My deepest apologies to those waiting for an update on the Morning stories. The muse stubbornly refuses to commit to anything till she knows how this season ends. Which might be why she left me this instead…

Pre-ep for A Deadly Game. No spoilers, 'cause I didn't dare look at the sneaks for this ep.

The phone wakes her from a light, restless sleep, not an unusual occurrence for Kate Beckett. What is unusual is the hour at which she's already sleeping -- 10pm, rather than her usual somewhere between midnight and dawn.

'Hey, you actually finished at the end of shift.'

Kate feels her whole body relax. It's Tom, not work. Small favours. 'Yeah, we closed the Fulham case this afternoon. The brother-in-law finally confessed.'

'I know, I tried looking for you upstairs. I'm just finishing up, how about I swing by on my way home?'

'Oh, Tom. I'm already in bed.'

'And no need to get out of it,' he answers. She can hear the smile in his voice, the hint of anticipation. The answer is a soft tingle between her legs. Her brain may be exhausted from a nonstop week in which she's had a total of maybe fifteen hours sleep, but her body seems perfectly happy to stay awake and be entertained. Perhaps, if the sudden rumble in her stomach is any indication, even fed.

'The price of my company will be shrimp in lobster sauce from Huong's.'

'With fortune cookies, even,' he agrees, the stretched vowels of a smile unmistakable in the sound. 'I'll see you in half an hour.'

o-o-o

His bare feet sound agreeably domestic as he pads across the wooden floors, ferrying the empty cartons from her bedroom back to the kitchen. She's already drifting into a comfortable MSG-induced sleep by the time she feels him climbing back under the quilt. Naked now, warm beneath her sleepy hands. He slides his arm under the curve of her waist, lifting her t-shirt off as she settles against his chest.

'I was in this endless damned debriefing,' he whispers against her hair. 'And all I could think about was this.'

'Glad to be of service,' she mumbles, and truly, she is.

He's kissing his way down her body now, slow and lazy like morning sex, paying a delicious amount of attention to all the right bits. He won't admit it, but he likes it when she's like this, half-asleep and submissive. Sometimes she likes it too, like now, when anything requiring energy on her part is out of the question.

'Shall I wake you up?' he asks, when he finally hits home. Her only answer is a moan as he parts her legs and settles down to business. Usually, there's more finesse involved in this part of the evening's entertainment; tonight, it's a bit like being devoured. It's not an unpleasant feeling, in fact far from it. But a little overwhelming. Somewhere behind the buzzing in her ears she can hear herself babbling as her body winds itself tighter and tighter, until the pleasure's so intense it's almost painful when she finally lets go.

'Didn't we just have dinner?' she asks when she's finally able to form words again, and she can feel him laughing a response against her thigh. He wipes his face on the sheets and raises himself over her. She can reach him now, hold him hard and hot in her hand, taste herself in his mouth. She guides him inside and he sinks into her with a groan like an exhausted runner finally coming to a stop.

'Kate,' he whispers, nuzzling her face and throat. 'Oh, christ, Kate.'

She catches her breath at the raw need in his voice. In his eyes, when he pulls back to look at her. It isn't usually like this with him. Usually they just have sex, and while it's always good and frequently fantastic, there's also always been a part of him held back, a part she's never tried to touch. As long as there's that distance between them, she can't lose her heart.

He raises her arms above her head and she closes her eyes as he sinks deeper still, until she can feel the full weight of him pinning her to the bed. Her body feels loose, already sated, her skin tingling from her cheeks to her toes. She can't summon the energy to give him anything more, but she can enjoy the way he feels, sliding in and out, in and out, as if they're on a raft rocking gently in the ocean's swells.

o-o-o

The sun reddening her eyelids is the next thing she knows. Tom is still there, lying on his stomach with one arm thrown across her waist. He moves as she does, pulling her close and turning to fit himself against her back.

'Usually, they fall asleep after the orgasm,' he mutters in her ear.

She smiles against the pillow. 'And so I did. Which I'm sure didn't stop you for a minute.' His laughter is deep and warm and she curls into it. 'What's the time?'

'Need to go. Don't want to go.' He nuzzles the back of her neck. 'Can't we both call in sick?'

A strange thing flutters deep in her belly at the thought. She's never played hooky from work, certainly never to stay in bed and spend the day making love.

That thought is even more startling: is that what this is becoming? Not just sex, but making love?

'I know, I know, murder doesn't call in sick,' he says, and she realises she's been holding her breath.

'No, it's not that.' She rolls away and sits up so that she can see him. 'Tom? What are we doing?'

'I don't understand.'

'You and me. What are we doing?'

'I thought we were having fun.' He sits up as well, pulling the quilt over his lap, uncharacteristically modest. 'I really like you, Kate. I thought that was pretty obvious.' The thing is fluttering harder now, and she can't quite think of anything to say. Suddenly he looks scared. 'Are you trying to tell me that's one-sided?'

'No.' She hesitates, taking stock. How much does she like him? Enough that it would hurt to lose him? Enough that she can imagine them still together in another month? Another year?

