They opt to forgo a tour in favor of dinner. It's the opposite of sight-seeing with most of the lights off beyond the entryway. Neither of them makes a move to change that. Castle takes her hand and leads the way straight through the two-story foyer, bypassing mirrored sets of stairs leading up. They slip through the deep shadows of a wide east hallway and into a combined kitchen and dining room. Her entire apartment could probably fit inside the joined area. A small lamp over the stove casts a limited pool of yellowed light. A darkened living room is separated to their right by a partial interior wall with a large arched opening. By the movement of the air she doesn't need to see it to know its similarly wide open.

Rick turns on the appliance below the sole source of light and sets the temperature to bring the shrimp inside back to sizzling. The lobster stew is on low heat in a slow-cooker on the counter. When he takes the cover off to check it, the resulting spill of its aroma makes her stomach growl.

"Whoa. Down girl."

"Dinner before dessert," Beckett returns with a playful nudge of her shoulder. Whoops. Out loud that time, Katie.

Castle laughs briefly even while surprise etches itself into his rugged features. "Well then. That's something to look forward to, hrm?" She mantles, plants her face into her palm. "Wait here. I'll grab us a bottle to go with this. Sauvignon blanc, or pinot noir?"

"Surprise me." Because there hasn't already been enough of that happening for one day.

Castle exits into the gloomy hall. A door opens somewhere beyond and the thump of his weight on a set of stairs is barely audible. While he's doing that, Beckett shakes off her fumble and explores the immediate area. She turns up a pair of elegant, round-bodied wineglasses with stems as slim as those of a rose. She also claims a wooden stirring spoon. Her host reappears even as she's sampling the stew. The creamy broth is light, but rich. Garlic, onion, a note of paprika, black pepper. It's nothing unfamiliar, but the portions used suit her palate sublimely. The sample hits her stomach like a balm on a wound, but only makes it growl more determinedly.

"That was probably the house settling."

Castle shakes his head. "No, that was what you get for turning your nose up at Doritos."

Can't argue, must consume. While doing so, she watches him sink a cork screw and bring it out of the bottle's neck with a pop. The white is set aside to breathe. He reaches for the spoon. She dodges neatly and lofts it with the rounded bottom displayed threateningly. He regards it a moment, unimpressed, and jabs at her ribs with a poking finger. The unexpected contact makes her bend at the waist around a little grunt of protest. He snatches away the utensil with a self-satisfied smirk.

New weapons in our arsenals, Kate reminds herself as she glowers at his taste-testing. She steps away to let him putter with the task of pulling down plates and bowls. The size of the room hits her all over again while the tinkling of silverware chimes upon the air. Without considering beforehand she does a neat little turn with her arms out.

When she stops she finds Castle watching. Eyebrow perched, arms crossed, he is the very picture of perplexity. "Did you just twirl?"

Nabbed. Beckett sets her hands upon either hip and levels him with the look usually reserved for his most outlandish theories. "Did I what?"

There is an immediate backward tick of his head upon his neck along with a bit of rapid blinking, as if she'd kicked sand in his face. "Um. No," he mumbles more to himself, and scratches lightly along the shell of his right ear with a short clip of exhaled mirth, "No. My mistake." Yet he meets her no-nonsense stare inquisitively with a tilt of his head. "It sure looked like—"

"Like this?" Beckett spins again, twice. There is so much open space she could fall over flat and not even hit the edge of a worry about knocking her head on something. She retains her footing, and when she stops again Castle's grinning widely at her girlishness. He provides a short and snappy golf clap. "I'm a city girl," she reminds him while approaching, "we don't get to flap often or far."

"Could've fooled me. You're a natural on your toes."

A throaty purr of a laugh escapes her. "If you like that, you should see me on my..." Kate let's it trail some, opens her mouth and widens her eyes in a fleet mockery of his expression. "Hands," she concludes with a forward bend to propel herself into a handstand. It's the first time she's done one in years. There's a silly exhilaration to the forgotten act. Chagrin too when her shirt dips warningly, slides like a limp flag down her front, and plops over her face. Smooth move, Ace. "While you're at it," the inverted woman continues ruefully, "why not check out my bra?"

The rumbled, amused reply is immediate. "Don't mind if I do."

