AN: In 2x06 - Vampire Weekend, Castle jokes that he's seen Beckett's tattoo. We know in Season 3, he is surprised to learn she has a tattoo, so he was clearly just teasing, but it made me wonder... how might he have seen her tattoo back in season 2. Et voila. An episode insert for 2x05 - When the Bough Breaks.

Come on, Castle, you know mine. Tit for tat.

Just because I've seen your tat, doesn't mean I'm going to show you my—

He's not entirely sure how the night took him here, to Beckett's apartment. To Beckett's apartment with an incredibly warm and slightly drunk – okay, very drunk – Kate Beckett pressing him back into her front door and sucking his tongue into her mouth.

He's not entirely sure, but he thinks it might have something to do with the three vodka martinis he saw her pound back after they parted ways in a huff at his book launch party. Wounded pride or not, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Not when she was in that dress, not when she made such a public show of the liquor sliding down her throat, not when she was being circled by the men at the bar like a pack of wolves around raw meat.

When wolf man number three put his paw on her hip, Castle couldn't take it anymore. He rose from the table where he'd been smiling inanely and answering questions with the two brain cells he hadn't devoted to Mission: Watch Kate Beckett, made his excuses to his simpering fans, and stalked over to her. He approached from behind, wrapped his left hand around her stomach and pulled her out of the third wolf's grasp. The vodka had clearly taken the edge off her anger because she didn't kill him immediately, but his unwanted show of possessiveness did earn him a nearly fatal glare.

And now it's hard to really make sense of what happened after that – now, with Beckett's fingers clawing through his hair and those little grunts she's emitting – but he vaguely recalls that she'd dragged him into a corner, reamed him out for acting like a caveman, he had fought back (he'd only been protecting her from cavemen) (but of course she didn't need his protection), and somehow their harsh, angry whispers had turned into frantic, bruising kisses. Again, he's not entirely sure. But he might be leaving an offering at the temple of the vodka gods tomorrow.

Then there was a cab ride in which his lap became intimately familiar with every contour of Beckett's ass, then the best elevator ride of his life (so far), and now he's here, here, when The Ghost of Paula Past pops into his head – get her out of your system – and he pulls back from Beckett with a start.

"Beckett—" She's still undulating against his thigh, peppering his jawline with sloppy kisses. He closes his eyes, summons his will power, and focuses on what he wants, needs, to get out. "Beckett, I know you're… kinda drunk right now, and this probably isn't the smartest start to, well, anything, but I want you to know…" He wraps his hands around her biceps and pulls back to lock eyes with her. "Beckett, this isn't me just trying to get you out of my system. You said I always do what I want to do, but this – this is what I want. You and me. So if you want to—"

She presses her left palm across his mouth, silences him.

"One," she says as she pokes her pointer finger into his sternum, "I am not that drunk." She teeters on one high heel as she kicks off the other. "And two," she adds a second finger to her prodding, "you talk too much."

With that, she traipses her fingers down his front, reaches into his pants, and leads him into her bedroom with a firm grip.

She actually is that drunk. Not so drunk that she doesn't know what she's doing. And not so drunk that she won't remember this, him, in the morning. But drunk enough that her inhibitions are low, way low, down in the subway low, which is how she ended up with the Herve Leger bunched around her waist and Castle's clean shaven cheeks between her thighs.

His head pops up in surprise after she pushes him down the first time. "Beckett—you have a tattoo," he says with a voice full of awe. "You have… the sun. On your…thigh. Waaaay up…" He trails off as he catches sight of the lazy grin spreading on her face. His eyes crinkle in delight at his discovery.

"Yeah. I do," she confirms.

She threads her fingers into the soft hairs at his nape and presses down again, making it clear that's all he's going to get for now, so he ducks his head for a little sun worship. She smirks, commits his awe to memory before letting the sensations take over again. Everything is a little desensitized, a little hazy, thanks to the alcohol pumping through her veins, but Castle is so fucking good with his thick fingers and his warm wet tongue. She is vocal during the build up, moaning and encouraging and directing him where she wants him, how she wants him, until the tightening coil of need springs free and she tenses, muted, frozen, as the ecstasy ripples through her body. He brings her down gently, lets her ride the ebbing waves of pleasure in silence.

She brings her legs together, turns onto her side, and curls her knees up slightly. "Castle," she says on an exhale. He shimmies up next to her at her call and turns on his side in mirror image. "That," she says as her hand reaches out, grazes his bare chest, "was so good." He studies her face for a minute, her close-lipped grin, her eyes still clamped shut. He watches the reliving of the pleasure play out on her face and he prides himself on the quieting of her heaving breaths. He reaches an arm over her for the condom in his wallet on her nightstand when he sees the flash of a new message on his phone. It's Alexis. He hesitates for a half-second, glancing back down at Beckett's still form beneath him, before grabbing the phone and quickly pulling up the new text. He groans.

"Beckett—" He breathes out her name with audible regret, still hovering half over her with his torso, unable to meet her eyes. Fuck. "Beckett, I've got to go…"

"Girl drama between Alexis and Taylor… or something…" he explains, fearing her silence.

"She needs me," he excuses, hates that he has to excuse this, hates that there is anything to excuse.

"Beckett?"

He settles back on one elbow and sees her face slack and her eyes shut. Her even exhales give him all the confirmation he needs. He smirks and huffs out at her sleeping form, "Katherine Beckett, you are so not going to live this down."

He eases out from between her sheets and off the other side of the bed. He finds his shirt, buttons it and tucks the ends into his dress pants, rearranges himself. He takes a moment to commit her silhouette to memory, the curve of her hip and the rise of her breast, still cloaked in the now-rumpled Herve Leger. He gently tugs the smooth blue fabric down to her thighs, pulls the sheet up and tucks it around her shoulders. He lingers there, breathes her in, the scent of her sweat and cherries and vodka comitting this night to his memory. He presses a kiss to her cheek, glancing the corner of her mouth, and leaves.

She wakes to a streak of sun falling across her eyelids and the unforgiving pound of a vodka hangover in her head. Three seconds after easing into consciousness, her whole body freezes. She's still in her dress, but no underwear – and Castle… Castle was here. Oh God.

The bed is empty next to her. Her apartment is silent. His words from last night ring in her ear. Oh, come on, what man has ever turned you away.

Her stomach drops.

She doesn't find the note until she goes to throw her sheets in the laundry the following Saturday morning. It must have gotten stuck inside the other pillowcase as she tossed and turned in her sleep. She thinks back to how short she was with him the next morning at the precinct when he came in for his sunglasses and she winces.

What are you doing here, Castle, don't you have bigger, more lucrative fish to fry?

Oh, how she underestimated him. She rubs her thumb over the ink of his scrawl and smiles.

Good morning, Sunshine.