December 24 - All My Words Come Back to Me

It's dark when she rouses, blinking and trying to sit up. Her movement stirs Castle, and he hums, his voice too low for her to make out.

She's on the couch in his study, her body cramped and complaining about the awkward way she's fallen asleep, but there's something pleasant about waking up with her cheek pressed against his shoulder. She checks her watch - one in the morning - and sees she's been asleep for five hours.

Castle isn't awake though. She stands up and stretches, her back popping, rubs her thumbs across her eyelids to get rid of the clumps of mascara, the dried salt, the sleep. The murder board is dark on his wall, and it will stay that way. He could turn it on manually, if he really wanted to, but she doesn't think he will.

It will stay dark. She needs time to-

It will stay dark. The murder board is for another day.

Kate has to go home, unpack, sleep; tomorrow - today - will be busy. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are the worst days for Homicide. A lot of domestic violence, a lot of people who just can't take one more nagging voice. And then the Occupy Wall Street protests have left the police force stretched pretty thin - every time a new one flares up, it's all hands on deck. She could be doing that today as well.

Which means she'll have little time for herself. Or him.

Kate turns to Castle, leans over him, a hand braced on the back of the couch, watching him sleep with his head at a funny angle - surely that hurts - where he's slumped over against the arm.

"Castle."

His lashes flutter. She doesn't think she's ever thought this about a man before, but those lashes, the slack mouth, the hair spiking from his forehead, curling a little at his nape - Castle isn't just handsome, he's endearing. Strange. She wants to kiss him and she wants to mother him, all at the same time.

For half a second, she sees the little boy he was, and she wants-

Not tonight.

"Castle," she murmurs, keeping her voice pitched low. They had a strange afternoon yesterday, the television on but neither of them really watching, hands tangled together but not close, Alexis coming in and out and finally staying, animating them with her conversation.

She was glad Alexis was there. This murder board, that conversation, it shifted something in him. And maybe, yes, it was in response to something in her, but she doesn't know what yet. She doesn't want to know; she wants to ignore it. She wants nothing to have changed, but everything was awkward, everything was trying too hard.

"Castle," she says a little louder. He startles up, then winces and claps a hand to his neck, opening his eyes.

"Kate. Hi."

Endearing. It is. He is. She sighs because she knows she's sunk - he's got her - leans in and kisses him gently, slowly, because she told herself not tonight but he found a way around that too. And she doesn't mind.

"I have to go," she says softly. "And today is going to be crazy busy-"

"I'll be there by-"

"No." She rubs her thumb over his lips, lifts her eyes back to his. "No, Castle. It's Christmas Eve. You stay here with your family."

"But you're my family too."

She bites her lip and swallows hard, still leaning over him on the couch, a knee on the cushion to keep her balance, a hand braced beside his head. His hand comes up to curl around her neck and pull her down.

She keeps the kiss light, soft, won't let him get very far because she does have to go. She has to.

Finally she answers him. "I know, Castle. But stay here. I'll come by later."

"Home," he says, his eyes still lazy with sleep. "You'll come home later."

Her breath catches, but she can't say no. "I will."

"Good," he murmurs and starts to shift like he's going to lie down on the couch.

"Hey, Castle. Don't stay out here. Go on in to bed." She stops his descent with a hand, tugs on the back of his neck to get him upright.

Castle sighs and stands, his hands coming to her waist then sliding around to hug her, to drape all over her. "You gonna tuck me in?"

She huffs out a breath and starts guiding him towards his room, pushing him ahead of her. "Just get going."

On the threshold, he tugs his sweater up and off, startling her; she waits there, uncertain where to look, and he's working on his jeans, still heading for the bed. Her heart pounds - the man really doesn't have a filter for anything in the morning - and then he's just in his boxers and crawling in under the sheets.

She blinks rapidly, presses her cool hand to her flushed forehead, but the image is there - the long length of his torso, the ripple of skin over muscle as he pulled the sweater over his head, the thick columns of his thighs.

