Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
"Research, my ass. I'll bet it's research, you tramp. You collagen-lipped celluloid slut." Kate Beckett is talking to herself, but not about herself. No, she's addressing the absent Natalie Rhodes, the ersatz Nikki Heat, and she is steamed, really, really steamed. Might say hot under the collar, if she weren't wearing a faded, collarless, oversized T shirt that hangs off her like a king-sized pillowcase on a tiny scatter cushion. "Bet you never got a job without getting naked first, Natalie. Which probably isn't even your name. You probably changed it from something god-awful. I can do research. I'll find out, don't think I can't, and I'll start calling you that. Bertha. Brünnhilde. Mildred. Whatever."
It has been three hours since Natalie Rhodes and Castle left the precinct for the day. Beckett had gone home soon after, to her empty apartment. She stripped out of her work clothes, put on the T shirt and an old pair of shorts, and began maniacally cleaning. She has already rendered the bathroom and kitchen antiseptic enough for open-heart surgery. She's thinking, as she gets ready to do the laundry, that surgery is exactly what she'd like to perform on Natalie Rhodes, minus the anesthesia. "Maybe just human sacrifice, like the Aztecs. I'll cut open her chest and tear her heart out," she says with a certain amount of glee.
Beckett opens the hamper and begins to unleash her rage on the blameless washing machine, furiously stuffing two weeks' worth of towels and exercise clothes inside. "You couldn't even wait for the fucking elevator doors to close?" she asks, slamming down a 64-ounce bottle of detergent and turning a control knob so forcefully that it almost breaks off in her hand. "You were all over him like some cheap massage oil. And Castle? You were disgusting, drooling into her mouth. God. I know exactly what you're up to now, fanboy, in her hotel room. Did you order room service yet? Did you do her yet?"
She puts her hand on top of the machine as if willing it to answer her. "Was she muse enough for you? I bet she's never read a book in her life. No, she's been too fucking busy and too busy fucking." Beckett is surprised to hear herself chuckle. "Hey, Castle, I'm together enough to quote Dorothy Parker on the spot. Think Natalie even knows who Dorothy Parker is? Was. Shit." She slides to the floor and begins a morose assessment of her life, especially her love life. Yeah, she has Josh, except that he's never around, so what's the point? He may be great eye candy, but he's a lousy conversationalist and he's only okay in bed. He's always so clinical, a little too doctor-y, and not in the fun sense, the let's-play-doctor sense. She's well aware that he's just a place holder, anyway. Until she gets the nerve to go after the real thing.
Feeling her shorts pocket vibrate, she pulls out her phone. Well, well, speak of the real thing: it's Castle. She glares at the little icon on the screen, declines the call and puts the phone back in her pocket. "Fuck if I'm talking to you, bud. You can keep cuddling with your star-lette. Bertha. Brünnhilde. Mildred." Maybe a drink would lift her spirits, so what if alcohol is a depressant. She's already depressed, and pissed. She gets to her feet and goes to the kitchen in search of a bottle of wine. Aha, here it is, a really nice baby cabernet. Thirty minutes and one alarmingly clean window later, she pours a glass and goes to transfer the laundry to the dryer. The stuff is heavy, so she puts the machine on the mega-strength cycle.
When the phone buzzes a second time, she almost rips it out of her pocket; it's Castle again. She jams her index finger on Decline Call, growls and puts her head on top of the dryer. Hmm. Feels good. She adds her forearms. Mmmm, better. She presses her whole upper torso on top of the pulsating machine. Oooooohhh. This could be an out-of-body experience. She pulls herself up and sits, spread-eagled and tipping forward, on top of the dryer. God, this is sensational. Better than Josh, much better. Her entire body is getting flushed. This machine is incredible, but it needs a little help. Maybe just a finger or two. "I hate you, Natalie Rhodes."
Castle is standing outside Beckett's door. She refused two calls. She's ticked off at him. He wants to apologize for being such a jerk about Natalie Rhodes, he really does. He had left her at her hotel lobby and said goodnight. Went to a bar for a good stiff drink to give himself the courage to face An Angry Beckett. He knocks. Nothing. Knocks again. Still nothing. He's getting a little worried. Puts his ear slap up against the door. Is that moaning? Is she moaning? Is she hurt?
This is an emergency. After Beckett's previous apartment had blown up and she moved here, she had given him a key in case of an emergency, and this is it. He can hear her. There's no doorman to vet visitors here, no security at all. Yeah, okay, so that's how he got upstairs. Still, she might have been battered and bloodied by an intruder. Left on the floor. Castle takes the key and quietly unlocks the door. He steals in and tries to locate the sound of her voice, her moaning. It's coming from her laundry space. He tiptoes through the kitchen and comes quietly around the corner. It's a vision, some unexpected godly gift. There, sitting on the top of her dryer, is Beckett, her hand in her panties, wearing the most blissful expression he has ever seen. And the only other thing she's wearing, over her braless breasts, is—his T shirt?
"Beckett?"
Kate's eyes fly open.
"Beckett? Are you getting off on the dryer?"
She's so startled that she virtually flies off the machine and lands, hard, on the floor at his feet.
TBC