Beckett gives him a moment, no more. "Castle." She startles at his hands spanning out over her sides. "Hmm. Now, I know you wouldn't take advan—" The words break off sharply at the feel of his breath against her abdomen. That's all the warning she gets before he traces lazily around the dimple of her navel with the tip of his tongue. You did not just... Amidst the withdrawal his nose brushes at the waistline of her slacks and a swish of his hair tickles at her.

It takes a moment to realize he's finished. And what planet she's on. It's not like her imagination hasn't previously put that dexterous pink muscle of his to work at a task beyond filling her ears with chatter. But she'd pictured its first visit happening between both their mouths in a heady kiss. Or, admittedly less likely for a first, of pulling him down by his ears into the crux of her thighs and turning it loose on her precious peach with all the Dionysian fervor of a ritual alcoholic lapping at the grape. Both wrong. How deliciously unexpected.

"You're clear behind you," Rick offers since she can't be certain for herself, which is also a helpful reminder that she is still, in fact, upside down and that her arms are starting to quiver from the strain.

With his assurance to guide her Beckett lowers to the beautiful hardwood floor. She straightens her top while also correcting her posture. Embarrassment and arousal tug-o-war for control of her features. "Ta-da," she deadpans, but her smile blossoms again as Castle chuckles and finishes the advance she began, stepping into her with a lift of his arms around her middle. Her hands perch upon his forearms.

They fit together as natural as puzzle pieces and without a tick of hesitation or awkward placement. What does that mean? Unknown. The purely physical implications couldn't be clearer: they're an exceptional match. She's known that ever since they danced. Kate watches his attention travel from her eyes to her nose, to her lips where they linger. The depths of his breathing matches hers. He wets his own satiny twins and something in her middle tightens in response. Here we go.

"Everything within me is telling me to kiss you right now." He must know the words are unnecessary, which means he said it to test them aloud upon the air. She gets it without having to be told; he's checking to see if the impulse within either or both of them wilts under the audible reality of a proposed act that's been long forbidden. Kate starts to reply, but his eyebrows dip sharply into a shallow 'v' and stall her intent. "I'm not asking for your permission." Mmph. The stern tone with which the words emerge strums those already taut cords within her.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Castle's eyes widen just slightly, which prompts a flashing smile from her. That must have been what he was waiting for, because that's when his hands slide up her back, shoulders, and lift to cradle her face. His mouth comes for her. It's neither gentle nor aggressive, but a spellbinding blend that sets her hands to sliding up his arms and curling into the fabric of the sleeves. They break apart from one another unexpectedly after several seconds and he adjusts the angle of her face to brush his lower lip over the swells of both of hers. There's something shockingly intimate about that simple, whispering stroke. Kate drinks it into her heart as much as her pleasure center, but wastes no time in merging them again and blossoming open to trace the seam of his mouth her tongue. His find hers and they caress for the first time. A flawlessly expressive moan of welcome escapes her. It's like sounding the trumpet for a cavalry charge. Her hands move to his sternum and climb up onto his chest even while one of his skates back against her neck and right ear to delve deeply into her hair. It curls within its new home amidst tinkling, silvered notes of brutality.

They detach for ragged breaths with their foreheads linked and their mouths close. A glimmering cord of saliva binds them. Kate breaks it with a flick of her tongue that swishes against his lip, light as a painter's brush. A shift of his face brings his eyes to life with both reflected light and the seeming of a bellicose gleam. It's echoed by a clench of his jaw in passion easy to mistake for a parsimonious anger. Then he's back at her, and he brings it harder this time.

Oh god, yes. No. She needs to warn him. Stop him. Doesn't she? Beforehand she'd had what seemed like a really good reason to take this slow with him. I need to know his hidden darkness before I recklessly claim this light. Shit. Yes. That's it exactly, but what a monstrous time to recall good intentions.

The only thing that comes to mind to say to him at that moment is: You better quit it, buster, or I'm gonna fuck your brains out. It's hardly the most dissuasive of threats. The detective pushes at him instead, putting the words into the turn of her face to one side and the thrust of her hands against the steely shelves of his chest. The gasped wash of his breath against her neck makes her wince sharply in a sudden torrent of reconsideration.

Rick answers her hesitance with the opening of his hand in her hair and a grazing scrape of his nails against her scalp that threatens to take her legs out from under her. She leans in hard, off-balance, and feels his mouth at her earlobe, a sweet purse and stroke of his lips, and then the blunted edges of his teeth which latch on for a little tug she feels echo in her guts. So clear, the message: Can Kate come out and play? The overall assault makes her shoulders quiver the way they had earlier in the cold. Her clutch on his sleeves is snarled so tight she hears the fabric give under a breach of her nails.

