Prompt: accidentally called your number while drunk asking for a ride and you actually came au


It's been a long, tiring week.

They've finally wrapped up the case that's been rattling their brains for the past seven days and she couldn't be more relieved. It was a tough one, but she knew from the start that it would be; the ones with kids always are. A six year old girl used as bait, as incentive, to make sure her father pays off some loan shark debts. The girl wasn't meant to get hurt - or so they said - but things went wrong, horribly wrong, and shots were fired, leaving two parents without their daughter.

Everyone's still in the bullpen, still reeling, slowly coming down from the adrenaline that accompanied taking in the girl's killer. Kate rubs at her eyes before resting her head in her hands, taking a deep breath.

She's exhausted, the week of late nights and sleeplessness creeping into her bones, but she shakes it away.

As tempting as her bed sounds right now, she really just wants to let her hair down and relax for a few hours.

"Ryan, Espo," she calls across the room and watches as the two men in question turn their heads towards her. "What do you say we go down to that new bar on the corner for a drink? My treat."

It's not The Old Haunt, their usual go to, but it's a new, more modern bar that's just moved in. McRory's Pub. It's closer, and right now all she wants to do is throw back a few, get the remnants of this case that still linger out of her head.

Ryan's nodding his head and it's Esposito who voices his agreement. "Yeah, I could go for a beer."

She nods, throwing the rest of the unfinished paperwork in her desk drawer. Normally she would be in this precinct until the wee hours of the morning, toiling away on an old case or finishing up her paperwork - she never actually leaves when shift ends, much to Montgomery's dismay - but tonight she just wants to unwind with a couple of drinks.

The boys are huddled around Ryan's desk as she makes her way to them, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"You guys ready?"

They nod simultaneously. "To McRory's!" Ryan claps.

Esposito makes a comment about his excitement, muttering something that sounds like "Let's go, McHoneyMilk," but Beckett just rolls her eyes at the enthusiasm, a grin hiding beneath her features.

She feels the same way.


One drink turns into two, two turns into three, and now she's lost count. It's probably somewhere around six or seven, especially if the warm buzz coursing through her veins is any indication, but she can't be sure.

Esposito's at the bar ordering another round for the three of them and she notices - through hazy eyes - that he seems fairly more steady on his feet than he should be. He's had more than her - or at least, she thinks he did. Her eyes aren't the only part of her beginning to fog.

He comes back, two more jugs of beer in his hands. The pitcher clatters against the wood as he puts them down, some of the liquid spilling onto the table with the movement.

"Okay, okay," Esposito says, taking his seat next to Ryan back. "Let's make this interesting."

She cocks her head. "How so?"

Espo grins as passes around the glasses. "Never have I ever."

"Never have you ever what?"

"It's a drinking game, Beckett," he looks at her questioningly. "You've never played?"

She shakes her head. She's relatively certain she's heard of it, remembers brief mentions of it at some of her college parties, but she never took part. She was more of a beer pong kind of girl; reigning champ, to be exact.

"You say 'never have I ever' and then follow it up with something you've never done," Ryan pipes up. "If you've done whatever the person says, you have to drink."

"And how do you know what this is?" Esposito jests, eyeing his partner.

Ryan shrugs. "I went to college."

Beckett agrees.

She doesn't know why she agrees, knowing this is not a game she'd normally play with her partners, her team. But the alcohol is working gloriously, lowering her inhibitions, so she just mutters a challenging, "bring it on."


There's hooting and hollering, loud celebratory exclamations as she downs yet another glass.

"Never have I ever," Ryan starts, pausing to think. "Done the walk of shame two nights in a row."

Esposito and Beckett both drink, the two boys turning to their boss with wide eyes as she does.

"Beckett?"

She glances up from behind the shot glass and notices their shocked expressions, not even bothering to suppress her laughter at the looks on their faces. The mix of alcohols has numbed her, leaving her feeling weightless, carefree.

