She's a woman of evidence. She reads body language like she would the latest, greatest mystery novel — with clarity, certainty, even an ounce of enjoyment about everything she understands.

It's a skill, and Kate has it in droves. A change in eye contact, a nervous play with the sleeve of a shirt, an erratic flicker of eyelashes, and she's on top of the situation as readily as she's on top … on top … on top of ...

As she slumps on top of her bed, flopping down so that her back hits the divot of delight they'd formed earlier that morning, Kate knows that she's not on top of anything at the moment. Or anyone.

She's a woman of substance, of training, of truth without the bullshit games. She doesn't cry a lot, and when she does, it's usually due to innate empathy or a deep-seated sorrow that's pinged at her social justice strings. She doesn't weep over men! She doesn't diva-down with her girls and play drama-vista about break ups or misunderstandings.

The detective weighs up. She gathers facts, balances ledgers like an accountant in disguise, but instead of crediting and debiting money, she works with victims and murderers. She's a woman, not a tweenie, not a temper tantrum-throwing uber-wench.

Then there's the Kate Beckett that's involved with Rick Castle.

Shit. She mopes around the apartment, looking for a single inch of floor space that doesn't still reek of him. Is that what she is? Involved with him? She supposes so, although she's been involved with him from the moment she approached him at the book launch and asked him in for questioning. The difference this morning is purely physical. They had sex, like half the world probably did last night. Why the fuck should that make such a big difference?

She sighs like the bitch-diva she obviously is, spending a heady moment deciding whether to fizzle down into the couch cushions or to take a boiling hot shower. Kate looks around her living space. His flamboyance was everywhere when he was here, nude, but it's dappled away to simple reminders of Rick. His sweetness exudes from the kitchen as she remembers his attempt to soft-shoe so as not to wake the non-present Lanie. His scent bathes the hallway, the areas between the bedroom and her bathroom. His sexuality is not visible, but she finds herself restless and raunchy just thinking about him, and her mind invariably turns to the consummation of three years of play.

And that's the difference! They've scratched the itch, but Kate's body has erupted into a massive Castle rash. It's so irritating and distracting, she cannot think of any way to scrub it from her body.

A hot shower? A scalding stream of stinging water, hitting her skin in all the right spots, exfoliating Richard Castle from each and every pore of her body?

Yeah, right!

She's a fool. There's no way she'll be able to wash this man right outta her hair. Perhaps she needs to cut the entire crop off, shave her head, sit in an acid bath? Even that won't expunge the feeling of his skin against hers or dull the rampant remnants of heat. That she could let this happen — succumb to a night of the single-most phenomenal sex she's ever experienced — all to have a text interrupt extended pleasure, is what's pissing Kate off the most.

She thinks.

She hates him. She thinks, or are her feelings somewhere between extreme dislike and jealousy? Or, is she most upset with herself? For losing it, for shedding her Castle virginity, for becoming another notch on his beanpole?

If she had a chance, she thinks, wondering whether she should drink water or down a beer with a chaser of Jack, she would definitely leave a notch on that beanpole. Just to remind him that sleeping with Kate Beckett is more than a one-night show, especially if there's another starlet waiting in the wings.

Evidence says that there is. Another starlet. The text from the unknown number, the look of 'oh, holy shit' on his face when she'd pointed out that it wasn't Ryan's ID, the haste with which he inserted the excuse about Jenny.

Criminal history says that there is someone else too. His former wives, his one-nighters, the parade of woman who want to get between his covers with as much ease as they do his hardbacks. His gaggle of ex-wives — okay, only two, but really goose-like — and the actresses that want a piece of his script.

But, by God, he's got more than a script's worth down there!

Her eye hurts just thinking about him physically. Kate imagines what it would be like to cop an eyeful when she's got both orbs operational, but now he's a liar, a scoundrel and she cannot stand him, that's unlikely.

