Ink

She's half-asleep when he starts stroking his fingertips over her hipbone, over and over, his body warm and heavy against hers. Kate stirs and tries to open her eyes, but it's too good, and she's tired, and he can do whatever he wants if he lets her sleep.

"Kate?"

"Hmm, sleep, Castle."

Fingers along her belly button, back around to her hip, tracing, and then she remembers.

"Told you about it," she says, manages to curl her arm around his waist, palm at his lower back.

"Just forgot till now," he murmurs, his mouth at her neck, roving to her collarbone, tongue laving her skin.

Okay, she's up. She's awake.

Kate curls onto her side, his body moving back with hers. He slides his hand up her side, cups her face; he's smiling that soft and easy smile, the confident one.

She turns her head, presses her lips to his wrist.

"When'd you get it?" he whispers.

"You know when," she sighs, glancing down her body to the tattoo on her hip bone.

"After your mom died." His hand strokes back down, thumb brushing the ink. "It's good. Clever."

"Clever?" She arches an eyebrow and hooks her fingers around his wrist, meets him at her hip, both of them touching the tattoo.

Castle huffs and gives her a grin, his eyes dancing in the darkness of her bedroom. He leans in and kisses her, soft and wet, hot, his mouth over hers. She forgets the tattoo for a moment, wraps her arm around his neck, another at his back, pulls him into her.

"That's clever," he murmurs, making her arch against him with just the play of his fingers.

Oh. Then he moves down her body; she clutches at him, a knee drawn up, his mouth at her hip.

"Tell me the story," he says against her skin.

She jerks against the touch of his tongue, laughs, pushing her hands into his hair, tilting his head up. "Of course you want the story. More than this?" She touches him, suggestive and clever, and he laughs back, a humming sound in the back of his throat.

"Definitely want this, but the story first?"

Kate tugs on him, pulls him up with her against the pillows, waits until he settles down next to her. But it feels strange, lying down with him to tell this story. She needs to be up, needs to not be vulnerable, needs-

"Need clothes on for this?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

She huffs and closes her eyes. He knows her way too well. "Yes. Maybe so."

"I don't wanna-" he whines, but he's already moving.

She opens her eyes right when he tosses a tshirt onto her face. Laughing, she lifts up on her elbows, watching him struggle into boxers, his dress shirt. She grins and slides the tshirt over her head, gets out of bed. It's just a white tshirt; she grabs her own boxers and pulls them on, takes him by the hand.

He follows her out into the living room, towards the kitchen. She opens the fridge, finds almost nothing. Castle reaches past her and grabs jelly, then the loaf of bread she has to keep in there so it won't mold.

"Peanut butter and jelly?" he asks.

"Sounds good," she returns, shutting the door and heading for the cabinet. She pulls down peanut butter, hands it over; he's already found a knife.

"So?"

"No need to prompt. I'm gonna tell you," she teases, nudging his hip. She watches him for a moment, the wide palms handling the knife, the bread. He looks good in her kitchen, he looks at ease; she likes him like this. Likes him looking comfortable around her again. Happy.

She makes him happy. And yeah, he's usually a happy guy, but this is a happiness that isn't circumstantial, that doesn't rely on-

Oh. Oh, it's joy.

He glances up at her, questions in his eyes, and catches sight of her face. He drops the sandwich he's making, reaches for her. She's shaking her head, it's nothing, it's just a sudden and overwhelming rush of that same joy-

"Love you," she murmurs into his neck, feels his arms tight around her.

"Love you," he says back, a kiss at her cheekbone, the warmth of him surrounding her. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," she says quickly. "It's a good story."

She stays there a moment longer, then pushes back.

"Finish making me a sandwich."

He laughs. "You a sandwich? I don't think so. This one's mine."

She smirks at him, heading for the bar stool in front of the kitchen island. "Oh yeah?"

"No. Not really," he sighs dramatically. Castle spreads the last of the peanut butter over the bread, slaps it together. He grabs a paper towel and hands it to her with the sandwich on top, but she doesn't take it.

"Not-uh," she says, refusing it. "Not done yet."

"Ooh, really? You got bananas here?" He swivels his head, looking for fruit in her kitchen.

"Ew, no, Castle. You didn't cut it."

He glances back at her, then down to the sandwich. He sets it down, cuts it into triangles, hands it back over. "What a child," he huffs.

She grins at him. "Of the two of us, hardly."

He flashes her a little look, heat and intimacy, and she bites her lower lip, snags the first triangle and stuffs it in her mouth. She waits until he's made his own sandwich, pats the seat next to her.

When Castle is settled and starting in on their midnight snack, she licks peanut butter off her thumb and turns towards him.

