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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As much as she loathes to admit it, she can be difficult to communicate with when she's in one of her moods, and most of the time, she'd rather be firing off a gun at an unmoving target than actually making an attempt to talk out her feelings. It's the way she's wired, she makes no move to apologize for it. But something tells her that Castle doesn't mind that quirk in her.

"It was an opportunity to scope out a subject, not a ballroom dancing competition," she answers. "I wasn't aware I was being judged."

"What, are you kidding me? The women in that room were rating you on technique, presentation, creativity and relative threat level. Trust me, you were being judged." He tames his smirk, turning it into a halfway smile. "Don't worry. I'll give you some pointers before the next big charity ball."

"The next charity ball," Beckett echoes, already sounding skeptical. "As much as I enjoyed watching you get bid on like a slab of meat, I think that's going to be the last ball I go to for a long, long time."

"So what do you do when you're not enforcing the force?" he asks.

"I do lots of things," Beckett explains. "I read. I go to the shooting range. I... go out every now and then."

Ah. The 'every now and then' was the clincher. Castle saw Beckett as the kind of person who was fully committed to her work -- even when she wasn't at work. He guessed that she'd spent more of her fair share of weekends at her desk at the precinct, filling out paperwork or shuffling through cold cases. She was obsessed with order, a slave to the law, and a patron of old memories she couldn't escape.

Hey, I should write that down.

"And do what?" he asks, rescuing a flock of orphan olives from the tray that Bar has been so kind to provide.

It's difficult for her to lie about having multiple hobbies outside work when most of her weekends actually consist of working. Aside from that, Castle's figured out how to read her in an almost frighteningly accurate manner. It's difficult to pull any kind of wool over his eyes.

"I have a drink or two with Lanie when our schedules match up," Beckett answers.

"The M.E.?" he asks. "I like her, she's nice. Pretty hardboiled. I mean, how do you get into a career like that, anyway? You're going around the Career Day fair in high school and all of a sudden," he sits back, as if stuck by an epiphany, "I think I'll visit the medical examiner's booth. They sure do have the keenest candy."

He levels his hand. "But, you know, to each his own. You could say a lot about people who go into law enforcement." He claims his drink and holds the trim of the glass against his lips, tucking his eyebrows up toward his hairline, "or the entertainment industry."

"That's not exactly how it works," Beckett counters, before she recognizes the fact that he's pulling her leg. Outside of work, Lanie's the closest thing she has to a friend, and she doesn't admit to having many friends to begin with. It's just the way she is.

"Entertainment industry. That's what you call it these days?"

"I provide a service," he says seriously, setting down his glass.

"In return for money. What an interesting comparison," Beckett answers, smirking.

He levels a finger at her, smirking widely. "Hey, with the humour. That's good."

She grins, feeling encouraged by the positive comment. "You going to write it down?"

"I might," he says, rubbing his knuckles beneath his chin. Two dry martinis wasn't enough to make Rick Castle tipsy, but he's definitely gotten to a comfortable place. And that dress looks amazing on her when she leans forward, smiles, and shakes her dark hair out.

She happens to glance over during this brief stare and frowns slightly, completely oblivious to the fact that her current attire is the reason for the stare in the first place. "What?"

Castle shakes his head. He knows how Beckett is about compliments. Like Cadbury Cream Eggs, she can probably only handle one per season. "Nothing," he says, tiptoeing his tongue around the edge of his glass.

A secret fan of Easter candy, Beckett probably would've appreciated the comparison if he had voiced it out loud. As it is, she can only shake her head at his dismissal and return her attention to the rest of her drink, finishing it with a few slow sips.

He notices and pulls his elbows away from the bar. "Throwing in the towel?" he asks, nodding at her glass. He'd kind of hoped that she'd stick around and have another one with him. Or, at least a coffee. Bar was brewing something Moroccan today. He'd smelled it when he came in.

"If I'm drinking something else, it's not going to be vodka," Beckett informs him. "Early work day tomorrow, and I can't afford to be hungover."

"Coffee, then." A moment later, in a much more polite tone: "Decaf for the detective." A fresh cup and saucer appears at her elbow. Castle repeats his request, except this time he requests his poison in one of those ubiquitous little espresso cups. Hey, he's been called worse things than 'pretentious.'

He taps the edge of his coffee against hers. "To catching a perp," he says, aware of his tawdry use of the term, "and to looking damn fine doing it."

The politeness is appreciated, and she murmurs a thanks for the order of coffee. Just as she's about to lift it to her lips, Castle leans over to set up an impromptu toast. She lifts it then, letting the cups clink together softly.

"I guess I can toast to that," Beckett agrees, eyeing him over the rim as she sips the decaffeinated liquid slowly.

Castle loads his espresso and takes it like a shot. He works his lips around the gritty texture. "Hmnh," he mumbles, uncommitted. He puts the cup on the bar and asks for another. "Might as well get some writing in tonight," he says, in explanation of the caffeine boost.

Beckett watches the proceedings with interest, wincing slightly when he downs the espresso all at once. She's had some late nights recently, too, most of them fueled by the espresso machine provided by Castle himself - though all of her cups were acquired through some manner of sneakiness.

"Feeling inspired, Castle?"

"Can't let it get away from me," he says, giving her a sly smirk.

"How far along are you in the process?" she asks.