Under any other circumstances she would not be divulging this kind of information to them, but right now she's too buzzed to realize exactly what she's doing, what she's letting spill, and she can't bring herself to care.

Beckett shrugs nonchalantly, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Wasn't Rebel Bex for nothin'," she mumbles around the rim of the glass.

The boys exchange looks but decide not to comment, if only because of the glower they're getting from her. Even drunk, the woman's stare is more terrifying than the prospect of spending a night alone with a violent, convicted murderer.

"My turn," she says. "Never have I ever... had a nickname with milk in it."

She grins triumphantly at Ryan's countenance. "Low blow, Beckett."

Her eyes are heavy, the effects of the however many drinks - she truly has no idea at this point - washing over her. Ryan's the most sober at this point, so she figures he could use another drink. He needs to unwind too; she's just helping him out.

They continue playing for another hour, maybe a bit more, before they finally decide to call it quits. But not before they all learn some rather interesting things about each other; like the fact that Esposito once dressed in drag and ran through a high school cafeteria for a dare, that Ryan isn't as innocent as he comes across - no one would have pegged him for the drunken one night stand type, and that Beckett had the hots for her senior year Physics teacher.


The boys stop drinking shortly after the game is over and grab coffees and some water instead, but Beckett insists on having a shot - or two - of fireball. They don't stop her, knowing perfectly well that Kate Beckett holds her liquor better than any other detective in the precinct, and she knows her limits.

They also know that she won't listen to them even if they do try to intervene.

When she looks up at them again forty five minutes later, they seem to have sobered up considerably - or they just weren't as drunk to begin with, considering she's the one who keeps piling the drinks up - and she squints her eyes. One of them is mumbling something about how they should get going, and she nods, the movement requiring much more effort than it normally does.

She spends an embarrassing amount of time sliding her arms into her jacket and now she's fumbling with the buttons, her fingers slipping and doing just about everything but what she wants them to.

"Do you want me to-"

"Espo, I'm fine." She swats – sloppily – at his hands, but misses and hits his chest instead. "Sorry," she mumbles.

Buttoning her jacket is exponentially harder than it should be and she groans, taking a deep breath before trying again. Her tongue is stuck between her teeth as she concentrates, taking the top button between her fingers and holding the adjacent hole with the other hand. The button slides in halfway and then pops back out, the lapel of her jacket falling back into its original place. After a few more attempts she drops her hands in frustration. She doesn't need the jacket buttoned up anyway.

She sways as she stands and her vision blacks out for a few seconds, adjusting to the sudden - and too fast, apparently - movement. There's immediately a pair of hands at her back, keeping her steady as she continues to rock back and forth.

The room is spinning.

She doesn't know what time it is, but guesses that it's probably around midnight, give or take a few hours. So really, she has no idea.

Her head swivels as she pushes the hands off of her, spinning on her heels.

Too quick, too quick.

She throws her arms out in front of her, an attempt to latch onto the back of the booth - an attempt that is just barely successful. Her partners are looking at her, she knows, she can feel it, but her eyes are partially closed as she tries to regain her balance.

"Beckett, let one of us take you home," Ryan speaks up, and despite her current state, she can still hear the concern. Typical Ryan. And why doesn't he sound at all inebriated?

She shakes her head, immediately hissing at the motion.

Bad idea. Such a bad idea.

"No," she slurs. "'m fully capable of taking myself home."

She ignores their looks of amusement when she shifts on her feet, teetering unsteadily to one side.

"You can barely stand, Beckett," Espo points out, rising to his feet, stumbling just slightly as he stables himself. "You're not walking back like this."

"I'm fine," she repeats, the words not coming out with nearly as much conviction as intended. "I am not having you walk me home like a-" She blinks and takes a deep breath, centering herself. "Like a child."

She does her best to narrow her eyes at the two of them, and they seem to relent after a few seconds.

Victory!

