A tribute to the lovely series, Purloin
by the wonderful writer, NellieRai
where Castle finds Kate has stolen one shirt after another.

Because there's nothing as sexy as a Boyfriend Shirt.

Or … is there?

Some of you may have read an x-rated version of this story.
I've toned it down for public posting.
Now rated T for Titillating. But not Tawdry.

Loin – The T-Rated version

by CharacterDriven

Having her apartment blown up had blown a hole in Beckett's equilibrium as well. It left her feeling even lonelier than usual... dispossessed, a refugee.

The first night she stayed at Castle's loft, she borrowed some capri leggings from Alexis, and Rick's baggy old Green Lantern T-shirt. It was clean, so it didn't smell like him. But there was a strange thrill at inhabiting something that had been all over his skin.

If he looked at that green shirt, then her green eyes, then opened his mouth and closed it again before he could say something stupid... well, she probably would have said something stupid back. All for the best. He almost seemed to be avoiding her, not wanting to push himself on her. He seemed to have some kind of project going on.

Normally, Castle could be a little invasive, but to her surprise, he'd kept his distance like a true gentleman, with Martha giving her the tour of the guest bedroom and bath, showing her where to find whatever spare toiletries she might need.

Around 2 a.m., Kate was seized with a weird longing, once again, to call her own mother. "Mom? I'm fine, but you won't believe this. Some nut job blew up my apartment." Every day, she wanted to tell Johanna something. Every loss picks the scab of every other loss.

In the morning, Kate wore those same leggings and one of Castle's blue button-down shirts over one of Alexis' sports bras. Castle nipped out to buy her a pair of cheap flip-flops, replacing the weird non-slip mukluks the hospital had issued her when they examined her, announcing her fine but shaken, after the blast. They took his Mercedes to her apartment/crime scene to see what they could salvage. There wasn't even enough to fill his back seat, let alone the trunk.

Nearly all of her first-edition books were decimated. Her mom's cookbooks and the little box of family recipes were vaporized. That hurt even more than the shattered glassware and shredded clothes. She felt no desire to pick splinters and shrapnel out of all of her underwear. She found a pair of boots and set Castle to work, knocking plaster and bits of charcoal out of them. Was she really starting over? Shit.

The insurance guy came, and she set about making an inventory of everything that needed replacing. Castle watched her trying not to cry, and excused himself because "I have this meeting..." He added "You might need this," and lent her his handkerchief, a workmanly 12" square of cotton Eygptian cotton. It was clean when she started crying. She was glad he wasn't there to see.

In the afternoon, Martha swooped down, ignored Kate's protests, fed her and insisted on taking her shopping. And to her surprise, Kate found it somewhat comforting – the red-haired diva practically lived at Saks, had the salesgirls eating from the palm of her manicured hand in no time, and it was so... easy. Not having to go through the racks, not having to face down the dressing room cattle call at Loehmann's. Things that fit and looked amazing on her, magically appeared in just the right colors and styles. The things she didn't like were whisked away as if by a little troupe of fairy godmothers.

There was an over-sized silk charmeuse kimono, almost a menswear style with crisp lines, ample sleeves and a shawl collar. It was a blushy, lush pink color, the sleeve edge and collar a soft cream, adding definition and contrast. Martha insisted... "You are going to try this on, Katherine Darling, that's simply all there is to it..." That, and a creamy-white chemise as well. It was spaghetti strap, bias cut to drape, magically skimming her curves like something a bride-

"Stop that, Beckett," she thought, and bit her lip.

Martha knocked softly at the dressing room door. "May I see?"

Beckett opened the door, and Martha's smile was triumphant. "I knew it. You're a dead ringer for Kate Hepburn..." Martha shook her head. "Oh, Katherine, they were made for you."

Kate examined herself in the mirror. Maybe the light at high-end department stores is just more flattering, but objectively speaking... wow.

"You look like a goddess," Martha declared. "It would be criminal not to wear them. Criminal."

Kate cocked an eyebrow. "Speaking of criminals, I really should get back to work." She shook her head. "Besides, they're too expensive."

"Now, now, Richard already said you're covered..."

"If he wants to spend Nikki Heat money on me, maybe he could consider getting himself a full-body bullet proof suit," she grinned. "Or maybe a giant bubble-wrapped hamster ball."

But she relented, knowing the insurance company would reimburse some of the cost anyway. She walked away from the store wearing navy tropical-weight wool slacks and gorgeous underwear and a white boyfriend shirt, a new-jacket-smell leather jacket, and silk-blend trouser socks, and ankle boots to die or kill for. With Martha having managed all the purchases, she didn't even know how much they had spent. Good Lord, how did that happen? She didn't have time to check. And at the end of the day, she came back to Castle's loft, and there in the guest room were bags and bags and bags, from Saks and Nordstrom and Needless Markup. Not a Loehmann's nor a Marshall's in sight.

