It's cramped, tight. He's too close, body a heavy weight against her side, warm, welcoming and she's leaning in. She is.

It's the tequila.

The damn trays of it.

Cheap shots.

A celebration.

Of what she doesn't even remember, doesn't even care.

She thinks it was someone's birthday.

All she was told was come with them all, to follow. He'd invited himself, or the boys had invited him. She wasn't sure.

But he's here. Here beside her, a heavy weight at her side.

It's too hot, too cramped for such proximity. But then his knuckle brushes her leg, an accident.

Then his mouth is at her ear, too close and too loud.

"You should eat something, soak up some of the shots."

She smirks at him and shakes her head.

"You should eat something," she mimics him. His are the words that are too loud, slurring a little, a distinct glint shining in his eye. He's heavy with it, his body humming beside her, emitting so much heat she would normally be sweating or shoving him away. But she's not.

She's had a few.

Enough to ease the tension of the day. Enough make it seem like she's part of the celebrations, whatever they're about.

He holds a taco in front of his mouth, hovering, stealing himself to take a bite.

"If you're going to throw-up," she threatens.

"I won't," he protests, looks offended.

She continues like he hasn't spoken. "If you're going to throw up, you need to tell me. I need to get out of the way, Castle." She will have to hurry too, slide off the edge of the bench and let him out, give him an escape.

"Kate," he starts.

But she moves her hand between them, a shield. "Close your mouth or swallow the food." She doesn't need to see that. Drunk or not he can at least pretend to have some manners.

He swallows and she watches the lump slide down his throat and while she's distracted he slides closer (how, she isn't sure, but he manages it) and touches her knee, deliberate, a thumb touching the soft exposed skin on the inside of her leg.

He's got his arm across her lap, holding her to him, no escape.

"Sorry," he mutters, this time effectively managing to control the volume.

"You'll get us kicked out," she mutters, like it's a conspiracy. Then she realises. Her mouth is slack too, free.

"We won't get kicked out." He waves his other hand, brushing his fingers over her legs.

Then Lanie slides another across to them, one each.

Kate shakes her head, she's had enough. But her friend is flicking her eyes to the boys, both already gulping theirs down. She's glad others aren't at the tiny booth, her team, that's all she needs to unwind, relax. And she's unwound, relaxed, his body slack against hers should signal to everyone within the immediate vicinity that she has. She blinks heavily, wonders how long they've been here. She can't remember if it's six shots or seven. She knows she kept up initially, but then the second tray arrived and it became a jumble. Castle stealing one from her hand so she'd taken one he'd nursed, claiming he couldn't find some salt. She'd taken that too.

Tomorrow she'll be getting a call at an unreasonable hour so it's time to slow down, ease back at a reasonable hour on this end of the night. The only reason she's here to begin with is that they closed their case and she couldn't find an excuse to not come. But now she's here, she's glad.

His hand is still warm on her leg.

He picks up the small glass, moving to pass it to her. "For you," he says softly, smirking.

She flicks her eyes to Lanie and finds her watching them, their closeness and their proximity. She narrows her eyes at her friend, flicking her eyes at Esposito. He's much closer than Castle, more daring and more certain. But it's the same.

Lanie relents and Kate's smug.

"Kate?" he asks.

She brings her attention back to him, back to the face that's an inch from hers. She wants to touch him, run her fingers over the laugh lines so well worn they're visible while he frowns. Wait, he's frowning, why?

"Take it," he lifts it a little further. She ignores the fact the liquid sloshes, slides down the edge of the glass and drips onto her thigh.

"I can't, Castle," she whispers and meets his eyes.

He understands and doesn't question. "Okay," he says softly as he presses it to his mouth and gulps it down.

He hands her the empty glass and takes the other off the table.

"Lanie won't even notice, just hold it a second then set it down when I do." He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. "But you owe me," he mutters as he leans against his other elbow, body now facing her, hand still on her knee, absently stroking.

She watches his next shot drip once onto the dark denim of his jeans. Then flicks his eyes up to his and nods once. She does owe him. An unrepayable debt of time and missed opportunities. Sure, he contributed before, but now he's waiting on her.

"I owe you," she agrees as he tips the glass back and takes the shot, for her, again.