Yet her gut instinct wars with the evidence and her consideration of his criminal history. As she fluffs about, wandering between the comfortable couch option and the blister of the shower, Kate thinks it might be okay to sit in the corner and wail. Or go back to bed, pull her duvet over her head and weep. It's not like her, sure, but either is living in this state of limbo. She doesn't even feel like constructing a 'Castle as Bastard board', where she could plot all of the facts she has in her head about this criminal. That's what he is! He has murdered her ability to see straight (or see out of two eyes) and robbed her of her perspective.

Kate chooses the slow-cooker of a shower, and damn it! All she does is think of him and how he'd feel under the water, how the slickness of soap would schloop along his … yeah, well this element of the shower is pointless! Instead of washing Castle thoughts away, it just cleans areas of her body that are already missing his touch, and makes her skin throb with the knowledge of what she's denying herself.

It's better not to know what he's like. What he's like at it. Now, she cannot turn her mind off the fact that Castle is King of tactile loving, Jack of technique and Rook of finding any nook that's available to explore. She turns off the water instead and prepares to scream into a pillow.

But it smells of Rickness.

She selects the couch. He didn't sit on it during this latest visit, but the fabric creams like him anyway. For God's sake! Even the coffee pot has his fingerprints, the wine glass owns the outline of his mouth, even her bed coverings scream 'Take me, oh, Castle. Oh God, take me now,' and Kate realizes that all of the fixtures in her apartment want him as much as she does.

Fucking traitorous pieces of crap lying around her place. Oh, and she may well be having a post-sexual breakdown.

It's not like her to sit around and wallow. She might recline on her couch, stare into space for a while, and if it has hurt badly enough, she might shed a gentle tear or two. Different to crying. Way different to wasting time inspecting her navel ring, the lines on her palm, the non-notches on her bedpost and his beanpole.

The next time she finds herself thinking about what she usually does, Kate is alerted by her cellphone pipping at her from somewhere. She hasn't been asleep. She's sure of it. It's as though time has passed in the blink of an eye, and the patch that covers her other has clouded her judgement and awareness of the day.

She never does this! Vague the day away, but when she reaches for her cell and checks the time, Kate realizes that she does do this now. She is that type of girl. Damn the type of man she's attracted to, take him lock down with a callous murderer, because it's not even his caller ID!

Where the hell is he and why isn't he calling her to talk about 'it?' Okay, so her instinct tells her that the text was a joke, but the cold, hard evidence points to Castle erecting his drawbridge in a different, kinda slutty moat.

'De-tective Beckett? Dayum, but what have you been doing to Castle, girl? He's … he's … um, he's a mess. Worse'n your eye after Poke Day, and I don't have a patch to help him.'

Lanie's voice is like a wake-up call in her ear, but she's still certain she hasn't been sleeping. And where the hell is Castle's phone call? Isn't this the point in the piece of popular fiction where the sexy, forlorn guy rings the heart-achy, hot girl and they say things like:

'You're beautiful. I'm sorry.' Him, naturally.

'I know. I am quite beautiful. And it's okay.'

'You know it's my fault, right? I'm Richard Cad Castle, I only love you, but sometimes I lie.'

'I will only forgive you if you never lie again, buy me the world, massage my feet, never look at another woman and swear unto me. Then it's all okay. It is okay.'

'Is it really? Is it really okay? I was so wrong. Will you forgive me?'

'I will. I will if you come over and do me. Twill make everything alright if you just come over and … just come over. Just … just … come … me too. With the coming. Now.'

In fiction, the man errs, but he's still so desirable and so ruggedly hard for his woman. She is always desirable and placated by his drunken tears over the phone. She forgives, because she's feminine and wonderful and sensual. Oh, and she wants sex. She wants it more than her next breath of fresh air, but only with him.

If she could take solace with a replacement, Kate might consider doing so just to get the urge out of her system. But when the need, the solution, is all Castle, only the original will do. Even if he's a cad? Yeah. Especially if he's a repentant one.

'Kate?' says Lanie, her voice ricocheting through the phone and zinging Beckett from her romanticizing. 'He's at the bar. He's saying stuff. Unfortunately, sweetie, there's been a huuuuuuge misunderstanding.'

