(Untitled)
The NYPD doesn't have an official gym. Not anymore, anyway. Not since the basement in the bottom of the 12th had been found to contain "unusually high levels of asbestos" and not since everybody agreed that it was probably not a good idea for New York's Finest to run on treadmills located underneath five hundred pounds of the stuff. For the last
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Castle hikes his gym bag and follows her through the chrome and glass foyer toward the elevators. As he goes, he turns a look over his shoulder. "I swear, those guys are musk oxen masquerading as government agents. Did you see the arms on some of them? I've seen hams hanging in deli windows that're smaller than that."
They board and Castle has a chance to note her appearance: fitted tanktop and aerobic pants, both conspicuously absent of an NYPD logo. She doesn't want to call attention to herself, Castle guesses. 'Just wants to look like one of the guys. She could have gone the way of the Bureau, he thinks, and imagines her heading up a team of young agents, playing with the tropes of government, maybe wining and dining in the clubs in Georgetown. Fast-track to the big leagues. Beckett as one of the brass? Maybe. He works his feet in his shoes.
"You're all sweaty," he observes, somewhat unhelpfully.
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She almost prefers to blend in here. The war of jurisdiction is on-going, and even though her working relationship with the agents she knows is mostly positive, she doesn't want any negative associations tacked on to her when all she wants to do is get through the exercising part of her day. Her gaze turns upward to the digital numbers that change every few seconds, signaling their ascent, and then switches to Castle as he refers to her current condition.
"That's usually what happens when you do enough to work up a sweat," Beckett answers, as the doors finally open and she steps through, past rows of workout equipment and weights to the mat, bordered by punching bags. She bends into another stretch, leaning forward until her fingertips make contact with her toes, and casts a glance back around her hip.
"You should stretch first."
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He drops his bag beside the wall and bounces a little on his heels. The mats've got a big of spring to them. This would be fun, especially if it was extracurricular.
"Oh, I should be okay." He waves off her suggestion. "Sprinted to the head of the line at Starbucks this morning. I'm already pretty limber."
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"Uh huh." She's almost tempted to start a bet that he'll be icing a pulled something-or-other by this time tomorrow, but she doesn't comment out loud, resting her hands on her hips.
"Want to try out a bag, Castle, or do you think you can take on a moving target?"
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Now, he's aware that she's got several advantages that he doesn't -- training, speed, and youth among them -- and that the only physical activity he gets these days is either an on-foot pursuit or, more commonly, the effort it takes to walk from his laptop to the kitchen for another beer. None of that matters now. It's a matter of pride.
He steps onto the mat, taking exaggerated steps, stretching his calves. "Don't go easy on me," he says, turning to face her and square his stance. "Whatever you dish out, I can take it."
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He doesn't want her to go easy on him. She can respect that, the fact that he really is trying to square off against her as something resembling an equal opponent. At the same time, everything she's got against everything he's got would likely land him in the hospital, and she'd feel pretty guilty if she was the cause of any major injuries. She doesn't want to hurt him, but at the same time, she's seen him take a pretty heavy punch or two without so much as a small bruise blossoming on his jaw. So maybe she's curious to see how much he can handle.
And maybe curiosity trumps potential guilt right now.
But she starts off slow, with a few jabs that he can block with relative ease.
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Even so, he's tense as a piano wire when she comes at him, throwing his elbows up to protect himself from her fists. It will take them both a minute or two to feel each other out.
"I'm sorry. Were we sparring or blowing the puff off dandelions?"
He turns around her in a tight circle, trying to keep himself as light as possible.
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Beckett quickly eases back into a defensive position, watching him closely for any signs he'll go in at her while her guard is lowered. Right now, it's a matter of matching up, like trying to figure out where to put your hands on the person you're dancing with. She fakes another hit to his left cheek and follows it up with a none-too gentle jab along his unprotected right side.
"Them's fighting words," she challenges. "Hope you can back them up."
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"Words are what I do."
He steps forward with his left foot, briging his elbow up underneath her raised hands, striking her laterally along her ribcage.
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The blow to her side is enough to cause a stumble, a break in her rhythm, but not hard enough to bruise, though her face doesn't reflect her surprise in the unexpected while she recovers. She spins, using her forearm to catch him in the shoulder, but exposes her back to him in the process. It's a risky move, but sometimes risks are necessary when it comes to this kind of thing. Besides, she's hardly anticipating that he'll know how to turn the move against her. Right?
Right.
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Her arm is pinned against her side in this reverse bear-hug he's pulled her into, toes barely touching the mat. She has one of two options: give up, or fight back. All she has to do is figure out how to pull her arm out, get free.
They've got an audience by this point - a few agents standing at the edge of the mat. Beckett's pretty sure they're making bets.
She uses all the weight she can muster to swing herself forward, jamming the heel of her foot down against his instep, and then continues to roll in that motion with the intent of flipping him over her shoulder. Her leg gets twisted between the both of his and she trips over his heel, sending them both sprawling out over the mat with Castle crushing her.
"Ow," she mutters.
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One of the sideline agents calls out -- "Alley-oop!" -- and Castle jams the point of his elbow down in front of him to avoid dropping all of his weight onto Beckett at once. He breathes hard against her shoulder blade.
"I think I busted my --" he slides his hand over his hip, brushing her ribs on the way "-- you okay?"
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Wolf whistles and catcalls reach her ears, and she ignores the momentary stab of something low in her gut, working quickly to extricate her limbs from his. When she rises to her feet, there's a certain favoring of the leg that hadn't gotten tangled between his - at worst, a twisted ankle, which she can handle.
She reaches down, putting her weight on her non-wrenched foot, to offer him a hand.
"Y'alright?"
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His shoulder's tight and sore. He puts his fingers in the joint between his arm and neck and tries to push out the kink. 'Gives Beckett an appreciative look. "That was pretty impressive. The way you --" he pantomimes heaving something forward over his shoulder "-- gotta' find a way to turn that into a narrative."
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"It's all about using the other person's weight against them," Beckett admits, her hands falling to her sides. By this point, their audience seems to have dwindled, though not without a brief exchange of bills. Beckett pointedly ignores them and steps in, towards Castle.
"Want me to show you how?" Her grin shows up in her gaze before it appears on her lips. "Or are you done?"
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