Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

When the phone rings just after five on Monday morning, Kate grabs it and sits upright. It's dispatch. Immediately alert, she makes a note of the crime-scene address and says that she'll be there shortly. She'd fallen asleep without washing her face or brushing her teeth, and she feels as if there's been a mudslide inside her mouth.

"Get up, Castle," she says. He's lying on his stomach and taking up most of the bed; he doesn't budge. After three fruitless attempts to wake him, she resorts to smacking his butt.

"Ooh, feels good," he mumbles, his face pressed into the rumpled sheets. "Do that 'gain."

"Get your ass out of bed. Dispatch just called."

"Yay." He appears to have gone back to sleep, so she smacks him again and kisses him between the shoulder blades. That seems to have worked, since he's opened his eyes. She ruffles his hair and walks into the bathroom.

It definitely worked: she's covered in soap when she sees him push open the shower door open and join her. "No touchy feely in here, bud. We have about ten minutes to clean off and get dressed. Double homicide on Water Street."

"Then I'll be double fast," he says, cupping her breasts as he stands behind her and kisses her wet neck.

"Castle, I mean it."

"All right, all right, you slave driver."

She rinses off faster than he, steps out, then ducks her head back in. "You're quite the driver yourself," she says, closes the door tightly, and wraps up in a towel.

When they pull over at the curb on Water Street Ryan is already working inside the yellow-tape perimeter. He sees them get out of the car a block away and as they begin to walk towards him he catches Castle's eye, blinks, and rubs a hand across his cheek.

Castle, who's carrying two paper cups of coffee, stops. "Beckett, wait," he hisses.

"What?"

"Is there something on my face that shouldn't be there? Ryan's signaling me."

Without moving any closer, she gives him the once over. "Oh, shit. Yes. Lipstick. Right side. Wipe it off now before Lanie spies it." He does, and arrives clean-faced at the grubby spot where the victims are laid out on gurneys. The ME greets him and Beckett, but her lovedar does not go off; for the moment, at least, the newly-minted couple is safe.

The case is a tough one, and they work it nonstop, all day. Since Esposito is on vacation they're short-handed, and each has to shoulder more responsibility, but it also gives Beckett and Castle more time to adjust to their new situation without worrying that he's eying them. When they're still making no headway at dinnertime, the Captain sends the three of them home. On the way to the loft, Castle makes two stops, first to buy a DVD of The Quiet Man, and then a pound of Irish bacon and a case of Irish beer; he calls a messenger service to deliver them to Ryan's apartment. "Thanks for keeping quiet and saving our bacon," Castle writes on a plain white card, and Kate adds a bright red imprint of her lips. They do not sign their names.

The case drags on. Beckett and Castle have behaved themselves at work, but on Wednesday night, when they're closing in on the suspect, they have a brief lapse on the backstairs between floors. Fortunately it's late at night, and there are no witnesses. They wrap up the case two hours later and stagger home at four a.m.

Montgomery effectively gives them the day off on Thursday, saying that they're on call.

"You know what I'd like to do today?" Castle says over breakfast in her apartment. "And this weekend?"

"I'd guess, but I'd rather you just tell me."

"I'd like to go away for the weekend."

"The beach?"

"No, somewhere else. A surprise."

"You know I hate surprises, Castle."

"C'mon, just this once."

"I doubt that it will be just once, but fine." She eats her last spoonful of blueberries. "What about today?"

"I want to meet Manny. You have to take your bike back some time."

She stands up, puts her bowl in the sink, and says, "Okay."

"What?" He looks as shocked as he sounds. "No argument?"

"Why would I argue? Seems like a sensible thing to do. I'll check to see if this is a good day for him."

Three hours later Kate is astride her Harley with Castle holding on in the rear, and they're turning the corner to the garage. Manny is waiting out front on the sidewalk, wearing Army boots, cut offs, a bandana, several earrings, and a ribbed cotton undershirt that's stretched to the snapping point across his massive chest. His tattooed arms and legs are a flesh-and-blood tourist guide to some icons of New York City: the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Radio City Music Hall, the former World Trade Center, three bridges, a yellow cab, a subway car, and a ferry. Pride of place—his right bicep—goes to a green rectangle, outlined in tiny hearts and stars, that says QUEENS for QUEENS.

