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Vegas is not as much fun as it used to be. Did it even used to be fun? The line between fun and not-unpleasant diversion is fine and difficult to identify in retrospect. Perhaps the appeal of the city lay not in the reality, but in the collective delusion – the cultural monomyth, bought and sold by the house itself – that dictated that spending absurd amounts of money to lose more money and having easy access to women, alcohol and all the flattery the name on your credit card could buy you constitutes as 'fun' in a soul-dead world. But maybe that's okay. Maybe that's the best most people could hope for: not-unpleasant. A lack of suffering.

The garish, flickering lights of the strip drill the first nails of a migraine in the space above his right eye and ruin the thin illusion of a Rat Pack era bar. Well, that and the slot machines in every corner, and the clowder of probably-underaged girls sitting in a pretty row, clearly together, yet all staring identically and resolutely at their cell phones, fingers flying across the keyboards.

"Doesn't anyone talk to each other any more?" Castle laments to nobody in particular. The man – a trucker, by the looks of it – next to him doesn't look up from his cheap domestic beer, and Castle finds himself longing for the easy company of Brian at the Old Haunt. He misses its quirky charm: the smell of the leather in the booths and the old varnished wood of the bar. The high-quality, rare spirits that are more indulgence than device. The history.

This place is a bad imitation, just like much of the city that surrounds it. He can see the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, ride a rollercoaster, and play a round of midnight golf all within a mile of each other, but he can't get so much as a loudmouth cabbie to look him in the eye. It's just an imitation. The old Las Vegas lay far from the infamous Strip, the few places where the last vestiges of the West held out through the Seventies, but they too have their price. Even the ghosts have sold their dusty turquoise hearts for strip malls and suburban sameness, for lap dances at breakfast and martinis at noon.

The mid-market scotch he's been working on (to the increasing irritation of the bartender, who Castle supposes would rather his patrons drink themselves into a stupor than occupy space at the bar for hours and brood over a single drink) finally begins to work on him, the voices in his head quieting considerably, though his shoulders refuse to uncoil from the knots they've formed and his stomach still feels prepared to leap from his throat. He heaves a sigh, swirling the last amber droplets in his glass, and takes pity on the bartender, ordering another one to secure his place at the bar.

For all the shrine to tastelessness Las Vegas has become (or perhaps always was), at least the owner of this new-like-old dive has decent taste in music. The honeyed notes of Nat King Cole filter out the shallow snippets of smalltalk and drown out the rhythmic clanging and tolling of the slot machines, the sighs or yelps of temporary relief from boredom emitted by the Chinese seniors seated at every last one.

The voice sings balefully of that Mona Lisa strangeness in the eyes of inspiration and Castle laughs derisively at himself. A million songs or more in the world and this is the one he hears. But then, he could listen to a thousand songs and he'd probably hear Kate-fucking-Beckett in just about every last one. He finally understands. The songs all make sense.

Maybe that's why so many of them are written about heartbreak.

She doesn't want him and it's not fair. He should have seen the writing on the wall. Should have seen how she always had to be pushed to accept his company outside of work, how reluctantly she's conceded even to friendship.

She'll never love him, and he'll never not be in love with her. And that's just the way of the world. He's tried – god, he's tried so hard – to not love her. He fought it for two years, trying not to fall. He tried to give her space, to respect her place with Deming or Josh. He tried to move on – twice – and he came running back the moment she showed the slightest bit of receptiveness to him.

He's taken too seriously to the little hints of attraction she's given him. Clung to every bone she's thrown his way. Someone to dive in with, Castle. Third time's the charm, Castle. Let's do it without the tiger, Castle.

She probably doesn't even know she's doing it, when she teases him that way. She is, after all, a naturally playful person, even if her job and history suppresses it most of the time. He's angry, yes, but in spite of it all, he can't hate her. Not strictly. Not in a way that makes him love her less.

Perhaps she doesn't have it in her to love him back. To love anyone back, it seems. She's been wounded so badly, so many times. Maybe people just aren't worth it to her any more.

Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?

He slams a rumpled fifty on the bar with force unnecessary and leaves his second scotch three-quarters full at the bar before storming off ineffectually. His short walk and a painfully long elevator ride upstairs to his high-rise suite is far too convenient. Not nearly long enough for the amount of aimless walking he wishes to do, which is far better suited to the journey between the Old Haunt and the loft.

Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?

It's time to let her go.

