Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Author's Note: This fic was initially supposed to only be a short one of Kate and Castle talking about his little escapade to get the slot-car because, as hilarious as the scene was, I was annoyed at Castle for how he admitted on finding out about the plan that his wife, the cop, would kill him but then went along with it anyway. (In spite of the fact that I may have melted a little at the way Castle said "my wife" to refer to Kate.) And then, well, the fic ran away from me a little bit and turned smutty too—but I'll blame the way Castle looked in his action-hero get-up for that. Enjoy!
Action Hero Husband
Kate waited until they were both ready for bed that night before bringing up the subject. She hated to do it because she knew it would wreck his good mood, at least temporarily, and he'd been so excited all night, had been in his little-boy-on-a-sugar-rush stage while they'd watched "Hard Kill." Well, okay, to be strictly accurate, he had watched "Hard Kill"—with a fascination and level of enjoyment that she found frankly baffling since he knew it well enough to quote nearly every line of dialogue from the movie—and she had mostly watched him watching "Hard Kill."
She vaguely remembered having seen the "Hard Kill" movies before and finding them mildly enjoyable the first time around but had never bothered watching them again and she really could not understand, for the life of her, Castle's giddy delight in the movies now, still. They were so cheesy, so unrealistic, and so annoying with their use of female characters (or lack thereof). But Castle had loved every minute of it and he was so adorable when he got so excited.
She had probably enjoyed herself a little too much by making the occasional snarky comment, more to see Castle throw her one of his reproachful wounded-puppy looks than because she'd really needed to comment. Castle had, in typical Castle fashion, even insisted on "dressing up" for their private watching of "Hard Kill," appearing in a (deliciously) tight black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off (she made a mental note that he should really spend more time in shirts with the sleeves ripped off as it had showcased his delectable biceps in a way that made heat sizzle through her whenever she looked at him) and a bandanna, of all things, wrapped around his head. And the contrast between the (hilariously) rugged action-hero look on Castle and his wounded-puppy expression whenever she made a snarky comment had been too priceless to resist.
Damn. Thinking about the evening—and looking at Castle as he reappeared in their bedroom from the bathroom, sans bandanna, but still in that wonderful tight black t-shirt—had completely distracted her and nicely taken away any wish to have any sort of serious conversation with him but it was necessary.
She was an adult. And a cop. They needed to talk about this. She could totally resist Castle and his bare arms and the shirt that showed off his chest and the breadth of his shoulders and…
Not helping. She could resist. Really.
She'd make the conversation quick.
"Castle, can we talk?"
He froze, giving her a suddenly wary expression as he sat down on the bed. "Uh, okay. Beckett, are we about to have our first married-couple fight?"
She gave him a small reassuring smile. "No. At least, not necessarily."
He didn't look all that reassured. "What is it?"
"We need to talk about how you got that slot car from the 'concerned citizen,'" she said with deliberate air quotes.
He briefly shut his eyes and then opened them again. "Ah, yeah, that. That was—look, Beckett, I didn't plan on—"
She held up a hand. "Don't tell me, Castle!" she interrupted him. "I can imagine how this 'concerned citizen' got it and I really, really don't want to know the details. I can't know the details."
He winced. "I'm sorry?" he offered a little tentatively.
She huffed out a little sigh, conflicted in spite of herself. She knew what her responsibilities were but she hated having to play the heavy. She could imagine, all too easily, what had happened to lead up to the bugged slot car falling into Castle's hands after he'd—so conveniently—spent the night "getting drinks" with the cast of "The Indestructibles." She didn't think that Castle had planned it himself—his excitement over the drinks invitation had been too genuine, for one thing—but he had participated in it in some form. And she was able to picture quite well how the entire thing might have played out. And there her imaginings ended because she really, really could not know exactly what had happened.
"Castle, you can't—you really can't do things like that—whatever you and this 'concerned citizen' did to get that slot car. Do you have any idea the risk you took? What if you'd been caught? Did you even think about that?"
"I—uh—it wasn't my idea to begin with, Beckett. When they picked me up, they had a plan all worked out. I just…"
"I can't know the details, Castle, you can't tell me the details. And that's the other problem. I'm a cop, Castle, and we're married now. What did you think you were doing, breaking the law like that? If you tell me—even guessing what you did puts me in an awkward position with work. You know that; you know that it's my job to have to report things like this. I can't just turn a blind eye to law breaking because it involves my husband—no, especially because it involves my husband, I can't turn a blind eye to it."
