Author's Note: (Partly) to make up for the angst of my last fic, I give you this plotless piece of fluff (and smut) for your Friday. Enjoy!

Homecoming

"I'm home," Castle announced automatically as he maneuvered his rolling suitcase into the loft. "And alone," he added to himself as he registered the complete quiet and darkness. His mother must be out.

And of course, Alexis was away and Beckett was in D.C.

He grimaced. He hated coming home to an empty house. He wasn't used to living alone, being alone, in his own home. He wanted people, his family, around him. Especially now when he'd been away from home for a week on a book tour but in general too.

He missed his mother (not that he would ever tell her so.) He really missed his daughter, off doing amazing things and saving the world, but his pride in her didn't keep him from missing her any less. And most of all, he really really missed his fiancée. Missing Beckett had set up a persistent, nagging almost physical ache in his sternum, lodged right around his heart, and it only seemed to ease when he was talking to Beckett or when he received a message from her. Or was actually with her but that had been almost three weeks ago now.

He sighed as he wheeled his suitcase into their bedroom. (Still their bedroom.) He knew he was moping, low be it spoken, but he missed her, damn it. This long-distance relationship thing might be slowly killing him. (The Beckett that lived in his head rolled her eyes, calling him melodramatic.)

Oh fine, yes, he wasn't dying from it. He just… didn't like it. As proud of Beckett as he was, as much as he respected her choices and as much as he supported her in this career change as he would for anything else—the long-distance thing was wearing on him. Because he missed her.

Especially with how much more independent Alexis had become in the last few years, not just since starting college but even before then, Beckett was the person he had spent the most time with, even before they had gotten together. And in the last year and more since they had gotten together, she was definitely the person he spent the most time with, had become his most constant companion.

He hadn't realized just how… spoiled he had become being with Beckett so much and so constantly until these last weeks when that was no longer the case. And it was even harder, if that were possible, because of their engagement, now when everything was so clear between them. Ironic that it was only when they'd finally reached a point of being able to talk and share so much more openly, nothing more held back, their relationship finally feeling solid and stable, that they were forced to spend less time together than they had since those terrible summers apart.

Not that this was anything remotely like those summers. He and Beckett spoke all the time, every day even if just for a couple minutes, and exchanged text messages even more frequently than that.

But god, there was just no substitute to being with Beckett, to having her in his arms, being able to touch her and kiss her. Smell the cherry scent of her hair.

He tried to shove the thought of it—the memories—out of his mind, they only made the distance more painful but he was only marginally successful.

Beckett had, after all, permeated every inch of the loft (to say nothing of having imprinted herself on his mind and heart and soul). He couldn't look at the extra chair in his office without his mind conjuring up an image of her curled up in it as she read a book or sometimes watched him write. He couldn't look at his bed without seeing her in it.

A fair number of her clothes and her shoes still resided in the closet. A picture of her parents was on her side of the dresser alongside a picture of the two of them taken at the surprise birthday party she'd planned for him. The memory of that night made him smile, warmth settling in his chest. A warmth that lingered even as he took a quick shower since there was nothing like spending the day on a plane to make him feel grubby.

Afterwards, he tried to settle down to write only to find that thinking about Nikki only made missing Beckett seem more acute and he gave up with a sigh. He tried to write Derrick Storm but he couldn't focus on him either. He tried to read but found he couldn't quite keep his mind focused on his book, his thoughts wandering to Beckett and what she was doing. He turned on the TV just to have some background noise but only watched sporadically, unable to settle on anything he really felt like watching. He wasn't normally so pathetically bad at being alone in his own home but after being away for a week, he'd had quite enough of his own solitary company.

Finally, he gave up and decided to call her. It was late enough that he was relatively sure she must be off work by now, although he knew she'd been in the middle of an intensive training exercise yesterday and today. She hadn't been sure when it would end when they last spoke early this morning, briefly before she'd needed to go back to work, but he thought she should (hopefully) be able to talk more now.

Talking to Beckett would help. Talking to Beckett always helped.

Or at least, it would if he actually got to talk to her. She didn't pick up. He suppressed a sigh and ended the call without leaving a message. It wasn't as if he had anything specific to say (telling her—not to say, whining—that he missed her didn't count) and he knew she would call him the moment she could. She must still be tied up at work, no doubt learning all sorts of super-hot, super-secret agent-y stuff.

