To a sweet, intelligent girl who fills my life with flailing over Katharine Hepburn, Once Upon a Time (even though I still don't like Regina), and all sorts of science-y love. To my Canadian other half. Happy Birthday, Em!
It's not an unusual sight for him to walk in on. She's curled up on the couch in her pajamas, fuzzy purple and blue striped socks peeking out from the bottom of her yoga pants, the too-large sweatshirt hanging off her shoulder. Her hair is falling out of the messy bun, strands tickling her neck. And, as always, there's a book propped up on her thighs. Typical day off position for her.
"What're we reading today?" he asks, nudging her feet over on the cushions so he can sit.
She tips the book up so he can see the cover. He makes a face. "What?"
"Neuroscience? Really, Beckett?" She kicks at him, her toes digging into his side, her attention already back to the book. "Do I need to write the next book faster? You that bored?"
"You jealous that I'm reading something other than your stuff?" She's not looking up, fingers ready to turn the page of the book, but she knows he's scowling.
He flops onto the cushions, crushing her knees against the back of the couch. "No, but neuroscience? That's your idea of fun reading?"
"Yeah, it is," she says, glancing at him over the top of the book. "Now shush."
Castle's quiet for all of thirty seconds before he leans down, pressing her into the cushions as he wiggles into the space between her and the couch. "But why? Why stuff about the brain?"
She sighs, closing her book on her finger to keep her place. "Because it's cool."
"How?"
"It doesn't feel pain," she starts, shifting as he gets comfortable half-draped over her. "When you laugh, five different parts of your brain have to work. The slowest speed the brain processes information is 260 miles per hour. It still works when you sleep even though you probably don't remember what you think of when you're asleep. And women are better at reading facial expressions then men."
"Which explains why you're so much better at interrogations than Ryan or Esposito," he adds with a smile.
"They've got their own strengths," she says. "But see? The brain's cool."
"What does that book say about the brain and sex?"
She huffs, shoving at his chest even as he sneaks his fingers underneath her sweatshirt. "It says that you're not getting any if you don't leave me alone for the next half hour."
"The brain is lame," he declares, rolling off the couch.
Except a week later, the book is on his bedside table and he's the one who won't shut up about all the cool things he's learning and she's regretting ever reading the book in front of him.
Because suddenly, the brain is cool again.