He sighed. "I know, Beckett. Why do you think I told you about the concerned citizen in the first place?"
She snorted. "You knew perfectly well that I wasn't going to buy that story for even a second. Come on, Castle. I know you just wanted to get the evidence and yes, it turned out to be important, but I'm a cop and I have to follow the rules to get the evidence. It's important to follow the rules, not just because the rules are in place for a damn good reason but because it's necessary at trial later for us to be able to account for every step of getting evidence. You know that, Castle. The custodial trail of evidence is important, otherwise vital pieces get tossed out at trial later and killers might end up going free because of messy police work. And I know you're not a cop but you work with cops every day; you're married to a cop and you can't break all the rules and then expect me to cover it up for you. That's not fair to me and if it ever came out—well, you can imagine what would happen to my career."
She looked at him, seeing his stricken expression, and softened her tone. She was still annoyed at him but she couldn't really blame him since she knew he hadn't set out to do this. He shouldn't have given in to whatever crazy plan the cast of the movie had hatched but she also knew his impulsiveness and she knew that his motives would never have been to give her a harder time.
"It's not only about me, Castle, that I'm telling you this. I've broken the rules for you before and I'll break them again. You know that; if it ever comes down to choosing between you and my job, you'll always win," she told him, scooting closer to him to half-lean against him. And of course it was true. Castle was more important to her than any rules, than her job, would ever be, had been for so long now she could barely remember when it had started. She'd once told him she would break him out of prison—had been ready to do just that when Jerry Tyson had gone after him that awful time in the Tessa Horton case—she would do anything for him. Just as she knew he would do for her, as he already had done for her. But those were desperate, last ditch measures, in desperate times.
Getting the bugged slot car in this case—there would have been other ways to get the evidence, the information. It would have been harder, taken longer, no doubt, but they would have found a way. Ironically, she knew that Castle's creative thinking would likely have played a large part in whatever other way they would have found to get at the truth in this case. The problem was in skipping right over the hard way to the quicker route of breaking the law to get the evidence.
"It's for your sake too, Castle, because it's dangerous to go off on secret missions, breaking the law like that, Castle, and you know you're not a cop and you're not armed. You could get into some real, serious trouble that way."
"You're right, Beckett. I'm sorry. It was impulsive and stupid and I shouldn't have done it. I knew that all along, really, knew you wouldn't like it, but I went along with it because…"
"Because they were your childhood heroes," she finished for him. "And it was like living one of your boyhood dreams."
He slumped a little. "Yeah, that. It was stupid."
She softened even more, feeling her irritation slipping away. It was hard to stay annoyed at him when he sounded and looked so remorseful. Part of her was annoyed at herself now for being so soft where he was concerned but she really couldn't help it. She slipped her arm around him, resting her head against his arm. "Impulsive, yes, and certainly not the smartest thing you've ever done, but not entirely stupid. You wanted to get the evidence to find out the truth, to get justice for Lance, and I can understand that."
He didn't answer immediately, but after a moment, he slipped his own arm around her, and she knew he was feeling better. It was something she loved about him. When Castle blamed himself, felt guilty over anything he'd done, one way she could tell was that he was much less inclined to be affectionate. Normally, Castle always liked to touch her (and since the feeling was entirely mutual, she had no problems with that), liked to be close to her. But when he was feeling guilty, he didn't reach out for her, kept his hands to himself. As if in his own regrets, he didn't feel worthy to touch her, somehow. As if in those times he still needed to convince himself that he was good enough for her, had the right to touch her, was not the "fraud" he'd admitted that he still sometimes felt like when he'd told her about Jordan Motor Company. So his slipping his arm around her now told her more than anything else could have that he was feeling better. "You're right," he said again after a moment. "It wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. The smartest thing I've ever done was marry you."
She smiled and then lifted her head to kiss his cheek. "How am I supposed to stay annoyed at you when you say things like that?"
He managed a small smile. "Well, since I never want you to be annoyed at me…"
She only nestled her head against his shoulder again but after a moment, he lifted up one hand to her chin, lifting her head so he could meet her eyes, his own eyes entirely serious. "I really am sorry, Kate. I knew you wouldn't like it and I knew it would potentially put you in an awkward position but I went ahead and did it anyway and I shouldn't have done that. You're my partner, you're my wife, and I should have respected your job more than I did." He paused. "Forgive me?"
