A/N: Happy Winter Hiatus! I've been off the grid for a little while, but I do hope you enjoy what I'm cooking up for you in this story. All thoughts and constructive criticism welcome along the way, as I only have a smattering of an idea of where this is going to end up. Endless thanks to Meg for her unwavering friendship.

Lately, I've been craving a bit of a throwback to old school Caskett, so this is a Season 4 fic that picks up a few days after 'Cuffed.'

Chapter One
Concocting

hypothesis |hīˈpäTHəsis| noun (pl. hypotheses |-ˌsēz| )
a supposition or proposed explanation made on the basis of limited evidence as a starting point for further investigation.

He's been so patient.

That day on the swings, he'd understood her perfectly even though she'd avoided the actual words - wait for me - with the fluidity and grace of an ice skater.

But after spending hours with her locked in that basement, he's not sure patience is what she needs from him anymore. Had she really been throwing him clues? Or is she still stubbornly fighting their chemistry like she's always done?

Castle rubs his hands together. The right one is still somehow warmer after she'd allowed him drag it down the curve of her side. Well, maybe allowed isn't the right word. He'd seen the angry pinprick where she'd been tranquilized, and he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. He just had to touch. Any initial concern for her health had been swiftly chased away by something thick and breathless when he'd felt her bare skin under his fingers.

And then, to his absolute awe, she jumped under his touch, trembled really, and maybe it's his deluded fantasies bleeding into real life, but he swears it wasn't a twitch of surprise or cold, but one of delight. Pleasure.

And when they were pushing against that frickin' massive metal container … she'd told him he better not be enjoying himself. He'd answered with an I'll let you know in a minute, but his body was reacting already. The effort it was taking to control himself took all the teasing out of his voice, making him sound considerably less cheeky than he normally would when laying innuendo on her.

Because he definitely had let her know. He'd felt the exact moment she stilled, the moment she realized how hard he was against the back of her thigh. Had she really pressed back into him? The pressure was infinitesimal, but he doesn't think he imagined it.

And then that comment. God, that comment.

Next time, let's do it without the tiger.

If it had only been one of those things, he might have been able to keep going on as they had been. But all three of them?

Screw patience.

Richard Castle has a plan.