The Game is On

AN: Happy Castle finale Monday. ALWAYS! :)

He crawls underneath the stairs, crouching in wait. His apartment lies mostly in semi-darkness, the lights still off from his sneak attack on Alexis earlier. The flickering fireplace provides the only illumination, casting shadows along the walls, over the furniture, and into corners, nooks and crannies.

His eyes are trained toward the living room, focused on any movement that clashes with the dance of the shadows. The room lies silent; no creaks, no sounds. She's stealth, he'll give her that. But he knows she's there somewhere, he can sense it…

She can't believe he got her so quickly the first time. Sure, he knows his home much better, but that's no excuse. She's a police officer, for crying out loud, and he isn't supposed to just sneak up on her like that.

No more. She is so going to beat his pants off.

She presses flat against the wall, her back straight, gun poised and ready. Her senses are alert; she tries to calm her heart from the sprint, focuses on breathing slowly, low in her chest. The shadow hides her well and so she turns her head to the side, squints around the corner, her hearing trained on any sound that might give away his position.

This time, he won't escape.

She can't be far. It is impossible that she just vanished like that. He scoots around the corner behind the piano, flattened against the wall as he moves, hidden away as much as possible within the shadows and the curtains by his window. He's been stalking her for who knows how long now, and one would think he'd have home court advantage; he knows his loft, right? But she just… disappeared.

Ever so craftily, he glides along the wall, shimmies around the doorway.

She lands on top of him; silent, fluid movements like a cat, appearing from somewhere above, tackling him to the ground. She sits on his lower back, shimmies forward, her hands press against his shoulder blades, and he groans.

"Victory," she growls into his ear, her voice low, ever so sexy. "Shall be mine."

Tiptoeing along the counters of the kitchen, Alexis follows the low noise she just heard to her right, but now all remains quiet. Undeterred, she drops low, crawls along walls, hidden by shadows, furniture.

They are good, but not good enough. She owns this game.

Castle surreptitiously robs along the hardwood floor, slightly shifts his torso in a zigzag of movements, knowing just how to avoid the game equipment emitting any squeaking sounds against the ground. He can see Kate's lovely backside; she is completely unaware of his approach from behind and he scoots closer, closer…

Beckett makes eye contact with Alexis on the other side of the room. Holding her attention, she points two fingers at her eyes, then one toward the entrance to his office. The girl nods, and vanishes into the shadows once more.

He is ninja, he is stealth. Hidden in the small compartment, he peers through the crack, watching her approach.

They don't know about the secret closet in the secret lair…

She knows this is a risky move; very risky. If it goes wrong she'll be like a sitting duck. Or lying, as it is.

Kate waits, flattened, covered from head to toe, her ears trained on any sound, her breathing calm.

There it is, movements, quiet steps coming closer; she is ready, waits for just the right moment.

3 hours later

They sit, leg to leg on the couch, massive bowls of ice cream in their laps. Zombie make up streaked and smeared, pieces of glue, mask, and gunk hanging from their chins, ears and hair. They look patently ridiculous.

Castle looks sideways at Beckett and chuckles. Incongruous things always make him chuckle. While she does make the most attractive zombie he's ever seen, she still looks down right absurd with that huge bowl of vanilla swirl black velvet ice cream with a mountain of colorfully sprinkled whipped cream and a bright pink cherry on top.

They look like an Addams Family birthday party.

"So tell me," Beckett says, eating her ice cream from the outside in, saving the whipped cream for last. "How old was Alexis when you bought this place?"

"She was about eight years old, why?"

"I see. And you had the whole place rebuilt to your…specifications?"

His brow furrows, unsure where this is going. "Yes," he says slowly.

"Well that explains it," she says, and he tries not to stare as she tongues a fleck of whipped cream from her spoon.

"Explains what?"

"Only you would choose a loft in New York based on its laser tag potential."

Alexis laughs as she bites into her Klondike bar. "She totally has your number!"

"Among other things," he murmurs, his voice low and private, and Beckett chokes on a chunk of black velvet. He smirks, pats her on the back.

Alexis shakes her head, "I still can't believe she got the drop on you. In the kitchen of all places!" She turns to Beckett. "Did you know he installed extra squeaky floors in there just to be able to hear me coming around the corner?"

Beckett laughs while Castle pipes in. "Hey you're only mad because that worked!"

"Besides," he pouts, "she only got the drop on me because my mother," he turns his head, glares at Martha, "my own mother, has once again gone behind enemy lines!"

"I don't know what on earth you're talking about," Martha declares whimsically, but then she winks at Kate in approval, and the detective softly smiles back.

He narrows his eyebrows at them, but a secret thrill rushes through him at the sight of his women, the most important people in his life getting along, holding together, even if it is to close ranks against him.

Things had been said, unpleasant things, but he thinks that his mother always saw behind them, saw through him, and carefully nudged him to come to his own realizations once the worst of his anger had subsided.

"The squeaky floors have become your own enemy, Castle," Beckett smirks at him, eyes narrowed like a cat-like predator.