She felt the last bits of her irritation dissipate entirely. "Always, Castle."
His eyes crinkled a little at the corners at her use of their word as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, caressing her chin lightly with his thumb. "It's not going to cause problems at trial, right? You think we'll still be able to use the bugged conversation?"
"I think so. Trey will most likely testify and we do have her confession. If she doesn't plead out and we end up going to trial, we should still be fine," she answered honestly. She wasn't a lawyer but she'd grown up around two lawyers and had learned enough over the years to be able to predict this with reasonable confidence. If that weren't the case, she would have been much more than merely irritated. "The concerned citizen will have done his part," she added, trying for lightness.
He grimaced a little. "That was a dumb story. I should have done better."
She couldn't help but smirk a little. "You don't think that story is worthy of you, master storyteller?"
"It wasn't and you know it but I didn't want to lie to you by coming up with a good story." He shrugged a little. "Technically, we were being concerned citizens, trying to see a killer brought to justice."
"I know, Castle. It's one of the reasons I'll be able to write that in my report on the case with a straight face."
"I really am sorry, Beckett."
"Castle, it's okay. You've already apologized and I've forgiven you. It's in the past, done."
She settled her head against his shoulder again and after a while, felt him tighten his arm around her shoulders, turning his head to brush a kiss against her hair.
He really had such a comfortable shoulder to lean on, she reflected idly. It was really terrible, almost tragic, she thought not entirely humorously, how many years she'd gone after meeting him and never knowing just how comfortable it would be to pillow her head against his shoulder like this, lean on him like this—in both the literal and the figurative sense.
Her eyes came to rest on a framed art print, one of the last things that had remained on the wall in her apartment and which she'd finally brought back to the loft just the day before. It was on the dresser, resting against the wall of their bedroom, waiting to be put up on the wall, although they had yet to agree upon exactly where it would go. It was a reproduction of a print she'd first bought for her dorm room at Stanford and it had stayed on the wall of every bedroom she'd lived in since then. That first one she'd owned had been lost when her old apartment had blown up but she'd hunted for weeks to find another copy of the same print so she could put it back up on the wall of her bedroom. She couldn't believe it had taken her so long to move it here into the loft but it had become one of those things she was so familiar with, she hardly even noticed it anymore and so she'd never really remembered to move it. And now it was here, in their bedroom, where it should be. A piece of her past, declaring that, yes, Kate Beckett lived here.
The thought reminded her of what Castle had said about her apartment, the niggling sensation returning. Talking to Lanie had reminded her of why she'd been having such a hard time of leaving, of really letting go of her apartment, even though the majority of her things had been at the loft for months and she hadn't really lived in her apartment in more than a year. But that aside, Castle's words had still bothered her a little, in some small corner of her mind.
And oddly, it was as her gaze idly wandered over his so-familiar bedroom, every inch of it recognizable to her and so much of it proclaiming to her, who knew him so well, that this was Rick Castle's bedroom, that she realized just what had been bothering her about what Castle had said about her apartment.
It wasn't only that he hadn't liked the apartment that was so dear to her—that part she could even understand, thinking about it. After all, she wasn't blind to its faults and he hadn't spent the same amount of time there that she had, hadn't learned to think of its faults as being endearing in that way that happened with places where you'd suffered and learned and been breathtakingly happy in and cried in and, yes, fallen in love in. No, what bothered her was that she'd never known that he hadn't liked her apartment.
It was probably—no, definitely—a little thing to be worrying over. She knew him. She knew the kind of person he was, knew his heart, knew the way he thought and reacted to things. And that wasn't even really the problem. It was just… she hadn't known. Shouldn't she have known?
She knew how to read his expressions, his eyes. Yes, he could shutter his emotions off—just like she could, admittedly—when he wanted to but he almost never did so with her anymore. She knew him, she knew his tells. They joked sometimes about how she could read his mind but there was a grain of truth to it—not telepathy, of course not, just the fact that she knew him well enough that she could often guess what he was thinking. As could he, for that matter. Just as their minds had, from the first, seemed to be in sync when it came to working cases and building theory together, now, in spite of all their past misunderstandings when it came to their personal lives, she really did know him well enough to guess what he was thinking about other things, not just work.
And yet she hadn't known that he didn't like, had never liked, her apartment.