"Stop," Beckett manages to tear out of her throat.

Castle falls as still as moonlight on the becalmed surface of a pool of water. Part of her hates him for that, the doing and the immediacy with which it occurs. His hands withdraw, but only briefly. They stroke her hair back in mirrored gestures of pure affection. His thumbs brush her cheekbones. He tests the grip on her senses with a series of lighter, gentler kisses at her right eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, and then the tip. He purses them at the right corner of her mouth. It's like the last frenetic gusts of wind in the wake of a violent storm, scattering the loose debris of her composure and whistling through the bared architecture of her ardent wish to make their first time be the right time—if there is such a thing.

"I want to," she rasps as her breathing struggles to calm.

"I felt the truth of that." Similarly winded, he moistens his lips as if gathering the taste of her and swallows thickly. "It's okay."

He thinks she's the one who needs time. But this is one of those occasions in which years of experience as a cop trumps his powerful currents of empathy and imagination. For over ten years she's watched victims or relatives struggle to come to terms with their ordeals. Whatever Castle's been through has the texture of a wound that hasn't closed. He's learned to live around it, but by concealment rather than acceptance. At least that's what she's gathered thus far. So, yes, let her see it first. Indulgence has already waited plenty. It'll keep a day or so more.

They end up eating right there at the stove, bare-foot, in clothes wrinkled from a day of work and travel. There's no unease between them; only a powerful new awareness of one another that completely displaces the concept of comfort zones. She leans with her lower back resting against the stove, and he stands with his legs in a spread that neatly brackets hers. The soft light glints at her from reflections in his eyes and lies in a subdued shine upon his hair.

Neither of them speaks a single word throughout the meal.

They work the stew down halfway, passing a spoon back and forth with lazy, lingering intertwines of their fingers. His forearms whisper against Kate's every time he reaches past her to tug a shrimp from the foil-lined baking pan behind her. She stood purposefully in the way and he didn't employ a step to either side to make it easier. As the decadently flavorful creaminess of the stew envelopes her taste buds, or the shrimp bearing scorches from the grill gives in with juicy meatiness between her teeth, the woman's eyes revel in the play of shadow and light upon him, the way it contours his face as he chews and the living motion of it at his throat with each swallow; a subtle vein thick with life lifts to the surface of his neck each time. He watches her with equal attention and seeming fascination. Sometimes their eyes meet and get caught in the connection, and her heart starts hammering, her breath begins to shorten or even halt in anticipation, but then one of them or the other reaches for their respective wineglass.

She's had complete sexual encounters that haven't left her turned on the way their standing dinner does.

Beckett fills up first and takes to simply cradling her glass in one hand against her chest. She still doesn't try to step away and her fellow diner never backs off enough to imply an invitation to. It's that much more erotic to be there knowing it is precisely where he wants her to be. It isn't often his physical presence reveals a preference, let alone demands one by hemming her in like this. She ends up two glasses of wine ahead of him from the need to busy her mouth with something.

Naturally, he provides his own solution to that at one point. He's very neat about sating himself, deliberate and precise. So, when a dribble of melted butter spills over his bottom lip and down his chin with a hum of protest, Kate's smile reveals itself amidst knowing, narrowed eyes. You're fooling no one. Rarely one to refuse a dare from him, however, she leans in slowly with her free hand at his chest for balance and slides her tongue from the proud jut of his chin up to the base of his mouth. The last flourish leaves the crest of his lower lip gleaming.

No wounded or starving animal, no wounded and starving animal, could broadcast greater intent to have at her than he does at that moment. You're loving this, she realizes with a private, somewhat exasperated huff. Did she unwittingly teach him a penchant for delayed gratification by keeping him at bay for so long, or was it always there?

Twenty minutes later, with both of them settled into a pair of Adirondack chairs on the rear deck, she can't get the memory of the coarse tickle of his five o clock shadow or the warm wet slide of his tongue against hers out of her goddamn head. Kate's never put herself into a position that demanded so much forbearance. And yet... She's never had a better time teasing around the blissfully rough edges of sex.

