[ case closed ]
"The ex-wife in the office with the fire ants," Beckett murmurs, juggling the ring of keys in her palm until she singles out the one she's looking for and slides it into the lock on her apartment's front door
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It certainly wasn't one of the simplest cases they'd ever worked together (or that Castle has ever cooked up over a glass of Scotch and a MacBook Pro), but when it came down to it, the reason for all crimes could be reduced to three motives: greed, jealousy, and deranged ex-wives. Once you broke through the clutter, the heart of crime really wasn't that complicated. Aside from the shopping bags, Anne Gordon's second biggest mistake had been leaving an IP trail behind her when she ordered the ants over the Internet. From there, the ant hill of damning evidence had built up into a mountain.
Castle's pretty pleased with himself, and understandably so.
He takes half a second to consider her offer -- "Why not?" -- and threads his scarf through his collar. "I've got to figure out a way to work this into a book. Truth is stranger than fiction." He runs his hands over his arms, chasing down a thousand invisible insects. It's been a habit with this case ( ... )
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It certainly hadn't been the lightest paper trail they'd ever had to deal with, but it was definitely going to rise in the ranks on the list of the "freaky cases", as Esposito liked to call them. At any rate, Beckett's just glad to have another case tucked away in the closed column and maybe a full night of some actual sleeping. She whistles softly as she pulls two beers out of the fridge and then uses the bottle opener magnet to tug off the caps. Castle's is handed to him while Beckett takes a swig from hers, plopping down onto her couch and prying her feet out of her boots.
"I'm going to be scratching at invisible ants for at least another week, I just know it," she murmurs, reaching behind herself and between her shoulderblades to scratch before she realizes what she's doing and forces herself to stop.
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He drops his hand back to his beer and plugs his mouth with the neck of the bottle. 'Wipes the foam off his upper lip and stretches his legs out beneath the coffee table.
Sometimes it follows you home, he thinks.
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"What's the weirdest thing you've ever received through your fanmail?" Beckett asks.
Even during their first case together, when they'd sorted through letters and drawings, she remembers seeing some pretty odd tokens of affection. But she's also sure that nothing can compare to years of what Castle and his agent have had to filter through.
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He muses on her question, the corners of his mouth pulled tight. He's gotten a lot of interesting correspondence over the years, some of which made it into a "Freaky Deaky Scrapbook" that his agent keeps for good measure.
"Most of it's pretty tame. Predictable. You get the nutjobs who send in their underwear every once in a while and I've gotten a couple of marriage proposals but," he strokes his chin thoughtfully, "I guess the weirdest thing I ever got was after I'd done the wrap for A Skull At Springtime. I got home from a signing and there was this huge crate waiting for me outside the apartment. Someone'd sent me a full-size human skeleton -- you know, the kind they use in anatomy classes? -- and a couple dozen packets of spring annuals. I gave the skeleton to a community ( ... )
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"That's not weird, that's just downright creepy." Beckett's almost tempted to shiver at the thought, and then her mind starts to lead her in the direction of who the skeleton had originally been, and she's back in those thoughts of murder and the macabre that only Castle seems to bring along with him wherever he goes. Maybe she can't make him the scapegoat entirely. Murder seems to be a part of her life no matter how hard she tries to leave it back at the precinct at the end of the day.
Lost in her thoughts, she proceeds to go through the motions of sipping from her beer again.
"How about most thoughtful gift from a fan?"
Because while there are the crazies, there are the (relatively) normal ones. Like Beckett.
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His thumb rounds the curve of the bottle in his hand. 'Clearer reflection of himself in the brown glass. "When you told me about your mom," he says. "And how reading me helped get you through what happened."
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She switches her bottle from one hand to the other.
"You're just saying that."
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"No, I mean it. I write fiction. I deal in fiction. Most of the time, half of what people are telling me is what they think I want to hear. When you told me about your mother, that was a truth." He turns his eyes to her, remarkably serious for a guy who just helped crack a case where "ants in the pants" was the final nail in the coffin. "I appreciate things like that."
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She smiles, leaning over to rest her head along his shoulder, and then sighs, another level of tension disappearing.
"I think I'll sleep better tonight knowing that everything's been wrapped up."
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"You know what else would help you sleep better tonight..."
He's staring into the middle distance when he says it but, by god, his smirk is a thousand decibels and she's sure to hear it.
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It's comfortable here, just resting, and her cheek shifts against his shoulder as her free hand slides along the top of his thigh before it comest to rest with her fingertips dangling over his kneecap.
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"Sure you were."
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That may also be attributed to the fact that her radiator, which had barely been pumping out heat last week, is now supplying the room with a steady stream of it. Beckett feels her cheeks flush with warmth.
"Think I'm gonna go change."
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