#15 Blurred Lines

Numbness spreads from his tailbone down, startling him into awareness. His leg is tingling uncomfortably when he shifts on the table, trying to adjust his position on the hard, unyielding surface. He blinks, attempting to clear his vision that's a little blurry from staring at the murder board in front of him for so long. How long has he actually been sitting here, his mind scrambling to come up with scenarios or solutions to this story that just makes no sense, but really just blurring, going hazy on him? He cracks his neck to the left, then to the right, the cartilages popping in his cramped up shoulders.

It's, oh wow, really late, he realizes as he checks his watch, just now noticing the silence of the bullpen, the darkness that has spread across the unoccupied desks surrounding him. The overheads above Beckett's desk and the murder board provide the only illumination as he surveys his surroundings.

In fact, where is Beckett anyway?

He carefully glides off the edge of the desk, checking his knees for steadiness, carefully shifting his weight onto the leg that is pricking him like tiny needles are being drilled into his skin as it sluggishly wakes up.

She'd been restless, unable to let it go, insistent that there had to be something, something they'd been missing, and so he'd stayed with her, of course he'd stayed, leaning beside her against the edge of the desk, eventually scooting onto it as they bounced theories back and forth, evaluated evidence, analyzed alibis, dismissed ideas. She'd felt so soft, her arm pressed into his bicep, her thigh just barely grazing his as they sat side by side, her body seemingly thrumming with suppressed energy, coiled with poised intelligence. Her scent had wrapped around him, warm and familiar, unconsciously yet irrevocably tethering him to her side.

He sighed, pushed down the viscous yearning climbing up his throat.

Coffee, that's right. She'd slid off the desk, announcing she was in dire need of a fresh cup, asking if he wanted one as well. He'd nodded absentmindedly, still caught up by a particularly fascinating and – in hindsight – maybe slightly far-fetched theory, and she had wandered off to the break room.

And she hasn't come back.

He heads toward the break room, trying to calm the sudden, nervous stutter of his heart, the anxious lurch of his stomach. He's being ridiculous, he scolds himself. This is a police precinct, there's no way harm could've befallen her within its thick, safe walls, right? Oh but what if she fell, broke something, hurt herself, is bleeding or in pain? No, he would've heard; wouldn't she have called him for help? The blood is rushing in his ears and he strides faster, quickly crossing the distance, drawn forward by the low light filtering through the blinds of the room's windows, like a beacon in a stormy night.

Once at the door he freezes, for just a second, trying to tamp the vigor flowing through him that makes him want to shoulder through, burst in and be her knight in, well, slightly wrinkled armor. Instead he takes a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever he may find on the other side, and slowly pushes it open.

His breath vacates his body in a thick rush, relief swapping through him like a wave as his eyes find her in the dimly lit room. He has to lean against the doorway, calm his still-shaking knees while he gazes at her- stares, really, eyeing her up and down and up again. He feels a tender smile spread across his face, warmth climbing to his cheeks as he carefully pushes off the door frame, ambles forward, drawn toward her.

She's curled up on the break room couch, lying on her side with her knees drawn high, almost up to her chest, and her ankles crossed. Her cheek is pillowed on her hand and her face relaxed, cheeks rosy and lips slack.

She's sound asleep.

And just so incredibly beautiful. There's an ache that spreads through him at the sight, contracting his abdomen, leaving his mouth parched. The tumble of her hair looks like spun gold against the dingy couch, the curve of her thick eyelashes so dark against her cheekbones, rimming the pale skin of her eyelids that seem almost translucent, so vulnerable that it calls to him, some place deep inside. She looks tiny, curled in on herself like a tight ball, her slim limbs drawn to her torso protectively, and he resolves that first thing tomorrow, he's going to buy a new couch for this break room and he won't take no for an answer.

He'd give her anything, everything, aware that a new couch is likely the only thing she'd actually let him give her.

He contemplates that maybe he should wake her; she can't possibly be comfortable pressed into those lumpy cushions with dents in all the wrong places and springs poking through the stuffing. She'll be sore later and he should make her go home (not that he can make her do anything but still!) He knows she needs a good night's rest but- he can't do it. He can't physically make himself disturb her peaceful slumber.

He looks around, coming up short in his search, and he shrugs out of his suit jacket. It's the closest there is to a blanket. Leaning over her he carefully drapes the jacket on top of her, drawing it all the way up to her neck, the thick shoulder pads enveloping her on either side. She's folded up so small that the bottom of his coat reaches all the way to her ankles, with only her toes peeking out from beneath.

Kate doesn't startle, doesn't move at all and he can't help himself, her tranquil face a siren song he just can't tune out. He reaches out slowly, his fingertips tingling when he swipes an errant curl off her cheek, pushes it behind her ear. Her skin is like warm silk and he lingers, just for one moment, gently brushes his fingers against the tender patch behind her ear and along the rim of her jaw.

She mewls, tilting her head into his touch, eyes still firmly closed. His heart hammers; he quickly withdraws his hand but before he can lift away from where he is perched above her, her arms rise from underneath the coat. She circles her hands around his neck, fingers gripped into the hair at his nape and her arms sleep-heavy as they drape over his shoulders, drawing him down, down, down and pulling herself up at the same time.

And then her lips are pressed to his and she's kissing him, her mouth soft, so very soft over his. She glides against him, nipping his bottom lip, the tip of her tongue brushing out and over before her lips are smudged to his once more. She hums, murmurs something unintelligible into his mouth and he opens for her, inexorably drawn to her, his tongue meeting hers in gentle caresses. Each touch a bit sloppy with sleep, but so sweet, so devoted that his knees buckle, his skin flushing with the rush of blood through his veins, the coil of heat low in his midsection.

Kate smiles against his mouth, kisses him once, twice more, gentle brushes of her lips against his before her fingers loosen around his neck, slipping off his shoulders while she heavily sinks back into to the couch.

"G'Night, Castle," she slurs, her head lolling to the side, her arms falling to rest on either side of her head, fingers curled just so. Her eyes are closed; she's breathing deeply, her lips slack, still glistening with the remnants of their kiss.

She's sound asleep.