"Hmm," he hums and sets the point of his chin onto her shoulder, the hard bone digging into her scapula, that hard point forming her shoulder. It hurts, but she owes him. And his breath on her neck, liquor and spice, is still warm and comforting.

"You should eat another one," she mutters, tipping her head closer to his but flicking her eyes to the plate in front of them, the jumble of soft and hard, chicken and beef. They were meant to share, but she's eaten two and has had enough. Happy with the hum of the alcohol and the weight of food in her stomach, the weight of him on her shoulder.

He squirms at her side, turning to stare at the plate too.

"Not hungry," he pouts, lip jutted in protest, like a toddler, stubborn and defiant.

He's probably not hungry.

"Castle," she mutters.

His head turns rapidly, just skimming hers, so close. "Hmm," he hums, voice thick and heavy.

"Those shots are going to hit you in a sec, you need to drink some water and eat something. I'm not taking you home covered in vomit." She wants to add that she doesn't want to wear it, but she thinks that might just go unspoken and he's so close, so warm that he might pull away in fear she's cowering at the thought. But she's not, really not. Plus, this way he'd probably be able to lunge across her and reach the floor.

She screws her face up and darts her eyes to the spot on the floor, the image of his hair at her lap as he leans over her to-

"Taking me home are you?" he murmurs and his fingers catch her eye, sliding and touching, climbing.

She swallows and blinks heavily, when she opens her eyes it's because a spark has shot through her skin. His fingers, at the hem of her dress, lifting it, slowly.

He slides his fingers once more, touching the legs she's got squeezed so tightly together, knees clamped together, a vice, a protest from earlier. But now, they slacken, against her will, of course. It's the tequila, still burning her throat.

She swallows as she wonders if his throat burns too, it has to be. He took two shots without the lemon, without a swish of water on his tongue. It has to burn.

But then he burns her again, his fingers daring and she closes her eyes and lifts them.

"Share?" he offers it to her, holds half the taco out in front of her.

She swallows and flicks her eyes to his.

She touches his hand and lets him guide it to her mouth. She bites it carefully and chews slowly, watching him.

His palm flattens on her thigh, hot and clammy as he leans closer, prodding her to take another bite.

She does. She has no reason not to, no objection to make.

"Good?" he asks quietly, before he shoves the last of it into his own mouth, fingertips twitching slightly on her thigh, like he's trying to steal her attention.

"Yeah," she nods, agreeing.

"More?" he asks, gathering another, miraculously handling it with one hand, keeping it folded, even folding it a little further.

She shakes her head, she's fine, eaten more than enough, drank more than enough. He's always trying to feed her.

"Your loss," he announces quietly as he settles back against the cushion of the bench and takes a large bite. She watches as he rejoins the conversation, his fingers shifting lightly against her skin. She wonders if he is aware of his hand, where it is and why it's there. She wonders if it's deliberate, where it is and what it's doing.

Then he launches himself into the conversation. She's not even listening, just watching them all turn and laugh at whatever he's said, his charisma, his spark stealing their attention, like it's stolen hers.

She leans her shoulder against him further, wedging it behind his arm, hidden, pressing into his ribs. He doesn't acknowledge the move in any way, other than skimming his hand over her skin.

To the others, she's leaning heavily against him, tired or just unable to hold herself up, dizzy with the chemicals coursing through her blood.

He flips his hand, jumps it to her other leg, resettles higher still.

But then he shrugs and laughs, all for show, for the table, not for her. It jolts her though and he slides his arm back, subtle, to support her.

She sucks her lip into her mouth, he may have slide his elbow back, his shoulder back to meet hers, but his hand slide too, ventured further. Now it's dangerously high.

Then his thumb skims the skin and the butt of his hand shuffles, dislodging her dress to an almost indecent level. She hides her face behind his shoulder, head resting heavily on the back of the booth, arm curled behind him.

He splays his fingers, sinking them between her legs.

"Castle," she warns quietly. Not sure if she means it or not.

He tips his head back a little, acknowledging, like she's talking to him he hums and nods more than necessary. Then steals another inch.

She presses her forehead against his back, firm beneath her and she realises she's certainly hiding now.

She swallows as she hears Lanie call her a party-pooper, too loud, drawing attention.

She feels Castle tense, stiffening in her defence. "Somebody skipped lunch and dinner and now can't stay away." He's teasing, slurring his words and she can hear the smirk.

