But if you try so hard, you just might find, you get what you need – Rolling Stones

Chapter 1

He's hungry. He hasn't been hungry for a long time: not like this, anyway. He's been bored for most of that time: too many pretty, pliant women with no personality; or alternatively the twin harpies of his ex-wives: boring and appalling at once in their different ways. Why he'd thought it a good idea to go straight from one to the other… contrast, he supposes.

Or possibly just stupidity. He still manages that rather more often than he'd like or want. That hasn't changed, success, past, ex-wives or not.

It's cold and lonely in this deep dark night, but he can see a potential paradise in the light of the sign. How appropriate for Hallowe'en: for All Hallow's Eve, a time of spooks and saints; ravens and ravagers; angels and devils alike. His writer's spark adores Hallowe'en: he's never bored on this night.

The Old Haunt, he reads. How very, very appropriate: now, and then. He saunters down the steps and in.

The bar is dark, a little seedy still: just like it used to be – ooohhh, they've put his photo up, now he knows he's a success. Took long enough, though his first efforts (the ones that he never even tried to have published) were truly awful. Too much Gothic horror, too much inspiration from the original inventors of the macabre. Finally, though, he'd found his milieu: thrillers with a proper theme; macabre mysteries with a proper ending.

And now he is, as he has always wanted to be, Richard Edgar Castle: rich; handsome (ruggedly so), famous (or notorious: he doesn't mind).

And bored, and hungry. Which he doesn't want to be, but is.

He looks around, piercing the gloom and the busy bar, and spots his favourite nook. There's someone in it. He pouts, disappointed, and then looks again. Someone is a woman, youngish – maybe twenty-two? Younger than him, certainly, by some distance. She's also stunning. There's a glass on the table in front of her, half empty: there is another one pushed away.

This is a woman trying to drown her sorrows. Maybe she's had a bad break up? A flicker of interest rises: he wants to know her story. He always wants to know the story. He purchases the best Scotch they have, and approaches. As he gets closer, the flicker of interest in her story is joined by a flare of interest simply in her. Stunning isn't the word. She's exactly designed to be perfect for him: brunette (he's always liked brunettes… and blondes, and redheads… truthfully, he just likes women) with a reddish wash through it, undoubtedly a dye job but it's very fitting: a little bloodlike sheen; slim, though the curves are totally enticing and he would love to find out how they fit his hands; and (he thinks) legs from here to Texas. He can just see the shine of her shoes, about six inches further along than he'd expect.

Perfect.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asks. "Everywhere else is occupied." It is. He rarely lies. It's too much trouble to keep track of the lies. Except one lie, of course. He keeps very careful track of that lie.

She makes a weary half-gesture. "Go ahead." He can hear thick misery pooled in her voice, and sits anyway. She stares at her glass, and the table, sightlessly; her hands pale and still, as if it's too much effort to move them further to take her drink and sip.

He swallows a mouthful of Scotch, enjoying the burn, and, most unusually, stays quiet. Near her, his hunger for something different, something – or someone – new, has dulled to a low throb in his body: still a need, but he knows that now he's found what he needs, and he can wait to capture it.

"I need another," she says.

"I'll get them. What was it?"

"Vodka tonic. Single."

He gets the feeling that this is unusual: that she'd normally protest, forbid some stranger from buying her drinks. He ignores that, and orders, exactly what she'd requested. When he sits again, he's closer. She doesn't notice, simply stares into the cold, clear liquid: surely it's reflecting in her eyes.

Or not. When he looks again, there's cold, clear liquid at the corners of her eyes: not a reflection at all. He concentrates for a second. She shivers.

"Are you cold?"

"No," she ghosts out. "Tired."

"Long day?"

"Yeah."

He slips a fraction nearer yet, and concentrates again, and sips his Scotch as she shivers once more. There. That's it. She hasn't quite noticed, yet.

"Wanna talk about it?"

The clear liquid pools. She dashes at her eyes.