"I wanted a tattoo when I turned 18, but I wasn't clear on what. I had some ideas-"

"A dolphin on the back of your shoulder," he murmurs.

She laughs at that. "Um, close. Shut up."

He twitches his lips at her, gets off the bar stool. "Want water or milk or something?"

Milk sounds heavenly. "I don't have any mi-"

He pulls it out of her fridge with a flourish, his grin so wide that it fills up his whole face, all beautiful smile and crinkled eyes and in her kitchen. Where he wants to be, where she wants him to be.

"Milk it is," he laughs at her, reaching for glasses from the cabinet next to the fridge.

She grins back. "When'd you get me milk?"

"Couple days ago."

"Forward thinking."

"You mean. . .thinking about the future? Or do you mean, pushy-forward?"

She shakes her head and takes the glass of milk. "Both." But she's grinning at him still, letting him know - she likes it. Has liked it for a while now.

He settles back beside her, taking a long gulp of milk. She waits, then presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

"No dolphin, but something equally not cool," she says. "But I never got it. I went to college, came back for Christmas break. Then."

"Then your mom died," he says, easily enough.

Easily enough. She can do it too. "Yes. And after my mom died, I knew exactly what I needed, what it would be."

"Sword of justice," he says quietly, his fingers at her hipbone, shifting under the tshirt to touch her skin. "Sword and scales."

She nods. "I had a friend design it for me. He made it so that the scales hang from the hilt of the sword."

"I bet you were - you wanted the sword more than the scales, didn't you?"

She nods again, glances down to pull the waistband of her boxers down. It's small, the sword only goes from the top of her hipbone to the bottom, an inch or so. The hilt is at the top, the blade points down; the scales balance on either side of the guard.

She rubs her thumb over it, feels the soft ridges of the black ink. "I'm glad he made the scales-"

"He?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Not the important part here, Castle."

"Just trying to get a good picture," he says, faking innocence.

She's about to brush him off when she realizes that Castle really does like to know the details of her story, all of her stories, what makes her . . .her. "A friend from Stanford. Craig. Graphic design major."

She sees his frown, feels his fingers stroke over the tattoo. "And he made this for you? You asked him to?"

"He offered. I said I needed to - I was going to transfer back home. I needed a way to memorialize my mom and what she stood for. I was pre-law at Stanford, so he knew."

"You had a year at Stanford?" he asks, surprise in his voice.

"No," she says. "A semester. I never went back that second semester. Craig tried to keep in touch with me."

"Of course he did. I would have too," Castle says, his thumb stroking up along her side now, comfort rather than anything else. She smiles at him to show she can still smile.

"I said I was going to do it. And he emailed me the design. I was furious at first. I told him it wasn't right. I told him to remake it - I wanted it to be - righteous. As furious as I was. As hurt-"

"The scales," he murmurs.

She nods with a laugh. "He was a junior. Maybe that made him wiser than me. I emailed him once a few years ago. Thanked him for not giving in to me, not taking the scales out. I appreciate it now, what he was trying to say."

Castle lets go of her hip, circles his fingers around her wrist before dropping that too. "Why did you use his design? If you didn't like the reminder."

"I guess I knew, even then, that justice was fair, and blind, no matter that I wanted the sword. That I needed the sword. When I finally got the tattoo, I was already thinking about going to the police academy. And I figured the scales were part of it too, and I needed to remember that."

"I like it," he says. "It means something. It's a good tattoo."

She lifts her eyebrow, but it's sweet, his approval. Not that she needs it, but it feels right. Because Castle has been a part of this longer than even he knows. With his books.

"I'm glad that the scales are part of it," he says. "Because that's you. That's what you are. I don't know which came first - the design influencing you or the design a reflection of you - but I know you're better for it. The reminder of both."

She lifts her lips into a smile, leans forward to meet his mouth. Peanut butter and jelly, sweet and rich. His tongue swipes at her; she opens to him and finds herself falling off the bar stool and into him, entirely off-balanced when he starts touching her.

They break apart, laughing softly, Castle catching her. She presses her nose into his neck, wraps her arms around his shoulders.

"Back to bed."

"But I didn't finish my sandwich," he mutters, his lips skating her shoulder, nudging past the tshirt.

"Sandwich or me?" she says back, pushing her hips into him.

"Oh you, you, you." His mouth latches on to her jaw. "Every time."

She hums and stumbles back, dragging him with her. He's working the tshirt over her head.

"I want-" he mutters, suckles at her neck before finally shucking her shirt. "I want to trace that tattoo with my tongue-"

Oh. Yes.

"-and then all over," he finishes.

"Back to bed, Castle. Right now."