He was just being nice. The mattress is actually a pain in the ass. And the hips, and the back. The wunderkind ergonomics guys who design pull-out couches always seem to forget that people have spinal columns and that, generally, they're not the kind of thing you want a big metal bar impinging on.

Castle spends about fifteen minutes throwing his body around on the mattress, trying to find the position of least resistance, uprooting the sheets in the process. It's no use. Castle's no sooner gonna' get any sleep on this couch than if he was shacking up in one of Kim-Jong's "luxury hotels."

The chair by the bookshelf will do. It's big, deep, and looks like it's seen its fair share of occupants over the years so the cushion will be pretty pliant. 'Copy of Unholy Storm in hand, Castle drops into the chair with a luxuriant sigh; this is far and above the conditions on the couch. He cracks the spine of the book and begins to read, using the streetlight outside for light.

He must have drifted, then dozed. (Is my writing that boring?) Something -- other than the jab of the book corner beneath his ribs -- woke him up. He strains in the dark, leaning forward, to hear.

Beckett.

And like that he's up, bumping elbows along the hall, trying to navigate her apartment in the dark. Heart hammering in his chest. His ribs feel like they're about to crack outward, every pulse of adrenaline leaving a stain underneath his tongue.

He pushes the bedroom door ajar.

"Beckett?"