"Geez," Castle breathes against her ear. "What's he got under the shirt?"

"Pierced nipples," his partner says as she gets off the bike and jumps into Manny's almost certainly steroid-enhanced arms.

Castle gapes as Manny spins Kate around and around, at least a foot off the ground. He deposits her as gently as a parent puts a newborn into a bassinet, and extends his hand.

"Manny Vito. I'm guessin' you're Rick."

"You guess right," he answers, taking Manny's hand. His knees immediately buckle, and it's only because Manny is holding on to his other arm that he doesn't hit the pavement.

"Good to meet you, dude. Didn't hurt you, did I?"

A red-faced Castle shakes his head. "Would take more than that. But, uh, hell of a grip there."

"Just my way of watchin' out for our girl, know what I mean?"

"Right, right. Understood."

Their 'girl' is laughing. "He was afraid that you were a romantic rival, Manny."

"Yeah, she set me straight," Castle says.

"Ain't nothin' would set me straight, dude. But just cause I'd rather dance with you than Kate don't mean I don't love her."

"You want to dance with me?" Castle squeaks.

"Nah, not my type." Manny throws his arm around Castle's shoulder and pulls him to his side. "No offense. I like guys who are a little more butch than you."

"No offense taken."

Kate, having parked her bike and covered it, is standing with her hands on her hips. "Are you two testosterone tossers ready for lunch?"

"Yup."

"Where are we going, Manny?"

"Roman Holiday."

"That's his favorite, Castle. Has pictures of Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni all over."

"Shouldn't it be Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck? They were the ones in Roman Holiday."

Manny rolls his eyes as adroitly as Kate ever has. "They're not Italian, dude."

"Right. Of course."

Castle orders the papardelle Bolognese—wide, flat noodles in a rich, beefy sauce—and Kate asks for linguine with clams. The waiter doesn't bother to ask Manny what he wants, just cocks his head and gets a nod in response.

They're well into their first glasses of wine when lunch arrives. The waiter serves Manny last: a platter of pasta with six or seven different vegetables, from red to green. "You're not having what I'm having?" Castle asks. "You said it was the house classic."

"It is. But I don't eat no red meat. This body—" he slaps his resonant chest—"is a temple, Rick. Don't let me stop ya, though. That is one great dish."

Castle takes a bite, and then another. "You're not kidding. Thanks, Manny."

By the time they're eating dessert—tiramisu is apparently not a temple violation—they're a new version of the three musketeers. "You shoulda told me about him a long time ago, Kate."

"It was complicated."

"Nothin' complicated about love, honey."

"You're right," Castle says, looking besottedly and slightly drunkenly at Kate.

"Yeah," she says, looking much the same. "I know that now."

They both hug Manny goodbye, take a car service home, and spend the rest of the day in Kate's bed. When they're on her sofa eating late-night Chinese takeout, she says, "I've been meaning to ask you something. You might think it's dumb."

"I find it hard to believe," he says, chasing a skittering dumpling with his chopsticks, "that you ever ask anything dumb."

"Oh, I do. It's, well, when I think of you, and when I look at you—a lot of the time I think of a song. It just comes into my head. Sometimes I even sing it, if you're sleeping." She brushes a crumb from her lap. Bet you never knew I could be so girly."

"It's not girly, it's romantic."

"So, I was wondering if I ever make you think of a song?"

"You're kidding."

"Told you it was dumb. Sorry."

"Kate, I have an entire play list dedicated to you."

"You're kidding."

"That was my line, but no, I'm not kidding."

"What's on it?"

"I'll show you when we're at the loft tomorrow. It's on my laptop."

"I want to see it now. How do I know you're not making this up?"

He hastily wipes his mouth on a paper napkin and gets to his feet. "Put your pants back on, Beckett, we're going to Broome Street."

On the way over he wonders if he'd been a little rash. Does he really want her to see every one of his fantasies about her, in song form? No. He'll just pick out a few, read them to her.

Except that once they're in his office, with her on his lap at his desk, that's not possible. She's determined to see the whole list. "How many could there be, Castle? Really."

