LOG : Open to fanofthegenre

[bestsellingego]

The shooting range was not at all how Castle had pictured it. In his mind, hardened beat cops with bristle mustaches stood around in pairs, comparing their pieces with one another while watching other members of their tribe blast the crap out of tin cans on a fence. He had a whole scene hashed out in his head before he even got to the range: Nikki

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[fanofthegenre]

There was an overwhelming part of Kate that was severely doubting her decision to even tell Castle about the shooting range, much less invite him to join her there. Not only that, she'd nearly broadcasted her fondness for making an appearance there on the weekends, which meant it was likely she could expected to see his smirking face greeting her there come Saturday. He'd quiz her about her childhood as she loaded her gun, or ask her about her repressed feelings as she lined up her targets. There was a reason why she wasn't a fan of the department's psychiatrist: she didn't like answering questions about her past. It was a sensitive subject that, somehow, Castle had managed to get a grip on within the first few days (hours, even) of knowing her

[bestsellingego]

"The Inimitable Detective Beckett strikes another blow against people wanting to have fun. Tell me, were you one of those kids in kindergarten who tattled to the teacher about the other kids eating paste? No one is a stickler for the rules that much." He had to job to keep up with her. What she lacked in height compared to him, Kate Beckett more than made up for in speed.

He took his sunglasses off inside the building. It was as gray as the outside and had all of the charm of a psych ward. Someone had gotten clever with colour psychology and painted the walls Institutional Taupe, as if the colour was going to really make a difference to those people who came here specifically to get their rocks off, ballistics style. The front desk was braced by a wall of plexi glass and behind it, a matronly woman with forearms as thick as Christmas baked hams sat thumbing through a variety magazine. Castle would let Beckett do the introductions. He took a steno pad from the inside of his jacket and wrote down a couple of quick observations:

[fanofthegenre]

"No, but I have a feeling you were a little too liberal in your disobedience of said rules," she said, barely hiding a smirk as he hustled in order to keep up. There was a part of her that enjoyed being a match for him in that category. She kept him on his toes, but she knew he enjoyed that part too, much to her chagrin

[bestsellingego]

The earmuffs were the worst. Castle handled his like they carried a communicable disease. He gave Beckett a look -- seriously? -- but was rebuked by the glacial silence he got in response. Up went the earmuffs, fitted around his ears like a Mouseketeer's ears. They turned out the din pretty well. The shots of the present police officers popped like dull dynamite around him. He watched Beckett take up her earmuffs and eyewear like pieces out of a knight's armor: she had a very particular way of brushing her hair back from her ears before she fitted either piece over her head. This was a ritual for her, Castle realized. She was as schooled at putting on her armor as she was putting up her defenses against invasive novel writers asking questions about her personal life.

He peeled the scarf and coat from his body and dumped them into a chair in the corner of the room. Some of the other off-duty cops gave him cautious looks; Castle had heard that they could smell their own and he was certainly not carrying blue pheromones. They seemed a