She hates this new attitude from Castle. His detachment from her. The way his goofy alien-CIA conspiracy theories have faded into snide commentary. The glib jackass she hasn't seen in years slowly leeching back into his personality like black oil.

Something sinking in the back of her mind tells her that maybe she's waited too long. Maybe she misread him. Maybe he didn't like her as much as she thought he did, or maybe he just got tired of waiting. Maybe something happened.

Maybe he's going into burnout. He may not be a real cop, but he faces the same stresses they do, sees the same horrific cases they do, experiences the same disillusionment with humanity that even his normally-optimistic personality can't entirely combat. Nearly four years on the job – so to speak – and some level of burnout would not be unwarranted. Hell, it would be expected.

But if he's headed for burnout, why is he only shunning her? Ryan and Esposito are still getting invites over for poker night. He hangs out at their desk more than not now.

No, something definitely happened between them, and she just doesn't know what it was. Some time around the bombing, she thinks. They were fine until then. He spent time with her. They went out, sometimes. On not-dates. They saw movies together, and she joined him and Alexis in the park one weekend for a day-long walk that left her legs and her cheeks aching. She touched him, where she could. A brush of hair out of his eyes, a comforting hand over his own after a hard case, and he did the same – ever the gentleman, the same and no more – for her too. She thought they were moving in the right direction.

And now it's like he's not even there any more. He barely put in any effort on their last case – mundane as it was - and when he did, he spent more time than not with Ryan and Esposito, careful to never be alone with her. He doesn't call for movie nights or ask her for a drink at the Old Haunt. Ryan and Espo asked her along yesterday at quitting time, when Gates generously gave them a weekend-and-a-half off due to a drop in the city's murder rate, but she knew it was out of pity. Even they've noticed something wrong with Castle, and Ryan – Castle Junior, of course - even had the nerve to ask her what she did to him days ago. Peace offering or not, she takes nobody's pity and quickly declined.

So here she sits, curled up on her couch on a Friday night. A glass of red sits almost full on her end table, untouched for hours and likely distastefully warm by now. Pulling her phone out for the fourth time, she hovers over his name again, top of her contacts list. With a wince, she hits it impulsively and holds her breath as it rings several times.

"Hullo?" a slightly foggy voice answers, and oh god, what time is it? He was probably sleeping, or… no, she doesn't want to think about that.

"Hey, Castle," she says quickly, "sorry, I forgot what time it was, if you were sleeping or busy or-"

"It's fine, Beckett. What's going on? You got a case?" he asks, and something in his voice runs through her veins like ice water and makes her feel as if he's reached through the phone and slapped her. The dismissive tone, the cool carelessness, like she'd only call him if they had a case.

But then, when else does she call him? Usually, it's him calling on her, asking after her, for anything outside of work, and she feels a pang of guilt. He's always the one making the effort, she realizes. No time like the present to remedy that. She's already 1/1 on stupid, reckless decisions for the night.

"I, uh," she struggles for words, for a plausible excuse for calling him close to midnight, even on a Friday, "No. No, like I said, I forgot what time it was, I was just going to ask if you wanted to…"

"To what?" Castle asks after a long moment, the smug arrogance gone and replaced with something hurt and hoping.

Now or never, Kate.

"If you wanted to come over and have a glass of wine," it all comes out as a single long, stammer-shaken word, "and talk."

A woosh at the other end of the line has her picturing his tense features and a strong exhale of disbelief, distress. He's silent for another beat, as if thinking his answer through, trying not to be rash, which is probably a good thing because one of them needs to be sane right now.

"I wish I could," he finally says, back to genuine, sweet Castle, the partner she's missed so much in the weeks since the bombing, the one she aches to see now, the one who she wants nothing more than to run to and embrace because at least in this instant, he's him again. "But…"

Oh no.

"I flew out to Las Vegas this morning."

"Oh?" she asks curiously. He hasn't said anything about a book tour or other reasons for travel. But then, he hasn't said much of anything beyond polite work-related chit-chat with her lately.

"Yeah," he replies regretfully. "I needed a weekend away."

Kate pictures him with a blonde on each arm, leaned against a bright orange sports car and her heart sinks down into her feet, melts onto the floor in a vile puddle.

"Oh, yeah, okay. No problem," trying her best to sound casual, she chokes back uninvited tears that fear the end, "I'll let-"

"Don't hang up," Castle's voice orders over the phone, and she's so stunned by the authority inherent in it that she halts her train of thought immediately, stops the dry excuse tumbling out of her mouth.

