopping bags. All in all, things had ended rather nicely - Castle had even fulfilled his urge and gotten to play with the squad car's siren and lights, and now she was going to put up her feet for the evening - probably literally - with Castle in tow.

She lets them both into the apartment, flicking on a few lights and shedding her coat and scarf before making her way towards the kitchen. Clearly, there are several options awaiting her in the relaxation department, but she's aiming for just one right off the bat.

"I'm gonna grab a beer. You want?"

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"And you even got to expense the mileage," he adds, following her into the apartment.

It certainly wasn't one of the simplest cases they'd ever worked together (or that Castle has ever cooked up over a glass of Scotch and a MacBook Pro), but when it came down to it, the reason for all crimes could be reduced to three motives: greed, jealousy, and deranged ex-wives. Once you broke through the clutter, the heart of crime really wasn't that complicated. Aside from the shopping bags, Anne Gordon's second biggest mistake had been leaving an IP trail behind her when she ordered the ants over the Internet. From there, the ant hill of damning evidence had built up into a mountain.

Castle's pretty pleased with himself, and understandably so.

He takes half a second to consider her offer -- "Why not?" -- and threads his scarf through his collar. "I've got to figure out a way to work this into a book. Truth is stranger than fiction." He runs his hands over his arms, chasing down a thousand invisible insects. It's been a habit with this case. "And a lot more itchy."

"Not to mention free Starbucks out of the deal."

It certainly hadn't been the lightest paper trail they'd ever had to deal with, but it was definitely going to rise in the ranks on the list of the "freaky cases", as Esposito liked to call them. At any rate, Beckett's just glad to have another case tucked away in the closed column and maybe a full night of some actual sleeping. She whistles softly as she pulls two beers out of the fridge and then uses the bottle opener magnet to tug off the caps. Castle's is handed to him while Beckett takes a swig from hers, plopping down onto her couch and prying her feet out of her boots.

"I'm going to be scratching at invisible ants for at least another week, I just know it," she murmurs, reaching behind herself and between her shoulderblades to scratch before she realizes what she's doing and forces herself to stop.

Castle plops onto the cushion beside her and, without thinking, scratches the fabled 'Unreachable Spot' between Beckett's shoulder blades. "Perils of the job," he says. "When I was writing Unholy Storm, all that voodoo? I habitually checked Alexis' stuffed animal collection to make sure that nobody had put any bad mojo on me. Sometimes the work goes home with you."

He drops his hand back to his beer and plugs his mouth with the neck of the bottle. 'Wipes the foam off his upper lip and stretches his legs out beneath the coffee table.

Sometimes it follows you home, he thinks.

"Because clearly, the way to get to you would be a tiny little Castle doll they could stick with sewing pins. Did you find yourself feeling hot for no reason, too?" Her sip disguises a smile while she leans back, extending her own legs to let her feet rest on top of the coffee table.

"What's the weirdest thing you've ever received through your fanmail?" Beckett asks.

Even during their first case together, when they'd sorted through letters and drawings, she remembers seeing some pretty odd tokens of affection. But she's also sure that nothing can compare to years of what Castle and his agent have had to filter through.

"You can't be too careful," he says with mock solemnity. "Voodoo only works if you believe in it. And, after spending six months covered in a fine powder of white ash and paprika, I was either ready to believe it or show up as an entree for Sunday dinner."

He muses on her question, the corners of his mouth pulled tight. He's gotten a lot of interesting correspondence over the years, some of which made it into a "Freaky Deaky Scrapbook" that his agent keeps for good measure.

"Most of it's pretty tame. Predictable. You get the nutjobs who send in their underwear every once in a while and I've gotten a couple of marriage proposals but," he strokes his chin thoughtfully, "I guess the weirdest thing I ever got was after I'd done the wrap for A Skull At Springtime. I got home from a signing and there was this huge crate waiting for me outside the apartment. Someone'd sent me a full-size human skeleton -- you know, the kind they use in anatomy classes? -- and a couple dozen packets of spring annuals. I gave the skeleton to a community college. 'Kept the flowers, but never planted them. I don't have much of a green thumb."

"Yes, I'm sure a bit of creamed Castle would go splendidly with any number of steak dishes," she replies, her chuckle creating a soft exhale of breath that ghosts across the opening of the bottle to create a quiet, low whistle.

