It's a mental trick, actually, and something he uses when he's writing. See a face, attach a memory to it like a sticky note. Castle's got a brain full of sticky notes, with details about his doorman, to the guy who launders his shirts, to Beckett (Beckett's got a whole filing cabinet of notes), to the night guard at the 12th.
"Hey, Donovan. How's the baby? Still teething? Sorry to hear. You'll remember what 'normal' sleep is, eventually. Is Detective Beckett upstairs?"
The elevator is slow and its floor bears the stains of a thousand bumped cups of coffee from over the last twenty years. Even though the precinct has gone through some fairly modern renovations (thanks to a generous donation from the good people of New York City), there're still remnants of a less clean, paper-trailing age stuck to the floors.
This place has got a lot of history in it. More than once, he's given serious consideration to setting one of his new books back in the '40s -- sort of a crime noir -- where a character
( ... )
Castle's arrival is announced by the shuffling sound of fine leather shoes against the tile floor. It's not that Beckett's listening for stray noises, but she has learned to lean more on the side of caution when working alone. Situational awareness. It's one of the first principles they teach you in self-defense, to size up your surroundings and make sure you're on alert even when you're mostly distracted.
His gait is telltale, too; she can hear the small heels on the back of his shoes that Esposito and Ryan wouldn't ever don themselves. The elevator doors finally ding closed a few seconds before he lowers himself into the chair, and her gaze briefly flicks to his face, the pen in her hand threading through the fingers of her right hand. Another minute passes before she sets the pen down in favor of her coffee cup, cradling it in both hands and shifting her weight in her desk chair.
He's used to waiting for her -- Beckett likes a whole, complete thought before she gives him her focus, something he suspects she learned processing guys much less reputable than himself -- and so he's pulled his scarf from the collar of his coat and read her desk calendar affirmation (twice) by the time she gets around to him.
"Someone's cranky." He leans forward, chair whining, to scan the paperwork. How Beckett manages to put up with the seemingly endless minutia of her job is beyond him; he can barely stay engaged with a ballgame if he's not at the park.
Beckett sighs against the rim of her coffee mug, taking the time to sip from it before she lowers it down and sets it to one side, leaning forward while her fingers take up residence pressing against her temple.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. It's just - I didn't exactly think watching me file would be that great for writing fodder."
Comments 200
It's a mental trick, actually, and something he uses when he's writing. See a face, attach a memory to it like a sticky note. Castle's got a brain full of sticky notes, with details about his doorman, to the guy who launders his shirts, to Beckett (Beckett's got a whole filing cabinet of notes), to the night guard at the 12th.
"Hey, Donovan. How's the baby? Still teething? Sorry to hear. You'll remember what 'normal' sleep is, eventually. Is Detective Beckett upstairs?"
The elevator is slow and its floor bears the stains of a thousand bumped cups of coffee from over the last twenty years. Even though the precinct has gone through some fairly modern renovations (thanks to a generous donation from the good people of New York City), there're still remnants of a less clean, paper-trailing age stuck to the floors.
This place has got a lot of history in it. More than once, he's given serious consideration to setting one of his new books back in the '40s -- sort of a crime noir -- where a character ( ... )
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His gait is telltale, too; she can hear the small heels on the back of his shoes that Esposito and Ryan wouldn't ever don themselves. The elevator doors finally ding closed a few seconds before he lowers himself into the chair, and her gaze briefly flicks to his face, the pen in her hand threading through the fingers of her right hand. Another minute passes before she sets the pen down in favor of her coffee cup, cradling it in both hands and shifting her weight in her desk chair.
"Didn't you have anything better to do tonight?"
Reply
"Someone's cranky." He leans forward, chair whining, to scan the paperwork. How Beckett manages to put up with the seemingly endless minutia of her job is beyond him; he can barely stay engaged with a ballgame if he's not at the park.
Reply
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. It's just - I didn't exactly think watching me file would be that great for writing fodder."
Reply
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