The thought had him smiling (okay, smirking) a little. Beckett tended to scoff when he called her a secret agent—I'm not James Bond, Castle—but he persisted since she was, after all, a federal agent and much, if not all, of her job was secret, off limits to mere civilians like him, so a secret agent she was. And Beckett would only roll her eyes but couldn't entirely hide her smile, that tiny one that escaped her as if to say she didn't know why she loved him when he was so silly. (He loved that smile. Well, he loved all her smiles.)

Resigned that he would probably not be able to talk to Beckett until sometime tomorrow morning, Castle settled into bed. He might not have Beckett beside him but it was still nice to be back in their own bed, after a week of sleeping in uncomfortable hotel room beds.

He briefly turned his face into Beckett's pillow. He was probably imagining it (okay, fine, he was almost certainly imagining it since it had been weeks since Beckett had been here) but he swore he could still smell a lingering trace of her shampoo in the pillow.

It occurred to him he might be pathetic. What, so he missed his fiancée, nothing wrong with that.

And his last thought before he drifted to sleep was to wonder what Beckett was doing, when she would be able to go back to her apartment in D.C. to get some sleep of her own.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of her.

He hummed a tiny contented sound, shifting his head on his pillow. Mm, yeah, he knew this sort of dream. He liked this sort of dream…

He dreamed that she was there with him, dreamed that she was touching him, light teasing caresses through his boxers. As if she still needed to learn his body. He had this sort of dream a lot, dreamed of the touch of her hands, the strokes of her clever fingers, the smirk that would curve her lips as she teased him like this.

Oh, yes, he knew this dream, knew the hand that now flitted up his body, fleeting exploratory touches of his stomach, his chest, before sliding down. Mm, Kate…

Cool slender fingers slipped inside his boxers and wrapped around him—wait, that wasn't a dream!

He jerked sharply awake, his eyes flying open on a gasp of mingled arousal and some utter confusion because the only person who could touch him like this was hundreds of miles away—or maybe she wasn't. He could only see a silhouette in the darkness but he would know that shape, that scent, that presence, anywhere. It was her.

What—how—his mind floundered, disoriented, so for a split second he wondered if it was possible he'd conjured her up because he'd missed her so much, was hallucinating. "Beckett?" he gasped.

He sensed, or something, the flash of her smile in the darkness of his room. "Hey, Castle. Surprise." Her voice was laced with mischief and desire, had the husky note to it, the one that meant she was aroused, the one that never failed to send lightning sizzling down his veins. The husky note had him hardening even more in her hand and he abruptly lost interest in the how or the why and just accepted that she was really here, her hand was really on him.

And—ooohh—his eyes lowered—she was deliciously, gloriously naked, he could see the smooth slope of her shoulders, the curves of her breasts, as a pale gleam in the darkness. More, he felt the warmth of her body next to his.

Her hand—her wonderful, evil hand—stroked his now almost fully erect length a few times and his head fell back on a strangled groan. "Oh god, Beckett…"

Her hand slipped out of his boxers and his eyes flew open again, his mouth parting on a protest that was never voiced as he felt her deliberately pushing his boxers down and he shifted his hips, his brain belatedly managing to direct his hands to help until he was entirely bare to her.

She slipped down lower on the bed beside him and he really, really wished he could see more of her, could make out her face, her expression, because there was nothing—or very few things—in the world sexier than the look on Kate Beckett's face when she looked at his naked body, the gleam of lust, arousal, and yes, possession, in her eyes. He automatically flexed his muscles just a little—what, he was allowed to show off a little for his own fiancée—and could imagine the way her eyes would flare in response. There was no aphrodisiac in the world like it, seeing her frankly sensual appreciation of his body.

For a heart-stopping, tortuous second, she just hovered above him, teasing his arousal by letting him feel the puff of her warm breath against him. She wasn't even touching him but he was all but panting with anticipation, his body burning up, and then finally, finally—oh god, finally—she touched him. Just a lick, at first, slow and deliberate, up the length of him, as if measuring him with her tongue—and he swore although he didn't know how it was possible that he got even harder.

She wasn't done, moving on to enclose him fully in the wet heat of her mouth. His hips jerked in automatic reaction, his eyes closing, as he choked out, "Beckett," before his throat closed, what little thoughts he had splintering apart as he could only hope desperately that he could hold out, not explode.

She curled her tongue around him and then she moaned, the faint sound ringing in his ears, and he swore he could feel the sound vibrate around him, not just hear it, and he decided he was definitely going to die. He was going to die, she was killing him—but oh god, was he going to enjoy it.

