Please note that this and subsequent chapters may include very strong T rating, verging on M.

7: Time of our lives

Alexis, oblivious to Beckett's momentary switch of mood, carries on questioning till she decides it's her bedtime, which is unhappily coincidental with Beckett deciding it's her bedtime too. If Castle were paranoid, he'd think Beckett were running off. Since he's not, and mostly since Beckett's been shifting uncomfortably on the couch and failing to find a comfortable position for the last half hour or more, he reckons she needs her horse-dropping painkillers and another night's sound sleep.

Actually, maybe bedtime isn't such a bad idea after all…

Castle protests not at all about Beckett's departure to her own room and indeed claims to be tired himself. He takes his laptop into bed with him and, struck by inspiration, sketches out not just the plans for several chapters but the detail to go with several disparate pieces. He'll connect them up later. For now, it's enough to get them down on paper (as it were). He's still frowning at a particular word choice which he doesn't really like but for which he can't think of a better synonym when he hears a soft breath and following gasp from the main room, heading in the direction of his office. He tucks the laptop swiftly away, thanking his stars that he'd had the sense not to put the light on in anticipation of just this occurrence, and whisks himself into an attitude of, if not total unconsciousness, certainly so close to sleep as to be indistinguishable. It is, after all, well past midnight.

Exactly as he'd hoped, padding feet move through his office and into his bedroom, approach the bed, pause, and then the delicate scent of Beckett wafts past his nose and the other side of the bed sinks very marginally and there she is, again. She makes herself comfortable – as far as she can: there's a certain amount of held breath – and then, clearly convinced by his pretence, reaches out for his hand, which he had conveniently placed in an eminently graspable position. He can't stop his fingers curling around hers, enveloping her hand in his.

"I know you're awake, Castle."

Oh. That's – weird. She knew he was awake and still slipped into bed? Ooohhh.

"How?"

"Breathing. When you're asleep you breathe differently." But she hasn't pulled her hand away or left.

"D'you want to be here with me so you can sleep easy, Beckett?"

"Ye-es," she admits, dragging the word reluctantly from her tongue.

"Holding hands do?" Especially since he can't cuddle her.

"Yeah." She sounds near to asleep already. "For now," she breathes almost inaudibly. Castle is fairly certain she didn't mean to say that out loud, either. He adds it to all the other statements he expects he wasn't meant to hear and arrives at a veritable bouquet of compliments. He drifts into sleep still holding Beckett's hand and smiling. His dreams are exceedingly pleasant.

Waking up is also exceedingly pleasant. Sometime during the night Beckett has shifted – oh, no, it's he who's shifted – to be tucked against his side, still with her hand in his. She's still asleep, dark hair over the pillows and his shoulder, dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. He admires her for a moment. Then temptation overtakes good sense and he – very carefully – lays his free hand over her midriff, in the closest cousin to a cuddle he thinks can be managed without pressing broken bones or otherwise waking her. He sinks into a pool of desire-tinged warmth and snugglement, feathering his fingers across Beckett's smooth sleep tee and, not wholly accidentally, shifting it so that his fingers end up flirting with her smooth, warm skin. Heat surges up from his fingertips to the rest of his body.

This is appallingly dangerous and even more appallingly addictive. Arousal is very rapidly overtaking snugglement, which is a very bad choice when they're both in a bed and he's only wearing boxers and her sleep shorts would only take an instant to remove… His groan resonates through the bedroom, and he lifts his hand, rolls on to his back and away from temptation incarnate.

Which action wakens temptation in the form of Beckett's big, beautiful eyes; sleepy and a little confused; her full mouth, the tip of her tongue licking off the dryness of sleep; the slight rise and fall of her chest; her lithe form shrouded by the comforter but still discernible to the educated gaze. Castle, who has spent over a year educating his gaze to Masters standard, contents himself with gazing. Educated gazing.

"Staring is creepy," Beckett points out, with a grin, and opens her eyes fully. "How many times do I have to say this?"

"You're awake. Why are you awake and spoiling my creepy staring time? Go back to sleep."

"Your creepy staring time? Say what?"

