A/N: A post-Hunt story. Part of the 'Colors' series.

"History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep on changing parts."

― Ian Fleming, Casino Royale

Charcoal Smudges in The Dark

It's like a warm cocoon, his bedroom. She loves it here. How enveloping and calming the masculine energy is – his black and white prints of bull elephants, the dark wood furniture, the rusty, woody maleness of it all.

She undresses, and he comes back from checking on Alexis to find her already down to her underwear, her long legs bare, tugging one of his dark grey t-shirts over her head. His drawer is lying open, garments disturbed from her recent search for something to wear. And she can tell from the look on his face that he loves seeing this - how comfortable she's able to make herself in his home these days.

The soft, worn shirt hits her upper thighs at the exact same second as his heated gaze, and it makes something inside of her swell – with pride, love, need, desire, gratitude, possessiveness…all of this and so much more.

"Is…is this okay? I didn't want to presume, but…" she hesitates, plucking at the hem of his shirt and chewing her lip.

"What? That I'd want you here with me? Tonight? After…after that?" he asks, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the world at large, sounding slightly incredulous that she even has to ask.

"Good. Good…because I'm staying regardless," she tells him, her hands landing on her hips, her stance widening tough-girl style, as if preparing for an argument, no matter that she looks nothing less than adorable in his clothes. The way they swamp her body makes her look younger, girlish.

But the ridiculous grin that follows, the ducking of her head so that shimmery, shiny curls fall over her face to screen her bashful beauty, they are also the real Kate Beckett. Symptoms of this soft, loving, kind, giving, gentle, wanting being she has become, all because of him. She's still fierce when she needs to be, of course. Thinks briefly that if he'd seen her in interrogation with Henson's girlfriend…

Yeah.

But, that's a tale for another day.

"I feel as if I should be apologizing to you… Kate, I…"

"Partners?" she asks, watching his slow, deliberate nod of understanding.

"Yeah. I kind of broke the code going rogue. But can you…?"

"I don't have to like it. I really, really hated it in fact. But I will, just this once, tell you that I know why you did it. I understand that part."

"Thank you."

"But you already promised me that you won't ever do that again. And, Castle, I meant it," she says earnestly, coming closer to him, her bare feet soundless on the wooden floor, and then she takes both of his hands in hers and looks into his eyes. "Nothing like that without me…ever."

"I promise…unless…"

And his 'unless' says it all – he'd do this again for his daughter in a heartbeat, Kate be damned. But she can forgive him this. Any number of times she will forgive him this, so long as he comes back to her.

"Alexis is safe now. This…this nightmare will not be revisiting us again. You weren't a target because of your wealth or your profile, Castle. You said it yourself – this was a personal vendetta, and the men who carried it out are dead. We have to let it go."

He sighs, nods, and she thinks that she sees in his eyes that she's right this time.

He looks tired now. The adrenalin long worn off, the excitement at bringing Alexis home, their reunion, all washed away to be replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that she fears might keep him from her side for days. So, tonight she's determined to be here, to catch him if he stumbles once relief makes way for all the haunting what if scenarios his writer's imagination may conjure up to illustrate how this might all have ended so differently.

"Come on," she tells him, kissing the bare triangle of skin at his neck where his shirt collar parts and the soft flesh of his throat is left exposed. "You must be exhausted. Let's get you into bed."

She reaches her arms round behind him to tug the tail of his shirt out of his pants, and he stands there, patient as a child, while she undresses him. Her fingers work nimbly on his belt, and her mind wanders, remembering how they got here - the road they travelled together, and sometimes apart – to a place so comfortable and caring and…normal, that she can undress him and it doesn't come with a side order of innuendo tacked on. She can say, 'come to bed' and it doesn't necessarily mean for sex. They're evolving into something much more serious, more permanent, than the rich guy who wanted to get the hot detective into bed just because he thought he could.

He leans on her shoulder for balance as she slips off his shoes, lifting his pants up off the floor and taking them away to hang them in the closet. She's caring for him. He did the hard work; fighting the enemy. The caring role is hers for now. And somehow this is working for them. She's not sure how, but it is, and she is content to do this, to be this person for now.

When she returns, he's still standing at the bottom of the bed where she left him, wearing only his white undershirt and navy boxer shorts.

"Hey," she says softly, standing on tiptoe to kiss his jaw. "Bed."

It's Kate who folds down the comforter on his side, pressing on his shoulders to get him to sit. He finally manages to lift his legs under the covers and she walks round to her own side of the bed to climb in beside him.

"Gates gave me tomorrow off. Not sure what that's about… Anyway, she wanted you to know how relieved she was about Alexis."

