Drunk

It's only when her knees buckle as she slides off the bar stool that he realizes how drunk she actually is. He reaches for her, as fast as his sluggish reflexes allow, his palms gripping her elbows as he catches her. They both sway, hang on to each other as they try to find their balance. His head feels hazy, his vision a bit blurry. He blinks, even his eyelids feeling sluggish when they drift, up and down, up and down.

Mainlining tequila with Beckett had always been his not-so-secret fantasy, soon-to-be blatantly revealed for all the world to read but the reality had been far less erotic, and yet a whole lot of fun. Just a random night out, unplanned and unapologetic; a night of shared stories and memories and jokes. Nothing heavy, only banter and laughter and it's the first time that he feels like their tentative, often reluctant (on her end!) partnership might be turning into a friendship, a shared bond; the first time that he feels truly accepted rather than just tolerated.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt as she holds herself up, unintentionally pulls herself closer - at least he thinks it's unintentional when her knees knock into his, her breath brushes his neck, damp and heavy. She lifts her thick, black eyelashes, her eyes wide as she focuses in on him and suddenly he feels like he's drowning in the depths of her eyes. He notices that they're bottle-green in the dim lighting of the bar, an unusual swirl of colors. He can't seem to stop staring into them.

"I'm gonna head out," she says and he nods his head, up and down and up again until he realizes he must look like an imbecile, catches himself in the motion as his head starts to spin.

And yet she doesn't move, her fingers still gripped to his shirt. He hooks an arm around her waist, steadying her or himself, he doesn't even know. Her hips crash into his and suddenly she's draped against him, her breasts crushed to his chest as she wiggles her forehead against his neck, warm and lithe and so soft and really feeling so very wonderful in his arms. He tightens his hold around her waist, his body stirring uncontrollably, the fire stoked deep within him. He's yearning, hoping and aching for something he'd thought he'd never have - something real. Something... Kate.

He doesn't know how long they stand rooted to the spot, doesn't know if they are actually swaying or it's just his woozy head but she pulls away eventually. Only her fingertips linger against his chest, small points of contact that tingle on his skin, like hot jolts of electricity.

"I had a great time tonight." She smiles at him and it's shattering the ground he walks on. "Thank you, Castle."

And then she saunters out of the bar, her hips swaying enticingly, her steps much more steady than he gave her credit for. He gapes after her, his mouth still dry and his skin flushed.

She would never be just a conquest.

She's everything.