(no subject)

[mmkaternater]

[ Set in the days following this. ]

"I just don't know what to do with these earrings."

Martha Castle descends the stairs in a cyclone of teal and gold silk, her red hair teased high and as bright as a match head. She slams a pair of gold filigree earrings down on the counter where Castle is busy arranging an edible tour of the Orient, courtesy of the Mandarin Garden take-out place down the street. He gives the earrings a sideways glance. Grins. Watching his mother get wound up before a night out on the town is more entertaining than most spectator sports. He shovels a mound of fragrant white rice into a container.

"Judging from the size and shape, I bet they'd probably be pretty good airfoils for short-term flight."

Martha gives her son a sour look and plants her hand over the earrings, holding them up as evidence. "I'll have you know that these were given to me by a Broadway producer whose version of Annie Get Your Gun was delivered from the jaws of tragedy by me --" she fans a hand against the brocade at her throat "-- in a knockout performance." She begins affixing the earrings at her lobes. "He was very grateful."

"Yeah, to be rid of the curse of the displaced maharaja who used to own the things."

"That's the Hope Diamond. And someone should adopt you."

"Speaking of good parenting, where's Alexis?"

Martha drops a tube of lipstick and her cell phone into an ornate clutch purse. "At a group study session for her astronomy class."

"On a Friday night?"

The Castle family matriarch shakes her head ruefully. "I keep telling her that the only stars she really needs to care about are between Hollywood and Vine, but," she waves a dismissive hand, "you know how young people are."

Castle arches an eyebrow. "Educated?" He starts to start geometric take-out boxes on top of each other. "What am I gonna' do with all this food? I ordered extra because I thought you and Alexis were staying in tonight. I'm up to my eyeballs in udon."

Martha checks her reflection in a compact and shrugs. "Call detective Beckett. Aren't the two of you working on a case? Something about murder, mystery and macabre intrigue?"

"Just about."

Martha leans in and presses her lips against her son's cheek. "Do something with yourself, will you? You've been moping around here for three days. We're too pretty to have real problems."

Castle squeezes his mother's hand and sees her out the door. Suddenly, the apartment is much too quiet. He flicks the stereo system to life and cues up the Shuffle function on his iPod. 'Gives the entire thing up to the Fates and gets Aerosmith's "Love In An Elevator" right out of the gate.

Terrific.

Comments

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett has absolutely no idea what the hell she's doing here.

Going to Castle's apartment had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, a gut instinct that she had chosen to act on without lending too much thought to why she's hopping into a cab and spouting off the writer's address. They have to talk. But she doesn't even know where to begin, and 'hey, remember how we kissed in the Caribbean inlet of a magical bar and neither of us were drunk at the time?' isn't exactly the kind of conversational starter she wants to rely on when the door flies open.

Not to mention she's coming to the realization that she might not only be face-to-face with Castle, but the formidable, redheaded duo of Alexis and Martha - and fielding questions from them while she tries not to blush every time she catches herself staring at Castle's mouth isn't a scenario she wants to have to deal with.

But she's here now, and the cab's already speeding off before she can call it back, and she might as well just get this over with, rip off the Band-aid and handle the painfully awkward aftermath as it happens. Beckett squares her shoulders and marches toward the front door; the doorman lets her in without a second glance, recognizing her instantly. (At this point, she's not above flashing her badge to get herself inside.)

She plasters a smile on her face when she knocks on the door, but as time passes without a response, it'll look more like a wince by the time the door finally opens.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

By this time, Castle's cycled through another two songs by Aerosmith (honestly) and a depressingly frequent parade of songs from A Chorus Line, which will teach him to leave his iPod out while his mother is going through one of her musical theater moods. Eventually he gives up on Shuffle and just sets the thing on an innocuous enough John Lennon playlist.

He's got his laptop balanced in the crook of one arm and a carton of Kung Pao burning a hole through his palm when he hears the door. There follows a comical dance of 'what to put down first' before he dumps the laptop on the couch and keeps the Kung Pao in hand, crossing to meet the door.

"Beckett." His mother's the actor in the family and Castle does a crappy job at keeping the surprise out of his voice. "Hey."

[fanofthegenre]

She can hear the frantic movement on the other side of the door, a shuffling set of footsteps that turns the feigned attempt at a smile on her lips into a genuinely sincere one. There's no doubt in her mind now about who will be the one she'll see on the other end, and as the door swings open, her guess is confirmed.

"Hi," she says, her hands jammed in the pockets of her trenchcoat, and then fails to pick up where that greeting leaves off at first. Every potential question she's been wanting to ask (that was weird, right? or did you like it? but we probably shouldn't do that again, should we?) disappears completely, and her tongue feels heavy in her mouth.