"Alright…"

"What did you want to talk about?" he inquires calmly, as if discussing the weather, though she can hear an unevenness in the signal that suggests a shaking hand. She's not sure if it's his or hers.

"I… I ah…"

"Tell me." He knows and she knows he knows, but he's going to make her say it, isn't he? She knows she has to, that she owes him that much, but it doesn't make it easier.

"About us," she rushes out, and hears his nod and an exhale of held breath.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"We'll talk now," oh, we will, will we? She ought to bristle at his tone, this new authoritative Castle who sees fit to call shots, but instead she finds herself nodding in agreement, just grateful he hasn't hung up. "But you have to promise me something."

"Yeah?"

"You answer me with complete honesty. No sidestepping, no leaving things out, no distractions, no topic changes. If I overstep, you are of course free to stop, but that will end this call." He doesn't say it, but she hears it loud and clear in between the syllables: it will end this call, and it will end them.

What choice does she have? Does she even want to beat around the truth any more? She doesn't know how things went wrong, but they obviously have and he's at the end of his rope. Kate takes a deep breath, shifting to lie down on her couch, trying to relax herself.

"I agree."

"Good. Let's get this out of the way then, because if you're going to run," sucking in a breath audibly, she hears him pause and fight for control, "proverbially speaking, if you're going to run, you should do it now."

"I'm not go-"

"Do you remember your shooting?"

And the parts all click into place at once. The way he changed so dramatically after the bombing. The heated admission to that two-bit criminal that she remembered being shot. The way he's been acting like she betrayed him – no wonder. Oh god, what has she done? He must have heard. She hugs herself tightly with her free arm, rolling onto her side and coiling her arm around her body, tucking her hand underneath her.

"The truth, Kate," he prods firmly, but not unkindly. "The truth or nothing."

Vincit omnia veritas, she thinks.

"Yes. I remember. I remember everything." And now it's out there and there's no taking it back. It's ridiculous for such a tense moment, but a smile breaks across her face. He loved her. He loved her then and he wouldn't be talking if he didn't still love her now, would he? No. The weight of eight months of crushing silence lifts from her in an instant and she feels like floating away on a feathered wing, weightless and free, until he brings her back down.

"Do you remember what I said to you?"

It's easier now. As one lie leads to another lie, one truth leads to another truth. "Yes."

"What was it, Kate? What did I say?"

"You said you loved me." Her smile grows wider, and she can nearly hear him doing the same.

"Very good." An unexpected shiver runs through her at that, at his little praise of her. The way he said it, that dark-chocolate tone and his low voice… if she weren't privy to the serious topic at hand, she might have thought they were discussing and doing something else entirely.

"If you're not ready, Kate, we can leave it here tonight. You have done what I asked you to, and if you need time to deal with your shooting, or to deal with your feelings – whatever they are – I can give that to you now that you've told me the truth."

"Or?"

"Or we can keep talking, if you can keep being honest with me." She likes that option. She likes it very much, suddenly.

"Door number two." His responding chuckle releases another weight from her chest.

"Alright. But remember, truth only."

"Quid pro quo?"

"Not tonight, Lamb," he says with a dark laugh to himself, one she responds to unthinkingly with a giggle. She does not giggle. Not ever. Not at all.

Kate Beckett, you are certifiable.

"Some other time?" she hopes he'll say yes. There's suddenly so much she has to ask him. But she still may be on thin ice, even with his promise to wait if she needs it. But they've done enough of that. She's done waiting.

"Of course. But tonight, we're focusing on you." Another shiver wracks her body at his tone, a primal response to a promise inherent in the rich velvet that hums across the wire, across the 3,000 miles that separate them. "Why didn't you let me help you, after you were shot?"

She sighs. He had to jump into serious waters right away, and she understands why he's done it. He's paid keen attention to her interrogation techniques for almost four years now, of course he can turn them on her if he wants to, and honestly, she doesn't mind it so much because it's working and he's back to being Castle and if he's still talking, they've got a shot and suddenly she wants nothing more than to jump in with him.

"I was reeling, Castle. Everything about you reminded me of the shooting, of what happened to Montgomery, too. I think that was even worse. I couldn't look at you and not see him and…" her vocal chords seize and no sound will come out. She clears her throat and tries to continue as he waits patiently. "I had to grieve on the run, we both did. But after the shooting… I couldn't look at you without experiencing both all at once and it was too much. You made things so much better and so much worse all at once, and I was so confused about you and me and I was about to break up with Josh but Royce being killed just weeks before that, and then Montgomery, it was all happening so quickly…"

"It's okay, I understand."

