A/N: A short drabble based on 1x01, off of something Castle says just in passing a few times.
Apples had always been his favorite. Apples and anything to do with them—applesauce, apple juice, apple cider, apple pie, turnovers, strudels, fritters, martinis, you name it, he ate it.
Apples were cheap and affordable when he was small and his mother's acting career was non-existent and her waitressing job barely covered the bills. Peeled and sliced apples were his traditional after-school snack, complete with peanut butter when they could afford it. For a while they'd had an apple peeler that created wonderful spirals with the red skin. His mother could get all of it off in one long spiral—she'd been so angry one day when he'd gone through an entire bag of apples trying to accomplish the same thing. He'd been grounded for the next month, but he'd accomplished his goal and the applesauce he helped her make out of the failed specimens had lasted them the entirety of his imprisonment. The last, successful, perfect spiral had been secretly on display in his closet until it was rotted and brown and his mother discovered it and threw it away.
Apple juice had been his go-to drink in the college cafeteria, and apple martinis out of it. Meredith had ordered one at the dinner party where they met. Gina hated apples—he'd found out early on, but it never seemed to matter. Not until everything did, and then it was just one more thing to fight about. He still marveled at how many ways apples could provoke anger in his ex-wife.
Alexis loved the story of Snow White. At one point, he felt sure he could have sung all the songs if only his falsetto could hold out that long. At first he'd been mildly appalled by the use of the apple to poison the heroine, but eventually he became intrigued in the artistry of it. The use of beauty to disguise evil. Death hidden in life-sustaining nourishment. Once, many years past the fairy-tale stage, he'd found a book in Alexis's room and been struck by the image on the front—pale hands cradling the ruby-red fruit. He'd read it cover-to-cover before realizing it was a sappy teen romance—maybe not so far past the fairy-tale stage?—but still, the imagery stayed with him. Like the story of Adam and Eve, which he remembered from his brief childhood stint in Sunday school. The poisoned apple, the temptation, the desire, the fall from which no one had ever truly recovered.
It was why it hadn't taken long for him to recognize Kate Beckett for what she was—his own personal poisoned apple, a fall from which he knew he'd never arise.
The funny thing was—he never for one second wanted to.