Ghost on the Canvas

by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles

Silly woman. Beth is for kids.

Kate is for real.

Richard Castle luxuriates in the feel of Kate Beckett in his arms. He hasn't felt this right, this good about them since before-

well, since before he looked into her mother's case without her permission and then had to ask for her forgiveness. It's been so long.

Her words tonight have a meaning he can't quite catch, things that are just out of his reach, but he'll leave them swirling in his subconscious for now, hope that they gain cohesion. She meant something else when she pushed Beth at him, she meant something else when her voice caught on his name as he turned to walk away.

Holding her now, being able to brush his lips against the so-soft edge of her ear, nuzzle her cheek even as she draws her arms down from his neck, just knowing that Kate Beckett is abandoning herself for once, letting go, giving it up-

She seems as hungry as he is, demanding promises from his mouth which he will gladly make in words. He wraps his arm around her waist to pull her up against him, tighter, tasting the hot, soft inside of her mouth, feeling her urgent and strong fingers at his shoulders.

She has to know. How can she not know what this means to him, what she means to him? He can tell by the aggression in her body that she knows and doesn't want to know. So he won't say it out loud, he won't rock the boat. He'll be content with this. He won't make tonight any harder for her; he'll keep the status quo-

No.

No. He doesn't want to do that either. Now that he has her, a taste of her, everything in him cries out against keeping silent. She nearly died yesterday - only yesterday - and he's finished with silence, with careful. Careful has gotten him nowhere. He's told her part of the truth; he's desperate to tell her the rest. How he-

"Please, Castle," she whispers. "Please don't."

He closes his mouth, lets her brush her lips against his lips, seeking entrance again.

But he doesn't want it to just end here. He's anxious for the beginning of things, for it to get going already, for them. As a writer, he's never approved of skipping to the end of the novel and reading the last page, but as a man, as a man with Kate Beckett in his arms, he wants the last page to become clear to her.

As it's so clear to him.

Her mouth breaks apart from his, but she leans her forehead against his, her thumbs stroking the line of his jaw in apology or regret, he's not sure.

"I'm so tired," she says. He feels her boneless against him now, leaning into him. He doesn't want to move.

He's surprised when she turns her face into his neck and presses her lips there, against the flutter of his pulse. He closes his eyes, burns it into his memory, the feel of her lips, her body. It's going to have to last him.

He doesn't want to let her go, but this is Beckett, even if she did just thoroughly ravish his mouth. "Go to bed," he says finally, loosening his arms.

She sways, a hand flails to catch his arm; he steadies her, can't help the grin that slides across his face.

"It's only because I haven't slept in two days," she mutters darkly.

"Sure it is."

"Wipe the smirk off your face, Castle."

"It's off, I promise," he avows, but it's not. It's still there.

"I don't believe you," she growls, even as she moves away from him, towards the bed. He follows, because he just can't not follow her, and then watches her get in.

"Need anything?"

He hopes, fervently and without any grounding in reality, that she will say You.

She sighs. He waits for it, watches her scissor her legs under the covers as she gets comfortable. "'M good."

He wants to be here. Not anywhere else. But he shouldn't. Oh, he really shouldn't. He wavers in the quiet darkness, wanting things he shouldn't want, until he drops to his knees beside the bed just to keep himself from crawling in there with her.

She turns on her side and watches him, but says nothing.

Castle lifts his hand and strokes her cheek, knowing that everything is in his eyes and not able to help it. She's got him completely undone tonight. Only minutes ago, he was nibbling at her ear, confident and sure, and now she's got him on his knees, unable to let go.

She captures his hand, presses his fingers together with her grip, not letting him touch her, but not letting go of him either. He hovers somewhere in between.

And then it hits him, finally, what Kate was saying in the darkness of the guest bedroom. Now it's clear, the reason for the catch in her voice and the reason she couldn't look him in the eyes when she said it.

She thought he should get together with her sister.

"Kate," he whispers, half in awe, half thrilled. "You thought I was good enough for your sister?"

