Title: The Best Kind of Hangover
Rating: T+
Pairing: Castle/Beckett
Disclaimer: God knows it, and I do too, but what Marlowe dreams is honest and true. And to take what's his is wrong, not right, and if I do, I'll kick my own butt at night.
Author's Note: I LOVE CASTLE. WOW. Season 4's finale "Always" just blew my mind, and I loved it. Just loved it. So, creative brain juices started flowing as I was driving home today and the result is… this. I don't know what this is. Help me, I think my brain melted…
Summary: Some things you experience drunk are better not remembered. But the right kind of drunk at the right time is the kind that's worth remembering. (Season 4, post-"Always")

Normally, mornings never seemed to be a problem. Castle was used to the long hours, the short nights, and the even shorter deadlines of the coming dawn in his double life, part amateur detective, part expert writer. Sleuthing until 3 in the morning turned out to be just another day's work for him, but not necessarily one he wanted to repeat over and over again for fear of sleep deprivation.

As the beams of day pierced through his window, he moaned softly, bringing a begrudging hand to his baby blues with a slight distaste for the sunrise. It felt like a hangover. The worst ones always started like this: sensitivity to light and sound, heaviness in the limbs, inability to clearly remember what happened the night before, not sure if everything was a dream or it was real… But the slight softness of breath on the back of his neck brought recognition and delight flooding to his brain and his heart. Yes, he'd had some doozies once or twice: two in Maui one year early in his writing career; there was always Vegas, and what happened there probably only stayed there because he couldn't remember what happened; rip-roaring drunk the first night The Old Haunt traded hands into his possession (and not to mention the $25,000 Scotch); and the day after one really bad case that involved secrets and a political protect bombing. That one hurt, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. None of that mattered because what he had now, the kind of hangover he had was the punch drunk lovesick kind. The best alive, God made and Cupid approved. These types of hangovers lasted centuries.

He rolled on his side and pretended to sleep, even threw in a few fake snores while he felt Kate move on the other side of the bed, her fists thumping the headboard as she stretched. She was so beautiful. It was like the world had been dark, dismal and cold in monochrome until she was born into it in a glorious blaze of Technicolor. Not just her appearance either; the beauty she radiated was just her soul turned inside out.

His muse shifted, spooned, kissed the back of his neck with her lips and hugged him close. "Morning handsome," she whispered in his ear.

"Mmmmm…" he groaned, "Sleepy."

"You can't be sleepy." She nibbled on his ear a bit, and it sent shivers in places otherworldly. "You have to make us breakfast."

"I'd be lucky enough to stand after last night."

Kate chuckled. "Well, we could always do it again."

"You promise?"

"Always." Ah, their signature phrase again. He loved the melody of it from her lips as much as she delighted in it from his.

Castle pounced, flipped over faster than she anticipated and she screamed, laughing. His mouth met hers in "holy palmer's kiss", hungry for more than just food. "Breakfast?" he breathed, nuzzling noses with his love.

She grinned. "Don't burn it this time."

"Hey, that wasn't burnt. It was extra crispy in bacon grease."

"Well, if you'd like, I can show you how to cook better eggs."

"Oh yeah? how?"

"Well, first you make sure they're nice and fresh. Something new is always…" Kiss. "…a good…" Kiss. "…thing."

"…Then what?"

"You got to wait until things start… getting… hot…" And suddenly, the covers felt like a furnace.

"…And then what?"

"And then you crack the shells, getting rid of everything between the eggs and the pan…" He felt her shift, slinking downward that he hoped was something not G rated.

"…And then… then what?"

"You make sure everything is nice… and… scrambled…"

"Not that hard," he chased her under the covers and kissed her again and again, a dying man brought back to life by a magic that even he couldn't write well enough to give it justice. Heart thundering, he stroked her cheek and grinned at her. "I still can't believe this."

Her hazel eyes met his. "Me either. But better get used to it. I'm not going anywhere."