#4

Prompt: Baseball, First pitch, Kate Beckett.

— ANONYMOUS

"I suck at baseball, Kate," he sad in a panic. "I don't do athletics." Castle scraped a hand down his face and tried not to think about how he wanted to throw up. "I mean, the best I got is yay, sports! Do the thing! Win the points!"

"That's not quite how baseball goes," she answered, a press of her lips that meant she was actually amused.

"You're laughing," he accused. The car was hurtling through traffic. There was no way they were going to be too late to the game to make it.

"No," she drew out. "Not laughing."

"You are."

"Castle, why did you agree to throw out the first pitch if you're so terrified of sports?"

"I'm not terrified," he squeaked. Castle cleared his throat, shook his head to get that back in control. "I am not terrified. Merely concerned. I may have prowess in bed, but that does not extend to prowess on the playing field." He paused, arrested by that interesting play on words. Playing field. He knew there was a joke in there somewhere but-

"You're usually so cocky," she murmured, a lift of her eyebrow.

He laughed, touched his fingers to his brow in an imaginary salute. "Very good. I couldn't quite come up with it."

"Come up?"

Castle laughed harder, thoroughly pleased now, realized he was a little more relaxed. "Thanks for that."

She sidled closer in the backseat, sliding her hand along his thigh. "You'll be just fine. Even if you can't throw, the catcher - or well, sometimes its a position player who wants to catch for you - the honor-"

"The honor?" Tension crept back into his shoulders.

"Point is, whoever it is - he's an athlete at the top of his game. He'll do everything he can to catch your throw. To not let you look stupid."

"Catch my… what if I can't get it to the catcher?"

Kate opened her mouth, closed it.

"Oh, no. Oh, no," he groaned.

"Um." She rubbed two fingers over her lips. "It's the Mets so… not many people will see it?"

"The Mets are hot right now," he whined. "Everyone is watching them."

She blinked.

"I can't do this. You're doing it," he blurted out.

She stared at him. He stared back.

"What?"

"You can do it," he said, then rushed on before she could speak. "You'regood at throwing things. Just last week you threw that pillow at my head and totally got me."

"Castle!"

"Major force behind your throws, Kate. You'll at least get it to the end zone."

"Plate," she muttered. "Home plate."

"Right, yes. Home plate. See? I need you."

"Castle, this is supposed to be for your literacy campaign, not-"

"But you do press for that all the time! See? It's perfect. You do it. You do it. You do-"

"Castle," she snapped, but he could see it in her eyes, in the flush across her face. She was catching his nerves. She wanted to do it.

"Please," he said, wriggling closer to her, drawing his arm around her, nuzzling down into her neck at that place that made her gasp. He circled his fingers at her knee, dropped his voice to that suggestive, prowess in the bedroom tone. "Please, Kate."

"Castle," she groaned.

Oh, she was totally doing it.

"You are the best."

"You're the worst."

"Hey, you should call your dad. He'll want to see this."

Kate buried her head in her hands.

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