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

Three days later, Beckett pulls up to the curb outside the nightclub where she and Castle are about to go undercover. "Wow. Nice car," she says, returning the keys that she had grabbed from her stunned partner's hand only fifteen minutes earlier. "I didn't think I'd get to find out so soon." She opens the door, steps out onto the sidewalk, and eyes him sultrily over the roof. "A Ferrari really is sex on wheels."

Before he can even attempt a comeback, she stalks into the club in her poured-on dress, about half an inch away from violating New York Penal Law 245.0, a.k.a. Public Lewdness. He's watching her and whimpering. If she doesn't find her feet very, very, very soon he's going to have to sweep her off them and carry her to the nearest available private space—and he doesn't really care what it is.

They quickly wrap up the arrest of the drug dealer; regrettably, Beckett wraps herself up, too, unwilling to interrogate the sleazeball in the dress that she was wearing when she slapped the cuffs on him in the club. Which, of course, leads Castle to start thinking about another use for those cuffs, which leads to her pinching him, hard, under the table.

"Excuse me, Mister Osminkowski. Mister Castle and I have to step out for a moment."

When they're on the other side of the door she grits out, "Castle! Pay attention! You look all moony."

"Sorry, I'm sorry. You should have washed off your perfume when you changed clothes. Very distracting."

"Okay, just pay attention. I'm letting you off easy this time because clearly he's not the killer, but he can give us some information." But as she's turning the doorknob, he hums something in her ear. "Castle!" she hisses.

"Hmmm?" He smiles. "After you, Detective." He waits for her to precede him into the room. She walks back in, and in less time than it would take to hum the "Wonder Woman" theme song extracts the information she needs from Osminkowski.

The team is leaving for the night, and the writer and the three detectives ride down in the elevator together. When they reach the street, they go their separate ways, but two steps later Beckett grabs Castle by the back of his coat. "David Bowie?" she says.

"Oh, you're good."

"Damn right I am. And don't ever do that again."

"What?" Mr. Faux Innocence asks.

"Hum when we're going into interrogation."

"I was just uncontainably happy. Besides, you said he wasn't the guy."

"Doesn't matter. Not professional."

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. Truly. I promise it won't happen again."

"Better not. And Castle?"

"Yes?"

She tilts her head forward just slightly, as if she's about to tell him some small thing before she gets in the cab that she just hailed. Except that she's not saying anything, she's singing—so softly that it barely reaches his ear. "In this age of grand illusion, you walked into my life, out of my dreams." Then she reaches for the handle and bends to get into the car. "That's an awfully dark song, Mister Bowie." She slams the door and is gone.

Wow, she is so much better than good. He takes out his phone and texts her. "It is dark. I just like the dream reference. How the hell do you even know that one?"

Her response is quick. "I'm a songbird, Castle. Night."

First thing the next morning he checks his phone for a text, and he's not disappointed. It's a link, and he clicks on it. Wow, not what he'd expected after last night. Seriously not what he'd expected. It's Kirsten Dunst, singing the sweetly gorgeous "Dream of Me."

He can't get to the precinct quickly enough. Bearing his usual high-octane, 16-ounce gift for Beckett, he stops at her desk. "Your coffee, Detective," he says, and slides onto his chair. The lid boasts a post-it note on which he's written some of the lyrics: "Maybe when he dreams he'll dream of me." He looks sideways at her. "Really?"

"Yeah," she says.

"I already do dream of you."

"I know."

"In great detail."

She gets up. "I'll be back in a minute." He watches as she grabs her bag from her desk and walks to the ladies room. His phone, which is in his right-hand jacket pocket, alerts him to an incoming text. He takes it out and as casually as possible looks at the screen. "Check the left-hand pocket of your coat."

He dips his hand in and comes up with a folded piece of paper. How the hell did she do that? "Meet me at 8 p.m. at 72nd and Riverside. Dress warmly."

She returns to her desk and he nods briefly. She smiles and says, "Let's get cracking, Castle. I want to nail this guy before lunch."