'Kate? Are you sure there's nothing going on with Castle?'

She has to laugh at that. 'I'm fairly sure I would have noticed.'

'But you want there to be.'

'I don't think so, no.' She's thought about it, of course, many times. There's no denying the strength of the attraction, or its mutuality. But she can only see it concluding one way, and that's in disaster. At work, they've achieved a particular delicate balance. In private...in private he's never honestly indicated that he wants her. Maybe once she'd thought they were heading down another path, but she learned her lesson at the launch party for his book. And was still paying off the crazily expensive dress she'd bought, trying to be Nikki Heat for him.

No, Castle hadn't wanted her until she started seeing someone else. Once he had her, his interest would wane and he'd be longing for the Page Six set again. Probably he'd be too much of a gentleman to act on that, but Kate would know, and then she'd just be the woman who ruined Rick Castle's fun. She doesn't want to be that, so, ipso facto, she and Castle are really best as they are.

'Kate?'

'I've told you.' She pries Tom's fists from the quilt, and slides her fingers into his. 'He's a friend. I'd like to keep him as a friend.' The truth of this settles in her belly like comfort food. She hasn't made too many friends in recent years; there's ample room for one, maybe even three more. 'Can you live with that?'

Tom doesn't look entirely convinced. 'Do you know why I came over last night?'

She gestures to the two of them, naked in the tangled sheets. 'I thought that was obvious.'

'Not the way you think.' He hitches himself closer, close enough to touch her face. 'I needed to hold you. To be with you. I need you, Kate.'

His hands are in her hair now, smoothing the tangles back so he can kiss her, and after a moment she forgets that she's only just woken up and hasn't brushed her teeth. 'I've never said that to anyone before,' he whispers, when he finally lets her up for air. 'I can't think about anything but you. I don't want to think about anything but you.'

She tries to roll yesterday back in her mind. Did she think of him at all, until he called? She can't remember. She knows she's trained herself not to do that; her face is an open book for that kind of thing and Esposito and Ryan have been teasing her mercilessly as it is. And then there's Castle to think about. Both because he acts like a jealous five-year-old whenever Tom is around and because really, there's no point rubbing his face in the fact that, yes, thinking about Tom Demming does make her stomach flutter and her heart pound. Makes her smile like an idiot, like she can feel herself doing right now.

'We could be exclusive,' he says. 'If you're ready for that, if you want that.'

She makes herself raise her eyes, just in time to watch his face change from scared to something so hopeful that she has to put her arms around him; can hardly breathe for how hard he's hugging her back. 'You're so fucking amazing, how could I ever want anybody else?' he whispers, his lips tickling her ear, and it's not grand poetry, but it's definitely real.

o-o-o

'So, you're telling me what?' Lanie cuts her eyes at Kate, half trying to read her friend's expression, half trying not to spill the margarita she's about to pour. 'You got Mr Tambourine Man eating out of the palm of your girl-thing, telling you he loves you, and that's not good enough?'

'He didn't say he loves me.' Kate shakes her hair over her face, something Lanie has not seen her do in a very long time. Nor has she recently seen her friend this drunk. Usually, it's a glass of wine with dinner, maybe two, then an espresso to sober up. Lanie's the one who gets stupidly wall-eyed and winds up telling Kate all the stories nobody should ever know.

'You could be happy.' Lanie tips her friend's face up; the woman seems to be contemplating going face-down in her margarita and slurping the whole thing in one go. 'You're allowed to be happy. Even if it's only for a little while and he breaks you into little pieces when it's done, why the hell not?'

'Pieces, breaks, done.' Kate sits up and takes her drink, carefully rotating the stem of the margarita glass between her long fingers. She takes a delicate lick of the salt on the rim and not for the first time Lanie thinks how much easier life would be for both of them if Kate were queer. Of course, then she, Lanie, would have settle on queer as well, because she's damn well not going to give Kate Beckett to someone else if she could have her. Which is not going to happen and so is somewhat pointless even for speculation. Like it or not, Kate is stuck with an unmitigated attraction to chisel-jawed men and Lanie remains...well, her mama calls it 'open to suggestion'.

She has, of course, made exactly this suggestion, years ago when she was the new junior ME and Kate Beckett was the most stunning uniform NYPD had ever seen. Kate had even been game enough say yes, but it had only taken them about fifteen minutes to figure out that sex wasn't going to be the basis of their beautiful friendship. Nor has it ruined it. When you look like that, Lanie reckons, you get used to being desired.

'So he lasts as long as he lasts, and when it's done you go back to the free and single life,' she shrugs, filling her own glass. 'Meantime, you've had some fun. And girl, it is no crime to be in it just for fun.'

'So you keep telling me,' Kate says, managing to roll her eyes and sip from her glass at the same time. They'd been drinking margaritas that night, too, now that Lanie is thinking about it. She wonders, for one crazy moment, if Kate is intending a rematch; going to Chiquitas had been her idea. Then again, some conversations really do call for hot sauce and tequila. And this seems to be that kind of conversation.