"Alright, fine." She grins, lopsided and ridiculous. "But," Espo continues, cutting off his wobbling boss before she can start doing some kind of victory chant. "You're calling Lanie and having her come pick you up."

The boys are being unnecessary, she thinks. She doesn't need a babysitter to escort her home. She's Kate Beckett, slightly tipsy detective, and she can get home on her own.

She chooses to ignore the pounding of her head and screws her eyes shut. It was only a few drinks. Just a few. She's had more before. She's fine.

When she opens her eyes she's staring at Esposito and Ryan, but there are four of them. Well, two of each of them.

She shakes her head, slower this time so as to avoid the rattling pain. "I don't need-"

Ryan interrupts. "It's either Lanie or one of us, Beckett."

She musters up all of the control she still has and glares – her gaze shifts from each version of the guys, praying she's actually glaring at the real things – but they don't back down. Instead, they just match her glare.

Why aren't they just as dizzy as she is?

"'lright," she groans. "I'll call Lanie, dads."

They grin when she concedes and Espo huffs at the dad comment. Ryan, underneath the vague buzz still surrounding him, just looks relieved.

Kate fumbles for her phone, maneuvering herself awkwardly as she tries to grab it from the pocket of her pants. She almost claps her hands in celebration when the phone is in her hands and out of the confines of the jean pocket.

She stands and turns towards the boys, whose faces are that of pure confusion as they go to stand up after her, looking as if they think she's about to flee. It's not like she could get all that far on her own even if she had tried.

"'m calling Lanie," she manages, waving the phone around wildly so they can see, almost dropping it in the process. Her legs feel like jelly but she doesn't want to sit down anymore; she wants to move, and she sways - purposely - on her feet as the sudden urge to dance takes over.

Her vision is blurred as she squints at the phone, her tongue peeking out while she punches at the buttons. She knows Lanie's on her speed dial so she hits a series of buttons that seem right, and presses call. The phone rings and goes to voicemail, but she doesn't react, doesn't let the boys know she hasn't actually answered.

She leaves a voicemail.

"Hi," she starts, slow and dragged out. "Can you pick me up?" She stops as if Lanie's replying, the pause unnecessarily long. "Boys won't let me walk home," she looks pointedly at the two men sitting in the booth.

Her words are slurring together more, the coherence slowly fading as the last round of drinks chase to catch up with her.

"M'kay thanks," she finishes, bringing the phone down and ending the call – after hitting the wrong button. Twice.

"She coming?" Esposito asks.

She just nods, knowing her voice would give it all away.

"Good," Ryan nods back. "We'll wait here with you."

"No." Her eyes widen and she tries to regain some semblance of sober composure, ignores the feeling the alcohol is causing to blanket her body. "Go 'head. Jenny's waitin'."

Espo shakes his head. "Uh uh, Beckett," he says firmly, sounding only vaguely like he's had more than a few beers. "Not till we know you're safe."

"Guys," she says, leveling her voice to the best of her ability. "I'm okay. See?" She tries her hardest to walk a straight line, mentally willing herself to stay upright when her body teeters.

They don't look convinced, and even she knows her walk probably resembles that of a small child taking their first steps.

If she were a suspect walking on a white line, she'd be declared drunk and taken in.

"You can go," she sighs. She doesn't need them watching over her. "'m okay." She nods to them, fighting to keep a convincing smile on her face as her body leans against the booth for support.

The boys take deep breaths, knowing they can't very well compete with Beckett. Even a drunk Beckett is a true challenge, one they know better than to try and confront head on. She's a nut they're not going to try and crack; not right now, anyway.

"You stay in here," Ryan says, pointing to the booth.

"And you call when Lanie gets here," Espo adds. "Or have her call us."

Beckett shoots them a wide grin, clearly satisfied, and nods.

"Beckett," Espo warns.

She waves him off, the motion sloppy and uncoordinated. "I will."