"Part of the deal," Castle says airily. "You get my brilliant crime-solving theories and insights and I get to follow you and have creepy staring time."

Beckett rolls her eyes. "You're not following me right now. Therefore no creepy staring time."

"Okay," Castle says agreeably. "No creepy staring. Ordinary friendly staring instead."

Beckett sighs heavily and rolls her eyes again. "No staring."

"Aw, Beckett. How can I not stare at your beautiful…face."

"Last time I looked in a mirror my face wasn't below my shoulders."

"It's a miracle! You're a shape-changing alien, and you've just moved your face back to your head."

Beckett groans and puts her hands over her eyes in a gesture of resignation. "Castle, stop ogling, stop leering, and stop staring. Capisce?"

"Okay." He's still perfectly agreeable. "I won't stare any more." Instead he drops his head and lands up on her lips. Her surprised squeak is music to his ears and provides the access his tongue and mouth demand. He lets go of her hand, slides an arm under her neck to hold her in a way that (he hopes) means he won't cause her any discomfort, and gives himself up to the unconfined joy of kissing Kate Beckett in his bed.

Beckett seems to find it a very pleasant experience too. Albeit she can't move, she's still managed to lock her hands round his neck in a grip reminiscent of a well-tightened vice, and keeping himself from being pulled down on to her is taking some considerable concentration and effort which Castle would really rather devote to showing her how good even simply kissing can make her feel.

He has a sudden idea, and acts on it without further ado or any consideration of the likely consequences. He stops kissing Beckett, who emits a forcefully displeased noise.

"Stay still, Beckett."

She growls in a really quite unnecessarily unkind and unwarranted manner. "Kiss me," she orders.

"In a moment," he smirks. "I need to make sure you don't move."

"Did I fall into some parallel universe porn movie set? You wanna stop me moving? What is this, a faked-up snuff – OW!" She takes an involuntary deep breath.

"It was actually the ow bit I wanted to stop," Castle says patiently. "I don't like the ow bit. I'd rather it was ooohhhh. Or ohhhhhh. Or yes Castle please Castle" – he looks at Beckett's suffused face and decides to quit while he's ahead. Or alive. "I wanted you not to hurt yourself."

"Oh," Beckett mutters, deflating from her incipient murderous wrath. "How?"

Castle smirks in the most aggravating fashion possible. "You'll see," he says, which he knows to be the single most annoying phrase known to man or woman anywhere on God's green earth. Beckett's wrath re-emerges in the form of a glare at sunspot intensity, which does not diminish when Castle starts to pack pillows around her.

"What are you doing?"

"Precautions."

"Huh?"

"Padding."

"Castle, I swear I will shoot you if you don't explain. Right now."

"You'll see," he says again, even more annoyingly. "Haven't you read the story of The Princess and the Pea?"

"Clearly you're the irritatingly annoying Pea. Apart from that, what's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing," Castle grins, and places another pillow around his splutteringly incoherent Beckett.

When she's half buried in a mound of pillows sufficient to restock Macy's and completely incapable of moving anywhere until some of the packaging is removed, Castle stops.

"Is this what fragile items feel like?" Beckett muses dangerously. "When they're all packed in little Styrofoam pellets? Because I'm not fragile and I don't need wrapped in cotton wool."

"These are not cotton wool!" Castle ejaculates indignantly. "They're finest goose down."

"That is not the point. Why are you wrapping me up in pillows when you should be kissing me?"

Castle smiles happily. "So I can kiss you. Are you asking me to kiss you, Beckett?"

"I'm telling you to kiss me."

"Are you?"

"Castle, shut up and kiss me." Whenever Beckett uses that tone, mountains move and the seas part. Castle does precisely what he's told. With a few refinements of his own, it's true. Starting with sliding his arm back under Beckett's neck and ensuring he's propped on that elbow and only leaning over the piled pillows. Conveniently, and not coincidentally, that means that his other hand is completely free. He uses it to stroke Beckett's shoulder, which is peeking out of her silky tee, and finds her skin warm, smooth, and possessed of magical properties. It must be. All his common sense has been made to disappear.