She sighs, finally ready to say it, unwilling to accept excuses any longer. "No, it's not okay, Castle. I'm so, so sorry. I could have called. I could have written. I wanted to so many times, I almost did so many times, but I just chickened out and after a while it became easier to just move ahead and pretend it was all okay than to admit I was wrong."

He's quiet for another moment, as if considering his response.

"I accept that. And I'm sorry too, for what it's worth. For trying to rush you. For… for not being there as a friend just because I thought you didn't want me and I was sulking like a child." Want him. She does, she wants him so badly that it bleeds and aches all the time. She's tried to ignore it and let it fester, but damnit, it hurts and she can finally admit it to herself and it's another piece of ice slowly melting in his palm. "For running off to Vegas to lick my wounds. You know I came here to… to try and forget you. To move on, after..."

"You heard me tell the witness in the bombing case?"

"Yes," he confirms, the anger all drained out of it, and she knows she's forgiven. His next statement surprises her. "God I wish I could be there…"

Kate feels bold, buoyed by the easing of her guilty conscience and his blessed forgiveness. Ready to move forward, with him.

"I wish you were here, too."

She hears him fumble around with his phone, the faint change in the low static hiss indicating he's put her on speaker and is fussing with his phone.

"If I can get a flight, I can be there in the late morning, maybe early afternoon. But for now?" a wicked little noise that she's sure is accompanied by a lopsided, boyishly-mischievous grin tingles down her spine and settles between her thighs, "what are you wearing, Beckett?"

A breathless laugh bursts from her. How quickly he could turn this conversation from that to… this, is nothing short of astounding.

"Remember, honesty. Thoroughness. Very serious, you know," he reminds her playfully, but underneath that there's heat and temptation and a sudden maddening frustration at the distance between them.

She snorts. "Sorry to disappoint, Castle, but I didn't dress for the occasion, unless you think old running shorts and a tank top is-"

"What color?"

"Purple," she answers automatically, "purple shirt. Black and purple shorts."

"Ahh," replies Castle, "and is that… all you're wearing?"

Kate wriggles and squirms in place, rolling onto her back as long-repressed desire courses warmly through her body.

"No," she whispers, "panties. No bra."

"Lace?" How did he…

"Mhm. Purple too."

"Color coordinated, then. No shoes or socks? You like to be barefoot at home, don't you? To sleep?"

"Yes."

"Yes," he agrees, his voice almost unrecognizable from its usual excitable tone, now thick and low with sweet desire and an air of authority that she's not sure she knows, but that certain parts of her like very much. "You have such pretty feet, Kate. Do you like them touched?"

She pauses. She's never let anyone. The truth has worked so far tonight, so she goes with that, and nothing but.

"I've never let anyone touch my feet. I do not know."

Her partner makes a hmmm sound.

"What do you like to feel, when you're barefoot?"

If this is phone sex, it's the weirdest phone sex she's ever had. Or, rather, the only phone sex she's ever had. It's always seemed awkward to her, but this is... okay. She never made him for a foot fetishist, but then, this doesn't strike her as quite fetish territory either. More like a very pleasant - if strange - interrogation.

"The ocean," she answers at last, thinking the question through. She's never bothered to think about why before, but the answers come easily enough once started. "Salt water and wet sand. Scraped and polished wood floors, the old-style kind. Even dirt. God, Castle, you'd love my family cabin, upstate. It's in the forest. I used to run around without shoes for a week at a time up there, splinters and all, and mud!"

He laughs heartily at her childish joy of the memory.

"Very good. Have you ever had a professional massage?" He's switched gears again, but she's catching on and talking is growing easier, more comfortable and more thrilling.

"No," she shudders, and not in a good way. "Strangers touching me and using communal towels has never been my thing."

"Alright," satisfied with that answer, he proceeds. "What other places have you not allowed anyone to touch?"

Her face flames hot, and she considers backing out of the conversation, but it's Castle. It's just Castle.

"I'm uh… a lot of places, I guess," and she realizes it's true. She's more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am type, when it comes to sex, never been one for cuddling. In fact, she quite abhors actually sharing a bed with anyone she's been with. Though… the idea holds a certain promise, and has strangely factored into more than a few of her fantasies about the man at the other end of the line. "I mean it's one thing to run a hand over something, heat of the moment and all, another to…"

"Pay attention to it?"