Her gaze falls to the carton in his hand: a potential conversation piece.

"Dialed out for dinner again?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Huh?" He's still trying to put together the pieces of her being here. "Oh --" the carton in his hand "-- Friday night staple. Come in. You want some? It's still hot. Actually, I'm pretty sure I just got a grease burn. Hang on a sec." He leaves the door unattended and treads back toward the kitchen (carton still sizzling in his palm) for something cool to touch.

When he returns, he's traded the hot carton for a much cooler tub of sour cream.

(Yeah, he's batting a thousand in the "handling this well" department.)

But the smile he gives is genuine and he's clearly glad to see her.

"What's up? We get a case?"

[fanofthegenre]

In the time it takes for him to deposit the burning carton and replace it with something less heated, she seizes the opportunity to get her foot in the door - or her entire body, more accurately, as she steps inside and lets the door gently swing behind her with what could be constituted as a gentle nudging.

"No, no case."

Clearly she's thought this through. Beckett tries not to stumble over her words.

"I was just, you know, in the neighborhood. Though I'd, um, stop by."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

Castle's more likely to do dinner theater than Beckett is to stop by for a casual visit. Something's up and Castle's antennae start feeling through sensory data. "Great! Actually, I was hoping to catch you over the next couple of days anyway. They sent over the art for the graphic novel thing. Preliminary sketches. I wanted to show them to you."

He puts the carton down and retrieves a large, flat folio from the sideboard. It's the kind of thing that artists use to display their work to prospective buyers. Castle unzips the folio and pulls out a couple of poster-sized line drawings. He spreads them on the table, pushing take-out boxes out of the way.

"Meet Nikki Heat," he says with flourish, "comic-ized."

Yeah, that's definitely his muse. And she's packing some serious heat.

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett's suddenly very grateful, both for the diverting change in subject and the fact that Castle hadn't chosen to bring this art to the precinct to show her. Something tells her she would've been mortified if Esposito and Ryan had gotten a glimpse of these, and as Castle pulls the flat, poster-sized drawings out to display in front of her, her face becomes more and more incredulous.

"You're kidding," she breathes, but it's more of a mild exclamation than a questioning of his credibility - or the artist's, for that matter. "Oh, you're kidding."

Slowly, she crouches down to look at them from a better angle.

"Ever considered the fact that Nikki Heat has much bigger - assets - than I do?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"These're preliminary sketches. It'll all get cleaned up in post. Or so they tell me. I don't know --" he tilts his head, scrutinizing the drawings "-- I think it's a pretty good rendering." He shifts the sketches on the table and moves the folio to the floor. "Best part is, I've got complete creative control. We've been greenlit for three issues, but if they sell well, we're looking at a full series. All those years of picking through issues of The Green Lantern while the other kids are going out on dates is finally going to pay off."

And this is pretty much how Rick Castle works: running from one project to another, satisfying his hunger for the new and exciting through a dozen different ventures, profiting when one succeeds and taking the punches when they don't. He and Beckett share the same need for fast-paced distractions.

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett kneels down, rocking back onto her heels to study the drawings up close, resting her elbow on the coffee table and placing her chin in the palm of her hand while her eyes scan over the drawings. Castle's voice is like a comforting background noise, something she listens to but doesn't offer her full attention to it while she takes in all the detail laid out in front of her.

"Mmm," she manages, obviously a thought-out response, but it's more due to the captivating distraction than any unintentional ignoring she might be doing. After another beat or two of looking, she sits back, resting her hands on her knees.

"Complete creative control, huh? Are you going to make sure Jameson Rook looks particularly rugged and dashing?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Well, of course. That goes without saying. It's all very technical, but, what it comes down to is, I think they compile People's Most Beautiful People list from the last five years and just sort of," he makes shapes in the air with his hands, "mash them together until they get a Pierce Brosnan-George Clooney lookalike. I was pretty explicit about Nikki Heat, though." And here he smiles because, hell, there's no sense in fixing something that ain't broken.

He assembles the drawings and tucks them back into the folio. 'Nods over his shoulder. "Seriously, I've got enough food here to feed Chairman Mao's entire army. Help me out."

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett's ready with a smirk, but Castle's side comment removes any advantage she might have had in preparing it in advance. Her brow furrows with the smallest hint of confusion mixed with curiosity.

"Just how explicit, exactly?"

A beat, then she slips past him to the kitchen, shedding her coat and laying it over one of the bar chairs before rummaging through the cartons.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

He hooks a barstool with his foot and brings it around the side of the counter, ponying up to the feast. "Well, we're trying to sell comic books," he says, showing off his years of tutelage under some of the best PR reps in the business. "They take some of my insight, some of the source material and massage both until they come out with something that satisfies me and sucks the money out of the wallets of teenage boys across the country."

