She waits for a better idea to come to her. Surely something smart in her brain will strike and intercede. This isn't supposed to be happening. Here with him. She hadn't intended on Gates kicking her off the case, hadn't intended on showing up at Castle's door at 11:00 at night on a Tuesday. But here she is. Building ridiculous theory with Castle. It was the only thing a few hours ago she had been able to do. Best idea, only idea, at the time. Kate Becket does NOT give up. But she's also not, generally, delusional. She wasn't going to be allowed back on the case. Gates isn't Montgomery. Kate won't be able to strong-arm this one. Push her way back in. Doesn't mean she couldn't solve the case while not technically *on* the case. She had everything she needed. Names. Timeline. Castle. Whatever. She didn't mind admitting it – to herself anyway, god knows to on one else – that Castle is an asset. But she, no they, they have hit a brick wall. Nothing would be done about it tonight. Err, this morning. What time is it? That brick wall is the ONLY thing that made her accept the two fingers of shockingly good scotch he offered her an hour ago. They talked. About the case. Then not about the case. What prompted her to get up and refresh her glass with two more fingers, surely it wasn't three, was a complete mystery. This *may* have factored in on her little conundrum.

Surely what's flashing through her brain is a bad idea. It must be the scotch. Maybe her brain is just tired. Her brain doesn't feel tired. The scotch seems to have only tinted the edges of everything with a gentle haze. Perhaps the idea of pressing her body to his, pressing her mouth to his and knowing, finally, what his words taste like as they're spilling off his lips is her own idea. Maybe she's drunk and doesn't know it. Despite her control issues that would be preferable. Control is the problem right now. Seldom has been before. The scotch *must* be at least an accomplice.

He is oblivious. Completely. Normally he's a bit more tuned in with her. Maybe the alcohol is working on him too. He's wrapped in spinning conspiracy theory and thrilled words, always the best words, are flowing. She doesn't want to shut him up. She likes his words. She loves him. Them! Shit. She meant *them*. Maybe she's drunk. She doesn't want to stop him. Just get closer. Feel the sonic vibrations as they bubble up. Find out where they come from. Is it his diaphragm? Could she place a hand on his chest and divine their origin? But no. They must come originally from his brain. She'll lace her fingers through his hair and feel the words there straining for freedom in his scalp. Pushing at the follicles.

She's drunk. And he's looking at her. The words have stopped. She's sad his voice isn't filling all the free spaces. It's almost like he was a dream that she conjured and now that his motion has stopped he's really, fully present and in the room. And now he's staring at her. More than the usual stare. He must know something is up with her. His eyes are too intent. And clear. His eyes are totally clear and she knows with certainty that hers are not. She has complete control of her expressions and she can feel what this one looks like. Can see it as clearly in her mind's eye as if looking in a mirror. It's wide, glassy, more than a little bit shocked. And hot. Aroused. She can sense it in her face. That in itself is fine. She does aroused. With someone. Alone. Thinking of … someone. She does it just fine. Never would she think of holding shame. But she sees when he sees it and cannot help the flush that burns her. Starts in her chest and fingertips and scorches a path north. But he is still. So still.

Kate pushes off. She'd been leaning against the desk, his desk, and she felt content there before but stagnant there now. She liked it but what is a desk without its owner? He won't stop looking at her. It is far too intimate. Even for the things she wants to do. The things she's picturing in her head. When he looks at her like that, which is increasing in frequency, she feels like he's stealing her soul. The way people used to be afraid of being photographed. His mouth is open, eyebrows reaching toward the hairline. The words must come from up there. That's the reason for all the hair. It's fertile ground there.

Kate is drunk.

Not a lot. But a little. A little drunk. But she can see the words emanating from him like a halo. Kate tries to think about what that sentence might sound like to her tomorrow. Ridiculous. Words coming from his hair.

"Ha!" Oh God! She laughed out loud didn't she?

Castle smiles broad and confused.

"Keep talking."

His mouth doesn't move. Confusion and mirth still in his eyes but something else. She wishes she know what it was. It is either well shuttered desire (he had gotten better at that lately while she has gotten worse) or worry. She will be goddamned if it's worry. What kind of nerve does he have worrying about her? He smiles. Oops. Not worry. She sees it clearly now. Desire then.

"Keep talking."

"What do you want me to say, Beckett?"

Last name huh? In her brain she heard him whisper Kate. Beckett would not do. She needs to hear Kate. Needs to *BE* Kate.

"Speak, Richard." She calls him like a dog. "Say something. Anything."

Still he hesitates. This time she doesn't blame him. She knows what's on her face this time too. Sex. Pure sex. It would unnerve him. It's taken 20 minutes to get over it unnerving her so she understands.