"I kept all the receipts," Martha said. "Just let me know if you want me to return anything. Or if you need anything tailored. Easier to fit a waist than a hip. Ta-ta, Darlings, it's Friday evening, I'm off to paint the town with a friend tonight. Don't wait up."

Her son grinned. "As if we ever would."

Kate showered the day off, then, wrapped in an inordinately fluffy taupe towel, she went about perusing her haul. They'd covered a lot: blouses, slacks, T-shirts, panties, bras, camis, a few packages of pantyhose and stockings, slips, a simple jersey LBD just-in-case, sweaters, scarves, hats, gloves, blazers, two skirts, trainers, crew socks. And the kimono. And the chemise.

The room was chaos. But she put white silk-lycra panties on, then the chemise, then the blush-pink kimono, and twisted her hair into a messy bun. There was a silver tray atop the dresser, laid out lovingly with small things a displaced person might need: hand and body lotion, a pen and pencil, note pad, tape, a stapler, a little sewing kit, scissors. Using the scissors she cut off the price tags of everything she'd already tried on. She hung up all the street wear in the empty guest closet, folded all the underthings and placed them in the two empty dresser doors. Kate liked order. She surveyed her work with a smile. Then Castle's knock came at the door. She opened it, glowing.

"Dinner's, uh..." He stopped. "Oh."

"It's ok," she said. "I'm decent."

"Yes, you're," swallow. He thought, "How can she not know what this does to me? Maybe she does know. Maybe she wants..." He forced himself to keep his eyes above her chin level. "Wow, Um..." he pointed to the kitchen. "I made..." he couldn't remember. "...Food?"

"Smells like Italian?"

"Yeah!"

"Great! I didn't even realize I was hungry, Castle." She pushed past him, heading for the kitchen. He watched her pass him, watched the silk kimono billow and swish around her, heard its faint sussuration. She could feel him watching her, all the way. She found herself wondering, again, if he'd peeked at her before putting his coat over her in the bathtub. She wondered if he'd liked what he'd seen.

When she got to the kitchen table, she found it set for two. No candles. Either he was trying not to push romance on her or... or... wow, maybe he wasn't interested in seeing her by candlelight. She was surprised that made her a little sad.

He answered her unasked question. "Alexis is staying over at Paige's tonight." And the other unasked question: "Don't worry, you're safe with me." He was busy composing a Caesar salad, arranging the leaves parallel. "The dressing's homemade. I like to just drizzle it on, so as not to overwhelm..." and then he was sprinkling the leaves with Parmesan shavings.

"You're practically an artist," Beckett said. He shot her a brief, grateful, beaming smile, and grated pepper over the romaine.

He waggled his eyebrows."So I've been told."

He had chilled a bottle of pinot grigio on ice. She sat, and shrugged off the kimono – sleeves like that at the dinner table only test fate. Thank God he'd made penne al pesto instead of spaghetti. She actually managed to eat Caesar salad, pasta, and delectable grilled rosemary pork loin, without getting a single spot on her lingerie. He served watermelon salad for dessert, splashed with lime juice and mint. It was a perfect meal: satisfying but not heavy. He was a hell of a cook.

She tilted her head back and groaned appreciatively, eyes closed. "SO good."

She missed his predatory expression, reflecting the urge to dive across the table and kiss her senseless. He thought, "No, no, no, Rick. No!" If his penis had been a dog, it would have sat down and stayed until told it was okay to move again. He shifted his expression back into Gentleman Mode.

She stretched, the silky chemise gliding across her perfect little breasts. "Man. Shopping is hard work."

He focused on her eyes, raising a wry brow. "Especially with my mother."

"No! Actually, it was kind of sweet. Reminds of the times my mom used to take me shopping, before... before I went away to Stanford." Kate paused and sipped at her wine, suddenly needing it around the burn of grief in her throat. She hesitated. "I don't usually let other people take care of me."

Castle said nothing. "Get used to it. Please." He got up and cleared the fruit salad plates. "How about this: If my loft ever blows up, you can take care of me. Take me shopping." He made sure to make his voice sound very deep and manly. "Buy me somethin' silky." The contrast was, he knew, adorable.

Kate laughed and gestured at her chemise. "Oh, you like this, do you?"

"I've already ordered the C4 and blasting caps. I plan to detonate my home. Four p.m. on Thursday. Saks is open till 9, so we'll have plenty of time to pick out my..." he whispered "unmentionables."