"Really? Ninety-four."

"Ninety-four?"

"There were about eighty, but that was before you kissed me. I've added a bunch more since then."

She wiggles happily. "So that made the list grow, huh?"

"Not the only thing that grew."

"I bet. Open that file, Castle." She's stunned. There really are almost a hundred songs there, of every kind—erotic, sweet, funny, sappy, old, new. She slaps him on the arm. "Are you kidding? Snoop Dogg 'I Wanna Fuck You'? You don't even like rap, Castle."

"You should know that was the first song on the list. I felt like I shouldn't delete it."

"When was that?"

"March two thousand nine."

"Really?"

"Tisdale murder. Our first case. I went to bed thinking about you the day we met. All I wanted to do was fuck your brains out."

She turns in his lap and looks straight into his eyes, very seriously. "What about now?"

"Now? Oh, I love the sex," he says, equally seriously. "But I love your brains every bit as much. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"You make my heart sing."

She doesn't want to talk, just puts her head on his chest. "Mine, too," she says very softly. "You might be able to hear it."

Later, when they're both falling asleep, Kate says, "We still going away for the weekend?"

"Definitely."

"You going to give me a hint?"

"No."

"Castle, I have to know what to pack. A bathing suit? A parka? What?"

"All right. The weather's a lot like it is here and we'll go to a couple of nice restaurants."

"That's it?"

"No. That's all I'm gonna tell you, except to promise that you won't need a bathing suit or a parka. Night, Kate."

She gets up an hour earlier than usual so that she can go home and pack a small suitcase and drop it off with Castle's doorman before work. It's a quiet day in the precinct, the midsummer lull that the homicide division often gets, and Castle leaves early. "I'm going to go to the loft and get our bags. I'll meet you around the corner as soon as your shift is over, all right?"

"Hey, Castle?" Ryan says, getting up from his desk before Castle can board the elevator. "Just wanted to say thanks. That was really great of you and Beckett. The Irish package."

"You're our favorite Irishman, Ryan. And we meant what we said. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Have a good weekend."

"You, too."

When Beckett walks out of the precinct she turns left at the corner and sees a town car idling in front of the coffee shop. The driver gets out before she arrives, and opens the rear door for her. She slides into the cool, dark space and feels Castle take her hand.

"Our bags are in the trunk, so we're all set."

"You're still not going to tell me where we're going? We're in the car, I think it's safe to say."

"Tennessee."

There were many, many places on her mental checklist; Tennessee was not one of them. "Oh."

"Beautiful this time of year."

"Okay."

"Lots of things to do."

"What, like go to an Elvis festival?"

"You never know, Beckett."

"Care to be more specific?"

"Nope. Just want to have a fantastic weekend with you."

"Same here." And really, they could have a fantastic weekend anywhere. Castle could find fun in a rusty bucket in a mud flat. Besides, she's never been to Tennessee.

They chat happily about nothing in particular all the way to the airport and she's only vaguely aware that they've turned on to the access road to JFK. The car stops at the curb outside the terminal that's mobbed with travelers on a Friday summer afternoon, and she and Castle get out. He holds her hand as they walk inside, each wheeling a small bag, and points to the sign for first class passengers. "Over there."

"First class? Why am I even asking?"

"It's a long flight. You'll be glad."

"What, two and half hours? I think I could've managed to be in coach all the way to Tennessee."

"More like seven and a half hours. Oh, did I say Tennessee?"

"Yes, you did."

"You must have thought we're going to Paris, Tennessee. They do have a replica of the Eiffel Tower there. Sorry, that was a slip of the tongue. I meant France. We're going to Paris, France."

A/N Thanks to all readers. Special thanks to two reviewers this time: Madelynn one, who suggested that Castle and Manny meet, and Roadrunnerz, who said, "I feel like we need a Paris chapter … complete with French songs." Coming right up, Roadrunnerz!

A/N To the anonymous reviewer: if you correct someone's grammar, make sure that yours is correct. Check your punctuation, too. Also: a person who mentions Gibran in the same breath as Keats and Hopkins should be forced to stand in the corner.