A glance to the side reveals Castle angled comfortably in his seat with his head reclining and both legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. One arm rests peaceably across his middle. The other hovers aloft from a planted elbow on the arm of the chair with his fingers spread out over the delicate rim of an almost empty wineglass. More layers of shadow than a visible man, she can see enough to determine his focus upon the murmur of the distant shore beyond the verdant slope of the eastern expanse of the property. He turns to her in time and remains there. Despite the length, activity, and emotional toll of their day, she senses a calm alertness about the other.

The woman lifts her glass for a final tilt that drains what little remains. The drink is less affecting than her own weariness, but they're swiftly becoming a fearsome combination. "You better show me to a room," she murmurs reluctantly, some minutes later, "before I pass out right here."

"Long day," comes the thrumming agreement from the dimness. He rises afterward with a steadying step forward into the pour of moonlight. Kate slides the tip of her tongue across the roof of her mouth as his body unfurls and tightens with a stretching of his limbs. His toes curl and pop softly against the planks beneath them. She glimpses the small of his back for a moment and scribbles an imaginary message there: Please place interlocked ankles here.

Beckett doesn't say it—her laziness does: "Lemme just...think about this whole moving thing for a moment, hmm?"

He crouches at her left side, half his face apparent with the flash of a smile. "I could think of worse ways to spend my time than watching you dither in the moonlight." She witnesses, feeling almost like a third-party observer, as his palm covers the back of her left hand and strokes along her arm to the crinkle of her bunched up sleeve.

"Do that again," she hears herself murmur. He does and her eyes close without permission. They snap open sharply when his touch alights against her left cheek. His thumb grazes with a gentleness that something far more precious or delicate might require.

"You're so beautiful, Kate," he says in a hush, but sounds almost upset, the tone strained and low.

"You too," she says, and means it, but immediately scrunches her lips at the lameness of its emergence. He chuckles some at her expression, sounding closer to normal, and exhales a deep breath while standing. "I mean," she emphasizes, "that I'd love for you to come upstairs with me. But I also know it's not right right now. Right right," she repeats and scowls. "Fuck you, brain. I wanna talk."

Again his pleasingly deep chord of humor strums to life. "Let me help you upstairs."

Beckett allows it, not needing but enjoying the welcome ballast of his arm and shoulder as they slip inside. "I'm sorry. Such a beautiful night. We should be ending it so much louder."

Castle pauses abruptly to regard her. She stares back, smiles helplessly. It takes willpower to resist the urge to spill out an inebriated giggle at his answering frown. "I know you already said you don't take this order," he rumbles at her, "but maybe you could do it just this once as a favor to me: shut up."

She laughs fully and happily most of the way up the stairs. Thank goodness he does too before the end. Her host knows better than to think it aimed at him rather than inspired by him. "Oh god, don't," she protests as her breathing normalizes. "That's too good. I gotta pee."

"I should've left you outside in the sand," he laments gruffly.

She trembles with mirth, strokes his broad back with the arm around him. "Terrible," she agrees. "I didn't even have that much to drink, did I? I'm better than this."

"Not too much," the other confirms. "Enough to push a hard day over the edge though."

"I'm sorry. God, I really am. I'm way too horny to also be this tired." The words are hardly concluded before Rick trips over his own feet and they list sharply forward. The detective yelps in surprise and down they go onto the carpeted runner that spans the length of the hallway. "Ow," she complains mildly.

"Shit," Castle hisses and she feels his hands at her back, then lightly against her sides. "Are you okay?"

"This is not how I imagined my knees getting abraded this weekend." Beckett pushes her fingers into her hair and combs it back from her face as she rises onto her knees. He's staring at her with his eyes wide enough to discern even in the gloom. "I said that out loud again, didn't I? Fuck. I'm sorry. You feel so good. And it's not even...you know, bold, but it's incredibly distracting." Both of his helpers on her still immediately, but don't abandon her. "No, god, don't leave me now. I still gotta pee."

"That's good news for my floor," her shadow confirms upon the delayed recapturing of his voice, even managing a glimmer of amusement. "Apologize again though and I'll ditch you right here." The hands at her sides tighten, sliding up beneath her arms as he lifts her onto her feet. There may not be an abundance of meat of her bones, but she is not a small woman. The seeming ease with which he handles her refutes that notion. Rick studies her critically a moment before leaving her there under her own power to step away.