"What about Alexis and Martha?"

"I'll send them to the Hamptons."

"On a school night?"

"She can use the long weekend to study. More wine?"

Kate wanted more, but shook her head. "No, thanks though. I think I'll just turn in. It's been a long day. Haven't had much time to..." Her voice trailed off. A sad little shrug.

He nodded. "I'm sure you're still a bit in shock. I'll just clean up..." and oh, my God, I wish I could join you in that turning in. Turn in to me. Kiss me. Something.

She stood and said, "Well, good night. And, really, you've just been... amazing. I can't begin to thank you enough."

"One kiss, that's all... no. NO." The longing skimmed his face like the shadow of a falling leaf on a lake. Be gracious. "It's a pleasure. 'Night."

She went back to the guest room, got ready for bed. Lay reading for a while (a Scientific American article about how flowers use UV light to guide insects in for pollination). She fell asleep for a bit (reading about pollen will do that for some people). Awoke around one a.m., and got up once more to use the bathroom before sleeping again. She felt a little bare in the chill midnight air, and realized she'd left the pink kimono at the dining table.

She padded out into the darkened loft. The kimono wasn't on her chair, nor was it anywhere else in the living room, nor hanging in the hallway closet.

For a man who values his privacy so much, having open bookcases as walls is a serious lapse in decorating judgment. Light streamed out softly from Castle's muted desk lamp, between the rows of books and knick-knacks, casting blocks of shadow and light into the great room toward Kate. Drawn like the proverbial butterfly to the Ultra-Violet Runway of Fertilization at the Center of a Morning Glory (ok, not a proverb, but we love science around here) Kate crept to Castle's office door, then stopped, her eye caught by movement at his desk. Against her better judgment, she silently chose a place where she could observe him without likelihood of being seen.

Rick was typing on his near-silent keyboard, frowning slightly in concentration, cheeks flushed and hair a bit tousled. Kate had sneaked a peek at him a few times while he wrote; she found it fascinating.

And then she noticed what he was wearing, and clapped a hand over her own mouth in shock.

Anyone who's done their research knows that up until the 20th century, pink was considered an appropriate color for men, and for good reason. His skin shining golden-tan by comparison, he looked surprisingly good in her blush-colored silk kimono. He closed his eyes hard a moment, splayed his hand over his face, and she saw the tip of his pinkie finger press between his lips. He bit down on it, then sucked lightly on it, then started typing again furiously, but typing with two hands didn't last long. Kate's eyes flew wide, and she bit her lip.

Torn between amusement, fascination, and a little irritation, Kate thought, "Really? You're doing this?" She thought at first she was asking him. But no. She was asking herself. She should have turned and walked away. But she stayed, and kept watching.

His hand slid lower down the silken folds of her robe, toward his lap. The sleeve, which had hitched up to his bare elbow with his hand raised, drifted down just past his wrist. The kimono was too tight across his shoulders, pulling a little at his biceps before the sleeves flared out at the elbow. To her surprise, the feminine flow of the kimono's lines made a gorgeous contrast with the solid masculinity of his frame. Somewhere between Shogun and Showgirl. Beckett smiled wryly. "One size fits most."

She had a serious decision to make. Go in? Walk away? Interrupt him? Inadvertently, in her frustration, she made a little whimper back in her throat.

He froze, holding his breath (among other things). Stop. Look. Listen. In a silent battle of wills, neither of them moved for almost a minute.

"Ok, that almost sounded real," he chuckled. You with the imagination. She's been asleep for a couple of hours.

Afraid to move and afraid to run, Kate wondered whether he would spot her eyes shining from the low shadows of his bookshelves. She felt a sudden delicious jolt of fear that actually increased her desire: "If he heard me, would he come out and find me here? Would I pretend I'd just come to the door? Pretend I didn't know a thing?"

Would he sink to his knees on the floor, a worshipful supplicant, settle himself between her thighs before they even kissed, slowly working his way up and down her body, finally reaching her lips above and below, invading her all at once in an insane rush, no words, no strings...

"No strings attached. Just get it out of your system." Wasn't that what she really wanted? But what if he wasn't even thinking about her? For a moment she was swamped with doubt, with jealousy, with inadequacy.

She knew he seemed to prefer buxom women. He teased and flirted, sure, all the time. But he'd had plenty of opportunities and never taken them. She thought of Gina's ample charms and Meredith's hourglass figure and Lanie's Girls and the Page 6 bimbos he'd dated. He liked bumptious curves. Kate felt she was just a gangly stick by comparison.