"That's not weird, that's just downright creepy." Beckett's almost tempted to shiver at the thought, and then her mind starts to lead her in the direction of who the skeleton had originally been, and she's back in those thoughts of murder and the macabre that only Castle seems to bring along with him wherever he goes. Maybe she can't make him the scapegoat entirely. Murder seems to be a part of her life no matter how hard she tries to leave it back at the precinct at the end of the day.

Lost in her thoughts, she proceeds to go through the motions of sipping from her beer again.

"How about most thoughtful gift from a fan?"

Because while there are the crazies, there are the (relatively) normal ones. Like Beckett.

Creepy, sure, but when you're in the business of writing wrongs, obscure gifts tend to come with the territory. Castle guesses that's true of what Beckett does, too: spend your days with stiffs and you start to become acclimated to toe-tags instead of toenail polish.

His thumb rounds the curve of the bottle in his hand. 'Clearer reflection of himself in the brown glass. "When you told me about your mom," he says. "And how reading me helped get you through what happened."

It may be the reason for why Lanie Parish is and continues to be one of the most well-dressed women Beckett has ever come across - because she's surrounded by stiffs for most of her working time, she'll dress up for those who can actually appreciate it.

She switches her bottle from one hand to the other.

"You're just saying that."

He shakes his head.

"No, I mean it. I write fiction. I deal in fiction. Most of the time, half of what people are telling me is what they think I want to hear. When you told me about your mother, that was a truth." He turns his eyes to her, remarkably serious for a guy who just helped crack a case where "ants in the pants" was the final nail in the coffin. "I appreciate things like that."

Beckett's answer isn't exactly a verbal one.

She smiles, leaning over to rest her head along his shoulder, and then sighs, another level of tension disappearing.

"I think I'll sleep better tonight knowing that everything's been wrapped up."

Her head drops onto his shoulder and Castle feels her arm tuck nicely in line with his own. He spends a few seconds reliving his harrowing high school years before he eases his arm up over the back of the couch, around her shoulder.

"You know what else would help you sleep better tonight..."

He's staring into the middle distance when he says it but, by god, his smirk is a thousand decibels and she's sure to hear it.

"Haven't the faintest," she murmurs, her own smirk plain as day and clearly audible in her words.

It's comfortable here, just resting, and her cheek shifts against his shoulder as her free hand slides along the top of his thigh before it comest to rest with her fingertips dangling over his kneecap.

Castle drops his hand over her fingers. "Glass of warm milk," he confirms, "was what I was going to suggest."

She chuckles, nose nuzzling into his shoulder when she shakes her head, her mood warm and calm.

"Sure you were."

He briefly turns his nose toward the top of her head, smiling against the fall of her hair. His beer condensates in his hand, but he's already warm. "This is nice."

"Mmm," she wordlessly agrees.

That may also be attributed to the fact that her radiator, which had barely been pumping out heat last week, is now supplying the room with a steady stream of it. Beckett feels her cheeks flush with warmth.

"Think I'm gonna go change."

"You want me to get out of here?" he offers, unlooping his arm from the back of the couch.

"You want to go?"

She lifts her head, blinking slowly.

"I wasn't planning on going to bed. It's just - warm in here."

"I figured you had paperwork to do." He puts his beer on the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his kneecaps.

"Unless you wanted me to try and talk you out of doing it. I think we both know that I'm pretty good at that."

"I do, but it's nothing that can't wait." Hers is almost empty now; she finishes it off with a quick tilting-back of her head.

"I think last time your method of persuasion involved less talking."

"Is that what you want?" He draws the back of her kneecap underneath his palm, gently pulling her toward him. "You're gonna' kill the sense of romance."

"You're trying to play the romance card?" Her fingers slide through one end of his scarf, pulling it away from his collar. "I'll have to admit, I'm curious to see how it's done."

"Why? 'Been a long time?" He lifts his chin up and away, conscious of the sharp zppp! of a scarf as it friction-burns its way from his throat.

She'll have to give him points for that one, the question hitting a little closer to the side of truth than not.

"You could say that."

Castle gives the back of her knee a soft squeeze. "Go get changed."

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