Kate thinks about making herself a coffee while she's on the phone to Dr Parish. Everything about the hot, rich beverage spanks of Castle flavour, so in order to nullify that yearning, she finds a bottle of scotch in the cupboard above her sink. She rarely drinks the stuff, but sometimes in a cop's life, the golden elixir of alcoholic heat is the only thing that hits the spot when there's been murder, mishap, a maniac on the loose.

Or, if it involves sleeping with Richard Castle. And wanting him more than she ever thought possible.

'Right. A huge misunderstanding? He's ready to apologize then?' She tries a false bravado that she doesn't really own. If Lanie was in her apartment, she would have looked at her closely and laughed in her face. But she's not, so Kate can be self-righteous and unsure. 'It's about time.'

Kate hears Lanie's choking in what seems like disbelief. That'd be right. Castle has probably gone into The Old Haunt, bought the entire place three rounds of drinks, and woven a story of woe to anyone who'll listen. He's such a phenomenal spinner of fiction, he'd have everyone believing that he'd met a woman who sparked his jaded muse, offered her the world, only to have her cheat on him and break his open, soft-centred heart.

She would slap him in the chest if she could. To compensate, she sloshes the bottle of scotch towards the short tumbler she's placed on the kitchen counter. She spills it. Pity it's not Castle's blood, although then fate would turn her vampiric and she'd wanna drink it until she's purely in it for the true blood orgasmic stakes. He's always gonna be desirable, whether she has fangs or not.

God, she dislikes this man with the passion of a thousand murder sites.

'Not quite up to apologizing yet, girl. He's vocal, for sure, but it's not about the sorries …'

Kate can hear commotion in the background. Lanie tells her she's switching to speaker phone, and she detects what's really going on. The Old Haunt seems to be awash with music and something akin to joviality — and she's here wallowing on the couch? She should be out finding herself a ripped, studded manwhore and screwing her sorrows into oblivion if Castle's having a wow of a time at his bar!

Argh! But she detests this man! She wants to slam his head into the closest bar table and handcuff him backwards. Oh, and then the imagery of him naked and wanting her rolls into her head-ached mind and stings her into more snarky overtones. 'I guess he's serenading you all, Lanie? Telling the whole bar about what we've done? His newest conquest?'

She tosses the scotch against her uvula. She wishes that didn't sound so dirty, because it conjures thoughts about Castle touching her non-uvula (which isn't anywhere near her throat and responds so much better to anything she could swallow!) And, yeah, it makes her want it more. Him more, AND WHY IS THIS MAN SO UNDER HER SKIN AND ANYWHERE NEAR HER GODDAMN UVULA?

'Well?' she snaps, telling her former friend to get her the fuck off speaker phone, in a somewhat nicer way. 'What's he doing? Jesus, is that him singing?

Lanie must do something to her phone. The background noise tunnels into ambience and her ear quickens with the sound of Lanie's words. They're harsher than normal, direct, telling her she's now on private handset. There's no time for a sarcastic comment and question from Kate. It pisses her off so much, she almost hangs up on the ME.

'He hasn't told anyone what's happened between you two, sweetie, but I have a pretty good idea.'

Kate tries the cynicism. 'Well isn't he just the perfect gentleman—'

'Even though I've tried to ask him what's wrong! All he'll say is that the joke the boys played with the text went so bad, they might as well have cut off his balls.'

'Yeah, Lanie. That'd work. If he had any ba—'

'Kate? Shuddup! Just for a minute, okay!' Lanie doesn't draw breath. If she had paused, Kate might have had time to sneer. 'That texting was all part of some good natured ribbing. My guy has shown me the previous texts. Jaysus, Jenny is even down here and she's got her phone back from Ryan — are you hearing this girl? Jenny's realized what's going on, and she's not even a damn detective! She feels so bad about what's happened, she's sitting by Castle, hugging him—'

'Jenny! Jenny's hugging Castle?'

Beckett doesn't realize she's said the words aloud, but it causes a storm in Lanie Parish's teacup.

'Of course she's hugging Castle! So did I, so did Kevin, for Chris'sake! He's … he's … he's …'

'Broken?'