And she will. Probably. Most likely.

Maybe a text, if she can fiddle with the keyboard correctly.

Once she gets home and she's in bed, tucked beneath her covers.

The boys finally leave, albeit reluctantly, and she lets out a sigh. They're impossible sometimes, but she can't fight the small smile that makes its way to her face. It's sweet, their brother-like protectiveness. Absolutely unnecessary, but sweet.


He's standing outside the bar, hands seeking warmth in his pockets. He was shocked, thought for sure that he was hearing things when he listened to his voicemail and heard Beckett asking him to pick her up. And he was even more shocked to realize that she sounded drunk.

Her voice was low and drawn out, so un-Beckett-like that it caught him off guard.

He steps through the doors and looks around, eyes scanning the bar until they come to a far booth with a woman slumped over in the corner. It's her. He would know that hair, that posture - as awful as it is right now - anywhere. It's Beckett.

"Beckett?" he asks hesitantly once he reaches the table.

Her eyes shoot up, shimmery and glazed over, and he wonders just how much she's had to drink. "Castle?" she replies with a hiccup, a crooked grin, and he can tell she's trying her best to keep herself upright. "What're you- why're you here?"

His brows scrunch in confusion. She must really be out of it. "You called me."

She shakes her head violently, screwing her eyes shut immediately, muttering a quiet, scrambled shit at the movement. "I didn't?" she says, but it comes out as a question rather than a statement. A few seconds pass. "I- oh."

She's giggling now, covering her mouth in a futile attempt to stop it. Nothing's that funny, and it's now that he realizes how out of it she truly is.

Kate Beckett does not giggle.

He's known her for a decent amount of time now and not once has he heard her giggle.

Though, he thinks the way her cheeks flush as she tries to suppress it is the cutest, and the sound of the high pitched noise is one of the sweetest things he's ever heard. He wishes she'd let her guard down more often, show him this loose side of her - when she's not drunk, of course.

In time, he tells himself.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Not 'lot," she gets out, peeking at him from behind her fingers. "More?"

He shakes his head, but can't stop the small smile at how adorable she looks. So uninhibited, like a small child. "No, no more. I think you've had enough."

What he assumes is supposed to be narrowed eyes in his direction come across as more of a drunk eye-twitch.

"Not drunk," she says indignantly, pushing herself up from the booth. She steadies herself, swatting away his helping hands, and points to him, poking his chest in the process. "Didn't have to come, Castle."

The force with which she pokes him throws off her own balance and she staggers back, narrowly avoiding collapsing to the ground thanks to his quick reflexes. He grabs her around the waist and stands her back up, not letting go even as she squirms to avoid his grasp.

"I'm here anyway," he says in response. He leaves out the I'll always be here. "Let's get you home."

"Wanna stay," she mumbles weakly. He watches her eyes droop closed, eyelids fluttering as she fights to keep them open, and knows the fatigue is kicking in.

He switches positions, wrapping one arm behind her back and slinging her arm around his shoulders so he can prop her up and carry most of her weight.

"I know you do," he says, tightening his grip on her as he feels her legs wobble under her. "But you need to get some rest."

He feels some of the stiffness leave her body as she sinks into his side. "Fine," she grumbles, not bothering to pick her head up. "But 'm not drunk," she adds lazily, throwing a finger up into the air for emphasis.

The way she rests her head on his shoulder and doesn't pull away tells him that yes, she absolutely is drunk, and pretty far gone at that, but he knows better than to say any of that out loud.

So he laughs instead. "Okay, you're not drunk."


She wakes up in her bed, exhausted and nauseous. Her eyes blink open slowly, wincing when they come into contact with the sunlight streaming through the window.

Confusion and a slight panic creep up on her as she thinks back on the previous night, having no recollection of getting home. Upon further inspection she realizes that she's fully clothed, thank god, and she lets out a sigh of relief. A heavy hand runs through her hair as she tries to sit up, ignoring the protest the pounding in her head is throwing at her.