"Castle," she sighs, and wriggles deeper under the covers, her eyes slipping closed. She's dropped his hand.

"If I'm good enough for your sister, does that mean I'm good enough for you?"

Even in the dark, he can see her startled eyes flicker open. Her voice is raw when she speaks. "Don't make me try to answer that. Not tonight, after. . .when-"

Her ragged breath is answer enough. Victory enough. He'll take it.

"Not tonight then," he agrees, because just the sound of the longing in her voice is enough. "Not tonight but soon."

He gets to his feet reluctantly, watches her for just a moment (does he really hope she'll change her mind?), then leaves the room.

Not tonight. Not during this case. But soon. Because he's no longer content to be silent.

Kate jerks violently from sleep in a sweaty mess in the middle of the night. Her mouth is dry as a sock; it's painful to swallow. With her heart thudding loud enough to wake the dead, she wrestles back the covers and fumbles out of bed, falling to one knee and causing pain to lance through her thigh.

She's still half in a nightmare and half out.

She lowers her forehead to the floor with a slow and controlled breath, blinking in the darkness. She's afraid, but it's ridiculous. She's panicking, but it's not real. She gets to her hands and knees and stands, trying not to pull the stitches in her leg, trying to push back this irrational fear of the dark.

Even if Dunn knows exactly where to find her, he can't get to her. He can't. There's the police detail outside the building, the two locks on Castle's door, and-

That doesn't seem like enough, does it? A dream. It was a dream, surely. He's not in the living room waiting for her. She doesn't know what all the details of her dream were, only that the emotions it released are still bouncing around inside her skull, churning her guts.

She shuffles to her bedside table, opens the drawer. Her gun is there, safe in its holster. Her badge under that. A makeshift place for them, but good enough. It makes her feel a little better to know that they're there. Tomorrow maybe, she'll head back to the precinct and get her extra weapon and the ankle holster. Just in case. Even though tomorrow is Saturday and she's off the case.

Kate stumbles into the bathroom and runs the water in the sink, trying to calm down. She splashes water on her face, cups her hands under the faucet to gather enough to drink.

She needs a distraction. Otherwise, falling back asleep will just result in more nightmares. Kate turns the water off and glances into the mirror.

Not too bad, all things considering. Her eyes don't show too much of the stress, but maybe that has more to do with Castle than the four hours of sleep she's gotten. She will go back to bed eventually, but for now-

Kate slips out of the room and heads for the stairs, trying to keep quiet as she passes Alexis's door. When she gets to the living room, she pauses at the entryway, glancing towards the hall that leads to Castle's bedroom.

That's an irrational, serial killer-related fear that makes her heart pound. Not the memory of Castle's lips on hers.

She diverts her steps to the kitchen instead, purposefully putting distance between herself and that hallway. She opens the fridge and the draft of cool air over her skin starts to wake her up. Surprised by the variety of midnight snacks available (yes, midnight snack at three in the morning), Kate picks out a package of sliced cheese, a bowl of strawberries, and a container of blueberries. She dumps it all on the counter and sits at the bar.

She ends up just eating the blueberries. All of them, one after another, mindlessly, as she tries to push away the darkness of her dream. Which makes her feel bad for eating their fruit, so she puts back the strawberries, eats just a slice of cheese, and checks to see what else Castle has. It's enough for breakfast in the morning probably, if she does it right. Omelettes? He's got eggs, and cheese, and. . .and ham. Fresh ham in a tupperware dish. It must be leftovers from some family dinner.

She can make breakfast tomorrow. She's off the case, she has no apartment of her own, she can make him breakfast. Oh, and Alexis will be there, no school, right? So breakfast for the three of them. Martha's moved out, she remembers. She bites her lip.

Her palms are slick; she's suddenly nervous. Must be nightmare-related, has to be. Just more dream stuff. She's fine. It's not the idea of breakfast with Castle's family, and it's definitely not the idea of doing something so domestic, because that's just-

Crazy. It's three in the morning and she should be in bed, not in the kitchen taking inventory of Castle's fridge and making plans for the morning after.