"You trying to get out of here early for a change?"

"I am."

"You have a date or something?"

"I do."

Castle grins like a kid, tips back his chair, and turns his head towards Esposito and Ryan. "Hey! Guys! Beckett says we have to get cracking. Apparently she has a date tonight."

That's all it takes to get them moving. "Motorcycle boy, huh?" Espo asks as he approaches. "The doctor got your blood pumpin', Beckett?"

"Not that it's any of your business, Javi, but no. Josh is no longer on my health plan."

"So who's the new guy?" Ryan asks.

"Not saying."

Castle joins in. "Not even a hint? How about a one-word description?"

She picks up a pen, walks to the murder board, and looks back over her shoulder at the three men. "Dreamy."

The boys snort; so does Castle, a beat behind but just in time.

They do, in fact, get the guy by lunch, and at six o'clock everyone heads out. "Night, Beckett," Ryan and Espo say as one.

"Be sure not to behave," Castle adds.

She wiggles her fingers at them, gets in her car, and drives home, where she changes into jeans, a thick sweater, and wool socks. She grabs a canvas tote bag from the closet and packs it with two small cushions, a quilt, a large thermos of coffee, and a bag of Levain Bakery dark chocolate peanut butter chip cookies for which she had stood in line for 35 minutes. They were worth all 2,100 seconds, and more, especially when she considers what Castle's reaction will be when he tastes one. She pulls on fleece-lined boots, a parka, a hat, and gloves, picks up the tote bag, and by 7:30 she's headed north on the West Side Highway. It's very cold, so when she parks in a police-vehicle spot at 73rd, she decides to wait in the car until Castle arrives. The man is always alarmingly prompt, and at 7:59 she sees him getting out of a cab half a block away.

"Hey, Castle," she shouts as she crosses the street. He's standing in front of the statue of Eleanor Roosevelt, and Beckett slips her arm through his. "C'mon."

"We're going in the park?" he squeaks. "It's dark!"

"Don't worry, Castle. I'll protect you. Besides, we're just going through a bit of it to get down to the river. Don't be such a wuss. Look around you. There are a ton of runners in here, and people with their dogs. Very safe."

"I am looking around me, Beckett, that's just the problem. This whole stretch looks creepily familiar," he says, waving his arm in a large arc, north to south. "In my mind's eye I see all kinds of murders here. It's one giant crime scene."

"One giant fake crime scene, Castle. They're always filming TV shows here, all the Law & Orders, things like that, because it's an arboreal and contained spot, and easy to close off. This little four-bock area is like the Cabot Cove of New York City." She tugs his arm. "Let's go."

" 'Arboreal' and a Murder, She Wrote reference. No wonder I follow you anywhere, Beckett."

They take the path and the stairs to the Hudson, and walk quickly to a graceful pedestrian pier that juts out into the water. Pole lights on the pier are strong enough to illuminate chunks of ice that are floating downriver. "Let's sit," Beckett says, pointing to one of the benches as she gets the cushions from the bag. "These will keep our butts from freezing. Want some coffee?"

"Yes, please, yes."

She pours them each a cup and passes him the bag of cookies before sitting down next to him, unfolding the quilt, and spreading it across their laps. "It's beautiful out here, isn't it? And so quiet. It's hard to believe that we're in the city." She hears him open the bag.

"Oh, my God." He swallows. Oh, my God, this cookie." He swallows again and helps himself to another.

"I know, right? First time I had one it was an orgasmic experience."

And there goes the chocolate-peanut butter confection, which he had just bitten into, flying across the railing and into the river. "Beckett!"

She can't believe she said that. Apparently he is already burrowed deeper into her heart than she'd known. No covering it up now. She meets his astonished eyes. "TMI, Castle?"

"Hell, no. Not enough. Not nearly enough."

"That's all you're getting." She waits, and then squeezes his hand. "For now."

A coughing spell ensues.