"I don't know you, and you don't know me, so it's not like you're admitting stuff to a friend, is it?" he coaxes. "No skin in the game." Another instant of concentration. A shadow flickers behind her. She shifts a little towards him, and he exerts some self-control not to slide an arm around her unhappiness. He's always been driven to fix things. It's probably how he ended up here.

"I need another," she says. "My turn."

"Sure. Scotch for me."

It could be an excuse, but he doesn't think so, and sure enough, she returns with another two glasses. Her legs are even longer than he'd anticipated, and even after the amount she's put away, her walk would make the angels stop and stare. Castle is definitely no angel, and he stares. It makes up for the gap where she'd been, and where –

Well, now. That's interesting. When she sat back down, she's much nearer. This won't take much longer… He concentrates for just a little longer, this time, and almost has to sit on his hand not to wrap that, too, around her. She wriggles, as if she's getting comfortable, and slugs back a healthy mouthful. It seems to break the barrier.

"It's been a hell of a day," she bites out.

You have no idea,Castle thinks, but we can certainly have one hell of a night, if that's what you're looking for. If that's what she needs.

"I'm a cop."

"Really? That's so cool," he blurts, and then quails (yes, he can still quail, he discovers) at the scathing glare. "Sorry. Rough case?"

"You could say that."

She downs her drink again. That's the fourth, and even with single shots that must surely be starting to have an effect? He concludes that she's looking for oblivion, which is something he can undoubtedly provide.

"My mom died."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and concentrates again. She slips closer, as if invisibly cuddled in. Another shadow flickers in the booth, and disappears; reappears and disappears again.

"My dad's head down in a bottle." Pause. "They called me to collect him and I wouldn't go." A tear escapes. "I wouldn't go," she tries not to sob. "It doesn't matter if I go or not go because he won't ever stop."

Castle's arm is round her shuddering shoulders without his thought or any conscious decision. No-one will see, he's made sure of that. But he hadn't expected that story. Bad break-up, yeah. He's seen a few of those, in his time. She's stiff-spined, rigid-shouldered beneath his hand. The persistent throb of hunger for something different takes on a more demanding beat. He hasn't felt that in a very long time.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Let it go for now." He can feel the tears falling. "Sometimes you have to save yourself. C'mere." He pulls a little, encircling her. No-one could see them, now. The shadows fall about them in the dim light. "Just let it go. I've got you."

"I don't know you," she mumbles. "I ought to recognise you" – ooops, no, don't recognise him – "but I don't. Who cares, anyway?" Her voice drops away, but Castle's excellent ears hear her breathed out misery. "No-one cares about me." Her head comes round and drops on his shoulder. "Just one night," she whispers, almost below the limit of hearing. "Why not? Chase the ghosts away."

If only she knew the ghosts he has, and why. Still, his ghosts are no concern of hers.

"When better than Hallowe'en to chase any ghosts away," he rumbles lazily, and tightens his grip in the now deep shadow. "What do you want?"

"I want to forget," she replies, weary sadness dripping through her voice. "I just want to forget. Just tonight." She raises her face to his for the first time. "Kiss me. I'll never see you again after tonight, so kiss me."

She will see him. The insistent pulsing will ensure that he sees her again. Oh yes. For an instant, the wavering, smoky shadows appear to solidify, enclosing them both, sweeping up and over their heads.

He leans down, hand slipping up over her neck to cup her skull, his other arm coming around to encircle her; oh, so slowly, so that she can still, always, draw back and say no, always her choice. Consent is a necessity, in Castle's world.

"Kiss me," she pleads.

Her lips are soft as he touches them, warm beneath his, a little parted. The thrumming in his veins increases: irresistibly powerful. Something about this sadness, her mourning, calls to him in a way he's never felt; her story filling his head; the taste of her lips surging into his nerves. He kisses her slowly, gently, no force, no sweeping passion. Not yet. He wants to, wants to lose himself in her; her to lose herself in him. But not yet, not here.

Still, the kiss deepens, passion rises, he begins to take her mouth more assertively and she responds, herself demanding, taking and giving back. His hand drops to her hip, hers are in his hair, pulling him down. She sweeps and steals his lips again, nips, not quite hard enough to break the skin but certainly enough to fire him up.