"Yes."

"Let me rephrase: where don't you like to be touched? Not intimately. Just in general."

Her reply is instant. "My neck, I hate that. The nape especially."

"Mm. Where else?"

"The back of my knees. My sides. Inner thighs. My back, most of the time. My breasts. Under my arms. I… I don't think I like touch much at all, Castle." Her voice fades out, shameful and shy now. She hadn't quite realized how averse to touch she really is until he forced her to say it out loud.

"Understandable, Kate. Don't be ashamed," he soothes, silky and earnest, "these are all vulnerable spots. You're a very tactile person. Enjoyable sensations are deeply enjoyable, but unwanted touches - even light ones - are nearly painful, correct?"

It is. She notices her breathing has quickened slightly, gooseflesh rising on her bare arms and legs, a combination of the cool early-spring air in her apartment and the way Castle's talking to her, so unlike the man she's known these many years.

"Yes," he continues, taking her silence for confirmation, "now: is it touch itself that bothers you, or the idea of someone unfamiliar or someone you do not trust doing it that bothers you?"

That requires a bit of thought. Her first instinct is the former, but then, she's not certain in hindsight – something discussed quite thoroughly with Dr. Burke, in fact – that she's trusted anyone completely in her adult life. Something essential in her that she assumed died with her mother.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "I think I could like it, with-" YOU! "- someone I'm comfortable with." Oh, what the hell. "You. I trust you, and I think I'd like you to… touch me."

The answering groan on the end of the line is all the response she gets, but it's plenty.

"You like fine materials, Kate," this is a change in topic, but he's not wrong. "You like materials you can feel, things with a certain texture. No flimsy, floaty manufactured fabrics you'd find on lowmarket big box rags. You like linen. You like pure, quality cotton. You love the softness of merino or cashmere in your scarves and sweaters; you seek the comforting weight of leather or heavy wool in your coats. You need to feel what's on you. Your clothes are well-tailored. No excess, never baggy, but not skin-tight either. You need to feel it, not be suffocated by it. Your exception is when you sleep – the clothes you're in now. You hardly want to feel them at all. You get cold at night easily, but you hate feeling smothered by thick fabrics."

She knows he has an eye for detail, but it's equal parts flattering and frightening, how well he knows her this way, how he can pick apart her tastes and guess her motivations that even she's never thoroughly examined.

Castle continues. "Your underwear is quality. Lace most every day. Silk on occasions. You're a minimalist, but not an exhibitionist; a moderate thong, most of the time? Am I correct?"

"Yesss," she hisses, finding her free hand drifting down to caress her side, her hips, her outer thigh where her skin is bare and silky smooth.

"How do you take your baths, when you've finished a case and feel free to relax completely?"

"What do you mean?" And how the hell does he know she'll only take a bath when she's done a case?

Clearing his throat, he clarifies. "What temperature? How long? What kind of soaps, oils, salts – if any – do you use?"

Oh. "Depends on the time of year. In the summer, I could sleep all night in cool water, shallow of course. In the winter, just lukewarm. Enough to keep the chill off, to warm me up, but not hot."

"Good." Keep going, his tone urges her. "You're telling me so much, Kate. You're telling me that you like to feel, but you don't like extremes. Extreme hot, extreme cold. Not all at once, anyway, though… experimenting with extremes, as a precision thing, could be quite interesting."

When he says no more for several beats, she takes it as her cue to answer the rest of his question.

"I like washes that tingle, that cool my skin," she admits. He chuckles. "No floral fragrances, nothing heavy that lingers on my skin like an oil."

"Not surprising. You do like touch, Kate. You have very sensitive skin. You like different sensations, you like certain feelings and you like them very much. And those you dislike, you dislike very intensely." How can he know all this? "I knew that about you very early on, in a vague way, but you know when I realized just how sensitive you really are?"

She whimpers, wanting nothing more than to peel off her shorts and panties and relieve the pressure his words alone have built in her, but something holds her back. He isn't through. She wants to see where he takes it.

"When?"

"When your skin prickled and twitched when I had to inspect your back, when we were drugged. With the tiger. How your whole body flushed. How you gasped when I touched your side – quite a strong reaction to such a simple touch, don't you think? How much you squirmed when we had to push that chest. How you were hot and bothered for hours after."

