Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
They'd gotten through Christmas, New Year's, and the anniversary of her mother's death, a four-week period when Beckett had withdrawn emotionally from everything. He'd been very careful around her during that time, knowing how tough it was for her. He'd thought it was safe now, that he could kid around with her more, flirt the way they had been before the holidays.
And then it happened. She showed up: Kyra Blaine, the one who got away. The girl who had his heart and broke it so many years ago. Except that he's come to realize over the last several months that Kyra is not in fact the one who got away: Kate Beckett has his heart, and if he's not careful she'll be the one who gets away. He doesn't want that to happen, can't bear even to think about it. Hell no. No, no, no.
Could he have been any stupider? At the crime scene Beckett had said, "I take it she was someone very special." Then he, the 24-karat bozo, had answered, "She's the one that got away." Not, "A girlfriend from ages ago," or "Old flame, haven't seen her in years," or "Ancient history." Oh, no, he'd supplied the worst possible answer, "She's the one that got away," to the woman he's in love with and is hoping to—. Beckett hadn't said another word after he'd shoved his foot in his mouth. She'd just gotten on her cell and started asking Lanie questions while she'd walked away. He smacks himself in the head for the umpteenth time since one of Kyra's bridesmaids was found dead in a hotel armoire. Shit.
The day had gone from bad to horrific. He'd been talking to Kyra when Beckett came to pick him up, and when the bride-to-be left Beckett had taken a long, hard look at his long, sad face. She'd obviously inferred from his expression that that he was still in love with Kyra. Later on she'd kicked him out of the interrogation room where they'd been questioning Kyra's fiancé, Greg, and told him that he was too close to Kyra. The hammer blow was this: "You have to stay away from her, Castle, until this case is closed." He'd gone home then, and that's where he is now, sitting morosely in his dark office and drowning his very new sorrow in a glass of very old Scotch.
He jumps when his cell rings. It's Kyra, and she pleads with him to meet her. He says no at first, but he feels terrible for her, and agrees to meet her on the roof where they used to hang out in college, a lifetime ago. He gets his coat and keys, and leaves.
It's late, almost midnight, and Beckett's the only one in the bullpen. Five minutes ago she'd received an envelope of 8-by-11 surveillance photos, and she's radiating rage as she shuffles them again and again. "Son of a bitch," she says loudly, since no one can hear her. "You goddamn son of a bitch." It's Castle and Kyra Blaine. The pictures may be grainy, shot from a distance, and in black and white, but there's no question what's going on. "You couldn't leave it alone, Castle," she mumbles angrily. "You just couldn't leave her alone." She'd told him, ordered him, to stay away, and there he is on some freaking roof hugging a murder suspect—Kyra, The One Who Got Away—like she's the last woman on earth. Well, there's nothing to be done about it now, she knows, but there sure as hell will be in the morning. Time for her to go home and go to bed.
She's wearing a tee shirt and brushing her teeth. After rinsing her mouth out, she leans forward until she's almost touching the mirror. "You'd never know that Mom and Dad paid a fortune for my braces, would you? Look at my teeth. Snaggle tooth. I should get some of those invisible braces. How much do they cost?" Her reflection has no response, so she curls her lips and turns her head from side to side. "Kyra has perfect teeth. Way too perfect, if you ask me. Am I right? Yeah, way too straight. They look like they've been ironed. I bet Castle likes them, though." She straightens up and backs away a little from the mirror. "He likes things that are perfect. Did you notice how short she is? We must be a head taller than she is. But she nestles right into him. Bet he loves that, too, how her head hits the middle of his chest. Right, snuggle bug." She snaps off the light and stomps to bed. Even barefoot she can make a lot of noise, because she's in a fury. When she gets into bed and rolls onto her side. "Oh, and you had to kiss her, too, didn't you, Castle? A hug wasn't enough. I hate you." She thinks that she's too wound up to sleep, but she isn't.
"Sit down, Mister Castle."
"Suddenly I'm Mister?"
She points to the straight-backed chair on his side of the table in interrogation. "Sit down."
"You're very hot when you're so domineering," he says, taking a seat. "Do you have a whip in your desk drawer?"
"Have you been read your rights, Mister Castle?"
"I'm under arrest?"
"Yes, you are. And if you get up from that chair again I'll be compelled to cuff you."
"Oh, I'm definitely getting up again."
She wants to wipe that little smirk off his face. Smirking should be a felony. "Sit down and stay down."
"Okay."
"I'll read you your rights."
"No need. I waive them."
"You waive them? Duly noted." She writes something on the paper in her file.
"What's the charge?"
"Public nudity." She isn't looking at him.
He laughs. "Surely you've noticed that I'm fully clothed."
"You are now, but you and your possibly homicidal girlfriend were definitely undressing each other with your eyes last night on that roof."
"Wait, so she's being charged, too?"
"Yes, she's in another room being interrogated by Detectives Ryan and Esposito."