'So?' Lanie selects a particularly perfect corn chip and dunks it in the salsa. 'Is there something more than fear of fun?' Like a certain C word she's been waiting to hear, though she can't help wondering if maybe it's a good thing that she hasn't.

'So that's not how it would go,' Kate answers. 'It's not like meeting someone who sparks you like no one ever has, and falling into bed and finding out that the sex doesn't work, but you still love being with them.' Her eyes are clear and calm, meeting Lanie's without flinching. So, they are on the same page about that. 'It's about having something that does work, that works really well. But it's everything or nothing. There's no middle ground.'

'He's not asking you to marry him. All he's asked is for you to agree you're officially a couple now.'

'That's not going to be enough. This is the kind of thing that wants to head somewhere.'

'Imma gonna smack you, girl. Forget about counting, you're like shooting your chickens before they hatch.'

That, at least, makes Kate laugh. 'You're right.' She raises the margarita and drinks, killing Lanie just a little as she licks the salt from her lips. 'So. Let's talk about something else.'

'I got work, work and work these days, girlfriend. Not a lot of else.'

Kate nods her sympathy. 'Movies?'

'What's the last one you've seen that wasn't on TMC?' Lanie asks.

'Point.'

Kate drains the last of her margarita and gazes mournfully at the empty pitcher. Lanie suspects it'd be better for everyone concerned if it stays like that. 'So, you wanna go find something with explosions? Tentacles? Anything but romance.'

Kate whips out her new iPhone and finger flips to the local cinema app. 'Thought you'd never ask.'

o-o-o

Richard Castle is arguing with himself, and like most such internal conversations taking place at 3am, it's not going well. The last couple of weeks, he has to admit, have not been his best. On the one hand, he's discovered that Kate Beckett has an insanely adorable smile when she's thinking about a guy she likes. On the other hand, it comes from thinking about him. Demming, Schlemming. Damning. Tom Damn Demming. Dem Damn Tomming.

Castle sighs. Beckett thinks he's being a child, and he hates to admit it, but she's right. He feels like a child, watching them together. Left out, left behind. As if all he's been through with Beckett, all the effort he's put into Beckett, making her smile, making her open up to the possibility of a life beyond her work, has now turned against him. Just the way feeding Kyra's curiosity about the world gave her the courage to run off to London all those years ago. Once again, hoist by his own petard.

In his other world, the world he controls, Jamison Rook is romancing Nikki Heat in ways Castle never seriously thought of romancing Beckett till now. And now never can. Would it be crazy for a writer to be jealous of a character he's created? Because if that's even possible, Castle is. How uncomplicated everything's been for Rook, just a bottle of tequila and a little darkness, and there he is, in bed with his muse. Not even his muse, not the way Beckett is supposed to be for Castle. Nikki is just fodder for Rook. Beckett has never been just fodder, but she's still in another man's bed, and Richard Castle is arguing with himself at 3am. That's not how any of this was supposed to happen.

Yes? And exactly what was supposed to happen, dear boy? asks the grownup voice in his head. It sounds an awful lot like Powell, the jewelry thief, and Castle doesn't even want to speculate on why. The other voice sounds far too much like his own pre-adolescent self, all cracks and insecurity, a time most certainly best forgotten.

I don't know. I probably never did.

He presses the spacebar and his screensaver disappears. The cursor blinks on the screen of his laptop, demanding to know what happens next, but Rook has even less reason for still being in Nikki's story than Castle does in Beckett's. It's not enough anymore that he likes being there, that even she likes him being there. There are some wells you don't dip a girl's pigtails in, and this one, this well of blocked inspiration -- he hates to think of it as despair -- is one of them. She's made it clear, what she wants. Worse for him, she's happy. He can see that. Everyone can see it. The only time she's not walking around the precinct on half an inch of smiling air is when she's with him. Castle him, not the other him. With him, she's grounded, flat and serious. Oh, he can still make her grin, just like he could when they first met. And just like then, he can make her smile but he can't make her laugh.

Contrast that with what he heard this evening when she and Demming were making coffee in the break room, thinking they had it to themselves. Technically, of course, they did -- hearing Demming's voice was certainly enough to stop Castle in his tracks, fortunately while he was still standing just behind the door, hidden from their view. They weren't talking about anything earth shattering, just a case Demming had caught, a case which, in fact, was going to wreck their weekend plans. And then Demming said something that meant nothing to Castle but must have meant something to Beckett, because she laughed. Not an out-loud oh you're so funny kind of laugh, but something deep and smoky and private, the kind of laugh that belongs to two people naked under a summer sheet, a joke only they will ever understand.

And that's when the grown-up in Castle suddenly took control, backed him away from that door before the child could shoulder his way in and say something stupid, something guaranteed to make him look pouty and pathetic. Instead, he went home and gave the laugh to Nikki Heat, let her share it with Rook. But now it's eight hours later and the cursor is still blinking, and for the first time in his life, Richard Castle has no idea how the story is supposed to end.

'in medias res' is Latin for 'in the middle of the affair'. It's usually used when a story starts in the middle of the action, which seemed particularly appropriate here.