Guest Mock the Fic: Drunk

Well folks, sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you. Since I’m having to move a current mock series to the List O’Shame, I decided to pass the  mocking reigns to my newest  Guest Mocker: Becks so I can clean up the mess from someone who has no sense of humor! This is a special fic I requested mocking. It features HBIC getting drunk on Blue Moons (WTF?!) and Castle saying no to sex. Good times yo! Fear not BCF fans, I will be back again this afternoon for a all new snarky mock again

Stats: Title: Drunk Author: TelevisionSlave Summary: When Beckett doesn’t answer her phone, Castle goes over to her apartment. He finds her drunk and in the mood. When she tries to get into his pants, Castle is faced with a choice. And then the next morning. Rating: T

It had been a long day. Beckett and I had worked our best on a case about a dead teenage girl all week. Someone had raped and shot this girl. Beckett had became obsessed with the case and it got personal.

Oh, I can see how this is going to go already. No, no she had not became anything. She may have become obsessed, but honestly, I’m not seeing it. You’re going to have to work a little harder to show me why this victim is any different from any of the other victims she deals with on an everyday basis. Was this teenage girl her mom? No? Okay, then no.

We found the murderer, everyone knew it was him. But we didn’t have enough evidence to convict his ass in court.

But what about the rest of him?

I could tell Beckett was devastated and angry, at the killer and herself.

She’s angry at herself…because she did the murder? No? Then… Oh, forget it.

After court she stormed out of the precinct and to her apartment. I tried calling her multiple times but it would just lead to voicemail. Finally I took a taxi cab over to her place and knocked on the door.

Because the best way to handle someone who’s upset and doesn’t want to talk to you is always to go to their house and force a confrontation.

I stood there for about a minute, waiting. When I was about to admit defeat and turn around to go home,

For someone who chases down people who don’t answer his calls, you sure do give up fast when they don’t answer the door.

the door opened. Beckett stood at the doorway, her arm holding onto it like she needed it for support.

I’m trying to work out how one holds onto a doorway with one’s arm. Either she’s got a lot of extra joints that most people don’t have, or she has a really weird doorway.

“Why hello, Kitten…What brings you to my place?” She giggled, stepping back to give me room to enter. I stepped into her apartment and looked around. Empty bottles of beer were on the table and I could smell the alcohol from here. God, how much did she drink?

And how fast did she drink it? My God, she’s only been gone from the precinct what, half an hour, tops? Check for frat boys, because there HAD to have been a chorus of “Chug, chug, chug!” going on in the background.

I stared at her, “Beckett, you’re drunk.” She flashed me a goofy smile and walked over to her refrigerator. Opening it, she pulled out a bottle of Blue Moon.

Wait, what? Blue Moon?! You’re joking, right? Aside from Beckett being a wine drinker at home, as we’ve seen… Blue Moon?! Does anybody besides hipsters even drink that any more?

Walking over to me she waved the beer in my face, “Well, aren’t you turning into a lil’ detective, Ricky boy?

Oh, I’m sorry, I must be in the wrong apartment. I was looking for Kate Beckett.

Do you want one?” She tried to hand me a bottle, but I waved my hands away as if to say, ‘no thank you’.

Why did you wave your hands away? You’re going to want them later when you have to hold Pod!Beckett down and forcibly remove the parasite that’s clearly taken over her body, and they’re going to be all butthurt and not want to help.

Shrugging, Beckett opened a bottle and took a large sip, “More for mee.”

…Why is there an extra e on the end of that word? Also, why is there a comma at the end of that sentence?

“Why’d you get so drunk, Beckett? You don’t seem like the drinking type.”

Especially with the family history of alcoholism.

I took a step closer toward her, dreading her answer. Deep down, I knew why, I just needed some form of confermination.

Some form of… some form of what?! Wait, is Becks the drunk one here, or is it actually me?!

I slowly took the drink from her hand and set it down, surprised when she didn’t protest.

“Why do ya think? I failed that case. Duhhh.” She slurred, coming closer to me.

Right, because every cop who ever has a case go cold immediately decides they’ve failed it and must go out and get completely wasted on BLUE MOON within half an hour of leaving the precinct. That’s so… logical. Why, I can’t believe I never thought of this myself. Excuse me for one moment, I have to go rip this idea off for a fic of my own.

Oh, wait, no I don’t, because that’s BULLSHIT.

With a few steps she was inside my personal space, a silly grin on her face, “Why do ya care bout it?”

And why do you have another comma at the end of that sentence?

“Because I’m worried about you, Beckett.” I answered, taking a few steps back. With every step I took back she took forward. Finally I was backed all the way to the wall. She slowly put one of her hands on my chest, tracing her finger on my shirt. I shifted uncomfortably and gently pushed her hand away, “Listen, Be-”

And there you go again. I’m going to start strangling kittens every time you put a comma at the end of a sentence like that. Let me explain:

…gently pushed her hand away. “Listen, … < — RIGHT

“Hey,” I said, “how about… < — RIGHT

…gently pushed her hand away, “Listen, … < — SO INCREDIBLY WRONG

I stopped myself and used her first name instead, “Kate, you need to get some rest and sober up.”

That’s one dead cat.

“Aw…tuff ol’ Ricky is worried about lil’ me. How sweet.” She giggled and moved closer to me, putting her hand back on my chest. This time she slowly slid it down until it was nearly on my pants, “You

That’s two dead cats. Also, Ricky again? What is this happy crappy?

know what I wanna to do?