He sits there for a long time. This could be the longest he's kept his mouth shut since she met him. And he's still wearing that soon-to-be-felonious smirk. He leans forward as far as he can and runs his unnecessarily blue eyes up and down her. "I don't have to undress you with my eyes."
"I should hope not."
"I have X-ray vision when it comes to you."
"Mister Castle, I'd appreciate if you kept a professional tone."
"Here's what I see, Detective Beckett. I see that you're wearing a sky-blue bra with lace trimming and a tiny blue satin bow. That tells me a lot, that under that very professional turtleneck and blazer you're wearing something alluring. Sexy. I bet if you stood up I could describe what you have on under your slacks. A thong? A bikini? Ah, your eyes just gave you away. Bikini it is. I bet it's very skimpy and I bet it matches your bra." He sits back smugly and folds his arms over his unnecessarily muscular chest.
When he squeezes his arms like that she can see his pecs move, sees his biceps swell under the arms of a shirt that unnecessarily matches his eyes. And holy mother of God, he's right. He just gave a perfect description of her underwear. "Are you aware of the seriousness of the charge being made against you?"
"Not really. I was publicly naked on that police horse I borrowed a few years ago. Got a slap on the wrist. If you want to slap me on the butt, I'd accept that as punishment. Seems to me this is a pretty flimsy crime. Would you like to know about my underwear? As it happens, it's exactly the same color as yours. Sky blue silk boxers. I don't like tidy whities, Detective. I don't like being bunched up. So restraining, you know? If I'm going to be restrained, I want to be handcuffed. What do you say?" He thrusts his forearms at her, wrist pressed against wrist. "I like silk scarves, too. I bet you have some of those. Great restraints. Very sensual."
"I assure you that this merits more than a slap on the wrist, Mister Castle."
"Maybe I should call my attorney. On the other hand, if I'm going to be charged with public nudity I feel as if I really should be nude."
Before she can respond he's unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled them off. "Mister Castle, I'm warning you."
"Warning me?" He's raising an eyebrow. He snaps the waistband on his boxers—and they are indeed sky blue—then pushes them down and steps out of them. "I feel so much better now. So unrestrained. And growing more so with every passing second."
He's not kidding. About the growing part.
She wakes up because the heat has come on full blast. That's no surprise in the middle of January, but still. Except wait, the radiator's not hissing. The heat hasn't come on, Castle has. She pulls the sheet over her head and groans.
Castle's standing in the middle of the kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee. Alexis has just taken off for school and his mother won't be up for ages, thank goodness. He's riddled with guilt for having gone to see Kyra last night: Beckett had specifically told him not to. And he's anxious about the dream he had a few hours ago. What the hell does it mean? Does he need a shrink? He hates shrinks.
They're in an interrogation room at the Twelfth, but he and Beckett are on opposite sides of the table.
"It's a class A felony," she says coldly. "You're looking at a very long stretch in prison."
"For what?"
"Don't play the innocent with me. You know very well for what."
"I don't, I swear."
"You met Kyra Blaine on your 'secret roof'." She makes air quotes around the last two words. "That's a no-fly zone, Castle. You're forbidden from going there. You're lucky it's not punishable by death."
"But how, how did you even know about it?"
"I have bat ears. Don't you know that by now? I'm Cat Woman with bat ears. A lethal combination. I heard you and Kyra talking. I can hear for a radius of 3.14159265359 miles."
"Isn't that pi?"
"Of course it's pi."
"That's a long way." He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them she's in a Cat Woman costume, skin-tight black leather from head to toe, but with enormous bat ears.
"Damn right it is." She meows and licks her hand. Her fingernails are long and painted bright red. "More than sixty blocks, and you and your little girlfriend—what is she, five two?—were only eighteen blocks from me. I knew that you'd do something stupid, and you did."
That's all he can remember. He tried to hypnotize himself, but no luck. He has to go to the precinct and confess that he'd seen Kyra, but also to try to convince Beckett that Kyra can't possibly be a murderer. It's a tall order. It might take a lot more than a latte to do it.
The latte doesn't do it; evidence does. When his conscience moves him to tell her about the rooftop rendezvous, it's too late. She already knows because she'd had Kyra under surveillance. And while he's trying to explain himself and lay out his theory of the crime, financials come in on the victim, and everything changes. And just like that they're working together again as a perfect team. She's still pissed off at him, but it dissipates. After they wrap up the case, Kyra thanks him. He sees her stop by Beckett's desk for just a second, and say something. Beckett doesn't answer, and he can't see her face, but her body language tells him that she's happy. If only he had bat ears.
They leave the precinct together and she even lets him walk her to the subway. "Hey, Beckett!" he calls as she starts down the stairs.
She stops and turns around. "Yes?"
"Sweet dreams."
It must be a trick of the fading light, but it looks like she's blushing.
"You, too, Castle. Sweet dreams."
TBC
A/N I thought a little sweetness was in order!