It so had not. He had been ever so devious, sneaking through the shadows; he was convinced Kate had to be in the kitchen but when he slithered around the pillar, he came up short as his mother casually stood by the kitchen counter, pouring herself a glass of wine.

"Mother! Have you seen Beckett?"

"Beckett is here?" She questioned, her voice a familiar mix of teasing and pride. "That's a surprise." Ever the actress.

He sagged his shoulders, turned to eye the dining area searchingly and just at that moment, Kate came at him from the left; leaping from behind the counter she got her shot off, right into his shoulder sensor; she twirled a victory lap around his body, an exhilarated laugh dancing on her lips, then sprinted back into the living room, disappearing once more.

"I so got you back for that in my secret lair," he brags, recalling his epic mini victory. Kate had actually squealed, well just a little bit, when he jumped toward her from the hidden closet.

"Not as good as I got you in your bedroom."

"Speaking of, I cannot believe you were finally in my bed and I missed it," he grounds out suggestively, and then she looks into his eyes, and his heart thunders loudly, and the air swirls with infinite possibilities.

"Ewww, you guys," Alexis shudders, scoots back into the corner of the sectional. "Gross!"

Kate giggles, blinks up at him and then they both burst out in laughter.

"Sooo," his mother steeples her fingers together, "who actually won this epic battle?"

"The women, of course," Alexis announces smugly toward her father.

"Did not," he objects, mock-offended.

"Did, too," they chorus, two sets of narrowed eyes staring at him.

"I was winning," Alexis counts off on her fingers, "until Kate had the faster draw there at the end battle, and now we," she trails a finger between herself and Beckett, "are even, and you," she points at him, lifts her eyebrows, "lost!"

She jostles Kate against the shoulder and the women smile at each other, then high five.

He had been fast on Kate's heels; they were just sprinting through the apartment, all three of them chasing each other at the end, squealing and laughing; she raced away into his office and he took the shortcut from his bedroom to his hallway, then immediately swerved right and just saw her trying to weasel behind the piano.

"Got'cha!" he bellowed and she swiveled around; he aimed, arm straight out, focused on the sensor on her front and then… he couldn't.

He could not shoot her in the chest.

A tenth of a second stretched into infinity as they stood, staring at each other across the distance of the living room, and then she caught herself, pulled her laser gun, aimed, and shot at his shoulder sensor. Alexis came jumping out from behind the curtain, squealed, danced a victory jiggle around Beckett, and the moment disintegrated with all of their peeling laughter.

Her warm hand on his thigh startles him out of his reverie. She squeezes his leg just above the knee, looks at her, holding her eyes for a long moment, and then he knows- that she knows.

He playfully narrows his eyes at both of them.

"This isn't over," he acknowledges their victory. "I will be demanding a rematch!"

Beckett smirks at him, slowly licks another dollop of whipped cream off her spoon. "Bring. It. On."

He walks her to her car, parked about a block from his building. The May evening air is fresh, heavy from an earlier spring rain, ripe with expectation and promise.

They are quiet; Kate soaks the fresh air into her lungs, the cooling breeze a comfort against the skin of her face. Martha had helped with some great theater-strength make-up remover but her skin is still a little itchy from all the gunk.

It had been so much fun.

Their arms brush as they walk, his presence warm against hers, a familiar comfort and she makes it about three more steps before she gently brushes her fingers against his knuckles.

He sucks in a startled breath, turns his head toward her, and then he slowly, deliberately laces his fingers with hers. His warmth travels through her, her skin alive and she smiles through her thumping heartbeats and squeezes his hand.

She leans her back against the door of her car when they arrive, not quite ready to go, to let him go, for the evening to end and he stands close, their hands still entwined. Her hair feels crusty, like thick brittle rope when she instinctively runs her hand through it and a flash of self-consciousness pinkens her cheeks.

"I must look horrible."

He lifts her face toward his by her chin. "You… look beautiful," he murmurs reverently, his voice laced with wonder.

Heat slices through her body, strong and uncontainable; she tugs him toward her by his hand, needs him closer; his body front to front with hers, separated only by an inch of space that glimmers and sparks with anticipation.

He runs his hand over her cheek, outlines her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw, travels over her chin and she leans her face into his touches, her eyes falling closed.

"Almost there, huh?" He murmurs, tenderly tracing her features, painting her portrait with his fingertips.

She blinks open her eyes and he's so close now. Within reach. Hers. And her heart is leaping, almost dancing out of her chest in happiness. Kate huddles closer, takes in his scent, fresh wood and leaves and enticing male.

"Almost…" She whispers, and then she bridges the space between them, and kisses him, tenderly tracing his mouth with hers and his lips are soft against hers, gentle and giving.

"You taste like make-up," she murmurs on a small laugh, the words dancing against his lips.

He stares at her intently, his fingers tripping along the cords of her neck, his eyes glittering darkly, alight with passion and warmth.

"You taste like you," he murmurs, and then he kisses her again, and is tender and sunshine and aching and full of promise.

"Tomorrow?" She whispers as they slowly pull apart, and it feels like the world has shifted since she last said the word.

"Tomorrow," he promises, and then she slides into her car with a smile.

The End