The loss of his common sense is surely why his mouth is devouring Beckett's little sexy noises and his free hand has roamed downward to slide the tee out of the way and play across her midriff, navel and then skate over her hip to the firm muscle of her thigh. Within the clasp of his other arm, and the padding of the pillows protecting her torso, she is barely moving, though if she were free to move she'd be arching against him and he'd be above her. He should stop.

She should stop. That was entirely unfair and unhelpful and Beckett should not be teasing him like that if she can't act on it. But she's done it again. And she's smirking. He can feel the quirk and curve of her lips under his at just the right angle to be a smirk. Evil woman.

The mistake was definitely retaliating. Because that has drowned them both in the tsunami of all their suppressed desire and pent-up need, and somehow they're as helpless to stop it or resist as a dandelion seed in a tornado. Her hand has sneaked inside his boxers and is playing wickedly around and across and up and down and stroking and palming and gripping and sliding and oh God Beckett and his fingers have pulled away the shorts and found heat and damp and soft silky flesh; dipping and circling and stroking and rubbing and entering and oh God Castle and fuck that all got hot and messy in a hurry. He keeps Beckett from arching and with deft, delicate slides of his fingers brings her to soft release. She doesn't bother with the soft part.

He only just manages not to collapse over her, but beside her, one arm still under her neck, the other safely out the way.

"Um… Beckett…"

"Uh?"

"What just happened?"

There's a snort.

"Well, if you don't know by now, Castle…"

"No, Beckett, I know that. How did it happen? We were platonically" – another snort – "okay, mostly platonically, holding hands."

"You kissed me, Castle."

"You told me to," he says angelically.

"I don't remember telling you to do any of the rest of it."

"I don't remember asking you to do any of the rest of it either. And you're the one who sneaked into this bed."

"I didn't hear you objecting. To any of it."

There is a definite air of humph on both sides of the bed. Beckett isn't looking at Castle – even if she could see him over the pillows. Castle isn't looking at Beckett. Both of them are pouting.

After a brief pause, both sets of fingers surreptitiously steal slowly from their current separation and meet on top of the pillows. Castle curls his hand around Beckett's, and removes the pillows between them by judicious movement of their joined grip to allow him to be in contact all along the length of her body. Well, she shouldn't move, so he will.

"I liked it, though…" he drawls sleepily. "We should do more of it." The hand by her shoulder slips on to her arm and presses lightly, in what might, had she been less fragile around the torso, have been an embrace. Of course, if Beckett were less fragile around the torso, he'd be initiating round two. Or – equally likely – she would.

It's just a shame that his alarm goes off at that point, before he can experiment. Castle nearly falls out of bed in shock but fortunately, even in his hazy state, remembers to let go of Beckett first. She doesn't move at all.

"Don't you want to get up, Beckett?"

"Nope," she says, happily somnolent, and closes her eyes.

"But…"

"But I don't have to. No work. No bodies. No home to go to. And I'm not doing a walk of shame. Night." She pulls a convenient pillow across her face.

"It's morning." All he gets is an obviously faked soft snore – he already knows Beckett doesn't snore – and her oh-so-kissable lips quirking in a gotcha smile. He harrumphs for effect and wanders off to clean up, make breakfast and shoo everyone else out.

When he returns to his bedroom Beckett is genuinely asleep. He indulges in an overdose of creepy staring in between shower, shave, teeth, dressing and – vital! – fixing his hair; and, Beckett still being asleep, makes himself more coffee and settles down to write. The watch box sits on his desk and watches him. It's worse than Gina, but at least it doesn't harass him. (Gina calls it encouragement. She lies.) He ignores it, anyway. He'll have something – someone – for it in due time. He is not waking Beckett, who needs all the healing sleep she can get, and then will require at least two cups of coffee to attain coherent thought, simply to give her the mended watch. He goes back to writing.

Beckett doesn't wake till after nine, from which Castle concludes that she is (one) healing and (two) really quite badly hurt no matter how much she doesn't admit it. She emerges sleepy-eyed and tousled, still in her nightwear. With astonishing and, he feels, immense restraint, Castle does not sweep the top of the desk clear, sit her on it in easy reach and start again exactly where they left off three hours ago.