The nearest carton of Kung Pao gets his interest and he sticks a fork into the middle, passing Beckett one, too.

"But I told them there were certain aspects to Nikki Heat's design that I wasn't going to compromise. They wanted to make her a blonde." He raises his eyebrows theatrically.

[fanofthegenre]

She leans forward, using her elbows to brace her upper half off the counter on the other side, and takes the offered fork, seizing another carton of something that smells particularly spicy and delicious and cracking it open to stir idly. Castle's comment gets a soft push of breath from her, and she takes a bite of food in between that and her response.

"Good thinking," Beckett murmurs, scoffing around her mouthful of ginger-infused chicken. "I mean, can you imagine? A blonde. I'd be personally insulted, I think."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"I know," he says, "you should have seen me. I was ready to throw chairs. If there's one thing I'm known for, it's artistic integrity --" except for page 105 "-- and there's no way that I'm compromising Nikki Heat's natural hair colour for the sake of readership."

He digs the tines of the fork into the carton and gives her a sidelong smirk.

"So have you ever been a blonde?"

[fanofthegenre]

"Besides, she's already cutting a perfectly proportioned figure. Add blonde hair on top of that and it'd be like a Playboy bunny handling a gun instead of your leading lady detective." It's still possible for Beckett to distinguish herself from Nikki Heat, but she'll be damned if she gets weighed alongside the image of some bottle-blonde, buxom, and overly bubbly bimbo.

(Read: any woman Castle's been in a photoshoot alongside since the book came out.)

"Never. I did try out auburn once, though. But red was a little too wild for me."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Nah," he shakes his head, "I like you the way you are. Besides, brunettes poll better as intellectual figures. And I want to make sure that Nikki Heat's not just leading with her most obvious assets."

There're plenty of peppers in the food and pretty soon Castle's mouth is on fire. He lifts off the stool and pulls a large jug of milk out of the fridge, pouring two glasses. 'Sits back down and takes a long, mouth-cooling swig, preemptively wiping the milk mustache from his upper lip.

[fanofthegenre]

Hours of routinely ordered Thai food have given Beckett a near-immunity to most spiciness, though it won't be long until she too needs to take a swig of that milk. Right now, though, she watches Castle with an amused expression, using her teeth to grab the next bite of chicken off her fork, nudging the food to the side of her mouth to talk.

"Too hot for you, Castle?" she teases.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Honestly, how are you not dying right now?" He blows air past his teeth and tucks his eyebrows toward his hairline, reaching for another gulp of milk. "I think they gave me all the peppers. Either that, or the inside of your mouth is cast titanium."

He leans over and uses the fork to tilt her take-out box so he can see inside. Sure enough, its' got the same amount of red pepper flake, maybe even more.

[fanofthegenre]

"Don't be such a baby," Beckett playfully chides, reaching for her own poured glass of milk if only to pacify Castle and his confusion. She takes a sip, letting it settle the mild fire, but apparently it's nothing compared to the raging inferno he's got in his mouth.

"You'll live." She picks up her fork again and stabs a rogue piece of broccoli.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

His eyes are watering. He reaches for a napkin and dabs his tear ducts. "Okay, but, just so you know, if we were having a typed words per minute contest, I'd totally be kicking your ass."

[fanofthegenre]

"If or when that day comes, you are more than welcome to thoroughly trash the floor with me."

It is possible, Beckett finds, to smirk and eat at the exact same time. Difficult, but possible.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

He grumbles good-naturedly and reaches across the butcher block to stab his fork inside her dinner, drawing out a long, tangled string of noodles. He'll show her, even if it sends him to the emergency room.

To his credit, he manages to swallow the whole mess before he reaches for the milk again. Those guys at Mandarin Garden are not kidding around. He returns to the comparative heat of his own box.

"So you were in the neighborhood, huh?"

[fanofthegenre]

Suddenly, Beckett becomes entirely fascinated with the inner depths of her take-out carton, absently fishing her fork around inside the tangle of noodles, chicken and veggies. She chances a hurried glance up at Castle before returning her gaze down again.

"Yeah. What about it?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Nothing. Except that my neighborhood is about twenty blocks from your neighborhood and even though I know you're a runner, I notice a distinct lack of jogging gear."

He's not calling her out but, yeah, he's kind of calling her out.

"Everything okay with you?"

[fanofthegenre]

"Of course," she says, forcing a chuckle and trying to casually play off her uncertainty. Something tells her he'll see right through it in a heartbeat.

"Why wouldn't it be?"