Standalone: Hella Bar Talk
Title: Hella Bar Talk
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot/Castle crossover
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, Beckett, Castle, Ryan, Esposito
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2200
Summary: A drunk, a crime novelist, and a doctor walk into a precinct...
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Notes: Yes, the title is totally snatched from a song off the 2009 movie soundtrack.
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“Come on,” a con whined limply, dangling between Ryan and Esposito as they hauled him unceremoniously towards the interview three.
“Can’t go in there,” Beckett called without so much as a blink at the board, tapping her pen against the top of her lip. “Rooms are full up. Just bring him here, for now.”
Philtrum, Castle identified absently, bouncing on his heels with as much patience as he could muster. “Is that the guy? He looks awful pretty to be a thug. I thought Russian were mean-looking.”
“That’s not the guy,” Beckett rolled her eyes. “That’s the guy who might have seen our guy, except he’s apparently had one too many tonight, so instead of answering questions, he fell over, knocked out som drinks, and nearly started a bar fight, so Ryan and Esposito decided to haul him in on a drunken disorderly and wait till he was nice and hung over to have a chat.”
“Drunk?” Pretty Boy squawked, waving at himself as best he could with both arms hiked up by Ryan and Eposito to keep him vertical. “This isn’t drunk. This is - this is… uuuuh,” he flopped his head back, knees buckling as he lost his balance, but it didn’t seem to bother the guys as they trundled him forward towards Castle’s chair. “Ok,” He admitted, feet failing to keep up with the ride, “I’m a little drunken.”
Rick frowned. His spot was going to smell like boozer for a week. That was only fun when he got to be the lush.
“Hey, hey,” the guy objected, trying to shrug off their hands as they finally reached the seat. “I can do it. See?” He stood tall with an ominous sway. “I’m super.”
“Yeah,” Beckett drawled, “Very impressive. We’re all impressed. In fact, we’re so impressed, we’re going to get you some water and handcuff you to that chair until you can see straight, Mr. Kirk, and then we’re going to ask you a few questions.”
Castle always had a weakness for puppies, and for a solid mass of manly muscle, this guy was hands down the cutest drunken Castle had ever seen without boobs. Rick kinda wanted to tickle his nose and play peekaboo. If he scratched his ears, would the guy roll over?
“Can’t,” the guy started, “we just do one or the other? I mean, I like handcuffs. A lot. Like, a lot, a lot. And you,” he gestured appreciatively at Beckett, then paused and added Esposito, “and you, look like you know how to use them.” He squinted suspiciously at Castle, “Not you. You’d use those tiger stripe ones with the fake fur that make me break out in hives.”
Scowling, Castle was suddenly far less charmed.
“He’s not allowed to handcuff me,” the guy insisted to Ryan. He pointed at Castle with surprising accuracy, “You’re not allowed to handcuff me.”
“He’s not handcuffing you,” Beckett assured him in her secretly amused and utterly unsympathetic way, which was totally unfair, because Castle was a master handcuffer and this joker was totally ruining his handcuff cred. “I am.”
“Oh,” Rick perked up, “Me too?”
“Sure,” Kate gave him a bright, lascivious smile. “Ryan, handcuff Castle.”
“Whoa, hey!” Rick held up his hands, “That’s cheating! What - Hey, kidding, Ryan. Kidding! She doesn’t - Kate!”
She simply crossed her arms and smirked, “what’s wrong, Castle? Performance anxiety?”
He jerked the cuff hooked to his chair and scowled at Ryan, utterly betrayed. “This is about the salt in your soda, isn’t it?”
“Nah, man.” Ryan shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
“No,” Eposito agreed. “It’s about the garbage.”
“How was I supposed to know she’d pull a Jekyll and Hyde!” Castle defended himself, “Mrs. Henners was such a nice little old lady.”
“It smelled like cat pee.”
“Well,” he shrugged, “when you own thirteen cats, that happens. It’s not my fault she thought you were rapists.”
“Yes, it is.” They chorused, stepping aside as Kate grabbed a box of tissue and held it out for their guest. “Clean yourself up, you’ve got puke on your shirt.”