"I think she knows," he musters, laying an arm out across her pillow so she can snuggle in against his side, her face pressed to his warm neck, her head resting on his powerful, broad shoulder.

"About us?"

"Yes. No way she didn't see how we were with each other before I left. We weren't exactly hiding it, Kate."

"She hasn't said anything," Kate reminds him, with a hopeful lilt to her voice.

Because after this hellish nightmare, all she wants is to have her partner back, glued to her tail, day in and day out, annoying her, goading her, bringing her coffee and weaving crazy theories until the end of time if it keeps him from ever leaving her side again.

"You know, as long as we're not being…blatant…about things…"

"Nice word choice, Mr. Castle," Kate congratulates him, with the tease of her nose against his chin and the press of her smiling lips on his cotton-covered clavicle, trying to get them back some normalcy.

"Thank you. Think I even impressed myself there," he says, yawning loudly, his body wracked with tremors until he relaxes against the bed again, wrapping his arm around her back, his thumb stroking lazily up and down over the ridges of her spine, helping to soothe her.

"So you were saying…no blatancy…" Kate prompts.

"Yeah. I think she might actually let it slide. We keep our solve rate up, and she looks the other way when you try to grope me in the elevator or grab my hand in the break room… Hey!" he exclaims, laughing, when Kate nips at his earlobe with her sharp little teeth and her hand makes a foray under the covers to cup him through his boxer shorts.

They chuckle quietly for a few seconds, shaking against one another, and it feels so good, unknotting the tension in her chest. Kate knows this isn't going anywhere tonight. He's so tired – the dark charcoal smudges like fingerprints under his eyes telling her how little he's slept the last few days. She's content to lie quietly in the dark beside him until sleep carries them both off. And if she needs this, she suspects he does too.

"So…dinner was nice. Martha outdid herself again," comments Kate, wincing at the invisible speech bubble she imagines hovering above her head saying 'small talk alert', while Castle trails his fingers absently up and down her upper arm, lost to where she can't tell.

The rhythmic flexing of his foot under the covers tells her he's still too wired to sleep, too restless, his muscles tense, and so she hopes to tire him out with idle conversation.

"You mean we'll be lucky if we don't all die of food poisoning," he snorts, jostling her again with his quiet laughter.

"Don't be mean. She's been through a lot. You gave us both one hell of a scare, Castle."

"I know and I'm sorry," he says soberly.

Silence settles in the bedroom once more, and it's comfortable, but loaded with something all the same.

Turns out it's her, not him.

"So…what was he like?" she finally asks, the one question she's been dying to put to him all night.

He turns his head slightly towards her, brushes his lips over her hair, before pressing a firm kiss against her crown.

"He reminded me a little of you actually," he says, surprising her, and it's as though this realization is just dawning on him perhaps.

"Like me?"

She can't keep the curiosity out of her voice. This role reversal they're engaging in tonight should be uncomfortable, but it's not. She realizes it's because they're both in this, happy to take whatever part is required of them to make it work, grease the wheels, keep them moving forward. In the past he would have made fun of her for showing such eagerness; anything she showed an interest in was fair game for a little teasing.

Not anymore.

Tonight, she gets to ask the personal questions, and though he is eternally the storyteller, he is also the one with the inquisitive mind; always trying to burrow into her past, peel back the hidden layers of the Beckett onion. Well, this time it's her turn to uncover more about him, secrets she knows he will share only with her; things Meredith will never hear. And it might be petty, but she gets a sweet sense of satisfaction from that thought. That she already knows enough about this man to write a long and interesting novel, and they have barely begun.

"He…how to say this and not…"

Kate rolls onto her stomach at his hesitancy, leans up on her elbows, has to see him, be able to look into his eyes.

"Castle, maybe just…I don't know…say it," she suggests gently, letting out a long sigh when he slides his hand all the way down over her spine, his strong fingers pressing into her knotted flesh.

"You're too far away," he whines, his face suddenly adorably pouty and just so tired looking that her heart contracts.

"Here," she says, scooting further up the bed so she can rest her hands, arms and chin on his chest, her body half draped over his.

This seems to settle him and he goes back to his earlier thought.

That's the job. That's my life.

"He's given up everything for this job…this career he has. As a spy," he adds, (like you did) and Kate watches him carefully, looking for the signs of boyish delight and excitement and giddiness she would have expected to accompany a revelation like this. Waiting for the boastful Castle of old.

Yet none of that is forthcoming, and it is equal parts puzzling and unsettling; this failure to crow about his father's 'deep cover', his knowledge of all things trade craft; Castle's one crazy theory staple finally coming home to roost and so close to home too.

Instead what she gets is, "He had pictures of Alexis all over one wall. Baby pictures, her first day at kindergarten, all these significant milestones…it was…humbling."

