A/N: A three shot to get me through this last little bit of hiatus, dedicated to the girls who did the same for me all summer.
For Jessie, Indie and Sandra.
The first time her foot grazes his ankle beneath the table he passes it off as accidental.
The food is good, hot, spicy and delicious. Warming, soothing even and it's a wonderful surprise given that his mother is the architect of tonights meal.
There is something about good food with family that will heal the worst of days and enhance the best, Castle feels as though this dinner is serving to do both things at once and he takes his place at the head of the table with pride, feeling blessed.
The company is perhaps even better than the food and, for once, after a life or death experience, he can drink in the sight of Kate Beckett as much as he wants. There is no twist in his gut or gnawing panic at the back of his mind, rather than worrying about her at home, alone, he gets to watch her match wits with his mother, trade dishes and laughter with his daughter.
So, aside from the whole almost shot and blown up in a bank robbery thing, it's a pretty awesome day.
The first time it happens, it's totally passable as innocent, totally not something that makes him freeze in place and stare.
He tops off her glass, and refills his own, Martha's too and smiles as Beckett sips. She hums her appreciation, looks down deep into the burgundy liquid and inhales the scent of the wine.
She savors it.
Castle makes a mental note of the label, discreetly pleased he has at least another bottle on the rack, glad she's enjoying it.
Her shoe collides with his as he sets the bottle down, almost as though she's vying for his attention, unaware she already holds it. He freezes, fingers poised before him wondering if maybe she wants to share a little eye contact at something witty or ridiculous said by his family. Did he miss part of the conversation?
It's just the nudge of the toe of her boot into the side of his foot. It's nothing more than a barely restrained kick. Yet, when he takes her in, shifts his gaze from admiration to intent, her eyes are down on her plate as though she can't bring herself to look up and have him see whatever is on her mind.
She heaps rice on to a fork with a sardonic smile, lips tilting sweetly in a way that tells him at home she'd no doubt be using chopsticks.
He has some in a drawer, of course. Multi coloured and traditional, joined for ease of use for little fingers when his daughter was small and replaced by the grown up version she insisted upon before she even hit double digits.
He should offer to get them, should be the genial host, but her foot is sliding the length of his and Castle finds there's nothing in the world that could drag him away from the table and the woman at his side.
He lets it go, dives back into the food and smiles, pleased that she's here. Joining in, part of the family and sipping her wine with a warm, lingering hum. After a few seconds she retreats, foot removed from his, and it's as though it never happened at all.
His mother and daughter latch on to their conversation about saved lives, though neither seem to have kept count. Which, seriously? He can't have been the only one doing that, no matter how shocked - yet equally delighted - Beckett sounded when she found out.
Castle finds himself re-telling the stories, from champagne cork to bank hold-up, only this time he has Beckett chiming in, shaking her head when he exaggerates. Or downright lies.
"He looked."
"I did not."
"He did." Beckett nods at his mother and daughter, laughing, ignoring him with a wave of her hand and talking about him as though he's not really there, "My apartment exploded and he kicked down the door and he looked!"
"You were in the bathtub."
"Mmhmm," it sounds more like Aha! She responds as though he's made her point all by himself, reaches for the wine, sips the last remnants from her glass and tilts it to him for a refill.
She's laughing, expectant in her desire and impatient for whatever his response may be.
Castle jumps up for another bottle, de-corks it and pours all the while shaking his head. She thinks she's so clever.
"I gave you my coat when you were naked and turned my back, I didn't peak once."
"Keep telling yourself that, Castle."
"Russian?" Alexis laughs. "I remember that one, undercover?"
"Poker game." They say at the same time and giggles flood the table.
All eyes fall on Beckett as she struggles not to let the laughter get the best of her, waving a hand over her mouth to shoo the sound away, "Sorry, I just half expected Ryan to chime in and ask 'do you guys practice this when we're not around'."
She mimics his voice, low down and cutesy so very honeymilk gone bad that Castle's done for, following her over the edge into laughter.
"Do the two of you do that often?" Martha inquires.
They both snort, eyes catching, a synchronized head bob giving way perfectly to their joint response of "yeah,".
Though they spark through conversation, bouncing off one another in that specific way that makes his heart pitter-patter against his ribs, making a break for freedom, his mind keeps flashing back to the feel of her foot against his own. Was it a sign or an accident? A caress or a careless kick?
He passes it off as trying to remember facts about their cases, details lost over the years that she recalls with startling clarity.
How many gunshots she fired in the freezer before he made her stop for fear of accidental ricochet. That it was a hall of mirrors in a club and there was in fact no clown no matter how much more interesting it might make the story. That yes, she did tackle him to save him from Lockwood and yes, she did really bring him coffee and hold his hand after their first encounter with 3XK.
She entertains Martha and Alexis with her own version of events and he keeps his Castley-ways to himself. It's good really, allowing his mind to be it's own partner in theory, he can ponder as much as he likes the logistics of their body placement and just how flexible those legs of hers are to deliberately graze him the way she did. It's good, because right now he's half way to convincing himself it wasn't an accident.
It happens again, and he could dance, and the second time is just as innocent, if not a little further reaching. But twice is less about coincidence and more about patterns of behavior and his mind throws up one question that makes his blood surge hotly through his system.
Is it possible Kate Beckett likes to play footsie?