“Ugh,” Ryan exclaimed, checking his clothes frantically, “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”
“Castle,” Kate returned to the important conversation since the drunk was obeying her with an uncoordinated good will, “that’s what happens when you tell an eighty-seven year old woman bad men have been crawling in windows during broad daylight.”
“I didn’t say windows.”
“Castle.” She pinned him with a flat stare.
He caved, “Fine. Fine, ok. It might, maybe, a little,” he held up his thumb and pointer finger close together, a sliver of air between them, “just a smidge, if you look at the facts from a certain perspective, have been my fault. Maybe.”
“Thanks,” Esposito snapped sarcastically.
Rick beamed, “Great!” He rattled his cuff, “Let me loose?”
“Oh, hey,” drunk guy said happily, as if he just remembered, “mind if I call my doctor?”
“Why,” Beckett asked, folding her arms. “Need to stock up on your favorite substance?”
“Oh, man,” pretty drunk groaned suggestively, sprawling wide, “he seriously has the best shit, you have no idea. But no. See, I’m bleeding,” He waved his left hand at them, covered in a piled of napkins and a pair of rubber bands, “and he’s gonna be totally pissed when he gets back from the car and I’m not there, because I’m pretty sure these napkins have peanuts on them ‘cause my hand is starting to itch like a bitch and I really hate hives.”
Huh, his hand did look a little on the blotchy side. “Is there anything that doesn’t give you hives,” Castle asked.
“And,” the guy continued, ignoring him, “if you’re looking for that mobster with the scar down the right side of his face, Bones totally knows, uh… I dunno. Something. Bones,” He tapped his temple with a squinty-eyed nod. “Bones is smart.”
“Bones,” Kate repeated. “Quite a street name he’s got there. How’d he know about this guy?”
“Oh, ya know. He knows things.” Kirk gave a shrug, “And Chuckles was at Club Vetro last week when I was trying to pick up this really, really hot Russian model - who was totally into it, except then Scarface came up and was about ready to stab me with that little Swiss army knife he kept in his underwear as a dick replacement. Except Bones came in with this face,” he curled his nose and furrowed his brow in exaggerated displeasure, “’Damnit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a babysitter!’, he said, and totally started railing at the guy and I don’t really remember much because he started cussing back there were a few comments about scalpels and castration and spending years learning how to deal with pompous assholes with anger management problems and it got all loud and - Bones!” He crowed suddenly, “You came.”
“What in the hells have you done now,” Boomed an angry southern drawl, and all of them turned and craned their heads towards the elevator as a scowling - really, the face made a lot more sense now, Rick decided, and gave the drunk props for impersonations - man with dark hair and firm features stormed across the squad room.
“Hi,” drunk beamed. “I missed you.”
“What did he do?” the man asked Beckett with grudging respect, as if he wasn’t used to treating others like they had two brain cells to rub together.
Beckett sighed, “Other than killing his liver? Nothing. We’re keeping him here until he sobers up and can give us a witness statement on Ivan Fatcheva.”
“Why,” the drunk forward and smooshed his face into the side of his friend’s thigh, “are the Russians always named ‘Ivan’?”
“Jim,” He sighed and cast his eyes heavenwards before he reached out and set his hand on the drunk’s golden blond hair. “Just sit a second, alright, and let me figure this out.”
Jim frowned thoughtfully, “Pavel’s not Ivan.”
Giving Jim an extra pat on the head, Bones - Really, Bones? - pushed him away and talked to Beckett, “Big guy, between 6’3’’ and 6’5’’, keeps a pretty black market surgeon on his arm who calls herself a model?”
Jim jerked his head up from its lazy loll and gasped, “She was a doctor?” He paused. “No wonder I liked her.” He turned to Rick and said solemnly. “I like doctors. They have nice butts. See?” He reached out and grabbed the grouchy one’s rear. “Nice butt!”
“Jim,” Grouchy grabbed his hand with a lot less offense and far more resignation than Rick expected out of a guy raised in the bible belt and tugged it away, “What have I told you about - Holy hells, what did you do to your hand?” he jerked Jim’s hand up and pulled off the rubber bands, taking in the gashed, swelling, rash-covered mess with mild medical horror.
