Disclaimer: This morning, I was filling out more student loan documents than I can count. 'Ownership' is a bit of a touchy subject at the moment. Anyway, I do not own these characters.

A/N: Hey, look, I'm back! Hopefully, this fic will repair any terrible inconsistencies I've had in the past. Though I normally write very long chapters and update next to never, I'm going to write this one in shorter chapters posted once a week on Mondays. Of course, all of that could be subjected to change, but I don't plan on updating less frequently than once a week. Whew. This is a change, but I'm hoping it will work out. As always, comments are greatly appreciated.

It's not a date, he repeated to himself as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Though he and Kate had planned a ten-hour lineup of films to watch, it wasn't a date. He brought the brush shakily into his mouth and scrubbed. In the back of his mind, a nagging voice reminded him that she was close to ready, as she'd told him after they'd broken their previous case; she had gone through therapy, had worked to heal, and soon, she would be ready to face her mother's case - and everything that the case had taken from her - with a stronger, more neutral mind. However, this wasn't a date, and he wasn't trying to make sure that his breath smelled pleasant before this not-date, and what exactly was he supposed to wear? As he spit and went to wash his mouth out, he checked his watch; ten in the evening had just passed, and she'd said that she would be there around ten-fifteen, so in theory, he could wear pajamas, but should he wear pajamas? No, that would be disrespectful, he decided even though the prospect of putting on jeans seemed to be all too much.

Rubbing his forehead as he left the bathroom, he let out a deep breath; for a not-date, he felt as though this required more effort than it absolutely needed to. In theory, they were two friends getting together and having a movie marathon. Friends did that together all the time. However, Beckett wasn't exactly a friend, simultaneously more and less than one, and at that point, he couldn't be bothered with labels. Going into his dresser in his bedroom, he took out a pair of worn-in jeans, switched from his dress pants to the new pants. Shedding his shirt, he went to put on...oh, goodness, he didn't know what to put on. Was a graphic tee too informal, a button-down too formal, a flannel just right? Almost gawking, he hadn't a clue as to what would be proper for this not-date. Normally, he would ask someone else going to an event what they were going to wear if he needed help deciding, but he couldn't simply text Beckett and ask her if she'd put a calculated effort into her appearance for the night. Maybe he was going to all of this trouble just to have her show up in sweats, a tee, and no bra. No bra. Oh, goodness. He didn't need those kinds of thoughts right then, not before this not-date and surely not while he stood looking into his closet and staring at his shirts as he held a flummoxed gaze.

Scoffing himself, he went for a graphic tee anyway, one for some science fiction television show that had been canceled too soon. Lastly, he put on extra deodorant, and as he placed the deodorant back in its normal spot, he began a staring contest with something that he couldn't quite muster the courage to use. Suddenly, he felt as though he were in a western shootout, where two opponents stared each other down as a tumbleweed moved across the red dust in the distance and a waow waow waow tune played. They both held up their guns, tipped their leather-brimmed cowboy hats to each other, shook the spurs on their boots, spit from behind the red bandanas that covered their mouths. As they both took their stance, they squared up to each other and prepared to shoot.

However, there was no face-off going on, and this wasn't a Western movie, so instead of staring down a human opponent, he was staring down a bottle of cologne. As he came out of the imagining, he heard the doorbell ring, and cursing in his mind, he checked his hair in the mirror, blew against his hand in order to make sure his breath was fresh. Then, he abandoned all better judgement and spritzed a modest amount of cologne into the air and walked through the cloud of it. He walked out of his bedroom, closed the door, and checked the living room before he opened the front door. That afternoon, he'd hung up the shower-curtain screen, and the projector was ready with the five DVDs sitting alongside it. He'd left the lights dimmed but nonetheless on, and on the couch, a multitude of moderately-spaced pillows lay. In a bowl on the kitchen counter was homemade caramel popcorn that he'd made the night beforehand thinking that he would be alone. Though it wasn't enough to comfortably share, he was glad that he could at least somewhat entertain her. He'd figured that she might want wine, so the glasses were already out. Overall, he'd prepared nicely for the not-date, gave himself a mental pat-on-the-back for his efforts.

Again, the doorbell rang, a little more pointedly this time, and then, he opened the door, was greeted by a soft smile on her lips. Momentarily, he paused, took her in; her hair was half-back in a clip, her makeup was gone, and she wore a slouchy heather-grey long-sleeve with a pair of jeans. As she held a leather purse on her shoulder and a bottle of wine in her arms, she glanced up toward him, their height difference much more noticeable because she wasn't wearing heels. There was something so inviting about her, an aura that made him want to kiss her cheek and sit down to eat dinner with her as they discussed their days. With the crinkle of her eyes as she smiled ever-so-lightly, he saw images of making her laugh while they sipped wine on the couch, their bodies hardly drunk but still a little tipsy. Though they were far from it, he could imagine her leaning against his shoulder as they started their second or third movie. He could imagine her falling asleep on his shoulder, and consequently, he could imagine carrying her to bed so that she would be alert in the morning.

