This just came to me while I was vacuuming this morning. Then got sucked into writing it down. I have a few other ideas that could go with this but I am unsure how to connect them so for the moment this is one-shot and complete.
"Aren't there laws against this kind of torture?" Richard Castle whined from his chair beside the desk of NYPD detective, Kate Beckett.
Beckett glanced at him over the book she hadn't looked up from in the last 20 minutes. Being allowed to read while on-duty was one of the perks of being one of the Captain's favourites. Not that he would ever admit it. She arched an eyebrow at the author, silently asking him what on earth he was on about this time.
"This is police brutality. It's a disgrace."
Sighing, she placed her book on her desk, carefully noting the page despite the fact she had already put a bookmark in.
"What is your problem this time, Castle?"
"Do you have any idea what it is like having to watch your muse...," Beckett raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to convey a threat with the subtle gesture," uh, I mean, inspiration... be completely wrapped in one of your competitors novels?"
He glared at the capitalised letters emblazoned on the cover of the discarded book.
Patterson, he thought scathingly. Beckett smirked at his obvious jealousy.
"Well, this is actually quite a good book. He has that certain something that makes a really good story-teller. I've lost count of the times I've read this. I've got most of his other books at home." She was enjoying watching his little-boy pout.
"Well, I can't stand it any longer. I need coffee. You want some? I'm going out to that really good place on the way here..."
She silently nodded, reaching again for the book. She had her nose buried back in its pages before he had even made it out of the bull-pen, he noticed. He knew it shouldn't bother him that much but the heavily worn dust-jacket was getting to him. He knew how well Beckett looked after her books so it was a true testament to how much she liked the book. He sighed as the elevator doors closed, obscuring his view of the detective and her novel.
Beckett remained at her desk watching Castle stalk out of the precinct in a huff from the corner of her eye. Once he was out of sight, she closed the book momentarily to glance at the cover of the book that had so riled Castle. She had barely been able to contain her glee throughout his little tantrum.
It had been a stroke of genius to hide her favourite Derrick Storm novel in the dust-jacket of one of Patterson's bestsellers.