She reaches into the bag that he's holding. "I believe I'll have one of these now. Yum. Mmmm." She moans. "Even better than the first time."

"Beckett! You have to stop that."

"Really? Okay. I'll leave the rest for you. Do I have any chocolate on my face?"

He leans in and points a gloved finger at the edge of her mouth. "Right there."

"Thanks. I'll just lick it off." Which she does, excruciatingly slowly, and noisily.

"Beckett?"

"Yes?" she answers chirpily.

"Could you tell me what we're doing out here? Other than your torturing me, of course."

"I never thought that you'd call cookies and coffee torture, Castle. I'll have to remember that in future."

"Please don't. Please don't remember that. I love coffee. And these cookies, especially these."

Her face changes. She's serious now, and he takes note. "And what about this place, Castle?"

"It's amazing. I didn't even know that it existed." He wants to say the same of the cookies, but he feels how the atmosphere has changed, too, and he doesn't want to make light of her question.

"It's hasn't been here long, only about ten years," she says, and takes his hand in hers. "I run, or ride my bike, or take the subway. It's been my favorite place to sit at night for a long time. I've never brought anyone else here. So that's why we've come. I wanted to show you the place where I let my mind wander. This is where I daydream, even though it's night. I've been coming up a lot, lately, daydreaming. I've even texted you from this seat."

"Yeah, really?"

"Really."

"Do I get to hear about any of those daydreams?"

"You might. But I thought you might like to hear about the dream that I had last night. You know, since you told me yours."

"I would. I so, so would."

"Okay, but you know what I'd like first?"

"Anything you ask. It's yours."

"A kiss."

"A kiss? Any special kind?"

"The best you've got with all these clothes on."

"How about a Mocha Supreme?"

"What's that?"

"The kiss I've wanted to give you forever, when you'll taste of your two favorite flavors, chocolate and coffee, like you will right now. Mocha."

"Mmmm," she says, or hums, he's not entirely sure.

The first thing he does is take off his gloves and her hat, despite the weather. Too hell with the cold, he wants to feel her hair and her skin. He pulls her onto his lap, so that they're facing each other, and begins his sensual, sensory exploration. And it really does involve all the senses: touch, sight, taste, smell, even hearing, given the transporting little sounds she's making. He's attentive to every bit of her exposed skin, and every bit of it, like the velvety eyelids, excites him. It's her mouth, though, her mouth and tongue, that could be his lifelong—please, please, please—undoing. Just as he's reveling in the warmth and the silkiness and yes, the mochaness, her tongue will dart at his, or trap it, or suck or glide or move very gently, and it's the ever-shifting patterns and pressures that, oh, God. His hands are buried in her hair, as hers are in his, but he slides one down the front of her jacket and undoes the two bottom buttons. He runs his palm up her rib cage and cups her breast, and even through the bulky sweater she's wearing he can feel her nipple harden. He opens his hand, spreading his fingers and pressing down, and leaves her mouth to whisper in her ear. "I want to feel your heartbeat," he says, just as he senses her hand snaking under his own jacket.

"Castle," she says, kissing him just below his ear. "Mocha Supreme is incredible, but it's too cold to have my coat every partway open."

"Yeah, you're shivering," he says, rebuttoning her.

"It's not just from the cold," she says. She ducks her head, and her hair falls forward so that he can't see her face. He knows—at last, or at least for this moment—to let her say whatever she's going to say at her own pace. "You know the song from this morning?" she asks into his chest.

"Which? Oh, Kirsten Dunst? 'Dream of Me'?

"Yeah. I meant another line from that song, Castle, not the one you wrote on the post-it note." He continues to sit quietly, which is completely against his nature. She finally says it, and now she's looking him in the eyes. " 'They tell me love is just a dream away.' That's the dream I had last night."

TBC

A/N Thank you for reading this, and for all the reviews, follows and favorites. Special gratitude to Guests like Hawkie and Moochiechat who are such steadfast reviewers but whom I cannot thank personally.