Lanie snorts. 'He's so damn huggable, you! You have no idea.'

Downing some more scotch, Kate huffs into the phone. 'No, Lanie! That's my line! He has no idea! And what's with the hugging?' How dare they get hugs when she's got nothin'!

'Castle's a keeper. Come down here and keep him—'

'He told me I was overwrought, Lanie. He said I was being irrational!'

Lanie sounds like she's choking on a drink. 'Imagine that? You irrational about Richard Castle? Now that I gotta see'.

'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Doctor.'

'Oh honey?' says Lanie, appearing distracted by something else. 'I was trying to be genuine. Hey, though, about that guy Castle? You've gotta admit, girl. It's the silence about what's gone on, the sad-eyes when he spoke about the text, and the singing? So fine.'

Lanie breaks for breath. A millisecond. 'And, Kate? All he said about what happened between you? He was sooooo discreet. He just lowered his gaze, grimaced into his drink and whispered 'It was one of the most important moments of my life. She is the most important moment of my life, and a gentleman never, ever tells …'

'Lanie? You've gotta be kidding me? He's a writer. Of fiction—'

'Girl! You're crazy as Perlmutter's mind, and you know it! If it's evidence that you want, Jenny's down here holding her own phone and my boy is interrogating Detective Ryan about why they used Jenny's phone in the first place …'

Lanie breaks off and Kate can hear an increase in the crescendo of the music in the background. 'Gotta go, Beckett, but get your stubborn, 'fraidy ass down here, and soon. I'm fanning myself all over again coz your Castle is starting to sing 'Nothing Compares 2 U'. Wow-wee, the man is sexy when he's a little bit—'

'He's singing? Again?'

'He's got Guitar Hero out and this other karaoke gadget. You should have heard him and Jenny singing 'Don't Go Breakin' My Heart' and a group rendition of 'Piano Man'! It was fabulous. Although as the night's wearing on and he's had one more than he probably should? Your man is a-singin' the blues and he's mighty alluring, gal. Mighty damn fine.'

'He's singing with Jenny? Wha? Lanie! He's singing the blues? Lanie, get back on the phone, for the love of—'

She's gone, as are the remnants of the day. When Kate looks out of her apartment window and considers what she's heard — and what her gut instinct has told her is true — she sees she's spent hours in a state of nothingness. She's so sure she hadn't been sleeping, but how is it that so much time has elapsed, yet so little has been done? Except think of him. Fantasize about him, hate him, expect him to call and apologize, anticipate him dating the texter, getting married for a third time and having a dozen sexy, wonderful experiences …

Get your stubborn, 'fraidy ass down here.

Lanie had been right on both accounts, stubborn and afraid. Her friend had been remiss about mentioning the final fault in the trilogy of Beckett blunders when it came to her and Rick Castle in the last 24 hours. She'd been wrong. Oh, and she'd been mistrustful, perhaps a little irrational, bitchy, agitated. But overwrought?

Nah. She's not owning that.

That can wait till their next fight.

As a throwback to Ryan and Jenny's party the week before last, Beckett wears a tight, fairly demur red top and jeans into The Old Haunt. She cabs it. By her estimation, she's only had a couple of scoffs of scotch, but the heady knowledge that she's going to his bar to see him is adding to her nervous distraction. She doubts she could drive as skillfully as usual. She's navigating new territory with this rehearsed apology and declaration as it is, so it's easier to steer with conviction if she's being driven towards the destination.

It's harder to pull back, turn around and go home.

Her stalk into The Old Haunt is equally as rehearsed. She's perfected the cop-walk long ago, but for this evening, she adds the Beckett swagger, the use of heels to create the illusion of extreme confidence, superior height, total control. What she doesn't realize yet is that the tallness of her shoes will mean little to a scene if she's asked to jump in with both feet.

The crowd is thin. It's not 9 o'clock on a Saturday, it's a weeknight and the booths are patchy, with a regular crowd about to shuffle out. Kate immediately hears the strains of Castle singing and her gaze is drawn to a small gathering of fans that are sitting near him, smiling, clapping, Castle-worshipping in general.