She has to go. To her apartment. Back.

But she's going to miss him today - she can already feel it - and she could just-

tuck him in.

What would it hurt?

Kate moves to the side of the bed, sees his profile in the darkness only because of the shift of shadows. She brushes her fingers through his hair and leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He sighs, his fingers curling loosely against the sheets.

"Love you too, Kate."

She stands there, struck by it, for too long.

When the phone finally rings, and it's her, finally, finally Kate, he answers a little too earnestly. "Kate-"

"I'm just now getting off," she starts.

Castle runs his hand through his hair and paces his study. "Still. It's not too late." To come home to me. Please come home.

"No, Castle. I have stuff I need to do before tomorrow."

"Do it over here."

"I can't."

"What do you need? I'll get it for you."

"I know you would," she says gently. "And I promise, this has nothing to do with yesterday. I have to finish a project."

"What project?" he says, and he knows he sounds petulant, but he hasn't seen her all day. She made him promise to stay home, but all he wants to do is see her. This is the first time today he's even heard her voice, and choppy, distracted texts just don't cut it.

"I'm making you something," she says finally, sighing into his ear over the phone.

"You're. . .making me something?" Castle drops down into his writing chair, stunned, wiped clean of whiny childishness.

"For Christmas."

"Oh, Kate." He's struck by how beautiful that is. That she's making him something. "You don't have to do that. You've given me more than enough."

She chuckles on the other end, but it's not a joke, it's not a line. He's being serious.

"Thank you for the bell," she says quietly, completely changing the subject.

"I guess you know what it means?"

"Hm, well, I'm assuming you're referencing the movie."

"Yeah. Every time a bell rings-"

"An angel gets his wings. Yes."

"It just seemed. . ." Honestly, at the time he made the Advent calendar, it held a different meaning. The day after giving her control of the investigation into her mother's murder, he assumed she'd need reminding that her mother was still with her, that her mother wasn't the collection of evidence on a murder board.

He assumed, back then, that he would need to convince her to stop and rest. To take a break. He assumed, back then, that he would have to fight his way back into her life.

He was wrong. Thank God.

"The bell is for my mom, isn't it?" she says quietly.

He blows out a breath and glances to the dark wall of his study. She didn't need convincing; she had dropped it of her own volition. And he's not sure what that means. "Yes," he admits.

"I figured."

"Kate. I don't presume to know - okay, not true, I do presume to know. That's part of my job, presuming to know. But-"

"Castle," she interrupts him. "It's very thoughtful. Everything you've given me has been thoughtful. That's what-" She stops and sighs. "-what I love about it."

His chest warms with that word, so close to where he wants it - sentence structure-wise. If only the pronoun were different.

"Castle?"

"I'm here."

"I'll come by tomorrow, after work. We'll be slammed, like we were today, so it might be late-"

"That's okay. Any time, I don't care. Just come home." He clears his throat and winces. "Ah. To my home. I mean. Did I say home? I meant here. Come here."

"I know what you meant." She pauses for a moment, and he knows exactly what she's thinking - knows it by the silence and the way it feels - she's thinking: Hitched.

"Yeah. My mouth runs away with me. That's nothing new," he says tiredly.

She laughs lightly down the line. He smiles again.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Castle."

"Merry Christmas Eve, Kate."

She hangs up and he's entirely unsatisfied. Something shifted yesterday, something altered them, and he can't put his finger on what. If he could figure it out, then maybe he could fix it.

It's not even her; that's the thing. It's not her. And it's not him either. He still loves her, loves her more now than when he started Advent, if that's even possible.

It's whatever this is between them, the reciprocal thing. The flow of their relationship has been redirected, the channel altered, so that wherever it is they're going - he can't see it ahead of him any longer.

He doesn't know how this ends. And by the time he's this close to the last chapter of a story, he always knows the end.

Not knowing doesn't sit well with him.