He doesn't like ambiguity. Not at all.
He doesn't know what they are, as yet. They're in love yes (or at least he is, and she's as good as told him she was when she'd turned up at his doorstep a few months ago, rain-soaked and declaring her need for him above all else), but they still have to go through all the pesky, ritualistic steps of dating.
Or do they?
They might do. Just last week she was telling him off for looking through her things at the precinct, and next weekend they're heading to the Hamptons for their first weekend away. He'd considered the possibility of hiring a private jet, whisking her away to the French Riviera instead, but he'd reigned himself in. Baby steps, they both needed baby steps. Going too fast too soon was a mistake he'd made before, and not one he'll repeat. She needs that time, that space to acclimatise as well.
Besides, he didn't even know if she had a current passport.
"Beckett, you need a hand out there?"
"No, stay in bed." Her voice is firm with command, and he doesn't disobey. Not this time. Instead, he rolls out of her luxurious bed, slides on his silk boxers and grabs the plain grey t-shirt he'd remembered to bring out of his bag.
No, he'd much rather investigate Beckett's bedroom, funk and chic and all.
There's a copy of Naked Heat on the nightstand on her side of the bed (he can't help but smile at that, at his love letters to her that she treasured just as much as he did), and he knows she was careful about locking away her gun and badge before they got too heated last night. He winces slightly as he moves one particular muscle not used in a while (though to be fair to Beckett, she had proved that one position was doable…and more besides).
There's the closet with her clothes and shoes, no need to investigate that further at this stage. He might've half-fallen in love with her heels before her, though he won't admit that (she knows. She kept the heels on two nights ago and saw how much it, ahh, inspired him).
His eyes return to the nightstand, and the enticing top drawer, handle worn by how often it's been opened. His flick to the door quickly, weighing up the chances of getting caught and then getting in trouble if he gets caught.
(She's always more forgiving after sex, and he lost count of her orgasms tonight after number six in the middle of their second round, and she was most insistent on making their midnight snack. He's pretty sure he could get away with anything short of murder right now.)
Besides, he's here in his (muse's? Girlfriend's? Lover's) bedroom. She has to assume he'll investigate. She'd be practically mortified if he didn't. Surely.
The top drawer is everyday stuff. Condoms (new box, very thoughtful), a hair band or two, a flashlight, a calculator, pen and paper. He'll have to ask her about the calculator, whether she wakes up often needing to multiply big numbers, and what other kinds of weird dreams she has.
He strikes gold in the second drawer. Front and centre, with a slightly worn blue cover is her passport. Greedily he flicks through it, searching for visas and stamps. Virtually no travel in the last few years- he knew that, he's been around, and though they haven't spent every second together, he would've sniffed out any major…except. One stamp catches his eye. Argentina. When did she go to Argentina? He traces back through his memory, trying to figure what he was doing at the time.
Oh. Oh no. Two days after he'd left for the Hamptons with Gina.
Almost absentmindedly, he turns back to the front, checking out her identity details. Mostly he's caught in memories, in the pain and rejection he was trying to drown out while she was obviously working through something herself. She had booked leave.
She had booked leave.
It's a faded scar, but it can still ache, he finds.
"Hey Castle."
Her lips press against his bare bowed neck, her arrival totally catching him by surprise. He can hear the smile in her tone, which instantly lifts his own spirits.
"What are you doing?" There's a playful catch to her tone, and her long lean fingers encircle his wrists as her head comes to rest on his shoulder, looking down at what he has in his hands.
"Oh you know, being a good author."
"Snooping."
"Well…yeah." He puts away the passport, and then rolls them both back on the bed with his bulk, half-pinning her under him. She's only wearing a tank-top and panties. Excellent.
"Are you gonna arrest me Detective? Detective Katherine Houghton Beckett?"
She grins in response, leaning up to press her lips against his.
"My mom was a fan…"
"…Katharine Hepburn. She had great taste. Just like you do."
She rolled her eyes quickly, but flashed him a smile at the same time, before swaying out of bed again, tugging him by the hand.
"C'mon Castle, snack-time."
"Story-time?"
"It's always story-time for you, isn't it?"
"Perils of being a writer."
His eyes linger on the curve of her rear, on the gorgeous and naked legs. He intends on peeling those panties off very, very soon. In the kitchen even.
"What do you want to know?" She smirks at him as she hands him one of the sandwiches.
Too soon. Too soon for Argentina.
"I saw the Thai visa."
Her eyes light up, merrily dancing in the pale lamp's light.
"Chiang Mai and Lampang. A reward to myself after I first made detective. Oh Castle, I met the most gorgeous elephants there…"
Her voice takes off, drawing him in, enchanting him as it always does when she carefully reveals a part of herself.
Food and learning about an almost-naked (soon to be actually naked) Kate Beckett from herself. Perfect.