Naturally, he's in the middle of singing Elton John's 'The Bitch is Back'. Kate leans against the bar closest to the karaoke, but due to the layout of The Old Haunt, she's offered a little privacy while still being able to check out the scene. If she expected him to be through singing by now, that she would have found him alone, head against the counter and nursing his nth drink, she's wrong for the second time in a day. Although Lanie warned her, Kate had anticipated Castle would be tired of entertaining his small audience with a tuneful serenade:

I'm a bitch, I'm a bitch

Oh the bitch is back

Stone cold sober as a matter of fact

I can bitch, I can bitch

`Cause I'm better than you ...

Apparently not. And there's nothing about the Elton John song that could be considered bluesy.

By the time the song is finished, Castle is already fumbling through the list for his next number. Ryan, Esposito, their girls and a couple of staff members are encouraging him, but Kate can see from her vantage point that he is not getting up in a hurry. He's sitting on a barstool, struggling to keep his balance as he reaches over to touch the screen of the karaoke.

'Thinkthisone'll do it,' he slurs, clapping Esposito on the back as her colleague grabs the other microphone, preparing to duet with the now serious-faced 'bitch is back' Castle.

'Aw, c'mon man!' says Javier, rolling his eyes in the direction of Lanie. 'Not this song. It's too … it's way too depressing and—'

'It's aboot lurve, Javi,' coughs Castle into his microphone, alternating between sad-clown expression and that of perennial entertainer. 'It's about being in lurve, the heart, the sorrow, the … the love …. oh ...

Kate doesn't know whether to rush the stage, tackle the microphone from his hand and make a public apology, or simply appear by his side and ask to talk to him. About being sorry and wrong. This is such alien territory for her, she might as well be from the planet between Uranus and Dorketta, unable to mix it up or communicate with heart-sore humans.

'No one wants to hear this one, bro.' Esposito tries to touch the screen and select Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive', but Castle is too powerful of voice and convinced that this is the song for the moment. He opens with a gorgeously-weighted:

I was all right for a while, I could smile for a while

But I saw you last night you held my hand so tight

As you stopped to say hello

Oh, you wished me well, you couldn't tell

That I've been crying over you, crying over you …

To which Esposito sighs, wafts his microphone below his mouth and bleats, 'I knew I'd have the KD Lang part!'

The solemn, averagely sung (by Esposito, at least) version of 'Crying'' lasts all of one verse and a chorus before Beckett can't help herself. Her hip pushes against the bar and she moves forward.

She manifests. Although she wanted to find him under the radar, her appearance at The Old Haunt is similar to the coverage of the wedding between Wills and Kate. Everyone looks, everyone judges, everyone considers her butt and votes it sexiest by far ...

'… 'I was crying, crying, cry … i … ing …. Oh, HEY …'

Castle spots her the instant Lanie does. Kate watches her friend motion to Esposito to cut his attempts at warbling, but Javier thinks Lanie is making hand movements indicating a quick shag behind the karaoke machine. He drops his microphone, jumps out of his seat and says 'seeya later, bro' to his singing partner.

Lanie stays put. So does Castle, but he's more vocal.

'Oh, ho, ho! Lookit here! Whatdowe have here? Ba-ba-barooooom! It's not Wonder Woman, guise. It's not the Bat-bat-bat Gal. It's betterer than that … way, way betterer ...'

'Betterers not a word,' she whispers, gently.

Kate keeps balance, steps forward into the fray and nods a head in the direction of Lanie, Ryan and the staff. She wonders if it'd be too much to clamp her hand over Castle's mouth, but he suddenly stands with his mic, towering over her due to the small platform stage he's been sitting on.

Kate wishes she'd worn her highest, booster heels.

'It's the … the … spectacular, the sexah, ohhhhhhh, the so dang fine thing … guys? Lookit who tis. Tits NOT Nikki Heat. Tit's Beckett. The Migggggghty Finnnneeee Ball-Breaker Beckett … that's who tits. Tits her!'

