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 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.

This is new. Beckett was never usually interested in his process -- or in anything about him, as a matter of fact. The only thing he can think is that he's getting to her. Somehow. And hell, at this point, anything is interesting. "Oh, don't worry about me," he says idly, "I know how to finish on time."

At the very least, she's feigning interest so she can find out exactly what details he's planning to include about her - or Nikki Heat, if he's still keeping that name. Just the sound of it makes her cringe. "Late-night espresso shots?"

He shoves his cheek against his hand and rests his elbow on the bar. "Or a little mood music," he says.

"So tell me," Beckett replies, leaning against the bar as sleepiness starts to set in, "what does the famous Rick Castle listen to to get the creative juices flowing?"

If this were any other woman -- and any other bar not teetering wildly at the edge of the universe -- Castle would take that as an unmistakable cue. Why don't you come back to my apartment and see for yourself? would be the classic rejoinder and, nine times out of ten, Castle would go home with company. It just didn't seem to work here.

"Bob Dylan," he answers, "this last century's greatest lyrical poet." He scrubs his thumbs around the edge of his espresso cup, considering. Beckett looked about ready to fall over. He nudged her gently with his elbow. "Is this the part when you tell me 'you did good today, kid; but don't get cocky'?"

And Beckett wouldn't fall for any of those classic responses, anyway. Not when her feet were crying out for some kind of freedom from her impossibly high heels and her face was itching to get scrubbed clean of any remaining makeup.

"Something like that," she replies, rising from her seat with slight effort. "If my brain wasn't fading fast, anyway."

"Gonna' have to tell me what it's like to run in those," he says, dropping a glance to her impressively tall shoes, "it might come in handy for Nikki Heat later on."

"It's uncomfortable," Beckett confesses, sleepiness making her upfront and honest, "but you push through the pain."

Castle smiles and glances over his shoulder to the stairs. "You gonna' be okay?"

"Well, the door hasn't come back yet," she says, "so I think I'll just get a room for the night."

At the very least, it'll give her somewhere to put up her feet for a few hours.

"Hit it hard again tomorrow?" he asks.

"You know me," she answers, reaching down with one hand to pull off both shoes, letting them dangle from a few fingers.

"Bright and early."

"Bright and early," he repeats. "'Night, detective."

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