Author's Note: For Andy. Thanks for the prompt, my dear :)

4x17 – Once Upon A Crime

She hasn't let go.

His mother is still speaking, arms waving in dramatic fashion as she continues to tell her story, but Castle has long since lost track of the words, his brain focused on one small fact.

Kate's still holding his hand.

Her palm is warm over his knuckles, and he's not sure if she even realizes it, but her thumb is tracing gentle strokes over his, a slow back and forth that's sending heat sizzling through his veins. He feels his palm growing sweaty, silently thanks the fact that it's face-down on his leg, the fabric of his pants absorbing the worst of it, because he's a forty year-old man and a woman holding his hand shouldn't make his body react like this.

But this isn't just any woman. This is Kate Beckett. And she's sitting next to him on his sofa, far closer than is normally considered acceptable, holding his hand as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

He casts his eyes over to her, gaze tracing her profile. The slope of her nose, the prominence of her cheekbones, the line of her jaw. The way her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheek as she blinks, lifting again to reveal the ever-changing color of her eyes, sometimes brown, sometimes greenish, almost a golden color here in the light of his living room.

She's so beautiful, and he's not entirely sure she's figured that out yet. Sure, he knows she knows it at least to an extent. He's seen her use it to her advantage on cases; shaking out her hair, swirling a cherry around glossy lips, wrapping her figure in a short, tight dress and swaying her hips in a way that captures the attention of every man in the room.

But he's not sure she realizes that she doesn't have to try. Her beauty is seamless, showing through even in the most mundane of times. When she's at the murder board, eyes flicking over the evidence as her brain works to collate the information. Here on the sofa with him as she takes in the one-woman show with genuine interest. At the precinct when she shakes her head in amusement or scrunches her nose in that adorable way because one of his off-the-wall theories isn't so far off base and she doesn't want to admit it.

Hell, she's beautiful all the time.

He's unaware that he's staring until Kate nudges him in the side with her elbow, tilting her head towards his mother, a silent 'watch the play, Castle.' He reluctantly tears his eyes away from her, forces himself to focus on his mother's production. She's currently recounting the time six-year-old Castle snuck into a backstage costume room and managed to wriggle his way into a corseted dress, and he drops his head, groans in embarrassment.

He's never going to live any of this down.

But when he glances over at Kate again, she has a soft smile on her lips, eyes wide with support for Martha and all the effort that's gone into putting this together.

And she's still holding his hand.

She lets go only when the show comes to a close, reclaiming her hand to applaud his mother. She's rising from the sofa then, stepping forward to embrace the woman, and Castle freezes, poised to stand, as he watches two of his favorite ladies smile and laugh. They're talking softly and he can't make out the words, but Kate tosses a glance over her shoulder at him, cheeks slightly pink as she briefly catches his eye.

She turns back to Martha then, continuing to chat away, so Castle gets to his feet, makes his way to Alexis, who is already beginning to move the furniture back into its usual arrangement. He slides a chair back into place, helps her with the sofa, all the while conversing about her duties as stage manager. Alexis seems to have enjoyed it, unorthodox though this whole production was, and they laugh together as his daughter regales him with a rundown of what would be the blooper reel had they been filming during rehearsals.

Eventually Alexis excuses herself, and Castle finds himself standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Alone. His mother is off to who knows where and Kate...she's nowhere to be found. But her jacket is still draped over the arm of the sofa, her shoes discarded in the foyer, so she's here somewhere.

He has to strongly fight the urge, the call of every muscle in his body, to go after her, to find her, maybe slide his hand into hers again. He wants to be near her, wants her to stay. Doesn't want the proximity of the evening to come to a close even though he knows that it ultimately will.

Instead, he settles for snagging their wine glasses, refilling them, hoping that the offer of a second glass will entice her into lingering for a while longer.

She reappears as he's placing the bottle back on the kitchen counter, cheeks still a lovely pink hue, from wine or something else, he's not sure.

"Hey," he offers, extending a glass to her. "More wine? If you want, I mean. If you have to go..."

She smiles gently, interrupts his fumbling as she takes the proffered glass. "Thanks."

It's awkward for a moment, him on one side of the kitchen island, her on the other, wine glasses in hand, eyes blatantly not meeting as they struggle to settle into this new...thing...that's forming between them.

Finally Castle clears his throat, speaks. "You know, most of what she said was exaggerated."

Kate catches his eyes, smiles. "I figured."

"I just...I wasn't the best behaved kid, but I wasn't like that," he continues, so desperate for her to understand this. He doesn't want her to think worse of him for what she's heard tonight, doesn't want it to damage what they've built. He's never cared so much before, never really had to worry about his past tarnishing a woman's opinion of him. Hell, most women he's been with were attracted to him because of his past.

But this is different. Because the woman standing in front of him right now could very well be the one he spends the rest of his life with.

"Fiction, remember?" She assures him, stepping around the end of the counter and resting a hand on his forearm. His eyes follow her touch, warm and soft, lighting a fire beneath his skin as her hand travels lower, skimming his wrist, until her fingers are wrapped around his once more, thumb at the back of his hand, pads of her fingers caressing his palm. The fit is perfect, and he has to force himself to look away, meet her eyes again. "Like Nikki."

Castle nearly chokes on his wine, has to set it aside and swallow heavily to regain what remains of his composure. Because there are parts of the books – including very explicit portions – that are largely based on what he hopes will someday cease to be fictional.

From the way she's looking at him, eyebrow raised, amusement dancing through the shimmering liquid of her eyes, he's pretty sure she knows.

She knows, and she's still not letting go of his hand.

Thoughts?