"Coffee, sleepyhead?" There's a grunt. On balance, it's likely to mean yes please, though it might equally be irritation at the appellation. "C'mon, then. Let's get you some." He takes another look at her. "On second thoughts, let's get you a robe first. Mother might reappear any moment." He retrieves a large and fluffy dark blue robe – he likes comfortable luxury, not to mention luxurious comfort – carefully holds it for Beckett to slip her arms into it with no effort, tugs it up on to her shoulders and wraps it around her. She ties the belt.

Castle looks at her and can't disguise his smothered gurglings as anything but mirth. Beckett is swamped. She looks tiny in the swathes of fabric. He's never normally reminded, or thinks, that he's so much bigger than she: her heels disguise the height difference, and her sheer command presence (or aura of wholesale intimidation, depending on your point of view) covers the rest. But here and now she's… well… small, and cute, and just utterly adorable. And he certainly intends to adore her. Lots. Lots and lots. Lots and lots and lots and lots… okay, now this is just plain creepy. Even he can see that. And Beckett's quizzical look likely means that she's just about to say something snarky. He makes a rapid break for the kitchen.

Beckett tracks him to the coffee machine in much the same intently focused fashion that a pack of Siberian wolves would exhibit when trailing a wounded elk. There is much the same air of predatory anticipation, too. Castle suddenly wonders if he would survive if he didn't provide coffee in the next few minutes, and accelerates his actions. He puts a mug into Beckett's hand, receives a soft thanks Castle, and watches with affectionate amusement as the coffee is absorbed apparently without a single swallow.

"Could you do that trick with beer in college too?"

"Yep."

"Wow." There is no more to say. He couldn't do that – and he'd tried his very hardest. He'd never managed the art of simply opening his throat and cancelling the gag reflex. There's a brief pause in which he tries very, very hard not to think of what it might mean if Beckett can still do that. He fails, entirely. "More coffee?"

"Please." She holds the cup out for a refill, empties it as quickly as the first and holds it out again. Castle watches intelligence seeping into her face as the caffeine hits her system and obliges. This time she only sips, looks up and smiles, turns and pads to the couch, curling up with her feet tucked into the oversize robe, the coffee clamped between her hands. She's walking a little more freely, though there's still considerable stiffness and caution in her movements. He sits down very gently beside her, and puts a not-at-all tentative arm round her shoulders. Hugs and kisses – and more – are now quite definitely allowed.

Beckett shifts very slightly into his arm. Castle drops a light kiss on the top of her head. Beckett shifts a tiny bit nearer. Castle drops a kiss on her forehead. Beckett turns her face to him. Castle kisses her nose. Beckett wrinkles said nose and nibbles her lip. Castle concedes defeat, picks her up and deposits her gently on his knee. Then he kisses her properly. So she kisses him back. So he kisses her some more. So she does, and he does, and she does... and he slides a hand inside the enveloping robe and finds warm, soft skin, and kisses her yet more.

When he realises that the reason he feels like he's wearing his robe is because she's managed to undo all his shirt buttons without him even noticing – that's so unfair – and nestle her arm into him and find his skin and oooohhhh do that some more, please and it's so unfair that he can't return the favour but if he just drops his hand down that lovely smooth surface and – oops, forgot to do that first – undoes the belt and maybe turns her a little so it's not the robe that's rubbing against his chest and holds her in and oh yes that feels good against his hand and it is perfectly obvious that his hand feels good to her.

Her fingers explore a little more enthusiastically and a lot more wickedly, and the kisses turn deep and dirty and all-encompassing. He feels almost teenage: heavy petting with his girl – she is his girl now, surely? – on a couch.

And then he simply stops thinking at all because their mutual sensations are overwhelmingly good, and not long after that they're cuddled up replete and sated and mostly asleep. In Beckett's case, in fact, wholly asleep, with her head on his shoulder and his soft towelling robe enveloping her. He puts her extremely carefully back in his bed, covers her up, stretches hugely to ensure that his spine is straightened out because lifting five-foot-nine of muscle (with some very interesting softer curves) is not that easy, and leaves her to it.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Your thoughts are very much appreciated.