Castle assembles his legs and gets up after her, his head swimming for a second or two (the perfect remedy for which, he decides, is another swig out of one of the wine glasses on the coffee table) while they both navigate the temporary awkwardness that comes after deciding to take things elsewhere. He's tired and worn out, sure, running on the last dregs of his own adrenaline, but Beckett being near gives him a stunning clarity of mind that's either madness or the sheer will to get to where they're going.

He drags the blanket up over the back of the couch for safekeeping and follows her, his hand floating in the empty space above hers while he wrestles with the impulse to take her fingers.