The line goes quiet for a moment, a verbal divider between past and present, the acknowledgement of the line they're about to cross.

"You went home and made yourself come, didn't you, Kate?"

What modesty she has left at this point wants to argue but damnit, he's right. She went home and hardly got through the door when she dropped to her knees and came around her own hand at the slightest touch, crying for him as she did.

"Yes," she moans at the memory of one of the most intense orgasms she'd ever had.

"I did too," comes his quiet admission, but before she has a chance to turn the tables or ask him for an elaboration, he's back in control. Castle. Control. Something is disturbingly right about that.

"How do you like to be kissed, Kate?" God, if he says her name one more time, she's going to lose it without a single touch.

"I like…" a variety of memories play in her mind, all as good or as bad as the last. She doesn't know. Kisses have always been just something she's done, some have felt good, most… have just been a function. Her fantasies are wild and varied, focused in years of late solely around Castle. She's dreamed of wild and brutal kisses. She's dreamed of lazily making out with him in bed on a Sunday morning. It all sounds good. She's hardly had a taste of him, and unfortunately she was distracted trying to save Ryan and Esposito's asses at the time. Tinged with desperation and misery and fear, it still leaves her tingling, the thought of it.

"I like anything, I suppose; right kiss for the right occasion. I liked it when… when you kissed me."

"Ahh," Castle says victoriously. "But I touched your face then. I touched your neck, the back of it in fact. Did that bother you?"

They're back on that and he's just proven her wrong.

"No. No, it didn't." Usually it would. Being grabbed, touched in one of the most sensitive parts of her. She'd shove anyone else off her. But between having little choice with the guard right there, and Ryan and Espo's urgent situation, and the sheer fact that it was Castle doing that to her and she knew even then that she could trust him… it didn't seem to matter then. In fact, she liked it. She liked it a lot.

"You do like touch, Kate," he repeats, and she's willing to believe it now, because all she wants is him in front of her, behind her, touching her with his fingers and not just his words.

"You have such soft skin, Kate. You're delectable. All long limbs and perfect curves. Nothing unnecessary. Utilitarian, in fact, but oh, so perfectly built, strong and beautiful. Function elevated into absolutely striking form. I want to touch those places you find too sensitive for others. I want to kiss the pale skin of your side, where I touched you. Right above your hips, below the final rung on the ladder of your ribs."

A thin sheen of sweat blossoms across her forehead and she wipes at it unthinkingly, gasping in shock at the intensity of her own touch, like a trail of sparks anywhere her fleshy fingertips make contact. But he hasn't told her to touch, so she hangs her free hand at her side limply, waiting.

"I want you to, too," admits Kate breathlessly. "Everywhere, Castle."

"I want to wrap myself around you, Kate. I want to hold you to me, put my arms around yours, brush the back of your legs with my knees. I want to kiss you, everywhere. Your neck, especially. Your neck is perfect, love," and that stuns a grin out of her because he says that casual little endearment so carefully, so quietly like a scared little boy again, and she purrs her appreciation, hoping it reaches him. He continues, bolder now, "unbearably soft, smooth and pale. It's a vulnerable place, isn't it? Even your body armor doesn't cover it, the fact that anyone could get close enough to close their hand around it, that bothers you, doesn't it?"

"A lot," she confirms, realizing it's true. It's a scenario that's filled more than one nightmare, in fact.

"But you'll let me," Castle intones, something between a request and a command. At this point she'd let him do anything, just as long as he kept talking to her, kept touching her with his words, oh, if he were just here for real…

"Yes."

"Okay," she hears him suck in another breath, vying for control as much as she is. The idea that he's as undone by this as she is, she finds deeply comforting. "Will you do something for me?"

Yes, yes, she'll do anything if he just keeps talking.

"Take something off. You choose."

Finally. Righting herself, she settles on removing her shorts. Balance. What she was not prepared for was how sensitized she is, the drag of the cool nylon down her legs almost too much. Kate gasps for breath, the air swirling around her once covered, overheated skin.

"Your shorts, right?" – how? - "I know you, Kate," he answers her unasked question and she produces a low, needy whine at that, at how easily he can bring her a step closer to undone just by saying her name like that.

"Mm," she agrees, words failing her.

"Your shirt," Castle commands gently, and the tank top comes off in record time. She's left only with her panties and the shivers wracking her lithe body as gooseflesh rises over her entire body, her nipples hard and aching in the chill of her apartment and the arousal burning through her. It's surreal, sitting on her couch nearly naked and waiting for the command of a man she can't see or touch.

