Chapter 2

He starts the next day. Let's begin slowly, set the scene, delineate the characters. Slow build-up of tension. Not too many changes, not too quickly. Wouldn't want your readers (subjects) to see what's coming too early in the plot.

So he moves his chair just a little closer, leans a little nearer on the edge of the desk, stands a little closer in the elevator. Beckett catches him staring at her mouth (it's deliberate) and he flicks a glance up and down her button-down. She doesn't look impressed. When he does it again, with a little heat behind his gaze, a hint of memory, (I know what turns you on, Beckett) she shifts uncomfortably in her own seat and refuses to look at him again. Gotcha. She spends the rest of her day hiding behind a huge pile of paperwork. Game on. He's drawn her into the story.


Beckett's confused. Castle hasn't behaved like this since very early on. She likes having him around; she misses him when he's not there. And messing with his head is good fun. But then there's that scene she doesn't want to think about. (Because she'd have to admit to herself that being pulled in and kissed hard and held tight so she couldn't have her own way made her really hot.)

And now Castle's making sure she knows that he remembers. That's not fair. Surely he knows she doesn't want to go there. She doesn't. She isn't going to talk about it. It never happened. And thinking about it every night in her sublet and wondering what would have happened if they hadn't needed to get in and rescue Ryan and Esposito and sometimes thinking about what would have happened a little (or a lot) more than is good for her composure… is definitely not happening any more. So she pulls her paperwork closer (at least there's always paperwork) and resolutely does not look up. At all.

She gets up to leave with a mental sigh of relief and bites off a curse when Castle rises too. Can't he just leave her alone? She doesn't want to play. She wants a bath and some dinner and a relaxed night on her own. Maybe a good book. Not his. But Castle's trotting after her just like always – except he's not. This isn't the usual be-two-paces-behind-and-don't-get-in-my-way step that she's painstakingly taught him. This sounds like more of a – prowl? Huh? Her heels click down a little faster as she heads for the elevator, the cadence of her step humming leave me alone with every beat.


Standing in the elevator, Castle's pretty satisfied with how the day has gone. He slides a fraction closer to Beckett and catches a glare.

"A little space here, Castle?" There's an edge to her words. She's irritated. Good. He doesn't move.

"Castle, move over."

And just as she might have realized that he won't, the elevator stops and he steps out. Saved by the beep. He doesn't want to move too fast. She is a detective, after all, and she might just turn all those detective skills on him. He's not confident that he can preserve the plan with Beckett on the case. He needs to lead her through each stage, walk her deeper into the woods with no breadcrumb trail to take her home again, get her so wound up she'll let him do what he wants and never think that each concession she makes takes her further and further in until she can't go back. Won't want to go back.

He realizes that whilst he's been momentarily planning her (their) future, she's click-clacked off, each heel tap echoing her stiff-backed, irked walk. Enough for today. He meanders home smirking.


Beckett's even more confused now than she was earlier. Castle stopped invading her personal space some time ago. (After a few applications of twisting fingernails to nose and ears.) Suddenly he seems to have gone right back to the way he was when he first invaded her nice, calm, collected life. He's ogled her all day and the look in his eyes said I know what your mouth tastes like. I want to find out what the rest of you tastes like.

No. Absolutely not. It was a one-off mistake and it's not going to happen again. Not not not. Even if the memory makes her squirm and go damp.

She manages to march off. She isn't running away, she isn't, she isn't. She's just walking a little faster than usual. And thank Christ he isn't following.

She slips into her sublet, kicking off her shoes, and falls gratefully into her couch. She's tired and stressed and really does not want to think about the disaster the day became. She tries to clear her mind, pads through to the bathroom and starts the water running, drops in some scented oil. A nice long bath and some wine is just what she needs.

Some time later she hoists herself out the bath and into bed. She's forgotten to eat but it's too late now. The wine has made her pleasantly fuzzy and she's asleep in moments. Unfortunately the wine doesn't stop the dreams. Nothing has stopped the dreams. Not since that scene that she won't think about. Or talk about. She's being pulled in, pinned down, held tightly, kissed, touched, stripped and opened. And then she wakes, hot, wet and bothered. Again.

There's nothing to do but get up and go to the precinct. (She won't give in to what her body wants. That would be conceding that there was more to that scene than she's prepared to admit.) Maybe some very boring paperwork will help. Dry paperwork. Definitely dry. She's there and typing by seven. By the time Castle rolls in with coffee and bear claws she's back to almost normal and she's got her game face on.