It's not a Morning After. It's not a Morning After because there is no Night Before.

Back to bed, Kate Beckett. Right now.

Of course, when she's warm under the covers again and her eyes are closed, it's not Dunn's smirk she sees in the darkness, it's Castle's.

And his mouth she dreams about.

Castle wakes up at six. Six in the freaking morning. He cracks an eye open to peer at the clock, grunts, and rolls to his side, intent on getting a few more hours' sleep. But the moment his eyelid drifts shut, his brain is jerked into awareness, flooded with images of Beckett, how she looked and smelled and *tasted* last night, soft and melting in his arms, and he knows he's screwed.

There's no way he's going back to sleep now.

He's lucky he managed any, in fact; lucky that exhaustion overcame his excitement at all when he came into bed last night, drunk with Kate Beckett's mouth, Kate Beckett's skin, Kate Beckett's almost admission of his being right for her.

His writer's mind takes over from there, readily painting all the ways things could have gone differently after their kiss; and for the next hour he lets himself drift happily in an ocean of Kate, lets himself revel in the fact that he now has a real-life basis for his fantasies, for that KateKateKate flurry his brain so readily goes into.

By seven he can't take it anymore. He's tried to convince himself that it's a bad idea, but it seems his body won't listen to him. His body needs to see Kate Beckett asleep in his loft, in a bed that, if it isn't *his*, still belongs to him.

He stumbles out of bed in his sudden haste, winces at the cool feel of the floor under his naked feet. But he's not about to waste time putting on some stupid socks, and he's halfway through the living room when he finishes that thought anyway.

He climbs the stairs with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas Eve, but he slows down when he gets to the top, survival instinct kicking in. He hears no sounds whatsoever as he makes his silent way past Alexis's bedroom, and he's suddenly reminded that it's Saturday. His daughter likes to sleep in on weekends, or just laze in bed with her iPod.

She probably won't be up for a while. Hopefully.

His heart is thumping in his chest when he gets to the last door. Kate's door. It seems too good to be true. Which is the exact reason why he's here, at seven in the morning, clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, almost breathless with exhilaration and disbelief. Ridiculous.

He forces himself to gulp down some air before he gently, gently turns the doorknob. There's no revealing creak, no disgraceful noise that could alert the detective to his intrusion; only the soundless wonder of that door opening, letting him in.

Before long his eyes have adjusted to the surrounding darkness, and he can make out the hump in the quilt that is Kate's sleeping form, as the dark hair spilling over the pillow can attest to.

Castle's face breaks into an irresistible grin. He tiptoes closer, just because he can't help it, until he's standing at the edge of the bed, almost touching her.

What was it that Paula said, at the launch party for Heat Wave? "Go get her out of your system," or something like that. Rick is still equal parts amused and appalled by the suggestion. He already had a feeling back then that a night with Kate Beckett would never completely fulfill that craving inside him, that it would only send him on a downward spiral, made of more need, made of fascination and a desire to understand.

He supposes he has his proof now. He has kissed her, and all he wants, all he can think of, is more. More more more. More of her silky hair under his palms, more of her warm, responsive mouth under his, more of that soft skin under her ear to rub his nose against. It's a devouring, uncontrollable ache, unlike the familiar desire he's become very skilled at hiding.

He'll have to work on this.

"What do you think you're doing, Castle?" Kate's startlingly distinct voice asks, making him jump and realize he's been standing there for far longer than is appropriate.

Well, not that coming into her bedroom and staring at her sleeping form was very appropriate to begin with.

"I'm crawling into bed with you," he replies very naturally, not even sure where that answer came from.

But he might as well do as he says, so he drops on the bed without any more warning, the air wheezing out of him as his stomach and lungs collide with the quilt that still, thankfully, covers most of Beckett. Who is facing away from him. Good. The less he sees, the better he can resist.