"Now, find something you like the feeling of. Anything."

Rising from her place on the couch gingerly, she wanders around her apartment on autopilot, disobedience to his request not even a thought in her mind. The part of her brain hardwired for stubbornness and reactive refusal of another's command has thoroughly checked out, perhaps burned out from overuse due to her usual intensely willful nature.

Something she likes the feeling of. She's never really thought about it in those terms. Running her fingers over various objects – the teakettle on her stove, trinkets on her living room coffee table, even a merino throw over the back of her couch - she cannot settle on one.

Then, she remembers it. She knows what she needs.

Trembling violently, her feet carry her to her tiny hallway closet, where lies the only thing she wants against her right now. The heavy garment left behind on accident some weeks before the bombing and never reclaimed or particularly thought of since is suddenly a screaming beacon. It cannot come off its careful wooden hanger quickly enough before she's clutching it, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of its owner. She's distracted, fingering the silky, dark blue lining.

His coat. His. Unthinking, she slips it over her, letting the weight fall against her shoulders, the bottom of the coat just long enough to brush the back of her knees, the lining kissing every inch of skin it touches. She sinks to her knees with the sensation, breath coming in heavy pants she's sure he can hear now.

"My coat," he tells her. So sure of himself. So confident. So… right. How did he know?

"I… it's so good, Castle – it feels like… like every movement or texture against my skin is amplified, like you're here, touching me through it. How-"

"Suggestion, Kate." She whimpers. "God," his frayed and hoarse whisper pierces her, "you have no idea how much I want you right now."

"I think I do," she resorts to pleading, "tell me what to do."

"Run your fingers on the underside of your wrist," she does, "up your forearm," she has to push up the sleeve of his coat to do it, and she twitches and squirms at the feeling. "So sensitive," he soothes, and it is. "Between your breasts, Kate."

She cries out when her fingers make contact with the puckered reminder of the day she died and faded into nothingness, only to be returned. Returned to him, she realizes. She came back to him. It just took a little while to find her way out again, fully. It's too much, so much, she can't breathe, can't think straight. He keeps her moving, as if he instinctively knows lingering there would be too intense.

"Your ribs, Kate. Leave your breasts alone, for now."

The featherlight sweep of her palm down her ribcage sends another wave of shudders through her, another fire to burn downward, to pool between her legs.

"Please," she begs, not sure what she's begging for.

"Your spine. Don't touch that!" he barks, and her hand halts itself in its pursuit of following what she thought was an order. "You'll save that for me," he growls darkly, "I'm going to kiss and touch every ridge, every knob, every dip and protrusion there, every inch, from nape to tail."

"Touch your lips," he requests, urgent and ragged. Bringing a single finger to the seam of her mouth, hanging slightly open as she pants, the first contact is almost unbearable. She doubles over, the lightness almost painful in its intensity, crippling her with desire. "Castle, it feel like you're here, if feels like you're touching me," she babbles, uncaring of how foolish she might sound.

"I know," he moans in frustration, his wish that he could actually touch her communicated clearly, "are you ready, Kate? Are you shivering and soaking and supple? Want, Kate. Do you feel it as much as I do?"

"Yes!" she wails, his uncensored words surging through her spine, spreading everywhere, warming her from the inside out as his coat substitutes for its owner, warming her outside in.

"Tell me what to do," she urges, dimly aware of how wrong that should sound coming from her. But it doesn't. It feels right here, with Castle, and she's not going to examine it in depth, not while she needs to know how the story ends and he's got her hanging on every word.

"Stand up," how does he know she was on her knees? "Go to your bed and get comfortable."

Moving as fast as her jellied legs will carry her, she follows his command happily, slamming the bedroom door shut and spreading out in the cool linen of her sheets.

"Okay…"

"Put me on speaker, love."

Fumbling with her phone and noticing with a clench that she's low on battery, she does as she's told.

"Castle, my battery…"

"It's not going to take long," a self-deprecating snigger eases her, "for either of us."

Kate laughs, then, another thread of joy and coalescing lust shimmying through her as she does.

"Are you comfortable? Not too warm, not too cold?"

Though her skin still prickles from the cool air and arousal, and her insides boil with molten desire, she hums her assent. It's a fine medium.

"Turn out your lights…"

"They're off," she answers quickly, unable to keep the whine out of her voice.