And it's almost as if he can't believe that someone – his own father in this instance – would take this close an interest in him, his life, and the life of his child. As if he's not worthy of this man's love.

"That must have been a shock…finding out who he was and how he's been keeping track of you all these years?"

"Mmm…" he hesitates, clearly remembering something else. "Yeah, he told me we met once. I was ten. Mother took me to the library. He gave me a copy of Casino Royale… That book made me want to write, Kate. Made me who I am today. He made me who I am today."

His extrapolation is a bit of a leap, and Kate has the urge to correct him, to give him back something of himself. Because she doesn't believe that this is true.

"So the parcel was from him?"

Castle nods, wrapping one of her curls around his finger and tugging lightly, smiling when the shiny coil of hair springs back when he lets it go.

"You know, Castle, that book may have inspired you. But you are who you are because of your own hard work and talent, your own experiences, your mom's input…not this absent stranger who watched you from afar."

"He told me he was proud of me. Kate, he called me son," he confesses, having kept this piece of information away from Martha earlier, and his blue eyes darken to navy, his voice catching on the last word.

"This means a lot to you, doesn't it?" she asks, crawling up the bed and his body to get closer to him.

"I never knew any of it mattered, until I saw this man with tears in his eyes…who clearly cared about me despite the fact we had barely even met."

"Well, you are pretty adorable," Kate whispers, kissing his cheek, "and you have brought me to tears on more than one occasion."

"Yeah, well, unless you mean with my…"

"Eh, I don't think we should go there right now. We both need some sleep," she counsels, shortcutting any dirty talk tonight with the press of her finger to his lips.

"I…I felt a connection to him. Not like you and I have. That's…mystical. More like when you meet a friend of your parent's and you realize how much they know about you just…just through the grapevine. But they've clearly taken an interest, followed your life, your career. It felt like that."

"And did he look like you? I mean was he…?"

"Ruggedly handsome?" he chuckles, his eyes softening as he watches her fishing to get more details from him.

"Runs in the family, I'm sure."

"He's tall, similar build, white hair, beard. Ruggedly handsome is definitely one way to describe him," he says, a little wistfully.

"Do you think you'll see him again?"

"I'd like to hope so. I have so many questions. It's like I've been given a glimpse of where I came from and now...now I need the whole story. You know me, Kate. I've never encountered a mystery I haven't wanted to solve. And I would love Alexis to know her grandfather. He seemed to know about you too," he tells her, affectionately touching the tip of her nose with his finger.

"Really?" Kate can't mask her surprise. "He has been watching you closely."

"Mmm. Said I'd been playing cop for years and it was time for me to play spy."

"God, Castle, when I think how badly wrong that could have gone," she says, shaking her head and then dropping her forehead onto his stomach. "It was irresponsible, putting you in danger like that."

Castle strokes his fingers through her hair, circling them over and over, massaging her scalp until she relaxes.

"But it didn't. And I'm here, Kate. If you'd been there you would understand that we had no choice. Time was running out to save Alexis. I had to."

"That's exactly why you're not doing anything like that without me ever again. You…you're too good…too selfless for your own good sometimes. And I…I want more time with you. I need more of you, Castle. I can't…not now…" she groans, frustrated at her own inarticulacy, shaking her head at some nasty image swimming behind her eyes, fear like ashes in her mouth.

"Hey. Hey, shhhh," he whispers, wrapping her up in his arms, holding her tightly. "You think I'm done with you after waiting years to get here, Kate? Not a chance. I have plans for us. Big plans."

She lets her body sink into his, absorbing the strength she feels coming from him; feeling safe here.

"So…big plans, huh?" she asks eventually, smiling weakly into his neck, ghosting her lips over his sharply male scented skin.

"Better believe it, detective. When you least expect it I'm gonna knock your socks off," he whispers, as if sharing some crazy secret with her.

Kate shivers from the vibration of his words in her ear and from a sneaking suspicion that she knows exactly what plans he's referring to. They're not there yet. But one day they will be, and she wants to be ready to give him the answer he deserves. This man needs family around him, and she might just be coming round to the idea too.

"You're a good man, Castle. Your dad is lucky to have a son like you. He should be proud. Now, you really need to get some sleep," she tells him, skimming the charcoal grey smudges beneath his eyes with her thumbs, wishing she could erase the past terrifying few days.

"My dad will love you," Castle tells her, kissing her softly and then sliding down under the covers beside her.

The last thing she hears, as sleep bears down to empty her mind, is a wondrous, disbelieving whisper in the dark.

"My dad is a spy."

Charcoal noun: a color that represents the dark gray of burned wood. Grey is conservative and represents practicality, sadness, security and reliability.

Thoughts?