❤ Favorite Male
❤ Favorite Female
❤ Favorite Pairing
❤ Least Favorite Character
❤ who’s most like me
❤ most attractive
❤ three more characters that i like
“And you were going to fight them off with that?”
— Alexis Castle, Probable Cause (5 x 05)
He doesn’t know what possessed him to kill Nikki’s mother in her own home. He doesn’t know what possessed him to have Nikki live there—to still live there all those years on. Except, of course, he knows exactly what possessed him: The ghost of fucking obvious metaphors. Nikki is imprisoned by her mother’s murder. Deep, right?
No. Not deep. It’s an absolute hack move. It renders every single thing about the books completely unbelievable, and it’s only taken four years and infiltration by serial killer to wipe the authorial smugness right off his face.
His mother is afraid to come home, afraid to stay. She makes no such admission. She flutters her hands as she throws things out of the bag that’s still half full from the trip she just got home from. She strings together implausible reasons why she’s flying right out the door again for a few days—maybe a week, could be two. She makes no admissions, but her hands are shaking. They’re shaking, and there’s a tremor in her voice.
His daughter is not afraid to come home. She is insistent that she must, that she will, that she is definitely coming home for a few days to do more laundry, to sort and swap out the last of her summer clothes, to pull down some of her sweaters, her boots, her fall things, because it’s getting to be that time of year. It’s getting to be that time, and she is not afraid.
But he kisses the crown of her head. He ushers her, protesting and trembling, to the door. He tells her it’s not necessary, that her clothes will last her through the weeks they should have yet of trees blazing with color and in the air only a hint of the snapping cold that will come later. He ushers her to the door, and she is brave and defiant, and even still a tear streaks down her cheek with a force that shocks them both as she, wide-eyed, looks back at the grotesquely transformed expanse of her home. Her home.
He is not afraid to be home. He is angry. He is burn-it-to-the-ground furious while Tyson’s repugnant litany plays on endless repeat in his mind. He is gutted by every all-too-probable narrative beat—the timing of the casting notice, his book signings, the night of the storm . . .
He is not afraid. He is gutted and frozen, his feet rooted to the No Man’s Land just inside the door. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to live in a place, in a body, in a life so comprehensively violated.
He doesn’t know, but she does. Of course she does.
Her key is in the lock. “Gotta change these,” she says, holding up the offending item. She has an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. She has something heavy in a grocery bag in the hand not holding the offending item.“Tonight.” She gives him a deadpan look. “You know a guy, right?”
“I know a guy.” His echo is hollow. “But it won’t—“
“It won’t.” She sets down her overnight bag the heavy thing, whatever it is, by the door. She is in his face. She is sinking her hands savagely into his hair. “Do it anyway.” She kisses him, hard. “Tonight.”
“You think he’s dead.” It’s a savage thing to say in a voice so small. It’s a lousy, gutted thing to take out on her, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Why bother?”
“I do think he’s dead,” she says, and it’s gentle. She comes back to him. She was going toward the kitchen. She was circling back for the heavy thing, whatever it is, by the door. But she comes back to him instead. “I do, Castle. But sometimes pointless gestures are all we have to go on.”
She lifts her palm to his face. His head his heavy as he sinks into her touch. He heaves a sigh. He’s trembling. She’s trembling. Everyone, it seems, is trembling, but sometimes pointless gestures are all we have to go on.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks as he slips his phone from his pocket. Tonight. He knows a guy.
“Beer.” She pats his cheek and turns to retrieve the bag in question. “Cheap beer and movie theater candy. Stupid movies.”
“Sleepover?” He quirks an eyebrow. He strikes a pose, but something releases inside him. Something collapses with relief, even as she shakes her head.
“A no sleepover.” She throws a warning look over her shoulder. “But only if you get that guy over her to change those locks.”
“Guy,” he says, swallowing hard as his emotions swing right into the next loop of this. “I know a guy.”