His voice booms. It's the usual resonance and intonation, multiplied by two hundred percent volume. Kate wouldn't be surprised if her aunt could hear it. In Hawaii!

'Hey, Castle,' she starts quietly, frowning a one-eyed look in Lanie's direction. The small group are still milling around, obviously entertained by Castle on Show and Beckett on Trial. Kate can tell by their collective grins, but she dismisses them for now. 'I wonder if we could have a word? Please, Rick?'

She's speaking to his belly button, so in an attempt to get onto the platform and take the mic out of his hand, she pivots on her back heel and pushes upward. She's accidentally blocked by Ryan, who moves one way, then the next, to try and avoid a collision with his colleague. In the end, they bump into one another and Ryan laughs.

Kate doesn't. 'Ryan? Get outta my way. I wanna go talk to your girlfriend up there, see what's up with him, and you're not helping.' She hisses the last bit. Makes Ryan even more giggly.

'Beckett? I don't think Castle wants to talk to you.'

'OH, but I doooooo. I totally doooooo. You comin' up to singalong, Kate? Coming to sing wif Ricky? We could due-ah togeths. We'd rock a song 'bout lyin' and cheatin'. What say ya, Katieeeee? A due-ah? Or, as it's sometimes known, a duet'

Beckett breathes. She tells herself to butch up and face the music — with singable puns — rather than flee the scene, grab a cab, crawl into her apartment and wash her own hair. She's trying. So damn much. She's trying …

And then Ryan smirks! So does Esposito. It coincides with Castle saying something — into that fucking loud microphone — about 'Kate Beckett being so beautiful, it hurts so much to look at her that it makes him want to poke his own eye out. With a pool cue. Just to be like her. Coz she's so beautiful, but she's hard work, sometimes ...'

Ryan laughs. Stupid, stupid man, Kevin.

Kate sees red. Both eyes, but she turns her good one on Ryan. 'Shouldn't you be checking the facts about Bonnie Tyler in the Crackersaurus case? What about financials? Have you guys done that with—'

'We've checked them. Of course, Beckett, we've done it! Months ago,' smirks Ryan, exchanging a glance of sympathy with a now-dancing Castle. What the hell?

'Well check it again! And if you want to get to your wedding in two days time, check it AGAIN. And while you're at it, I want a full report on the immorality of sending texts from other people's phones without authorization and—'

Esposito and Ryan's laughter interrupts her mini rant. It makes Beckett so angry, she nearly imports a murder board into The Old Haunt, lines everyone up against it, and shoots 'em all down with a large-orifice-making rifle. It's only when Lanie says 'we're going, gal, but you remember your ophthalmologist appointment tomorrow, okay?' and Ryan taunts 'you were so wrong about Castle getting a text from another hottie. It was me all along … how bad do you feel?' that Kate remembers what she needs to say to Castle.

She wants to tell him.

'Can you get everyone outta here, Esposito? I want the place shut down in five.'

Esposito looks like he's going to poke some more fun until Lanie pokes him. With Ryan out the way, Kate steps on to the platform and makes to move around the karaoke machine to talk to the still-dancing and singing Castle. She feels Lanie's hand rest on her arm before she can move.

'We all have to admit we're wrong sometime, babe. He's not gonna hold it against you. He just wants ta hold himself against you.'

Kate grins. It's wry. 'Okay. I suppose you think you know that for sure?'

'Just look at him, will ya?'

She does, and as she takes her time to consider the man she's about to apologize to, he flicks her a look and a jauntily sung Eurythmics lyric, 'Would I lie to you? Would I lie to you, honey…?'

The joint is clear in ten minutes flat.

Without her asking, Castle drops onto his barstool as the light go out over The Old Haunt and they're pitched into semi-darkness. It makes it easier, somehow, for her to say what she needs to say, even though the temptation to stand over him, to lecture him as a detective — a woman — is there. She doesn't. She reminds herself she's in the wrong.

'So? Beckett?'

He's not as amused without an audience of friends. Neither is he that happy to see her anymore. Maybe the drinks are wearing off? Perhaps she needs to raid the bar?

'More talk of lies, Kate? More mistrust?'