But this wasn't a date, and she was beginning to look sheepish as he stared her down, so he shook those imaginings from his mind, motioned for her to come in.

"How was Alexis' speech?" she asked as she toed off her shoes next to his own by the door. Walking in, she went toward the kitchen counter, where the two wine glasses already sat. "I brought Pinot Noir. Want to uncork it?"

That was too many questions, and he still had the front door open as she glanced back at him, and because her back was to him, his eyes wandered down, and...oh, goodness, what had she just asked?

"Sure," Castle gave.

Closing the door, he walked over to meet her in the kitchen, where she'd set her bag down along with the wine. He went into a drawer, grabbed a corkscrew, and took to the bottle, uncorking it with a practiced ease. Because they were in for a long night, he poured them both only half a glass - there would be plenty of time if they wanted more - and went into the cupboard for some small bowls. Alongside him, she'd gone over to see the caramel corn, had smiled just a little but at the sight of it.

"Is this homemade?" she asked as he grabbed two bowls and set them on the counter.

He nodded twice.

"Alexis' recipe, my cooking," he explained. "You can't watch movies without popcorn, and there's no better popcorn than caramel corn."

He passed her a bowl, which she took with ease. When he began to fill his with food, she joined in.

"So," he asked, glancing over to her, "should we start with Hand of Death or The Killer?"

"Early or popular?" she asked, considering the statement. "Hand of Death seems as though it would be better toward the middle, but The Killer demands a fair introduction."

"Which one, then?"

She bit her lip, decidedly said, "Hand of Death."

In all honestly, he hadn't planned out an order, but he wanted to hear her choice. Even though this wasn't a date. It wasn't a date at all.

"Well, if you'd like to come over to the couch, I can start warming up the projector."

"Would you mind if I headed to the bathroom first?" she asked.

"No, not at all," he said. "The closest one is in the bedroom, straight through the office and to the back."

"Great. Thanks."

As he walked with his glass and his bowl over to the couch, she paused in the kitchen. Though he didn't look back, he wondered why she hadn't headed straight over, but he brushed the thought off as he placed his glass and bowl on the coffee-table. While she walked by and headed toward the office, he began to turn the projector on, took the DVD out of its case. As the projector heated up, he went back into the kitchen to grab her glass and bowl, but he paused as he held them both in his hands. Her purse still sat there, but now, it was open, her wallet and phone seeming to look up at him. However, he hadn't expected to see little green and yellow packages among the contents of her purse. Though he figured that he shouldn't be, he felt endeared by the fact that she was on her period while they were on what wasn't a date. He scoffed himself for being charmed by it; there was nothing charming about menstruation, nothing at all, and from his experiences in a household of women, he knew that a ten pm movie while someone was on their period was something usually done alone in the wonderful silence of one's own bedroom with a hot pack over one's stomach and an ibuprofen on the bedside table. Maybe she was comfortable enough with him to have him see her on one of those kinds of nights, when her body hurt and her mind reminisced on the previous week's comparative bliss.

Or maybe menstruation was something that a uterus, among other parts, carried out once a month, and maybe it was a normal, completely natural occurrence for which no one could control the timing. That night, she had hers, and he had absolutely no business being charmed by it, absolutely none. After he brought her glass and bowl over to the coffee-table and placed them a moderate, chaste distance from himself, she emerged from the office, greeted him with a quiet grin as she sat down on the couch and picked up her glass.

Picking up the remote, he started the film; she took a sip of her wine, brought the bowl of popcorn onto her lap, rested her feet up on the coffee-table as though this were her own home. Then, he reminded himself that he couldn't think in terms of her own home when it came to the loft, for that sparked imaginings. He could imagine her coats in his closet, a drawer of her things next to the drawers of his. Backtracking, he could imagine her staying over mostly-platonically, when they'd been on a date or two and had maybe kissed once, and she would end up alone in the guest room, and he would end up alone in his bedroom, and both of them would go to sleep smiling over whatever sappy goodnight statements they'd each made. When the time came, he could imagine them all sitting down to dinner, his immediate family, hers, and the one that they'd begun sharing many years beforehand, and having them both be together as fully-known significant others. He could imagine them fighting and then his consequently having to sleep on the couch. He could imagine the look of surprise on her face as she came out pajama-clad to the kitchen on Sunday morning only to find him making waffles, eggs, and bacon for breakfast.

But, he reminded himself, they weren't together, and the foot of distance between them fairly loudly explained that, and she didn't seem to want the evening to be anything other than friendly, not that he had hoped it would go a more romantic way. After all, it wasn't a date. Letting out a long breath, he sunk into the couch as he watched the beginning of the movie. If his mind was already so filled with her, then it was going to be a long night.

Then, she let out an almost sultry moan, said, "Oh, God, Castle. This caramel corn is amazing."

It was going to be a really long night.