She thought about all the time they'd spent in her apartment once they'd (finally) become lovers. During the summer of her suspension, they'd spent whole days (and nights) in her apartment, in her bed, just loving each other. And in the year after that, there had been plenty of evenings and nights and weekends spent together in her apartment, just spending time together as a couple, as Kate and Rick.
In all that time, how had she never realized that he didn't like her apartment? Shouldn't she have noticed? Shouldn't she have been able to guess from his eyes, his expression, that he wasn't comfortable, would rather be at the loft?
She was a detective; reading people's expressions and between the lines of their words was practically her job!
"Kate?"
"Hmm?"
"I can hear you thinking. What's bothering you? Is it still what I did because I really am sorry—"
"No, Castle," she interrupted him. "It's not that. It's just… did you really not like my apartment that much?"
He drew back a little bit to stare at her. "Seriously, Kate? That's what's bothering you?"
She huffed, suddenly regretting that she'd blurted out the question like that. "I'm being silly, never mind. Forget I said it."
"No, no forgetting. You're never silly and if you're still thinking about an off-hand comment I made yesterday, then it's obviously not about to go away. What is it, Kate?"
He studied her, his eyes a darker blue than usual with concern. She was suddenly reminded, all over again, that he could read her expression and her mood to within an inch now too. Hiding what she felt didn't really work anymore, not really, and they had promised to talk about things, had promised not to hide.
"I just feel like I should have known, somehow, that you didn't like my apartment but it never even occurred to me. And now I wonder how I could have missed that, how I could have not noticed it in all the time we spent there."
He laughed. He actually, honest-to-goodness, laughed, his eyes lighting up with real amusement.
She narrowed her eyes. Really, Castle? Inappropriate humor or not, she'd expressed a real concern of hers and he laughed? She felt a distinct spurt of annoyance—mingled in with some surprise and, yes, disappointment too. Because while he might have an inappropriate sense of humor sometimes—a lot of the time—he was usually better about things like this. He had learned when to joke and when not to and he never made light of her real concerns. Or at least, he hadn't until now.
As if sensing her irritation or feeling the heat of her look, he abruptly sobered, carefully wiping all traces of amusement from his expression.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have laughed but honestly, Kate, that's what's bothering you? Kate, love, you're reacting like you think I spent all that time at your apartment miserable and wishing I were someplace else."
She had to smile a little. "I don't think it was quite that bad."
"You know it wasn't. Kate, seriously, I can promise you that in all the time we spent at your apartment, I can probably count on my two hands the total number of minutes I spent thinking about your apartment in any way, whether it was good or bad. So the fact that you didn't notice is not something to worry about." He shrugged. "All I wanted was to be with you, Kate. As long as you were there, I wouldn't have minded spending the night in the sewer."
She had to laugh. Castle, the man who had 1000 thread count sheets and looked around at their seedier murder scenes with a sort of horrified fascination, looking obviously out of place with his always-expensive clothing and immaculate hair, saying he would have spent time in a sewer. "In a sewer, Castle, really?"
He made a face. "Okay, so I'm not saying I would have been delighted about it but I'm serious. Look, Kate, remember what you said when I gave you the key for the apartment I got for us down in D.C.?"
She smiled at the memory, something inside her melting a little all over again at the thought of the so-very-Castle-like gesture of just giving her the key to an apartment, the generosity of it, the impulsivity of it. "Yes, I remember."
"You said you didn't need to see the place, that you loved it, just because it was ours. That's sort of how I feel about your apartment; it didn't matter to me where we were as long as I was with you."
Oh Castle… She thought about that moment again, remembered going from apprehension at how serious he looked to being stunned and so happy, overwhelmed at the magnitude of the gesture, this proof—yet again—of just how much this man loved her. Overwhelmed and a little shamed, again, still, that she could doubt his commitment to her, to them, even then, after he'd been showing her for years how much he loved her.
She focused on his face, saw the beginnings of a smile just crinkling the corners of his eyes, saw the utter sincerity of his expression. More than that, she saw the openness of his expression.
And she suddenly knew that she was being silly. Not only because of what he'd said—although, as usual, he had come up with the exact right words to say—but because of the look in his eyes. He didn't always like to talk about the hard things, any more than she did, but even so, he'd never really been able to hide how he felt about things. His eyes revealed more than his words.
