Beckett doesn't smell coffee. That's the first oddity. Then again, Beckett thinks, it is a Saturday, and even though death typically waits for no man - and certainly not for the 12th Precinct of the NYPD - it's usually the fuel she needs to kickstart her morning. There are some days where she literally doesn't have time for even coffee - and somehow Castle finds a way to get it to her, whether it means stopping somewhere on the way to a crime scene or finding her at her desk later with a fresh cappuccino from the espresso maker.
Silence - relative New York silence, the kind where she can still occasionally hear the errant honk of a taxi cab on the street below - can be nice. In her own apartment, it's what she's used to. In staying at Castle's, though, she's grown accustomed to some noise in her mornings, whether it's the man in question whistling while he makes omelettes or Martha's latest memorization of a monologue. Silence here is unnerving. It makes her antsy. And it has her completely awake in no time at all.
Beckett rolls over, limbs briefly tangled in the sheets before she frees herself, and swings her feet over the edge of the bed, her toes bumping into the boots she'd barely managed to pry off last night before her head had hit the pillow. One perk about them dating - seeing each other, whatever - is that the bed he keeps for his own feels like a dream, and she's always out in no time at all provided they both have sleep on the brain.
She knows how she looks, hair mussed from sleep, and she pads over to the adjoining bathroom to scrub any lingering remnants of makeup off her face first. No sense in greeting him with scary morning face in addition to scary morning breath. She runs a brush through her hair and leaves it loose, wavy and curling long over one shoulder, and then goes in search, ticking off a mental list of possibilities and ruling out several rooms right away. Her first instinct is the right one, and she lingers in the doorway of his office.
"What're you doin'?" she asks, her voice thick from sleep and lack of use. She can't help but smile at the sight of him smiling, standing there in his robe, and she moves in closer, her arms encircling his middle underneath the robe as she draws herself into him. He's warm, solid, fits against her, and she tips her head to one side to study the book in his hand.
no subject
Silence - relative New York silence, the kind where she can still occasionally hear the errant honk of a taxi cab on the street below - can be nice. In her own apartment, it's what she's used to. In staying at Castle's, though, she's grown accustomed to some noise in her mornings, whether it's the man in question whistling while he makes omelettes or Martha's latest memorization of a monologue. Silence here is unnerving. It makes her antsy. And it has her completely awake in no time at all.
Beckett rolls over, limbs briefly tangled in the sheets before she frees herself, and swings her feet over the edge of the bed, her toes bumping into the boots she'd barely managed to pry off last night before her head had hit the pillow. One perk about them dating - seeing each other, whatever - is that the bed he keeps for his own feels like a dream, and she's always out in no time at all provided they both have sleep on the brain.
She knows how she looks, hair mussed from sleep, and she pads over to the adjoining bathroom to scrub any lingering remnants of makeup off her face first. No sense in greeting him with scary morning face in addition to scary morning breath. She runs a brush through her hair and leaves it loose, wavy and curling long over one shoulder, and then goes in search, ticking off a mental list of possibilities and ruling out several rooms right away. Her first instinct is the right one, and she lingers in the doorway of his office.
"What're you doin'?" she asks, her voice thick from sleep and lack of use. She can't help but smile at the sight of him smiling, standing there in his robe, and she moves in closer, her arms encircling his middle underneath the robe as she draws herself into him. He's warm, solid, fits against her, and she tips her head to one side to study the book in his hand.
"Reminiscing?"