He could feel the build-up, the tug of his impending climax, and it took every bit of will power he had but he managed to sit bolt upright, gasping. "Kate, no, wait…"

She understood. Of course she did.

She released him, letting him slide out of her mouth, and he tried not to mourn the loss—stupid body—he didn't want this to end yet.

He sensed rather than saw her faint smile—he knew that smile, the look she got at times like this, her cat-that-got-the-cream look, he mentally termed it. She liked knowing she could drive him over the edge so easily, liked the control she had over his body.

She wasn't alone in that.

She sat up and he barely had a chance to catch his breath before she straddled his thighs and for the first time tonight, her lips came crashing down on his.

His arms immediately wrapped around her, holding her in place (as if she would really go anywhere), as he dove into the kiss, his tongue immediately seeking, curling around, hers, and god, did he love kissing her. Would never ever get enough of it, the heat of her, the passion of her.

He could feel her naked breasts pressing against his chest and it was quite possibly the only thing in the world that could have induced him to stop kissing her, his lips leaving hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, finding the spot that always made her mewl, a tiny shiver of pleasure going through her. He allowed himself a momentary flicker of male smugness at being able to draw that reaction from her and devoted himself to finding every other sensitive spot, the little hollow behind her ear, with his lips and his tongue, before bending so he could draw one nipple into his mouth.

She arched into him, making a little impatient whining sound that he absolutely adored, and then her fingers were tangling in his hair, tugging lightly but enough to communicate what she wanted.

He half-reluctantly left her breast to find her mouth with his again—no, he could never be reluctant to kiss her—and then he broke off the kiss on a groan as she shifted, her hips rising, and one of her hands snaked down to find him, guiding him into her body, as she slid down, taking him fully inside her.

God, he'd missed this.

He honestly wasn't sure if the little sigh, almost a moan, came from him or from her, but what did it matter?

"God, Kate," he choked out.

"Castle."

She was tight and hot and perfect around him—his Kate—and then her hips were rolling in tandem with his and he dropped his face into the curve of her neck, his lips kissing the soft, damp skin, as he breathed in the familiar scent of her. Oh god, yes, Kate.

"Castle," she gasped against his ear. Her arms were locked around his neck and she shifted against him insistently, rocking her hips. "Castle, I want..."

They were familiar enough with each other's bodies, each other's tells, that he knew what she meant, what she wanted. (Then again, it felt as if their bodies, at least, had always been attuned to each other, communicating on this physical plane even when they themselves hadn't been communicating perfectly otherwise. Now, though, they were on the same page, physically, emotionally. And god, if that didn't make the sex even better than it had already been...)

He tightened his arms around her and flipped them over until she was beneath him, the change in angle pushing him even deeper into her so she cried out. He paused but she only urged him on, her hips lifting, her legs wrapping around him.

And then as always, there was only her as the universe spiraled down to include only her and him together. There was nothing and no one else in the world.

The movement of his hips was getting jerky, losing all finesse, as he felt the explosion coming and he reached down, found her where they were joined with his fingers, brushing, circling, once, twice, and then—oh thank god—her muscles were tightening convulsively around him as she cried out his name and he let himself go, his entire body jerking and shuddering. Surrendering himself entirely to her, body and soul.

He collapsed on top of her, spent and breathless, and he was sure it took a little while before he returned to reality enough to become aware once more of her arms around him, her fingers lightly playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, sending lazy little ripples of pleasure down his spine.

Slowly, his body feeling lethargic, weighted down by satiation, he managed to shift, roll over onto his back. And as usual, Kate followed him, her head resting on his shoulder, the long, lithe lines of her body settling against his.

And oh, how he loved these quiet moments in the aftermath of their love-making, loved the closeness, the intimacy, not just physically but emotionally. In these moments when it really was just them.

He felt her soft sigh against his ear before she turned her head to brush her lips against his shoulder and then, as he turned his head towards her, against his lips. Just a brief, tender kiss, they were both too spent for anything more energetic.

"Mm," she hummed quietly. "I needed that."

His reaction was slow, the blood still making its way back to his brain, but he finally remembered that she wasn't supposed to be there—well, no, she always belonged next to him—but why—how—was she here when he'd supposed she was miles away in D.C.?

"Beckett?"

"Hmm?"