A kaleidoscope of images, memories, of him, of the look in his eyes at various points in her apartment flashed through her mind—going over her mother's case with him, the arguments they'd had, the other moments just of friendship edging into more, the endless and too fleeting seconds when he'd touched her hand after dropping Royal the dog off, the look on his face when he told her he loved her for the second time, his eyes when she'd given him his own drawer in her bedroom in her apartment for their first Valentine's Day, the times he'd kissed her and touched her when they were in her bed… So much time, all those moments in her apartment—and in all of them, she'd known that, as far as he was concerned, she was all that mattered.
Words from another time echoed through her mind. I just want you.
It was as true for him as it was for her.
I just want you.
And nothing else mattered, certainly not creaky floors and thin walls in an apartment.
"You always know what to say, don't you?"
He smirked a little. "I'm a writer; knowing the right words is my job."
Her eyes dropped to his lips and then further still—distracted, again, by his chest. Yeah, she was so done with the talking part of the night. Although…
On a sudden, teasing impulse, she carefully schooled her expression and her tone into utter seriousness, shifting away from him by an inch so she could meet his eyes more fully. "Castle."
Her tone had his smirk dropping off his face. "What is it?"
"I saved the most important thing I wanted to talk to you about for last," she said.
His eyes widened, nervousness edging into worry crossing over his face, and he visibly steeled himself, squaring his shoulders in an unconscious gesture that was easily visible thanks to the tightness of the shirt.
Mmm, yeah… Kate felt her mouth dry out a little at the way the muscles of his chest shifted when he squared his shoulders like that and abruptly decided that this black t-shirt was her new favorite shirt for him to wear. Even better than the blue shirt that perfectly echoed his eyes or the red one he wore around the holidays that made the blue of his eyes seem to leap out in contrast.
It took just about every ounce of her self-control to keep her expression and her tone serious as she went on, "I wanted to talk to you about the way you look in this shirt."
It took him a second before her words, and not just her tone, registered and his head jerked a little, his eyes widening. "You—what?" he half-choked.
And she finished the job of befuddling him by shifting, straddling his lap.
His hands automatically came up to lightly bracket her hips, his eyes flaring, darkening, as he stared at her. "You—you're evil, Kate," he managed to say. "Scaring me like that."
She allowed herself a slow, seductive smile. "But I meant what I said, you know. This is the most important thing I wanted to talk to you about," she drawled out, throwing every naughty innuendo she could into the emphasis.
And felt his body's instant reaction just from the tone of her voice.
She flattened her hands against his stomach and then slid them slowly, slowly, up his chest, taking the time to caress and explore every muscle that rippled under her touch. "I love how tight this shirt is," she purred. "How it shows every line of your chest so nicely."
"Kate…" Her name was a moan.
She bent to touch her lips to his neck just above the collar of the shirt, nuzzling the bare skin and then kissing it and then lightly letting her teeth graze his Adam's apple that bobbed as he swallowed. Her hands slid further up his chest to his shoulders, leisurely sketching the breadth and width of them.
"I love how the shirt stretches so tight across your shoulders, making you look… bigger…"
He choked, making a sound that was half a groan and half a laugh at her deliberate phrasing.
She flicked her eyes up to meet his, becoming momentarily serious, the teasing seduction leaving her tone, as she added quietly, "I love how broad your shoulders are because it makes me feel safe when you hold me."
His eyes softened, shining with emotion and no longer quite as dark with sheer lust as they had been. "Kate…" he breathed and his tone made her name an endearment.
She lowered her gaze to focus on his chest again, sliding her hands down from his shoulders and along his (yummy) biceps and then further down, caressing his strong arms, first with her hands and then, bending, with her lips. She touched her lips to the skin of his shoulder, just where the torn-off sleeves of his shirt ended and then let her lips slide down, scattering kisses along the muscles of his arms, pausing to kiss the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, and then back up again.
"I love your arms," she murmured against his skin as she went. "It's a good thing you always wear long-sleeved shirts into the precinct or I'd never have been able to give my work the concentration it deserves."
He huffed out a soft laugh that was roughened by desire. "I had no idea."
She smiled against the bare skin of his upper arm. "Neither did I. All those years, I had no idea of what you were hiding underneath all your button-down shirts."
"Never wearing long sleeves again," he half-gasped.
She laughed softly, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "What makes you think I want anyone else besides me to see your bare arms?"
He smirked and she kissed him, hot and hard and impatiently now.
He groaned into her mouth as his hands made quick work of her loose shirt, sliding under it to flatten his palms against her breasts. She broke off the kiss on a moan, arching into him, and then quickly tearing her shirt off over her head to give him free access to her skin.