I don’t know about you, Pinky, but I’d really like to know why there’s an extra preposition in that sentence.

You know what I realla wanna do?”

I realla wanna know when really started getting spelled with an a on the end.

She got even closer to me, if that was possible. Her hand slid down onto my belt buckle, gently tugging at it.

Oh God, how much could she have possibly drunk to be doing this?

Not as much as I’ll be drinking when I’m done with this mock to erase the memory of this horrible, horrible fic from my mind.

It isn’t right, she’s drunk and not in a mental state where she could decide what she wanted. Her consent would be worthless. But on the other side she probably wouldn’t even remember it if I…had my way with her.

That’s it, Ricky! Hey, while you’re at it, see if you can slip a roofie in the one she’s drinking right now. I heard girls will let you stick it in their pooper if you give them a roofie.

No, what the hell am I thinking? She’d never forgive me if I took advantage of her like this. And besides, I’m not that low.

Sure you are.

“No, Kate. We’re not going to do this. I will not take advantage of your drunken state. You’d never forgive me if I did. Do you understand?” I removed her hands from my clothing as softly as I could.

“But Wicky…”

I swear to God I am about to stab someone. WICKY?! What the ever-loving fuck?!

She whined and insisted, putting her hands back on my belt,

That’s dead cat number three. I hope you’re happy, author.

“You’re my kitty

Since when?!

and I wanna fuck yu so bad. I know yu wanna fuck ma too, you’ve flirted with ma since the beginnin’. Come on, jus’ one time, that’s all.” She began to rub her body against mine, trying to unbuckle my belt.

Yu? Ma? What the hell language is Pod!Beckett speaking?! Look, people, I’ve done some drinking in my time. There was this one lesbian bar in Florida… but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say that even at my drunkest (and that was pretty damn drunk), I have never spoken whatever language this freaky thing is spewing out right now.

“No, Kate. I’m saying no. I’d never have sex with you while you’re in this state. You’re not in the right mind to make a choice about this. You need to sober up.” I pushed her away from me with as little force as possible. It was hard for me not to cave into her wishes, but I used all me self-control

I used all me self-control to stop meself from givin’ the arse a knivvle in his wame, so I did! Luck o’ the Irish ter ye!

to decline. I didn’t want to do this to her unless she was completely sober.

She frowned, finally realizing what I was saying, “Why don’ you wanna do mee, Ricky?”

Perhaps because there are now four dead cats piled up in the corner and another extra e hanging out on the end of your pronoun? That’s not very sexy, you know.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she continued angrily, “I get it, you don’t like me anymore. Fine, I’ll go fin’ someone else to fuck.” She stumbled away from me as she slurred profanities at me.

Go see if you can find Demming. Maybe he can beat some sense into you.

“Kate, when you sober up you’ll understand.” I told her, trying to block the door, her only exist.

Wait, she exists in the door now? That’s profound, man.

I was afraid I was going to have to physically restrain her from going out the apartment. The chances that she would try to have sex with the first hobo she saw was high and I couldn’t live with myself if she did that.

Aside from the low likelihood of there actually being any hobos in New York City (bums, yes; hobos, not so much), I’m pretty sure it would take more than a sixpack or so of Blue Moon (of all things) to induce Kate Beckett to have random sex with one. Clearly the author is twelve years old and has never been properly drunk.

Also, chances is plural, so the chances were high (except that no, they weren’t).

“Get out of my fucking way, Ricky.” She yelled at me, putting up a futile attempt to push me away. She started to hit me the best she could, but it barely hurt. She was so disoriented that most of her punches didn’t even hit me. Her anger began to dissolve as more tears fell down her face.

I don’t know. I mean, I’ve watched the show, and Beckett’s been shown putting a hurting on a number of big dudes (including Demming of the white teeth). I’m pretty sure that, even drunk, Kate Beckett could probably mess Castle up pretty bad.

I grabbed her wrists and softly told her, “No. I can’t do that. You need to go lie down on your bed and try to fall asleep. If you don’t go there yourself I’ll drag you.

You and what army, metro?

But either way you’re going. Which is it going to be?”

She pulled her wrists away from me, her cheeks wet from the drops of tears still on her face, “I’ll go myself.

Take that fifth dead cat with you.

I still don’t understand why ya won’t do me, though.”

Probably because you keep using the phrase “do me.” Not so sexy.

“You’ll understand in the morning, I promise.” I told her as she walked away.

“Yeah, right.” She walked away from me and toward her room. I followed to make sure she was actually going there. Without pulling the covers back she crawled onto her bed and passed out when her head hit the blanket.

Too bad it didn’t hit the wall with a sickening crunch sound.

Sighing, I walked over to the couch in the living room and sat down. I was going to have to stay here to make sure she didn’t wake up.

Actually, you might want to make sure she does wake up; as much Blue Moon (snicker) as she’s apparently had tonight, she might have alcohol poisoning.

I didn’t really want to see her when she sobered up, afraid she might remember what she had tried to do and ignore me.

Or try to kill you so there will be no witnesses.

But I was going to stay here for the night, so that would be inevitable. Making myself comfortable, I shut my eyes even though I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep.

Nor will I, after this. I’m going to have to go bleach my brain now to get these horrible images out of my mind.

This is just a little story I did merely for fun. I hope you enjoy it.

A vain hope.