What if... oh, no, no no. "Maybe he just likes silk! No. Liking silk doesn't mean a man is gay." It does point toward being a hell of a lot of fun in bed, though.

He pushed his chair back from his desk, the kimono falling open. He looked lascivious and decadent, like a spoiled prince in a fantasy story, all except his face. Oh, that face of his. The straight-crooked hook of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the shadow that taunted her from the hollow of his throat...

She thought, "What would happen, Rick? What would happen if I went in there now?"

He closed his eyes, imagining her behind the office door. She would open the door silently, and say his name, not Castle but "Rick." Barely a breath. At her voice he'd startle, and maybe he'd let out a little squeak, be unable to say a thing. He wouldn't sneer like a spoiled prince. He'd try to pretend it wasn't what she thought it was. But she'd know. Any Detective worth her salt would find irrefutable evidence standing right in front of her. How could she not know? And she'd step closer, not letting him get away. Not this time.

"I want you," she would say. Then a smile, a real smile, would spread across her beautiful face.

He'd stand, and his voice would be so deep and for once not fail him. He'd hold out a hand to her: "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes," she'd breathe. If only it meant she believed in him. Believed in them.

"Come on, then," he would say, with no smirking, just the truth of his feelings, just him with no facade and no games, and she would saunter to him, closing the door quietly behind her. She would come to him, golden and glorious in the low light. He would open his arms to her, reach back to take her hair down, and it would skim on her shoulders, and he would kiss her so softly this first real time. Kiss her, one hand chastely on her waist, the other supporting the back of her head, gently, not pushing, giving her freedom to run, but no, she wouldn't, she'd shut the world out behind her when she closed the door. She would return his kiss, again and again, each time deeper and sweeter and more open to one another, alive to one another as never before, as each previous touch had only hinted. He'd open the robe, and she'd slip inside next to his skin, finally. Finally close to him, sliding against him, her touch better than any silk, and his hand would pull in close on her lower back, stroke down to her ass, the panties no resistance as he pushed...

Kate knew what he wanted: stride in, never hesitating. Never a word. Launch him back in his chair as tried to pretend he wasn't in the middle of getting himself off in her clothes. She would straddle his lap. Let the spaghetti straps fall from her shoulders, let his hands reach around and up and inside, let his mouth go where she needed it, where she wanted it, craved it.

He groaned softly, and her eyes flew open again, and he was so damn beautiful. Forget 'what if', because he was right in front of her, only a few feet away, strong and vulnerable and drawing her like a magnet. She stopped, and stood quietly, almost brave enough to go in. He had run into a burning building for her. And now she was burning, and she wanted him to come in. To see everything. To feel everything. To be everything with her. She didn't mean to do it, but the smallest noise escaped her throat.

Even in the throes of his desire, he could have sworn he heard her. Eyes snapping wide-open, he choked out, more a grunt than a word, "Kate?"

Her eyes went wide with shock and hope, her own name plunging like an arrow into her racing heart, and like the warrior woman she was, she turned and dashed back to the guest room, closing the door as quietly as possible under the speed and momentum of her retreat, threw herself on to the bed, and shut off the light. Her heart hammered in the darkened room.

His mind clouded with lust, he jumped up, bundled the kimono into a file drawer, then ran into his room to throw on pajama pants and a robe. He sped back out to the office, then the great room, and looked around. Nothing had changed. He hurried to the front door – her keys lay in the bowl, nestled next to his own. Her key to a door that had blown apart, his to doors she wouldn't ever open, left to her own devices. At least, she hadn't bolted away in the night, as he sometimes feared she would.

His shoulders relaxed, and he padded quietly to the guest room, where Kate lay apparently sleeping on her belly, the satin shimmering on the curves of her back and hips, hitched up on the side to reveal the long, pale-olive line of her leg, striped with light from between the curtains. Maybe she was just pretending to sleep. But she looked small, and cold.

She was barely covered in the rumpled queen bed, breathing deeply and slowly, and tried not to go stiff when he opened her bedroom door. For a moment she was weirdly, fiercely angry. She almost jumped up with a "How-dare-you-come-in-here..." when she felt the sheet and a light blanket skim over her body to settle over her bare shoulder. He stood a moment, she heard him let out a sigh, and then he was gone, the door closed behind him.

He went back to the office and retrieved the kimono from the drawer. It was wrinkled now, and, "Damn it. Stupid," he gritted. Just one little spot on the sleeve, but it was gonna show.

Kate, meanwhile, was too riled up to sleep. She tossed several times, her fevered mind unable to stop whirling. But her pulse was back to nearly normal, the sheen of sweat unpleasantly cooling on her neck and chest and back.

