A/N: Okay, here I go again, having NO CLUE what I'm doing. This started with some random dialogue, then I ignored it, then I found myself typing again and again...and now I have a fic. Potential for more-I actually came up with a plot (Um, I use that term loosely) and there's potential for continuance. Again, I'm at your mercy. You say continue, I continue. You say, move on to something that makes sense, I say...yeah, I make no promises. ;-) You all are dear to my heart, seriously. Love the friends I've made so far.

This takes place post-Season Finale. I don't think there's spoilers, I've ignored blind items here (why would I do that?), and this is just me speculating.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Too bad.

"Castle," she hisses and pokes his chest, pulls back and grips his forearm and shakes a little. Then a lot. "Wake up."

"Huh?" Kate watches as he bolts upright, sees his eyes widen, then lids lower, disoriented. Yeah, his head is swimming too. "Kate? Where? What are—? Are you naked?"

"I'm not naked." She pulls the sheet further up her chest, because uh, yeah, that is bare. But she regrets that instantly as it slides further off of him, revealing a thick, muscular thigh, and more of the chest she just nudged. She hasn't seen any of him in, what, four months? Four months since he left her, ran away. And now she's seeing more of him than she's ever seen and hates the visceral reaction it has on her body. Damn him.

"You look pretty naked to me," he says plaintively. He raises the sheet and peeks down at his own body. He lowers the fabric and just sits there, expressionless.

"Well?"

"Boxers."

"Panties," she shares back. Only fair, right? Not completely naked. Good, good.

He moans a little and tries to cover it with a cough. The knowledge that he's still at least a little physically attracted to her pulls a flush to her chest. "Um."

"Don't ask because I have no idea."

"If we made love?" He looks at her guiltily, panic in his eyes, with something else there that she refuses to try to recognize.

"What? No! Where we are. I have no idea where we are." She shakes her head violently. "No, we didn't—why would you even ask that?" 'And don't call it that', she wants to add.

He gives her a 'really?' expression and flicks his pointer finger up and down her sheet-covered body. "Yeah, I don't think so either, though," he breathes out, contradicts himself, before sinking back into the headboard, bouncing the bed a little.

"What makes you so sure?" Does he remember something she doesn't?

She's sure. Nothing happened. She hadn't really had time to think about it until he brought it up, made her heart start pounding, but she shifts around a little and, no, no they didn't—there'd be some…evidence and, yeah, she'd feel—but, he's a guy and how does he—yeah, she doesn't even care. They didn't. That's the end of that.

"Just…I can tell. Wait, how do you know?" he asks, incredulously, eyebrow raised.

"It's been—I haven't—I just know. Too. Same as you. So, lose that train of thought." She can't very well say Well, Castle, I haven't had sex in over a year and I'm pretty sure I'd remember if you were between my thighs. Eh, she could, she supposes. Might be worth it to see the reaction. But, then if he has a heart or respiratory attack and they're locked in this room—better not.

"So, where are we and why are we naked?"

"Half-naked," she corrects.

"Semantics."

They both take a minute to look around the room. It's obviously a hotel room, pretty nice, but not quite. Everything is covered in clear plastic, the table and chairs shoved against the wall, small sofa, lamps, television and stand piled in the corner. A small sheen of drywall dust covers the top of the plastic. There are tubes of thick decorative wallpaper on the bare floor, giant rolls of plush carpet propped near them in the corner. The windows are blocked off by a large sheet of plywood, lending too much darkness to the room, only light coming from the cracked door of what she assumes is the bathroom.

"New construction somewhere, you think?" Castle asks her. She can see his mind tripping over scenarios that involve being targeted by CIA agents or abducted by aliens (He'd better not say 'probed'. She has not been probed in any capacity.).

"Looks like it." That half-opened door is calling her name and she wants, needs to investigate.

"Hey," he protests, as she stands from the bed and whips the sheet off with her, casing her body in a sloppy toga-like wrap, leaving him nearly bare on the bed.

"I need this," she defends.

"I need it too. It's cold in here."

There's no other covers on the bed, she just notices. Too bad.

"Quit being a baby." She walks to the door and pushes it open slowly, wishing she had her gun to clear the room. God, if she had a gun now, she'd just have to drop the sheet to emulate a Nikki Heat cover come to life. Ugh.

"You find something?" She startles because he's right behind her, breath against her bare shoulder. "Are our clothes in there?"

"Why would our clothes be in here?" She knows she's being bitchy, but she doesn't like this, having to be close to him again without practice, preparation, time to shove her feelings in the corner of her heart. She feels naked, and not just physically. To cope, she keeps her animosity and bitterness on the tip of her tongue and spits them at him to keep him at arm's length. That's the plan. That, and figuring out what the hell is going on here.

"Why is that such a dumb question?" They're in the doorway and he's pressing against her, trying to herd them into the bathroom, excessively curious. Arm's length, her brain screams in reminder. Too too close.

