milliways_bar | (no subject)

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A man sits at the bar, his dress shoes tucked under the beam of the stool he's currently perched upon. He's got a hell of a shiner and half a mind to believe the rumours now that he's got proof: lefties can throw a punch, and then can do it hard. His black bow tie is undone, lying limply around his neck. He's in deep discussion with Bar:

"No, that thing Hemingway said about drinking. You know what I'm talking about. 'Something something sober, you'd know better if you kept your mouth shut.' Come on, you've gotta' know this --" he leans forward, half imploring.

Bar produces a dry vodka martini and a copy of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations.

Rick Castle takes a sip of the martini and uses the Bartlett's as a coaster. "Succinct," he says, "Hemingway would have liked that."

[ short, declarative tiny tag : rick castle ; kate beckett ]

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Castle shoulders his arms out of the way to make room for her. At her suggestion, he holds the edge of his martini glass against his cracked eye socket. "It's not so bad," he says. "Although, I am looking forward to a time when I can see straight without feeling my heartbeat in my eye." He takes the drink away from his face.

"Come on, let me buy you a drink. I owe you one for the benefit."

It's not a tough one for her to consider; she had been on duty previously, after all, and since there doesn't seem to be any risk of them getting called in, lots and lots of vodka seems to be the answer.

"You never did bring me my water," Beckett points out, frowning at his use of the martini glass.

"That's not going to work. Bar, an ice pack, please." One appears to the left of her, and she picks it up in a hand, nudging his arm down in order to press the cool bag against his eye - maybe a little too roughly.

"Hey, come on --" Castle squirms like an eight year old trying to avoid getting a napkin-and-spit bath from his mother "-- people are watching, you're ruining the machismo."

"Fine." Beckett unceremoniously drops the cold pack in his lap and takes the opportunity to snag a sip of his martini. "You know, I'm almost convinced you want people to notice that black eye. Or should I say people of a certain female persuasion?"

He touches his fingertips to the ruined edge of his eye, scooping the ice pack from between his legs. She might have done that on purpose. He winces and settles the edge of the compress against his cheek. "You know, the objective of modern healing is to help people, not play rough."

A single eyebrow arches (it hurts) when she suggests he's using the black eye as a lure. He removes the compress and holds up his martini glass, studying his reflection. "It looks pretty manly, doesn't it?" he asks. "Kind of says 'I'm a provider' and 'I'd let you tie me up if it so happened that you were into that kind of thing'."

"I don't know," Beckett shrugs, shifting on the stool which (thankfully) rotates as she moves, otherwise wearing this dress would've become much more complicated. "In the past few weeks, you've been tackled, punched, nearly run over, and almost shot - and by me on that last one, no less. I'm tempted to think you have a death wish, Castle."

Her eyebrow mimics his eyebrow's upward movement and she shakes her head.

"Or a really weird kink that I want to know nothing about."

"I just want to know one thing," he says, his expression peaked with high expectation. "Do you like the dress?"

"It's very nice," is her answer, followed by a brief period in which she finds the surface of the bar extremely fascinating.

Then a thought occurs to her, and she looks over at him.

"How did you know it would fit?"

That's an easy one. "Driver's license," he says. And then, because that won't be enough -- even for a plummy investigator like Beckett, he focuses on the middle distance and explains. "I got a look at it when you took out your wallet the last time. You said you're five-eleven. You're not. Five-nine, five-eight, tops. Your weight, well --" he catches himself, sensing her gearing up the pinions beside him

"-- it was an educated guess?"

"Five-nine," she mutters, giving him a look that would slice metal wafer-thin. She should've known better than to ask him about something he's obviously been very good at from the start - observation. And from the looks of things, he's studied her quite a bit. She chooses not to dwell on the way that makes her feel for the time being, instead pointing to his half-empty drink.

"Another one of those, Bar," she asks, and when it appears, she downs half the glass in one long swallow.

"Well, anyway," he says glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, "you look great."

The look softens; she turns to him with an exhale of breath that typically follows a rushed consumption of alcohol.

"Thanks, Castle," Beckett murmurs. "You know, you never did tell me about the outcome of the auction."

Castle winces and sinks his face into his hands, mindful of his injuries. "I swear," he says into his palms, "the first chance I get, I'm moving that woman to a home in Boca." He's referring to his mother, of course. The lucky lady who'd dropped seven thousand dollars to take him on for the evenings, well, if he got around to it, he'd put her on a plane to Boca, too.

Bar appears to sympathize, and a fresh martini appears at Castle's elbow.

"At least you can hide out here for a little while until your bidder comes to collect," Beckett teases, picking up her glass but not taking another sip just yet, letting the previous one sink in. There'd been a moment where she had been tempted to bid just to see the look on his face, but the complete shock and horror as Castle's mother took the stage were the only things she'd needed to glimpse.

She puts the glass down and starts to remove her earrings, brow furrowing slightly.

"Yeah," he says, sullen, swirling the pouch of ice around on the top of the bar and watching the water tracks it leaves behind. He leans heavily on his arm and glances sidelong at her.

"Maybe you should let me have a gun," he says, "what if she wants to teach me tantric pilates?"

"For the last time," Beckett says, even though she is perfectly aware that it isn't, nor will it ever be the last time she has to say this to him, "you are not getting a gun. Honestly, look at you. I don't even what to think about what would've happened if you'd had a gun to throw into the mix."

"Didn't see you do any better," he points out. "Maybe the government should start looking into car door control laws."

"That's beside the point," Beckett protests. "I'm not putting a gun in your hands. End of discussion."

She punctuates her sentence by finishing the rest of her drink.

Hey, you can't fault him for wanting to jump back into the loop of and old, cyclical argument. He'll leave it for now. Besides, he's more interested in the way she gulped that drink. If she had been a marathon runner, she may as well have just thrown it into her own face. He scoops the olive out of his own glass with a pinkie.

"Bob and I are getting together for cards later this week." He says it casually, though he's aware that he's name dropping. "I could cut you in if you promise to hold your end up."

His words take a little longer to reach her ears after he utters them. She blames it on the alcohol's quick effect, because Bar apparently seems to make her drinks somewhat stronger than most places.

"You want me to play cards with you and the mayor," Beckett says, dead-pan. "In exchange for giving you a gun? That's insane."

"Nuh-uh. Gun's an accessory at this point. It's a fifty dollar buy-in. What I'm talking about now is straight cards. Me, you, the mayor, the DA, a couple of high ranking federal judges. You get in there --" he aims his finger at her, like he's siting down the barrel of a gun "-- you could get those new Kevlar vests your department so desperately need."

"Subject myself to a few hours of cards in exchange for vests?" She frowns in thought. "You're cutting a deal for what, exactly? That can't be all there is to it. There's something in it for you, too, otherwise you wouldn't have extended the invitation."

Pausing, Beckett nudges her nearly empty glass to the side.

"Besides, I think the mayor knows enough details about me already."

Castle looks affronted by the suggestion that he's been playing dress-up and braiding the mayor's hair in his off-time. "I didn't tell him anything that wasn't entirely factual," he rebuts. "Just that you were one heck of a cop, that your department needed more funding that it was getting, and that you would look absolutely dynamite in a Kevlar vest that, you know, protected your internal organs like it was supposed to."

He pops a ripe olive between his lips and offers her a congenial smile.

Another brief internal debate, and Beckett finally acquiesces with a jerk of her head.

"Alright, I'm in. But I'm still not convinced there isn't some catch attached to this."

He shakes his head. "No catch, no strings. Just cards. You can handle a friendly card game, right, detective?"