Her feet hit the floor and she pads into the other room, her fingers rubbing at her temple as she walks. She stops in her tracks when she sees a body on her couch, the lump seemingly fast asleep.

Who-

Castle?

What's Castle doing in her apartment?

Oh no.

Oh no, no.

Flashes of the night before are flooding her brain, playing in short, choppy clips. The bar with Esposito and Ryan. There was a game? Some kind of game. Lots of shots. And there was fire?

No, no fire. Fireball. No wonder she feels like shit - she should've known better.

But Castle?

She remembers calling Lanie and then-

Oh.

You called me, his words from last night float into her mind. She must've called Castle instead of Lanie. She didn't mean to, not consciously, but in her drunken fumbling she'd hit the wrong speed dial.

She doesn't realize that he's now awake until he's sitting up straight, curious eyes trained on her.

"How're you feeling?" he asks after a few moments of silence, his voice gritty and sleep ridden.

And now he's standing, making his way around her kitchen - and how does he know where anything is? Oh, scratch that; he's opening and closing various cabinets, trying to find whatever it is that he's looking for.

She notices when his eyes widen in delight, and then he comes back towards her with a glass of water and Advil she assumes he already had with him.

She takes it from him and gives a small nod in thanks. "Fine." When he looks at her incredulously she sighs, retracts her statement. "Like I got hit by a bus," she admits.

He nods. "Thought you might. The Advil should help."

"So," she starts slowly, cautiously, moving to sit down on one end of the couch. "How exactly did I get here?"

He chuckles and takes the same seat he previously occupied on the other side of her. "Well, I pretty much carried you the last few blocks after your legs gave out."

She groans and hides her head in her hands. "You didn't."

"Afraid I did," he affirms, a comforting, nonjudgmental smile on his face. "It was somewhere between your incoherent medley of Love Drunk - which was lovely, by the way - and your half-asleep, repeat assertions that you were not drunk."

Her eyes widen, a light tinge of pink rising to her cheeks. "I didn't..."

"You saw a blinking 'love' sign in a convenient store window and I think it just set you off," he tells her. He doesn't miss the irony of the words she was singing the night before.

She keeps her head buried in her hands. "I'm sorry, Castle," she mumbles, the voice distorted behind her palm.

"Don't be," he says softly, but his tone firm. "I kind of gathered that the call was an accident, but I'm glad it was me and not someone else."

Her eyes lock with his and there's a small, almost imperceptible grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Thank you," she says. "You didn't have to stay here. Doubt that couch was very comfortable."

He shrugs. "I didn't want to leave you alone." When she looks at him with a hint of something he can't pinpoint, he continues. "You know, in case you needed something during the night."

She smiles, more broad this time, her gaze flickering from his to her lap, her eyes now shielded by her lashes.

"I think I have to call Espo," she remembers, hastily getting up for her phone. "Vaguely remember telling him I'd let him know I got home alright."

He shakes his head. "No need. He knows you're home." She raises an eyebrow at him. "He and Ryan were sitting out on the bench in front of the bar. I ran into them on my way in."

"But they left-"

"They weren't going to leave you alone, Beckett."

She throws her head back and lets out a low huff. She should've figured they wouldn't have actually left.

"So," she begins, switching to a lighter, more joking tone, "no quips? No comments about dropping my top, a little cops gone wild?"

There's a twinkle in his eyes when he looks back at her. "There were no dropped tops," he states, matter-of-factly. "I would remember that."

She rolls her eyes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Of course he would.

He gets up and makes them both a cup of coffee, expertly maneuvering around her kitchen and her coffee machine, which is practically prehistoric compared to the one he brought to the precinct. Their fingers brush when he hands her the warm mug and they offer each other small smiles, both moving just a little bit closer on the couch.

She may not have meant to call him, but she's suddenly really glad she did.