"I don't know, Castle," she sighs and steps further in the bathroom, away from him. The bathroom is clear, no hidden alcoves or closets, not even a shower curtain hanging. Nothing, no help. "Just—just let me think."

He looks sorry, even though she's the one biting at him and it makes her feel a little guilty. He lifts himself up to sit on the vanity, tilts his head back with his eyes closed—probably theorizing again—and his legs swing against the cabinets beneath, jarring them a little with each kick. This is the first time she's actually allowed herself to look (leer?) at him. He's wearing dark purple boxers, and damn if that isn't her favorite color. They look soft, maybe silky, she thinks, and she itches to touch them in examination. She mentally slaps herself out of her little underwear-molesting fantasy. "Hey, at least there's no tiger, right?" She offers him an iota of humor to take away some of the sting.

He opens his eyes and grins at her, then closes them again. "No cuffs either," he adds, as if disappointed.

She ignores that. "What the last thing you remember, Castle?"

"You…and bedsheets."

If he's trying to ruffle her feathers, it's working. "From last night," she growls.

"Oh. Hmm." All innocence. Damn him. He's biting his lip and struggling to catch a memory now, she can tell. They're fluttering all around her mind, too. Nothing concrete. Thick, heavy flashes. "Party," he says, excitedly. "I was at a party."

Yes. "Detective Richards—"

"Retirement party. Yes. In the hotel conference room," he adds slowly, accomplished, as if it's all making sense. Only none of it is really making sense.

"That still doesn't explain—"

"I noticed from outside, that a wing of the hotel is being remodeled. That must be where we are."

"Okay, we were obviously lured here. Someone took our clothes, phones(he winces at that, but keeps his mouth shut this time). Drugged us, maybe? Why? Why both of us? I didn't even see you at the party. Why were you there?"

"Ryan invited me," he huffs, offended. "And you did see me. I remember talking to you."

"We did?" She must be a little more out of it than him. She doesn't—oh, wait, yes, yes does remember seeing him, a flash of Lanie asking if she knew he was back in town, pushing her to talk to him. Instead she hid at the corner of the bar, where she could see, but not be seen. "What about?" 'Did we fight again?' is what she means.

"Not sure. Can't recall." He's squinting a little and his eyes are flicking back and forth, unfocused, struggling for another memory.

"You were wearing a blue shirt," she blurts, pleased at more remembrance.

"Huh. Don't remember that. Did I look sexy, at least?" He's straight faced, but his eyes are crinkling with a hidden grin.

She snubs his question, opens and shuts cabinets that she's already checked. It was stupid to even bring that up. What the hell does the color of his shirt have to do with their predicament? Nice going, Beckett. Off the record, she always finds him sexy. And hates it.

"Did you ever find me attractive, Kate?" There's no humor in his question now. Is he serious?

Really? You've got to be kidding me. "I'm not dignifying that with a response."

"Don't look at me like that, like I know the answer. I don't. You can love someone and not find them attractive."

She groans. "I am not talking about this."

"Of course you're not." He jumps down off of the vanity and walks out of the bathroom.

She follows.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're allergic to talking about feelings. You run and hide or hole yourself up, away."

"Me?" she snorts. "I'm the runner? Who ran all the way to Europe for the summer?"

"You took a leave of absence, Kate. Didn't tell me. Just left. Scurried away, like you did last year. I didn't sit around this time because I know the result that garners. I'm experienced now."

"Castle—" That wasn't what she—damn it. He said he loved her and she said she loved him and they still managed to make a huge mess of it. They kissed, hot and hurried, and then they fought, angry passionate words thrown around, heavy in the air, then she left, satisfied only by the slam of his loft door behind her. She just needed a moment, tiny patch of time. "Rick, I—"

A series of loud bangs and shouts interrupts her, startles her. His eyes are wide, too. She sees the anger drain from him as he slides into defender mode, ushers her behind him as he creeps closer to the door.

He just stands and stares at it, plants his feet as though he's preparing for attack. He looks a little hot and a lot silly, posing, ready to fight in his underwear. She might laugh if the situation weren't so serious, unknown.

She moves around him and heads closer to the door. "Cover me." It's proof that he's concentrating hard on his potential fighting techniques when he misses the opportunity for a witty one-liner to her remark. Or he could still be pissed at her.

"What are you doing? That door's gotta be locked from the outside. Someone's not going to throw us in here and then let us just escape. That'd be an awfully crappy story—wait, what if it's booby-trapped or-." She tries the heavy handle, pushes it down and doesn't meet any resistance. She pulls and— "It's open." He narrates her actions. "No way."

He tries to peer over her head through the barely-there sliver that she's created, and she almost whacks him in the nose when she quickly shuts the door and leans back into it. "Shit."

"What? What is it?" He's whispering, still breathy from being shocked out of their argument.

"Cops."

A/N: Feedback?