"Hmm, good. You're still in my coat, Kate?"

"Yeah."

"Spread your gorgeous legs for me, sweetheart," his voice coaxes her, and she complies gladly, the ache building too intensely to stand it much longer. "The inside lining of the coat, I want you to cross it over your chest. Does it feel good?"

While the silk lining glides over her breasts, sumptuous and slick, his scent lingering in the collar is what makes her cry out, strangle his name from her throat.

"So good, Castle," she sobs, control slipping. In the back of her mind, she knows it's almost over, that she'll have to hang up and he'll stop touching her this way, but she can't deny it much longer. Her body is wound infinitely tight, and she knows now that he's been ratcheting her up deliberately, enough that just one touch where she needs it most will send her rocketing through space. "Touch me, please."

"Your panties…" he pauses for effect, "take them off."

Complying quickly, she removes the final barrier between her and his stand-in, flinging the scrap of sodden lace somewhere in the vicinity of her hamper and drinking in the sense of freedom, of being bared to his view and touch even if he's not physically there to see or carry it out himself.

"Can you feel me, Kate? Can you feel me run my fingers down your face? Can you feel my lips focus on the healing between your breasts?"

She feels it all. The phantom touch of her partner. The ghostly kiss around the scar – healing, he called it – that punctuates her chest. The rapid rise and fall of her rib cage, the arching of her spine, the vice of pleasure-bordering-on-pain between her legs. Whimpers falling steadily from her lips, she waits breathlessly for his next direction, for him to release her.

"One finger," the vague sound of movement in the background behind his choked growl tells her he's not far behind, the mental image of him standing over her stroking himself to the vision of her naked and supine form wrapped in his clothing, it's too much, she's already started – "where you need it, Kate, touch…"

Her single trembling finger glides over the crackling nerves at the apex of her thighs, the center of her pleasure. One half-circle pass and she's sobbing his name in pleasure, relief, happiness, terror at what she almost lost, flying apart.

"Kate, Kate," he chants over and over again, voice fading into a groan of pleasure that prolongs her own, knowing he's coming undone with her. "My Kate."

Humming her agreement at his possessive proclamation, she stills and waits for her body to stop firing at every nerve, for her voice and faculties to return to something closer to normal. The ragged breath and a shift of fabric from the other end tell her he's doing the same.

For a while, she's blissfully happy just to listen to him breathe, the little shifts of movement he makes as he gets undressed.

Castle sighs. "Sleep, Kate. I have to go in a few minutes, McCarran awaits," she grins. He got a flight after all. "And I want you rested."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll be home in 8 or 9 hours, depending."

She hesitates, not sure whether to invite him or if that's a given. "Will you come over, when you get in?"

"Yes!" he half-shouts quickly, eagerly, adorably uncertain of himself as if he'd been waiting for permission, even after all they'd just done, all that's been implied is waiting for him to come and take. Clearing his throat, authoritative Castle returns and sends a remnant shiver through her. It's… right. "Sleep a while, please, and then pack a bag. I'm taking you somewhere special for the rest of the long weekend."

"Oh?" she teases through a yawn, the relaxation and pleasant heaviness of their odd lovemaking dragging her down in spite of the excitement for his return, for this new thing blossoming between them.

"Yes," he agrees, bolder again, "I'm going to show you everything we talked about tonight, Kate. All that and more. All the things I've dreamed about doing with you for so long. And then when we're forced to go back to the city, I'm going to take you home and we're going to dive back into it. Together."

Languidly, she stretches out, boneless and relaxed, luxuriates in the sensation of his coat still wrapped loosely around her, a reminder of his touch, a substitute in absentia of the real thing. For now.

"Okay," she consents. Honestly, he could tell her they're going to ride a space shuttle to Mars and colonize deep space and she wouldn't care. She's go along with it happily, just for his company. She doesn't want the call to end. "Will you stay on the line with me?" Her throaty, tired voice is hardly a whisper now, but he hears it. "Until I fall asleep?"

"As long as I can."

"Mm. 'Kay." The line goes quiet, only the occasional hiss of static telling her he's still there as she falls asleep. "Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you, too."

An exercise in dialogue (an area I am admittedly quite weak on) that accidentally found a plot. I stored it up as a bone to throw my half-a-handful of readers on the chance that something would come up and I couldn't update TMWI for a bit.

Hope you like it, and let me know what you think even if you didn't. Any and all response is appreciated greatly.