castle fic: beckett's couch
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Summary: Short post-ep for 5x02: Cloudy With A Chance of Murder (YES ALREADY SHUT UP)
He settles in on the couch.
He toes off his shoes and shoves them under the coffee table, peels off his jacket and stuffs it under the throw pillow on the far end of the couch. Beckett's throw pillows are too thin to sleep on all night; if they're gonna keep doing this thing and he's gonna keep being stupid [because, okay, yes, this was maybe particularly stupid but also he's Castle, no matter how hard tries he’s pretty sure he will do stupid stuff in the future, too], he should buy her nicer throw pillows for his nights spent on the couch. Maybe he could just bring his own--
"Hmm?" He sinks into the sofa, laces his fingers behind his head.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm sleeping on your couch."
"Okay, but--" Her lips twist, trying to hold back a smile, and she shakes her head a little. "Um, why?"
"You said you saw boobs on my face."
"That's not exactly what I said but--"
"Look, we kinda just had our first fight. Ish. Maybe? I respect that you see boobs on my face and you don't wanna make out with me right now, but I'm not leaving either. Sleeping alone would just make this worse, don't you think?"
"Aren't you sleeping alone on the couch?"
He wrinkles in nose in thought: "Well, alone but not aloooone. Still in the same apartment, so that's okay. Whatever makes you not see boobs on my face."
There she goes: she barks out a laugh, curling her arms around her ribs. "Okay, seriously, Castle, you have got to stop saying that."
"You started it first," he crows, but there's no bite behind it. He's smiling so wide she can't see the blue of his eyes anymore; he's smiling at her laugh.
He likes seeing her laugh.
She can feel some of the tension of the day uncoil, her frustration fades away as he snuggles down into her couch, propping his argyle socks up on the armrest. "You're too tall," she says quietly.
He wiggles his toes: "It'll do."
"Will my bed do?" His mouth drops open; nothing comes out. There's something so incredibly satisfying about making a writer speechless.
"Um, what about my face boobs?" His voice is doing that thing where it jumps up an octave; he'd be embarrassed, but she's smiling again.
"Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I want you to help me forget them." She saunters away, up the stairs to her bedroom. He's still on the couch trying to figure out what's happening. She turns back to him at her bedroom door: "Castle, did you notice I'm not wearing pants?"
Maybe she doesn't need new throw pillows after all.