Fixing It In Post

A/N: My dad has worked at the local NBC news affiliate all my life. As kids, my brother and I would be in PSAs or commercials the station produced, and sometimes it would go for hours - all day - doing the same action over and over. One of my dad's favorite things to say after a long run of mistakes was always: "We'll fix it in post." Meaning post-production, where you can go back and edit so that it says what you want it to say, removes all the stutters, and cleans it up for the viewing audience.

Thanks, Dad. I'm fixing it in a post-ep.

Kate's fingers unfurl against the mattress in a half-hearted attempt to catch him as he leaves. "Wait," she murmurs. "Where you going?"

Castle turns back to her holding up both hands and wriggling his fingers - and his eyebrows, goofy man - before leaning back in and brushing a barely there kiss to her temple. "Gotta wash my hands." A rumble of laughter that washes over her. "Where else would I be going?"

She closes her eyes, still adrift on a wave of boneless beautiful nothing, and she has to admit that a massage does actually solve quite a lot of problems. Who cares that sexy hair and wearing his dress shirt casually draped doesn't seem to do it for him anymore? She could fall asleep like this. There were all these things she meant to say, cutting remarks about having a thing for playboys who won't take no for an answer, or when has she ever said please to get him to do what she wants, or did you run out of Viagra?

But all that has melted away. She's sinking heavy through a salt sea, barely able to convince her own lungs to expand and contract, so wonderfully relaxed and just plain heaven.

She feels the bed dip and then his body - heated and wide - pass over hers to lie down beside her. She gives it a moment, recalling her focus with some difficulty, gathering her awareness back to her. She opens her eyes and sees Castle watching her, his head on the next pillow, his gaze too thoughtful for midnight and post-massage and this wonderful bliss of nothing.

He lifts his hand between them and his finger comes to stroke along her forearm, up and down, soft and almost absent-minded. Her skin rushes with goose bumps and he must notice, because he reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, draws it up over her, his touch light, his face ready to smile.

She catches one edge of the blanket and lifts it towards him; the quick way he scoots in right beside her, gathering her up, makes her lips twist a smile in response. She closes her eyes again as he settles them. She's slick with massage oil, but Castle doesn't seem to care and the heat of his body keeps her warm. She's melted all over him and she likes it.

His palm is low at her back, and she curls her knees to twine between his legs, feels the rumble of pleasure vibrating in him. His cheek brushes the top of her head and his fingers work along her spine, and everything else seems ridiculous and far away.

"Where else would I be going, Kate?" he murmurs. The question is so faint that she wonders if it's just an echo in her head, if it's just the residual wash of everything else.

But then his fingers still and his lips press into her temple and his breath is caught and she knows there are moments for this, that timing is everything, and that naked and sprawled over his chest probably isn't ideal - for her - but she says it anyway.

"I don't know. But I. . .I'm going there too?"

His chest stutters and then his fingers drag up her spine and cradle the back of her head, soft but heavy in her hair.

"I.. .didn't realize that was a question," he says finally.

"Me either." She feels the frown tugging at the muscles of her forehead, between her eyes, but she's too blissed to actually make that work, and so instead she sighs out and tries not to close her eyes. Best she can accomplish. "Me either. Why is it a question at all?"

"You asked."

"You made me."

He tilts his head, wariness replacing that easy humor, and she wonders suddenly if that's it. Wariness. He's got game, he's got charm and charisma and those books, and he's got her, but he doesn't think he can keep her unless he's very, very careful.

He can't keep her. He's not careful enough to keep her.

But they can do a lot of things, they can do this, if they do it together.

"I made you. . .?" he prompts, but too late, Castle. Too late. She's muzzy with his hands and his body warm under hers and her eyes have already slipped shut again.

She drifts back to the deeper darkness, tugged from time to time by the slow stroke of his fingers down her back, through her hair, his thumb at her cheek. She's so close to being gone, but not quite, not quite. . .

And then she hears him, tenor and tone, a rumble and a hum, and she doesn't know what he's saying, doesn't distinguish words, but understands it's everything anyway. It's everything spoken in softness and into her sleep and she wonders. . .just before she's asleep. . .she wonders if this is why her dreams are so vividly about him when she's here.

I love you, I love all of everything about you, the shape of your ear and the flash of anger and the badge even when it comes between us because where else would I be, Kate? Where else am I going but to be here with you?

She rouses long enough to curl her fingers in his shirt, but nothing more.

I'd get you a ring if I thought you'd wear it.

Kate sighs an answer, her words pulled up from some somnolent, stirring place. "I'd wear it."

And then she's asleep.