She grinned bemusedly to herself, got up, and went to knock softly at his office door.

"Castle?"

She heard him flailing around and had to suppress laughter.

"Yeah? Just a second. A minute. I was writing. I think I fell asleep. Writing."

"Take your time," she said, trying to keep a giggle out of her voice.

He opened the door a good 45 seconds later, wearing baggy plaid pajama pants and an overlarge terry robe that made him look rather like a massive, friendly blue bear. He hadn't taken the time to put a shirt on. She forced herself not to look down at his body, focused on his flushed face.

He did the same. But her eyes were so dilated, as if she'd been in the dark for a long time, and her lips and cheeks so pink. His nostrils flared, just slightly, as if he could smell pheromones wafting from her.

"You okay?" he asked, his head ducked, his voice gravelly.

"Yeah," she said, "I just – got up to use the bathroom and realized I'd left my kimono somewhere. Have you seen it?"

His eyes widened, and he ran guilty (possibly sticky) fingers through his mop of hair. "Oh, yeah. I, uh, spilled some salad dressing on it when I was clearing the dishes... You know how Caesar dressing is. It's a mess. Protein and oil..." he gestured helplessly. "I was just trying to clean it up..."

It was nowhere in sight. "I can get it cleaned, that's ok." Her eyes wide and innocent, she reached out a hand as if to take an invisible kimono from his grasp, thoroughly enjoying his terrified babbling.

"No! Anchovies! In the dressing, it'll never... No, I mean, let me. Take care of it. All night express dry cleaner – caters to the theater district. I can have it back for - you can wear it for breakfast. At breakfast. Ok, definitely lunch. I'm so sorry!"

She relented. Poor guy, literally caught with his pants down. "I don't think I'll really be needing it back immediately, no need to rush."

His eyes darted down, just briefly, because he really, really couldn't help himself. Her nipples looked like they wanted to warm themselves up in his mouth. He tried to hide a smirk. Really, he did try. "You're cold?"

"A little," she lied. She had more goosebumps than... a goose. A naked goose.

"Here. Wait here." He returned a moment later with a lightweight robe of burgundy knit jersey, monogrammed RC on the pocket. "I've only worn it once for about twenty minutes."

"That's clean enough," she smiled. She put it on, felt wrapped in him and rapt in him, seized with the urge to fuck him into next week.

He fiddled with the collar a little, wanting to grab it in his fists and pull her to him, but he behaved, because she was a guest and he didn't want to make her feel like his hospitality depended on her putting out or something. God, that would be horrible. The skin of her shoulders felt surprisingly warm as his thumbs brushed them briefly.

"That should get you through the night," he smiled weakly.

She nodded. "Sweet dreams."

His voice was thick. "You too."

She fell asleep wearing nothing but his robe.

Eventually.

The following evening, she came back to her guest room to find a Saks 5th box on the bed, and a plain white card, that said nothing but

"Sorry! - Castle"

There was a slip of paper folded inside, a form sheet from the dry-cleaner, with a clip-art picture of a man tearing his hair out.

'We tried and tried!
But we could not remove
the stain from your garment!

No charge.'

The box contained not the pink kimono Kate and Rick had both worn, but a brand-new one, the exact same style but lavender with white trim, the tags still on it. Kate smiled to herself. "One size fits most," she murmured, this time aloud.

He was standing by her guest room door, shamefaced. "I'm so sorry," he repeated.

Her smile warmed him. "No, no. Don't be sorry. This way we'll have..." she wanted to say "a matched set." "I mean, it's very sweet of you, Castle. Really, if anyone was going to spill Caesar dressing all over my robe, I guess you're the best possible person to do so."

Oh, the expressions that passed over his face before he thought of an answer! Kate blessed her years in the interrogation room, that she was able to remain deadpan in the midst of such panic, lust, hope, and confusion. Finally she said, "What did you do with the old one?"

"Oh, I donated it to charity."

"Really? How sweet."

"Well, somewhere out there is a needy drag queen, or an off-Broadway costumer just looking for a thrift-store kimono."

"Somewhere out there." She arched an eyebrow drily, and he began to suspect that she knew a great deal more than she was letting on. And that, just maybe, she didn't mind.

"Uh, movie night?"

"Sounds great. Since you've been the perfect host, can I order us some Thai food?"

"That would be great! I'll just … uh... wash up. For dinner."

He scurried back to his room, went straight to his closet, and double-checked. Kate's kimono was still there, tucked in back with his Halloween stuff, hidden between the brown deerskin duster and his Darth Vader cape. Not that she'd ever get a chance to go through his closet.

No. Not at all.