Castle had to admit it looked much worse without the napkins.
“I don’t really remember,” Jim shrugged, “But I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“This,” Bones jabbed the center of his palm viciously, at the epicenter of a slice and dice explosion, “I remember. I’m not talking about this.” He jabbed it again.
“Oh!” Jim smiled, “Good. What happened?”
Bones rolled his eyes and snapped, “You were doing your damn balancing trick again.”
“Vodka, scotch, or tequila?”
“Vodka. Cheap, disgusting, vodka, now will you shut up and let me finish so I can figure out how you managed to develop a case of hives that’ll leave you peeling for a week?”
“Only if you finish telling the story,” Jim pouted. “Bones tells the best stories. Sometimes, he uses voices. Except whenever he does my voice, it’s never quite right.” He looked his friend straight in the eyes and whispered loudly, “Bones, your voices aren’t very good.”
“Thank you, Jim, but I think falsetto suits you just right. You almost dropped the shot glass before it got anywhere near your forehead and you thought you were such a hard ass for catching it that you slammed it on the table and broke it.”
“Oh,” Jim grumbled disappointedly. “Are you sure it wasn’t a bar fight?”
“I’m sure,” Bones snapped, yanking his hand up ruthlessly and started picking out bits of glass and soggy napkin.
“Really?” Jim pressed hopefully, “Because you know how I am with bar fights. I really think a bar fight would sound cooler. Can you think really hard and see if you forgot my bar fight?”
“Jim, if you don’t shut your flap, I’m gonna take these damned things and jam them down your throat,” He waved the napkins threateningly, “And then we’ll see how damn allergic you are to,” he gave them a sharp whiff, “peanuts.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Beckett cut in, realizing the pair of them could go on all night, “But you were telling us about Mr. Fatcheva?”
“43rd and Grande - not the main street, the little slice on the west side, near the warehouses,” Bones rattled off. He stopped picking at Jim’s hand and gave it a firm tug as he stared hard, “Don’t move.”
“Sure thing,” Jim smiled.
Fishing in his pockets, Bones pulled out a tattered slip of paper. “It’s all on there.”
Beckett’s eyes lit up with investigative wonder. “Where did you get this,” She demanded.
“Jim fished it out of his pocked last night after the goon got snippy over his girlfriend,” Bones frowned over his shoulder, but Jim just wiggled his outstretched fingers in greeting. “Man can’t keep his nose clean for five minutes, I swear.”
“My nose is clean,” Jim insisted. “You cleaned it this morning. Remember, you used the loofah.”
Rick’s eyebrows shot up. Oh. It was like that, huh? But what about the girlfriend, then. If…
“Uh,” Esposito started, but a sharp look from Kate kept him and Ryan from pushing. In the name of teamwork and eventually getting himself uncuffed, Rick kept his mouth shut, too. For now.
“I can’t let you go until we check this out,” Kate said, “I hope you realize that.”
Bones sighed and shook his head resignly, “Of course you can’t.”
“We can get you something to drink, if you’d like, Mr…?”
“Doctor,” He held out his hand, “Doctor McCoy. And I need my bag, if you don’t mind. He may not look like it, but peanuts’ll have him itchin all over in an hour or so and he’s hell to deal with when he’s whining.”
Kate’s face clearly said she couldn’t imagine Jim being much worse than he already was.
“Why would you say that,” Jim mourned, “Sometimes, I don’t think you love me anymore.”
“Jim, it is three in the morning, I have shift in five hours, and I’m spending the night in prison because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
“Yeah,” Jim sulked, “But you didn’t even say ‘hello’.”
“Is he always like this?” Ryan finally broke down and asked.
“No,” Doctor McCoy grunted. “Just wait till he’s sober. Then he’s bad.”
“Oh, good.” Rick grinned. “Hey, Beckett, think he’s worse than me? I think he’s worse than me. You should appreciate that.” He clanked his cuff against the chair. “Can I have a reward?”
“Castle,” Kate sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Shut up.”