The shadows are solid now: black around them and soaring to crossed points high above her head, enveloping them. He lifts away for a second, and she makes a tiny noise of complaint.

"More?" he entices. The shadows thin and hide in the gloom.

She looks around. "Not here. Come with me." That, he thinks, was rather the point; and goes with her. Behind him, the shadows swoop and flutter, trailing, and then curve around her slim form.

"What's your name?"

"Kate," she allows him, stopping there. He doesn't ask for more: instead he whistles down a taxi, and makes it clear he's not listening to the address she gives.

It's dark in the cab, and he cuddles her in once more: strong arms around her in the dark, gentle patterns on her shoulder; the shadows dancing over her face, stroking it. She's so soft against him, and he wonders that she can't hear the beating in his nerves, the pulsing in his mind. He can almost hear her heart, the blood flowing through her veins; the sluggish misery in her whole demeanour. He cossets her closer, a tiny touch of passion, a smidgeon of arousal; and it lightens her; she leans into him and brings her lips to his again.

Too soon they're at her block. She tries to pay the cab, but he forestalls her.

"My treat," he murmurs. "Allow me."

"Whatever. Thank you."

At her door he hesitates.

"Come in," she invites, and only then he moves. He shuts the door tidily, looks around at the space, and then finally looks at her in full light. She's stunning: gorgeous, taking off her gun and shield to put them away; long legs stepping out of high heels; brown eyes flecked green and gold but still liquid with pain.

He steps forward and gathers her in: a little more assertion, because after all she's invited him here, and invited him to make her forget, and there's one sure way to achieve that. He bends a little, knotting fingers through her hair, slants her skull to the perfect angle and smoothly, suavely takes her mouth once more with all the leashed power and extensive experience at his command. She sighs and concedes the lead to him, letting him heat her up and hold her in, owning her sweet, soft mouth and feeling her rising arousal in the press of her form against him. His coat slips off; hers already gone: she's so receptive and so hot: flame against his cool skin.

He enfolds her, and the shadows that trail him swirl around and behind and enclose her: binding her into him. Her eyes shut beneath his kiss, she doesn't notice, but he does, and keeps her closer yet. Impatience won't serve him here.

"So pretty," he murmurs, darkly seductive. "You're gorgeous."

Her eyes blink open, hazed and heated, wide-pupilled and dilated. "Like your eyes," she returns. "Always liked blue eyes." He smiles, sleepily, strokes one hand down her back in acceptance of the compliment. "Kiss me again."

Who is he to refuse her invitations? The rule is clear, he has to be invited. He never goes where he's not invited, no matter the hungry throbbing and desire. But here and now, he's invited.

"Still want to forget?"

"Oh, yes," she sighs out on a long breath of pain. "Help me forget."

The hand on her back slides down, spreading wide over her ass, pressing her in against the hard arousal and firm welcome of his need. Her hips roll and she squirms, rubbing over him, taking his mouth as he had an instant ago taken hers. A long leg lifts around his waist, and suddenly slow and suave is turning to hot burn.

He raids her lips, and then he pushes her shirt from her waist and finds smooth skin beneath. She wriggles.

"Cold hands," she complains, and he grins, a flash of white teeth.

"They'll be warm in a moment." And they are; heating as he does; everything speeding up as he seeks and finds hot response and he can't stop, can't resist any longer, nips her full lip and tastes the drop of blood –

And the shadows around her spring close to full solidity: black wings imprisoning them both as he drowns her in his passion, lets his hunger spring free and savour the single drop her lips have given to him, touches her with hard, hot intent and she's not noticed the midnight around her, not yet; drugged with her own desire. It's too soon for that. Always, forever, too soon for that.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Okay, so two Hallowe'en Bash fics is probably at least one too many, but the idea floated into my head so I wrote it. Two chapters of Hallowe'en Sexy. You have a choice: second chapter tomorrow or second chapter Wednesday. Misdirection will conclude tomorrow regardless. (barring tragic accident, of course, or being eaten by the ghosts in the dark...)