The detective sits cross-legged at the counter in Castle's kitchen facing the windows in the living room beyond. A worn-out white thermal shirt and better-fairing blue leggings fend off the coolness. She sips, and her toes curl with pleasure in wool Miss Piggy socks. Freshly brewed coffee from the mug in her hands is ably clearing the mental cobwebs. She's still debating her reception of the winter morning. The brightness of a clear sky is appealing despite the chill. Across the counter Rick's rumpled bed hair is making her fingers wiggle against the ceramic with conflicting desires to reach over and either smooth or playfully ruffle. Decisions, decisions. At her back, Martha is fending off her son's offer of breakfast. The diva's perfume from the previous night drapes the air, heavy and a little cloying, but growing increasingly familiar in a good way.

With a bemused frown Kate gestures with her mug and asks, "Castle, why do you have a piano?"

"Better question: Why not?"

The detective's gaze is held by the clean, almost white light gleaming from the sleek lines of the black grand. A smile tugs at one corner of her lips at his reply. Spoken like a true playboy. That's a façade time has done well to diminish. "It's Martha's," she guesses.

"Contrary to what her manner often implies," Castle returns glibly, "she doesn't own anything here beyond the confines of her room. Come to think of it, mother, how much of your room came out of your pocket?"

"Thirteen hours," Martha chimes in her smoky voice. "You'll never fully cover that bill, sonny."

"Thirteen hours of labor?" Kate muses, eying her fiancé askance. "And you call me stubborn?"

"She's counting early labor," Castle replies dryly, shaking his head at his mother. "Even then I was the epitome of a courteous guest. I gave ample warning of my arrival followed by a smooth exit in a timely fashion."

"Smooth?" Martha protests. "Ten pounds, six ounces, Richard. Even then you overindulged."

Rick's eyebrows shoot up as a palm rises self-consciously to his soft middle.

Kate hums with mirth and dives in for another sip of her coffee. Amidst its spreading warmth she says, "Don't sweat it, stud. I'm the only one you've gotta impress from here on, and I'm not complaining."

He shoots his mother a look of smug satisfaction.

Martha tosses a dish towel in his face in admonishment. "It's his piano," she acquiesces, reminding the detective of her original, briefly misplaced query.

"I can't recall seeing anyone play it before." Neither of them answers. The silence drags on for several seconds, prompting a backwards glance. Both have their mouths slightly parted as if to reply, their gazes locked on the other. Her smile wavers to behold an unexpected level of seriousness haunting them.

"Ah," Castle finally begins haltingly, "well, mother plays now and again."

"Not so much anymore," the other disagrees. Her aged appendages come together in her lap with the fingers stroking at her knuckles. "These hands don't have the same finesse." There seemed to be plenty of strength in the forestalling digit she levels on her son. "Not a word from you."

Castle favors a small, fond smile in place of mockery. "I miss it sometimes." The older woman looks surprised and suspicious of an impending punch-line. "What? You play beautifully."

"Bah," Martha replies with a wave of one hand. She focuses on Kate and assures, "He's sentimental this morning. I was okay, but just okay. Don't let him tell you different."

"Maybe," Castle's willing to hedge. "I'm no critic of the arts. To me it was just…nice."

The red-head offers a surprised, fleet smile. She looks to Kate and gives a lift of her eyebrows while lowering from the stool to stand. "I'm going to go before he has a chance to spoil that." She circles the counter and reels her son's head gently down to give his temple a smack of her lips. He chuckles quietly, deeply. Their gazes meet and linger. Martha's smile eases away. She kisses his temple again and softly pats his other cheek.

A stealthy prickle of unease creeps into Kate as the diva walks away. The gesture began casually enough, but once again acquired an indefinable weight uncommon to either participant. Does the actress's pace increase somewhat as she takes the stairs up? Her face remains towards the wall, pointedly hidden.

But then Castle is turning back to Kate with that smirk of his in residence. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as his narrowed attention wanders her huddled figure. It's too early and she too rumpled with sleep to feel desirable, but somehow he succeeds in heightening her awareness of her body before flipping the towel over his right shoulder and lacing his fingers together for a crack of the knuckles. "How about you? Breakfast?"

The man is too good at distracting her. Kate feels herself waver and capitulate to his charm. She smiles somewhat, nodding. The expression lingers as he moves confidently about the room, gathering the tools and foods necessary. It's funny: his domesticity charms her, and it's strangely arousing. Castle isn't the first man she's allowed close enough to be afforded the opportunity to tend to her in such fashion, but he is hands-down the most enthusiastic. In the theatre of her mind, however, those capable hands are engaged with other tasks in which he's equally and rightly confident. The chef damn well knows the effect it has on her as he dishes up two plump sausages, hash-browns smothered in a layer of melted Kunik cheese, and a loaded egg-white omelet.

It's one more example of the manner in which he celebrates his claim on her. Look what I can do, Beckett.

"Castle," she sighs around the final forkful, "you can't keep stuffing me like this. I don't want people confusing my wedding dress for a party tent."

"It's the most important meal of the day," he chides. "Still, let's keep it to a one-man tent, hmm?"

The detective quivers briefly with humor, but finds her gaze snagging on the piano in its corner. It's probably a bit late in their relationship to be questioning the item's presence now, but damned if she can deny the mystery presenting itself there. "Have you ever thought about donating it? It's such a lovely piece. Shame to see it sitting idle like that."

"It stays," Castle answers immediately. The steely certainty draws her surprised gaze back to him. A disarming smile greets her. Is he trying to cushion the adamancy of the reply, or mutely asking for a change of subject? Before she can decide her companion leans across the counter to kiss her cheek. No. He lands against her neck, and it's more a caress of his lips. They breeze across her skin to the shell of her right ear and press warmly. Amidst a scalp-prickling heightening of receptiveness she feels the gliding stroke of his tongue and the hard edge of his teeth when he nips her lobe. "Give it an hour or so until it's just us left here." He strikes the words with deliberate care, thick and smooth. "Now that you called my attention to it, I'd love to fuck you on it."

Shock and arousal duel through the halls of her fast churning veins. Kate feels the sinking of her teeth into her lower lip. An arch smile claims her mouth as she leans back enough to meet his gaze. Blame it on being freshly satiated with breakfast, or his rare indulgence of coarse language; haunting images unspool in her mind of luxuriantly paced love-making, letting him assail her insides with long, sure thrusts as his warm hands banish the chill from her skin. She combs her fingers through his ruffled hair. "So you do know how to play. That's music to my ears."