"Not that I'm not delighted to see you—I really am…"

He felt her smirk against his shoulder. "Mm, I could tell. You were very… welcoming…"

He choked on a small laugh. "For you, when your hand is where it was, always. But seriously, Beckett, as glad as I am to see you, what are you doing here? Why aren't you in D.C.?"

She made a small noncommittal sort of noise, her shoulders shifting in a way that he correctly interpreted as a shrug. He felt a little niggle of concern creep into his mind. Such an answer that really wasn't an answer wasn't Beckett's style. She was decisive, confident.

She didn't answer for another moment.

"Beckett?" he finally ventured, gently. Not pushing, by now he knew when not to push and by now he knew that if he waited, she would usually tell him what was on her mind.

"I was just tired," she finally answered quietly.

"Tired," he repeated. "So after you were done with work, you hopped on a plane for an hour instead of going to your apartment to sleep?" He was joking, sort of, but couldn't quite keep the skepticism out of his voice. He didn't doubt that she was telling the truth, so far as it went, but there was an odd intonation in her voice, one he wasn't sure he liked. No, something was off about her, something more than physical tiredness. (And even if she was tired and could say she slept better here in their bed—he loved that she might be able to say that—it didn't explain all he heard in her voice.)

She gave him a half-hearted little swat. "Not what I meant, Castle. Don't be silly."

Odd as it might sound to anyone else, the hint of crispness in her tone, the gesture, had him feeling reassured. She sounded more like his no-nonsense Beckett, reassuring him that whatever it was, it wasn't anything serious or lasting.

He captured her hand in his and lifted it to his lips to kiss her palm before lowering it back down to his chest, keeping his hand over hers.

And after a little while, his patience was rewarded as she nestled closer against him, her voice coming out half-muffled against his skin as she admitted, "I was tired of feeling bad at what I do."

Wait, what? He inwardly gaped—his confident, competent Beckett—but he heard the underlying thread of insecurity, the vulnerability she usually kept so carefully concealed. Oh, Kate…

"Well, then, you came to the right place. I can confidently tell you that you are an expert, the best, at what you just did to me. You would win every award for Sexy Fiancées out there."

It wasn't his best attempt at humor but it served the purpose as she laughed—no, giggled—and he thought not for the first time that he would never ever get over hearing Kate Beckett giggle, being able to make her giggle. "Thanks, Castle. How'd you know I came up here just to be reassured that I'm still good in bed?"

"You definitely are but, you know, there's always room for improvement and practice does make perfect."

"You volunteering to help me practice?"

"Yes, I'm just that self-sacrificing," he said with mock magnanimity.

He sensed her roll her eyes. "Very generous of you, Castle."

He pretended to preen. "I thought so."

She snorted and he laughed, tightening his arms around her as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she let out a puff of breath on a sigh, shifting until she was lying half-draped over him.

Their little exchange had been decidedly silly (of course) but it had worked, the tension now gone from her body. She felt relaxed against him. And now, if he knew Beckett, she would start to talk, explain herself.

It took a little while but he wasn't going anywhere. After the last few weeks—well, always-he could stand an awful lot of closeness with Beckett so if she wanted to stay draped over him, he was just fine with that. He kept his arms around her and waited.

"I made a mistake. In the training exercise," she finally began, her voice quiet but now, at least, she didn't sound quite as troubled.

"It was a training exercise, a learning exercise, Kate," he said gently.

"I know but I still… missed something. And if it had been a real case, it could have allowed the killer to escape before we caught up with him. Rachel—she… wasn't pleased with me."

From what little he knew of Rachel McCord and what he did know of Beckett, that was an understatement but he also knew that Beckett was harder on herself than anyone else would be.

"I just… I knew this would be challenging and I wanted a new challenge but it's still… harder than I thought it would be. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I bit off more than I could chew."

"Beckett, you weren't the one who picked you."

She snickered a little. "That sentence almost made sense," she teased mildly.

"Yeah, yeah, mock me when I'm trying to comfort you," he pretended to grouse.

She smoothed her hand over his chest and kissed his shoulder. "Sorry, Castle, go on."

She didn't sound particularly sorry but he didn't care. She sounded like his Beckett again and he loved her teasing.

"I'm just saying, Stack was the one who recruited you; he saw the potential in you. And Beckett, it's still early, you're still in the middle of training. Of course there's going to be a learning curve."

"I know. I just… I'm not used to feeling… incompetent. It's so much worse than it was even going back to work after—well, after."

He had tensed automatically at even that tacit reference to her shooting and he knew she felt it because she soothed him by cupping his cheek with her hand.

