Stepping Out

This is an idea loosely based around the concept for Ep 4x18 "A Dance with Death" It's so loose I hate to even claim a spoiler alert. Not sure how long this will be, but chapter one made me laugh. Let me know if you want more.

Chapter 1 – Shall We Dance?

"Castle, you step on one, not two or three, and definitely not on my toes. This is ballroom, not that hip hop, freestyle, dad dancing stuff you normally engage in."

"I can dance. I'm a good dancer," he says, indignantly.

"Yeah, if you were dancing and having a seizure at the same time," says Kate, snorting out a laugh at him.

Yes, she actually just snorted at him, threw her head back and everything, and he couldn't be more affronted.

So he glares at her. Glares. Dancing was supposed to be fun. Dancing with her had always seemed like it might be the closest they would ever get to having sex standing up, with all their clothes still on. Boy was he wrong. Not. Sexy. At. All.

Okay, so she's still sexy. He can't deny that, and half the people in their class – that's all of the straight men, and a couple of the gay ones too, hell even half the women – are staring at her as Castle guides her around the floor.

He's always known that Kate was competitive, but today he's finding out that she also loves to be teacher's pet. A quality that's becoming abundantly clear the more time they spend in this stupid class.

They're at an Arthur Murray Dance Studio on West 57th Street in Midtown Manhattan to get some lessons before they go undercover on a case that involves the brutal slaying of sequin-clad, dance contest entrants at a ballroom in Columbus Circle.

The sign over the door says, "The Magic Starts Here", and Castle's eyes lit up when they arrived, full of hope for the magic he and Kate might find beneath the sparkle of a disco ball.

Now he wants to sue someone for making false statements, and possibly setting their relationship back several months, if further back for them is even possible.

Because they've been here barely a half hour, and Kate has already accused him of having two left feet, and Castle knows what it means when a woman tells a man that she thinks he can't dance. He's overheard the way women use it as shorthand for being poor in the sack. It's code, like comparing the length of your middle and index fingers. Highly indicative, a search tool the fairer sex use to sift the wheat from the sexual chaff. Castle knows he's the exception to this stupid rule. But at this rate, Kate's going to write him off before they even get to first base.

So he's holding her lightly as they (attempt to) glide around the floor to Michael Buble's 'Everything'. The fast waltz is making him dizzy, and the words of the song are playing at his lips, and Kate is…oh! He thinks he maybe sang that last bit out loud, because she's staring at him with a shocked look on her face; something between confusion, and embarrassment, and hope, and maybe…is that love?

"Keep up, Castle," she grits in his ear, breaking the moment.

Was there a moment? He thought there maybe was. He thinks he sang the words 'It's you, it's you. You make me sing. You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.' But his eyes were closed, and her breath was on his neck, feathering light puffs of air across his skin, making him tingle and forcing him to concentrate for all he's worth on not tripping, or at least not too often, and certainly not doing what felt completely natural in the moment, which was to drag her off to the cloakroom and strip that skin-tight jersey dress, which is clinging to every curve and teasing every sinew in his body, right off her sexy frame.

So he takes (another) deep breath, and thinks of fat men. Yes, naked, fat, hairy men, this is good, until the urge to get Kate Beckett naked passes, and he can focus back on this stupid dance. On the way she moves under his hands, the way her breasts brush up against his chest, and the way her…oh dear god, so not helping!

"Castle, time out," hisses Kate, pulling him off the floor and heading for the water cooler.

He watches her throat work as she swallows down a whole cup of water in one go. The last drop catches on her bottom lip and then glides down her chin, her throat, and on down into the alluring valley of her cleavage. His mouth has gone dry, and she's staring at him. He thinks she might have said something and is waiting for an answer. But he's so adrift right now he's not sure of his own name, and anyway, Kate Beckett never asks questions that easy.

"Castle, you okay? You didn't strain something?" she asks, laughing at him again.

"Very funny, Beckett."

He's miserable. So turned on, and love sick, and desperate, and yet he hates her all at the same time. How is it even possible to end up such a clueless, shattered wreck after just thirty minutes of dancing?

His mother had warned him that a ballroom floor might be more foe that friend in his quest to win Kate Beckett's heart. But as usual, he had scoffed in the face of adversity, and embraced the chance to get more 'hands on' in his plan to move things along.

Now they're taking a break, watching the class show-offs, (the losers, Castle's dubbed them) dressed in feathers, sequins, and neon Lycra, twirl their way around the floor. These guys look semi-pro, and he makes a mental note to add that to his Class Action suit. Because his eye catches that of other, equally tortured looking men around the room. Men who've been dragged here by over-zealous partners, probably with the promise of bedroom favors to come, and he can see how short changed they look. Castle hasn't had the promise of anything, so he figures his name can go at the top of the list. He's due some compensation after this. Hell, if things don't pick up, he might need therapy, and that doesn't come cheap.

So he looks at his feet, curses them silently, and mentally prepares himself for round two.

Thoughts?