"Oh," she says, blinking in the dimness of the upstairs. Muted light coming in through the windows and still feebler swaths from each open bedroom doorway relieves the darkness some. "Oh, weird, that awkward little grand jeté actually helped. Which room am I using? And why is it so dark? Ack!" she flinches away from the sudden bloom of golden radiance from the room at her left.

"Let there be light," he decrees.

"Let there be warning next time. Sheesh."

"The bathroom is this way."

That gets her moving, though the sight of the queen-sized bed with baby blue sheets and a purple comforter already turned down in invitation is sorely tempting. Squinting, she spies the bathroom doorway and follows after with only minor listing. Atta girl. Her hands clamp onto the jamb at either side as she pauses a moment. "Wow. It's big."

Castle turns from rooting around in the drawers beneath the double sink. "Oh?" He's holding a pump-bottle of hand-soap, which is deposited onto the counter. "I put the things from your little red bag in these top two drawers." She's not sure now when he managed to sneak off and unpack her belongings.

"Thanks."

He nod and faces her after, expectant.

"You gonna stay and watch? I don't think I have it in me to argue, but that's a whole new level of personal."

"Get in here," he growls at her, "and then I can go out there."

"Oh. Yeah." Beckett huffs out of a breath of humor and abandons the door frame. She settles in to relieve herself after he's left. "Jeez. It smells good in here. Not cloyingly clean. Light and fresh clean. And it's big."

That familiar baritone is audible from the other side of the door. "You mentioned big, yes."

"Well, it is though. I love my place, but the bathroom is its biggest flaw. Biggest flaw? That's backwards...eh, screw it. The point is: I don't even call it a bathroom. It's not worthy of the designation. It's 'the shitter'."

Castle unfurls a short, deep peal of laughter. "Oh heavens," he issues on a sigh. "You're my new favorite drinking buddy."

Beckett considers the offer and nods to herself. "Thanks." She finishes up and washes her hands. The water pressure is surprising. She groans with further pleasure to it warm up so quickly. "Ah god. I love this place. It makes me wanna get back to work in a contrasting kinda way, you know? Try to earn something like this for myself. Well, not like this, but something special anyway. Something nice."

"In a just world, you and any other public servants like you would be first in line for them."

Beckett watches as his words penetrate her buzz and settle in her expression in the mirror as a small smile. With a bend and a swipe Kate straightens to regard her sinfully damp undergarments with a sigh. She drops them into the room's hamper along with her pants. "Right now I'd settle for having thought to bring fresh panties and a shirt in with me."

"I'll grab you something."

"Nice. Wait. You're gonna go pawing through my unmentionables?"

"What's that, universe?" she hears as he wanders away from the door. "You wish to reward my patience tonight? I accept."

She's just finishing with getting cleaned up when the door cracks open. His large right hand intrudes and waggles a handful of garments like a sorely reluctant matador. She strips off her shirt and bra to add to the hamper.

"Here."

"I'm going," she rebukes. Then huffs a breath of a laugh, unaccountably amused. "I'm very nude."

"Thanks for that," Castle replies in a deceptively conversational tone.

Beckett laughs again quietly and accepts the offered clothes. Pink underwear and a red t-shirt. "Never qualified as a prude, but I'm definitely feeling the lack right now with you standing two feet away." She dons the former while bracing her butt against the door for support. The t-shirt isn't one of her longer ones for sleeping in. Drat. She didn't even pack any. It's too short to cover anything past her waistline. She tilts her head some. "Hello?"

"I'm still with you."

"Mmmhmm. That's, uh...tricky for me. I don't think it'd be a good idea to see you seeing me."

"Huh?"

"Like this. Right now."

"I'm not following."

"Rick, for such a smart man you're being awfully thick." The mental image her own words conjure elicits her forehead thunking lightly against the door. "Stop that," she berates herself in a whisper. A palm rises to lay upon the barrier between them. "I'll be fine from here," she says to him. "Maybe...not...if you're still there when I come out."

"Oh."

She nods against the pleasingly cool surface of the door.

"Oh," he says again, and groans low in his throat. "Damn you, lady. I'm going. Goodnight."

Beckett sighs, already aching from the lack of him. "Goodnight, babe."

"B-babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh, nothing." He hums with quiet mirth, sighs. "Goodnight."


A/N: Bah. Between this chapter and possibly the next there's evidently a bit more settling in to do before getting to the actual meat of the story. Not that I mind exactly, but I wasn't planning for these two to get so sidetracked. I might edit this chapter right back out of here later on, but for now...