The Good Kind
He copped a feel.
It was mostly an accident, it really was. It was dark, and she was kneeling on his shoulders for goodness' sake, and struggling against his *face* for the love of all that's holy, trying to stand up, and what else was he supposed to do? Not put his hands there?
Right.
He copped a feel.
She asked for a boost up into the secret space above the living room, and it was dark, and she was, has he mentioned this yet?, she was *struggling against his face* to get up, and so he just reached up when she said "Grab my legs," reached up and hoisted her-
Only, see, well, um-
His hands hoisted up, and she didn't.
Hoist that is.
He felt her whole body shudder and lift, drawing away from him, but not in the bad kind, in the really good kind, the arching and calling out his name kind, and his thumbs were, well, very close to where his fantasies of Kate Beckett always had them, and she had that soundless, wordless gasp above him, and then his name, gasping and breathless-
And then he was in very deep trouble.
He made her coffee after the arrest, perfectly the first time of course, while she watched him from the corner of the break room, arms crossed. Her hair was still doing that curly-wonderful-soft thing that made his heart clench, but he didn't look at her, or the ringlet of hair breaking free, instead he focused on the coffee.
He made it right and handed it to her with a smile, withdrawing the spoon as she took it. She watched him over the top of the mug for a moment, then blew on it, her lips in that pursed, thin line that he was getting a lot of lately. Not a bad kind of thin line, but the good kind.
Lately, he was getting a lot of the good kind. The half-smiles, the hidden looks, the lips pursed instead of the eye-roll. Pursed lips always looked - to Rick Castle - like someone - *someone* - needed to be kissed, and he would volunteer to shoulder that difficult burden any day.
She drank her coffee slowly, in sips, and he watched her until he could be in the same room with her and not feel that absolutely restless sense of longing quite so fervently. When it passed, as it always did sooner or later, he finally sat across from her and folded his hands on the table top.
"Demons?"
She frowned.
"You know you want to," he hinted, sly and smiling at her.
"Castle."
"Just *a* demon. Just one."
"Don't ruin my coffee."
"Ah. Yes." He sat back. Then sat forward. "Or how about-"
"Castle. Seriously. I haven't had a decent cup all day."
Right.
He sat back. Then frowned. "But this morning-"
She sighed. "Okay, listen, having to ignore your victory lap this morning ruined my good coffee."
"Which I brought you two of. To make up for yesterday morning."
"No. Two was to make up for dragging me out to a not-haunted house the night before and attempting to have your wicked way with me."
He gaped.
"*And* you knew I was buzzed."
He gaped and tried to reel back in his flapping lower jaw, but he couldn't seem to breathe, let alone process the equipment and motor planning necessary to close his mouth.
"So technically, you have not yet made up for yesterday morning's distinct lack of quality caffeine."
He closed his mouth. Finally.
"Exactly. Keep it that way while I enjoy this."
He did.
He'd copped a feel. He had. He'd had his "wicked way" with Kate Beckett.
The least he could do was buy her dinner.
"Kate?"
"Yeah."
She was stepping out of the elevator, and it lurched - lurched! - and he hopped off quickly. He'd already had a terrible event occur in this very same elevator, and the lack of a mummy's curse didn't make him think it was any safer. Not after that serendipitous event with the call button.
"Castle, what?"
He wrenched his mind back to the present. "Dinner?" he called, following after her through the lobby doors.
"What?"
"Want some dinner?" Second date, Detective Beckett?
She must not have heard the question he mindcast towards her, because she hesitated on the sidewalk, her hair delightfully cute, her mouth twisted into that thin-lipped, pursed smile. Her eyes just lighted up like that.
"Yeah, actually, I do want some dinner."
"Can't have you drinking alone, you know."
"Castle-"
"I mean. Let's both get buzzed, okay? We'll both enjoy it a lot better-"
"Maybe you should shut your mouth."
He did.
Still. Second date, right? Who else was counting these here? Remy's the other week, and now-
"Where are we going, Castle?"
"Uh. You pick."
"Let's go to your bar."
Oh, really? Huh. More a hang out and less of a date. But he could make it work.
"Let's stop by the Chinese takeout on our way then; we can eat in my office and have some good scotch."
"With Chinese?" she wrinkled her nose at him over her shoulder and stopped on the sidewalk.
"Red wine?" he offered, internally bracing himself for a scathing glance, a cutting remark.
"Sure."
He gaped. Sure?
She strode away.
"Castle?"
"Uh. Yeah?" he called, still riveted to the sidewalk.
"Which one is it gonna be?"
His mind went blank for a long, terrible moment; she was testing him, she was playing on their shared past and trusting that he knew her well enough to-
Oh.
"I'm gonna shoot for not drunk enough. I want you plenty sober, Katherine Beckett."
He heard her laughing ahead of him and hurried to catch up.
This laughter was the good kind.