She has a thousand things to say. About her issues — commitment, abandonment, fears of opening up to him, anxieties about him knowing her too well, phobias about being hurt, second guessing his every intention—

'Well, Kate? I'm not gonna makeit easee for ya. I'm tired. Gotta backache and really wanna go ho—'

'Wait. Rick, just … wait. Please, I …'

She trails off, using her personality 'get out of jail free' card by looking away. Finding something to focus on instead of him. Until his gaze draws her back into the fold. She searches for the rehearsed words, but they stick in her throat like a munched-up rum truffle.

'So we jus' gonna sit here? Or you, stand? And lookit each other like we haven't had sex, or spent a nigh' doing somethin' speshul. 'Cause it is … Beckett … yanno? It's special … and I don't jus' do it with any—'

She kisses him. She kneels against the low table that holds the karaoke machine, finds the back of his head and presses her lips into his. It's meant to be apologetic, a tangible link to what she needs to say, a seal of sorry and sadness, but Castle doesn't hold back. Beckett wonders why she even thought he would. He doesn't. It's her. But not this time.

She kisses him. Again and again, as they rediscover the rhythm of their mouths, blanketing their minds to the last few hours, silencing the things they need to say to each other. It becomes a blatant suggestion of what's next, how much she wants him, any way he wants her. Castle pulls her against him. She finds his lap and sits side-saddle, kissing his neck, tracing his eye lobes with her fingers, letting him adjust her hips so she's firmly against him. Sideways, for a moment, then into a straddle.

'I'm sorry. For not trusting you, for being … you know? Irrational?'

'Overwrought,' he says, still pretending he's mad. 'I think you forgot that one.'

Kate grits her teeth. Why did she think this would be easy. 'I am sorry, and if I seemed overwrought—'

'Not seemed. You were ... and all the other stuff.' He kisses her and flips at the hem of her shirt with hot fingers.

'Okay,' she gets out between groans. 'I'm sorry. For being all those things. Castle?' She holds his head between two hands, wresting his mouth away from hers in order to get his full visual attention. 'I am. Very. Sorry. It's me. I have closeness things ... issues.'

'It's okay. I get it.'

In another case of crying mortification, Kate finds that her good eye is leaking tears and her patched one is damp beneath the obsolete dressing. It'll be off tomorrow, and it's itchy and needs tending. Kate smudges her hand against the flow of tears on her face and pulls the patch off her other eye.

'Hey? I forgive ya. No need to reopen old wounds.'

'It had to come off,' Kate says, smiling for the first time since those heady moments in her apartment. 'It feels good. I can see a lot clearer.'

'It looks spectacular.'

But she doesn't leave it open for long. As soon as he uses his mouth on her, both eyelids flicker closed. Castle kisses her cheekbones, the side of her mouth, capturing her lips in a candidly explicit exchange of his acceptance of her apology and his intent to take it further. When he asks her to come home with him, to visit the loft, some privacy and comfort, she asks him if that's what he wants.

'We can have hot, dirty make-up sex here. I know the owner. They say he's kinky.'

'Kinky, but really handsome, I've heard.' Castle leers, his own seated enthusiasm apparent beneath her straddle. 'Yes to the make-up sex, but it's not far to my place. If you drive, I promise to not touch you below the waist for the first mile and a half.'

Kate laughs against his lips, wondering if they have the chance for a quickie on the pool table. 'Oh, but I came in a cab.'

'Seems you will be doing the same on the return trip, then?'

'I, um, ... oh ...'

'But I gotta tell you, Kate? I do want my make-up sex rough. Then I want it slow. Then I'll have it over coffee—'

'Don't push your luck, Castle,' she says, tugging at his collar, reaching beneath his belt and untucking the hem of shirt as he kisses her neck, her mouth, her nose.

'Let's go home, but you've gotta promise not to jump me in the cab,' he sighs into her hair.

Kate stands up, takes his hand and pulls his staggering form against her. He's familiar. He's doable and she wants him every which way till Sunday. Beyond Sunday.

'I promise not to touch you above the waist for the first mile and a half.'