She lets out a soft sound, however, a groan halfway between annoyance and resignation, and resistance becomes the last thing on his mind. Maybe she's not so awake as she appeared at first; maybe it was all for show. Rick finds himself delighted with the idea.

Now he wants, very badly, to get a view of her face. He starts creeping closer, but before he can get anywhere Beckett rolls over, granting him his unspoken wish. She's glaring at him even through the lingering haze of sleep – a daunting, impregnable fortress, fierce and unaffected by the mist down in the valley.

He smiles. He has only to remember her hand curled at the back of his neck and he's moving forward, propelled by something stronger than the fear of her walls. And she doesn't retreat; Kate watches him with ever-widening eyes, a little defensive, a little wary, but she doesn't move back.

Not even when he's so close that he can feel her breath fan over his nose; not even when he leans in and presses a firm kiss to the corner of her mouth. No tongue – he instinctively knows better, feels the difference between last night and this morning.

He knows how much perspective sleep can give you, how many doubts can arise from the depths of slumber. He just needs her to know that he still means those things he said. And the things he hasn't said, as well.

When he timidly risks a look at her, trying to appraise her reaction, he's amazed to find her eyelids squeezed shut. Then he feels her hand splaying over the stubble of his unshaven cheek, and he closes his eyes too. Her fingers don't move; they just stay there, at home against his skin, and he never wants them elsewhere again.

A tiny piece of the gauze he wrapped himself around her wrist yesterday grazes his chin, and the roughness of it presents his mind with more palpable evidence that this is real, that he's in bed with Kate Beckett, and she's touching him.

He lets his fingers wrap around her forearm, light and gentle, mindful of her wound, and he sighs in absolute bliss. His mind, restless since he woke up this morning, finally stops whirling and quiets down, like a dog which has been given its favorite bone and settles in a corner to gnaw at it in peace.

This is perfect.

"Hell no, Castle," Kate whispers decidedly, breaking his moment. "Go back to your own bed. You're not falling asleep here."

"Why not?" He asks, with what he hopes is a cute curl of his lower lip. He's almost ready to start sulking; he just needs one more minute bathed in Kate's glorious presence.

"Because you don't want Alexis to find you in here," she shoots back, and her hand leaves his cheek. He wants it back.

Alas, she's right. The wiser part of him can acknowledge that, and act in consequence, even though the rest of him is just dying to ask if this is the *only* objection Kate can raise against his sleeping next to her.

He hasn't even talked to his daughter about the dinner with Beth, and he feels he might have to apologize for some of the things that came out of his mouth. A lot of it, he must confess, wasn't quite right for Alexis to hear. She may have taken it all in stride, may have reacted with a calm and a confidence that stagger him just to think of it, but she deserves better from him, if only because she's his child and not only this mature, amazing young person.

"Right," he agrees reluctantly, rolling himself out of bed before he loses the courage to do so. "You're right."

"I know," Kate says quietly, breathing out a single note of laughter when he gives her a look. If she could *not* rub it in his face –

"But for once, I sort of wish I wasn't," she adds, and the way she says it... It's not teasing, per se – her eyebrow only slightly arches, and the half-smile on her face is more like – wistful. There's still the shadow of a smirk dancing in her eyes, but the rest of her expression... She *means* it. She would like for him to stay in her bed.

Oh, God. Oh, wow.

It's like a tsunami in his brain, drowning all coherent thought and leaving him utterly helpless, gaping. Kate seems to find it rather amusing: her smile widens, and she ends up biting her lip, which could mean she's holding back a laugh. Of course, it doesn't do much for him.

"To bed with you, Castle," she orders, but there it is again, that tender tone to her voice that he heard yesterday.

It only makes him want her more.

"Now," she insists, with that Detective Beckett glare now. His body is trained to respond to that, and it starts carrying him to the door without his permission.

"And you stay clear of the kitchen," she orders as he's about to walk through.

He stops, looks back at her, definitely intrigued.

"Why? What's going on in the kitchen?"

"If you want to find out," she taunts, giving him that killer, mysterious-Beckett smile. "You'll just do as I say."