"It's worse than working with Gates at first, when I was still trying to figure out how she worked. That was adjusting to a different leadership style but this is that, plus just learning how to do the job at all and I just… I wonder sometimes if maybe I was being arrogant to think I could really do this. I thought my cop training, my experience, would make it easier but it doesn't seem to be."

"Beckett, it's going to be different. You were a cop for years, worked your way up to become the best cop in the city. Now you're starting over again but it doesn't make you incompetent; it just means you're learning. Don't compare it to what it was like being a detective; you had years to grow into that but think about what it was like when you were just out of the Academy."

She let out a breath. "I was so young then, only 22, and so green I didn't even know how green I still was."

"See what I mean? I know it was a while ago but try to remember what it was like learning how to be a cop."

She paused for a moment and he knew she was thinking about it, remembering. "The Academy didn't really teach us about much except doing paperwork. It was Royce and then Montgomery who really taught me how to be a cop." Her voice changed almost imperceptibly at the mention of those two men, both gone now and both of whom had betrayed her in different ways, and he swept a hand up and down her back in a soothing caress.

"But you did learn how to be a cop and you will learn everything about how to be an agent too, just give it more time. I have it on good authority that you've never really failed at anything you've set your mind to."

"I think my dad is biased."

"Maybe but I would say the same thing and I like to think I know you pretty well by now."

She tightened her arms around him for a moment. "You do know me, Castle," she admitted quietly.

He kissed her forehead. "You're going to be great, Beckett. I'm sure of that."

She was silent for a moment. "This is why I came up here," she admitted, so quietly he could barely hear it, suspected she was talking more to herself.

A starburst of joy went off in his chest. His self-sufficient, independent Beckett had needed reassurance and she'd come here, to him. It was what he'd wanted most, he sometimes thought, to be the one to comfort Beckett, to hold her up in the rare times when her own almost limitless strength wasn't enough. Be there for her when she was vulnerable. And now, he was that person for her, just as she was that person for him.

But Beckett wouldn't like it if he gloated. So he went for humor instead. "I thought you came up here because you wanted to have your wicked way with me."

She huffed a laugh. "You caught me, Castle, I'm only here for the sex."

He heaved a mock sigh. "I see how it is, just using me for my body."

"You'll get over it, Castle."

"Well, I'm still glad you're here, Beckett. I don't like coming back to an empty loft."

"You were moping, weren't you." It wasn't really a question.

By now, he was no longer quite so surprised that she practically plucked his earlier thought right out of his head. (It might be disturbing, to have a near-telepathic fiancée.)

He bridled in mock offense. "Grown men do not mope. I would just say that my normally sunny disposition suffered a temporary lapse," he pontificated.

She snorted and he was sure she rolled her eyes in patented Beckett fashion. "You were moping."

Yeah, definitely his Beckett. Always keeping him honest, keeping him grounded. He smiled to himself. He loved it, loved her for it.

"I just missed you, that's all." Understatement. He'd missed her the way a parched man in the desert missed water.

She let out a soft breath. "I missed you too, Castle." Her words were quiet and he could hear the tiredness starting to creep up on her.

There was one more thing he wanted to know.

"Speaking of which, how long can you stay? Through the weekend? A week, forever?" he asked, half-jokingly on the last two but a man could hope.

She shook her head against his shoulder. "Sorry, Castle, I just have tomorrow off. I have to leave Saturday morning. We have this instructional meeting thing in the afternoon."

"Two nights then, that's not so bad." It wasn't a lot of time, little more than 24 hours, and he knew this last training exercise had kept her up and running for most of the last 48 hours but she'd still come up here to be with him.

"I was thinking, dinner with my dad tomorrow?" Her voice was fading, her words slurring ever so slightly with sleepiness.

"That sounds great, Beckett."

"Mm, g'night, Castle."

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Good night, love."

Her breathing slowed, her body becoming lax against his, as she drifted to sleep.

"Love you," she mumbled.

As always, the words had warmth flaring in his chest, coiling around his heart.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, he pulled the covers up over them both and curved his body more securely around hers, feeling his own tiredness catch up to him. His eyes closed, the scent of her hair in his nose, the warmth of her body against his, the tangible proof of her presence beside him all he needed to have peace settling over him. Now, he was really home.

~The End~

A/N 2: Thank you, as always, for reading.

Mobazan27, I hope this satisfied, even if it wasn't one of your requested plots.