Still he stands gapped mouth. This is ruining her fantasy. RUINING it! He's the man with the words. Words for her. Extraordinary words. And where are they now?

"Say ANYTHING!"

She is fervent. After a moment it comes to him. Unfortunately not his words. She would positively purr at his words. But these are good too.

"O Captain! My Captain."

Kate unwillingly gurgles up a laugh. Thankfully it doesn't deter him. Straight from memory of 9th grade English class but still good.

"Our fearful trip is done; the ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;"

She moves the distance between them. Kate doesn't bring her eyes to meet his. Can't. But can't help touching him. She *NEVER* gets to touch him. That's a lie. She never *allows* herself to touch him. That's more like the truth. And while she doesn't touch him she's allowed (she allows herself) to stare in his eyes all day long. Now is no time for that. Now is the time for things she never gets a solid look at. Never gets to place her fingers. It starts with his neck.

"The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:"

Cool, slim digits press on his tendons. His eyes slam shut. His vocal cords strain. The squeak of puberty like a gasp escapes him before he caps off the sound. Fingers wind their way up in his hair. Yes. Up here is where it must come from. All the words. Desire too. Kate pushes into his head hard enough that it pushes him forward. Still his eyes don't reopen.

She pushes this time with purpose. To gain that little field under his earlobe running down to his collar. He's too quiet.

In his ear, directly, breathily in the shell of his ear, she says, (oh god, she wanted to *say*, sounds more like *begs*) "Please keep talking."

He jerks with a sharp breath and begins again. "But O heart! Heart! Heart!

"O the bleeding drops of red,

"Where on the deck my Captain lies,

"Fallen cold and dead."

What a fucking awful poem. Screw Whitman. Did he really know what it was like to truly lose ones Captain? Right. It's about Lincoln. Not her Montgomery. This I not what Kate wants to be thinking about. Castle sees his mistake. Plows on.

"O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells; Rise up – "

Kate's mouth purchases the rest of the words on his tongue. She owns them like she owns his mouth. Her movement's deliberate. Slow. Tasting. Testing. The one time before was so good but so wrong that the memory is a muddle. Great kiss? Yes. That was never in question. Castle was, um, skilled. Kate didn't want to dissect it more than that. That kiss had started a million fires in her. And every single, solitary one of those fires had ended in her remembering the evil a few hundred yards away from them. The torture, even though they refused to call it that, the torture, that Ryan and Esposito went through. That kiss was passionate. She meant it. God help her. But it was tainted. Time for new memories.

Castle was still surprisingly contained as her tongue made a new home for itself on his lips, shyly brushing his own tongue. Flicking at his bicuspids. This was not what she had wanted. She knew he revered her. But shit. Sometimes a girl wants to be taken. Sure he'd been doing most of the work relationship-wise since they started this messed-up little dance. But *Kate* is the one that actually made the first move this time. So it is time for him to step up his game. She breaks away.

Castle's eyes are clouded. Unsure. Hesitant. Kate lies. Not completely and not to the point where she would ever feel a moments regret, but she lies and says, "I am completely sober. Don't make me do all the work."

Unsure, again. That's what Kate is about the sound that comes out of him. It most surely is a growl. She hesitates just to see the contortion of his face. Brow furrowed, nostrils flared, wet lips parted, heat from rapid breathes brushing her face, stinging her eyes. Never had Kate been so sure and simultaneously so terrified in all her life. Sure? Of course. Kate was sure that she wanted him. Was beyond sure he wanted her, even if the proof of that wasn't branding her in the hip making her wish her brain would cut off. It was the risk it involved. She knew they would be compatible. Sexually, yes, but thinking so far past that. To more. To long term. To. Forever. It was there. It dangled. Kate would hate it. Would banish it. Would make it go forever away. If she didn't like it. Didn't love it. Didn't need it. She wanted it. Felt it. Feared it. Secretly. Oh, so secretly, Kate's biggest fear was that she wanted what he offered and more.

She took it. What he offered now and the unspoken promise. Finally it is a fair fight. The hand in his hair and at his shoulder is parried with his hand at the small of her back and threaded through her curls. Kate tires not to think this is how she imagined it because admitting that, even to herself, meant she had fantasized about him.

Castle does indeed take over. He pushes off the end of his desk and rams her, hard, into the blunt and full edge of the bookshelf in his study. Kate fights him but only in the most fun of ways. Fingertips, lips, teeth and grunts. But he takes her over. Never, NEVER will Kate Beckett admit that she is thrilled to have a man, this man, just barely win dominance. But she is thrilled. Thrilled and the tiniest bit drunk. She will regret nothing.