Martha's one-woman show is drawing to a close, but she's stopped paying complete attention some time ago now, right around the time she curled her fingers around his. A brief squeeze for moral support, of course, she'd told herself. Except his hand had been warm and inviting and she'd never quite gotten around to letting go. Instead they sit, side-by-side but not quite close enough touch, only their hands in contact, his broad writer's fingers resting gently under her more delicate but still somewhat callused ones. She can feel his pulse throbbing at his wrist, she's aware of his scent, clean and rich like mahogany. Even though Alexis and Martha's scriptwriter are sitting right there, even though Martha herself is putting on some grand theatrics, part of her world is collapsing to just the two of them, sitting beside each other, holding hands. On some level she wishes she could shift a few inches put her shoulder next to his, her hips and thighs and all, so he could put his arm around her shoulder and she could relax into him. On another level, she's terrified of even holding onto his hand for a moment longer, terrified of how comfortable he makes her feel.

She sneaks a sidelong glance at his face. He's still watching his mother, but there's a slight smile on his face, somewhere in between content and happy. His light blue eyes swing across to catch hers, and she immediately faces forward, pretending to be engrossed in Martha's latest scene. The heat rising in her cheeks and the slight squeeze of his fingers are all the indication she needs to know that she didn't fool him. He had caught her. The heat rises to the tip of her ears. Another part of her isn't embarrassed, though. Another part of her wants to look again, and keep looking. That part, the part she has let loose more than once or twice this year, let it have the lead, and tried it on for size…that part makes her happy. She likes it. It's the part that's in control when she teases him- "Next time, let's do it without the tiger"- and it's the part that's in control when she smiles at him, genuinely, not hiding it. She's repressed that part for a long time now, hid it behind the bickering and the eye-rolling, afraid of its dormant strength, afraid of what it could mean for her if she let it always take the lead. But it's getting less and less scary to start admitting to herself what he's come to mean to her. Another brick removed from her wall.

It feels good. It feels natural. She's held hands with him before, heck curled up into him like he was her blanket, wrapped him around her, but always there was some reason. A bomb about to explode. A freezer. A killer who had Castle at his mercy. Every time, it's been because they've almost lost each other. Today isn't for that reason. There's no near-death situation. No cause for alarm. Nothing prompts her to hold his hands bar Martha's slightly accusatory tone, and he's faced that in past countless times. No, she's holding his hand because she wants to, and it feels nice, and she can't stop herself, and that's all the reason she needs today.

His thumb brushes across her knuckles, sends a gentle shiver racing across a spine. This touch feels more intimate, more real, more…just more than she's ever felt. It's a wonder that she ever managed to delude herself into thinking that the others could hold a candle to this. Castle's touch sets her heart fluttering in a way that a kiss from Josh never had. And a kiss from Castle…she lets her mind wander back to last year, when they were tracking down Lockwood, when they were about to rescue Ryan and Esposito. It's one of her most cherished memories, that kiss. She had to repress it for a long time, because even thinking about, dreaming about it, fantasising about it made her feel unfaithful. But these last few weeks and months, it's been dropping by in her mind unbidden. She's revelled in the way his lips felt on her, warm and needy and scorchingly hot. The way his hands had wrapped around her, fingers driving into her hair as they clung to each other. The kiss that had melted her insides, and driven thought and breath from her like an uppercut.

If she's honest with herself, and she's trying to be these days, she might have deliberately thought about that kiss a time or two since. Late at night, in her bed. Or in the bathtub. Or the shower. About what Castle might look like naked, how his fingers would trace over her skin, his mouth would feel on her neck, tracing down the curve of breasts. How he might shove a thigh in between hers, and she would rock herself on it, getting herself off before her clothes had even come off. At the cocky twinkle that would bring to his eye, and how'd they go for round two and three and four. And five in the morning. Sometimes she has trouble meeting his eyes after those nights, when he brings her coffee at the precinct.

She forces those thoughts from her mind. It would not be appropriate to fantasise about sex with Castle while watching her mother's performance. Instead she just luxuriates in the feel of his hand around hers, that he's there, that he isn't going anywhere, that he's waiting for her and it doesn't scare her any more, it excites her and she wants to explore that with him.

She leans forward, her free arm's elbow on her knee, the fist propping up her chin. She has an appointment with Dr. Bourke tomorrow, and she knows she'll want to talk to him about this. What it means to her. What it means for them. A future. Their future. Rick and Kate.

Half-wrote this a while ago, only got around to finishing it today. Leave a review if you liked it.