He took immediate advantage of it, his mouth sliding down to her neck and then lower still. And oh God, she loved his mouth, his lips and his tongue. She let her head fall back, feeling the spiraling tension inside her, the jolts of arousal streaking through her from every point where his lips touched. He paused, momentarily pausing in his ministrations to her body, and then pressed his lips tenderly to the circular scar just between her breasts where the bullet had entered, and her heart melted a little inside her. He almost always did this. No matter how hard and fast their lovemaking was sometimes, almost always when he was caressing, tasting, her breasts, he would pause to press his lips to her scars. Almost always, as if even now, he still wanted to pay tribute to the fact that she'd survived, that she was with him. It was something he'd done that first incredible night and almost every single time since then. And she loved it, loved him, even as her heart sometimes hurt a little at this evidence of just how deeply the memory of her shooting affected him still. Just a moment and then his lips moved on.
But this was supposed to be about him, about his body, and so she slid her hands beneath his shirt, sliding it up and baring his stomach and his chest as she went. He paused in his own caresses to help her—one minor disadvantage of the shirt being as tight as it was that it was harder for her to push it off him without his cooperation—and he was the one that hastily tugged it off over his head.
Mm, yes, that was definitely better, something inside her purred in satisfaction as she resumed her exploration, her appreciation of his now-bare stomach and chest with her hands and then with her mouth.
All too soon, he was gently pushing her away. "Kate, we need to…" he gasped.
And she understood, felt the familiar heat, the tight coil of desire spiraling up inside her, and she (rather reluctantly) shifted off his lap and they both engaged in a hasty scramble to strip off the remainder of their clothes.
And then he was reaching for her, tugging her down on top of him, and she almost tumbled down above him, her elbow connecting rather awkwardly with his ribs. He grunted and she huffed out a soft laugh, covering his lips with hers in a soft, apologetic kiss.
The kiss didn't stay soft for long as he nibbled her lower lip and then soothed it with his tongue as his arms—lovely, strong arms—wrapped around her and settled her above him.
She shifted, writhing above him, teasing him just a little until he growled something that might have been her name and then she gave in and rose up over him and then sank down again, taking him inside her, surrounding him.
He groaned, his hands falling to grasp her hips, and she rocked above him, crying out a little at the sensation that shot through her. They found a rhythm easily—God, they were so good at this, so good together, she thought fuzzily—and the rest of the world faded around her until nothing existed but him and her, the harsh sounds of their breathing, the sensation of his body inside her, the wonderful, thrilling heat and friction of their joined bodies.
She felt her climax building inside her almost ridiculously quickly, the familiar coil of arousal winding tighter and tighter. She opened her eyes, sliding her hands up his chest in a quick caress, touching him in ways and places she knew he liked.
He groaned. "Oh God, Kate…" His eyes looked almost black with lust as he stared up at her.
And something about the look in his eyes pushed her over the edge, the pleasure bursting inside her in a rush, all the tension releasing in one starburst of physical sensation.
He followed her over the edge in another few seconds, his hands clamping around her hips, as he spilled inside her.
She slumped on top of him, her now boneless body draping over his, as she vaguely felt his hands move from where they'd been gripping her hips to tracing light, random patterns on the skin of her back. She buried her face in the curve where his neck met his shoulder, breathing in the so-familiar scent of him, as she felt her heart rate slow and return to normal.
After a while, he stirred, shifting beneath her, and she slid off of him as they rearranged themselves more comfortably, ending up, as they so often did, with her head nestled against his shoulder.
"I'm going to wear that t-shirt a lot," he mumbled after a long few minutes.
She laughed softly. "I knew you were going to say that."
She sensed rather than saw his grin and he turned his head to drop a light kiss against her hair before relaxing further next to her, his fingers idly lacing with hers as it rested on his chest.
A contented sigh escaped him and she let her eyes close, sleepiness beginning to overtake her.
"Castle?"
"Mm?"
"I still think the 'Hard Kill' movies are silly."
He huffed a soft chuckle. "I still love you in spite of that."
She smiled and turned her head a little to drop a light kiss onto his shoulder. "Good," she mumbled.
And she was still smiling as she fell asleep.
~The End~
A/N 2: This can also be considered my little send-off for Beckett's apartment and some of the awesome scenes we got there.
Thanks, as always, for reading. And this is now my second foray into "Castle" smut… Um, thoughts?