A few of them chuckle and all she can do is shake her head against his shoulder, slow as the smile plays across her face.

He steals another fraction of skin, swift a quick, his pinkie finger her main culprit now, her first enemy.

She breathes across the thin material of his shirt, the heat of her forehead, her breath, causing her him to sweat. She can smell it, but it's not the putrid sweat that comes with exercise in blistering heat, it's from proximity, hers.

She touches her free hand to his back, trailing a finger over the cotton and he freezes, even the twitching of his thumb stopping. Then she realises, he may be fast succumbing to the effects of tequila and the atmosphere of mischief around them, but she can even the playing field, just a little, take some time to enjoy this herself.

She slides her fingers down to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from the confines of his jeans, just the corner, just enough, then slides her fingers onto his skin, hot and clammy.

He grips her leg and sinks his pinkie finger into the skin, then slowly, deliberately using it like a lever for the rest of his hand.

She digs a nail into his skin, needing a vice, she feels him shift beside her, beneath her. But it's subtle, the others won't notice.

She pinches his skin, hard and presses her mouth, open and exhales harshly against the material of his shirt.

He deserves it.

He hasn't got an inch left to travel.

The next move will land them both in hot water, start something they can't stop. Something they'll need to finish. Something they'll be repeating.

Maybe more privately though, though, the thrill of them all being on the other side of his shoulder, watching and listening as he speaks to them, a tight control in his voice apparently only she knows him well enough to detect.

He laughs again, fake but believable. His attention is elsewhere, she knows. But it still shakes her and she quivers with anticipation. She clenches her arse and digs in her heels, bracing. Then as she feels his fingers lift, ready to glide over the skin again, find the smooth edge of her hip she does it.

She scoots forward a little, slipping across the varnished wood. The squeak against her sweaty legs is audible, but she's glad. The awkward noise conceals her soft moan, the groan she hears rumble through the wall of his chest, his back. She spreads her own palm flat against his back, clammy and hot.

She needs more, needs him closer, not just teetering at the skin, a precarious balance between the top of her leg and the bare skin of her hip.

He turns his head to look at her. "You okay back there? Not going to come and be social."

She narrows her eyes at him as she leans back to meet his gaze.

He is a horrible human being.

"If I have to," she bites, harsh and heavy. At least they'll believe she's tired.

"Have to," he agrees, fingers between her legs starting to move higher, so close she could-

She leans out from behind him, finds her friends all watching her. She blinks heavily, then scoots further forward on the bench, clamping her legs around his hand, he's not stealing distance like she is.

She moves so she's visible around his side, leaning heavily on the table, elbows and forearms there to support her, conceal his position a little.

Immediately the conversation she can't follow resumes and Lanie raises an eyebrow in her direction, unimpressed.

If only she knew.

Crap.

He's on the move again and she's got no hold on him, she's out on her own and it's his doing.

One by one he trails his fingers up to the position his pinkie landed as they dance further along, he is slowly leaning over her. By the time his thumb grazes the spot his fingers are wedged tight under the gather of her dress. It may have a loose skirt, but it clings to her hips, the lining does at least.

"Evil," he mutters.

Then he's coughing at her ear, over her shoulder, like he's trying be polite and avoid the main section of the table. She's disgusted until she realises he's faking. She hears him quickly suck in a breath, forcing it out.

"You okay, Castle?" she says, loud enough that the others can hear. So he has to make his point to them too.

He shakes his head, throat tight.

"You need to follow me, right now." He breathes and slides his thumb easily along the skin, the edge where the line of her panties should be, the line where there should be lace or elastic not hot clammy skin, radiating heat.

"Can't," she manages, loud enough that the others might catch it, "hear you."

He makes a noise deep in his throat, only she can hear, she's certain of that. She finds Lanie watching as she lifts her eyes to check, good.

"I need the bathroom. Now, Kate." He bites the words out, harsh and forcing control. But then he skims his fingers over the flat skin above his thumb, exploring, torturing.

"Can you get me a-" She stops as he presses his thumb down, forcing his way down, quick and hurried. But slow and mean.

She lifts her hips to his hand, urging him to actually make the contact, to press his thumb against her clit.

She drops them when he doesn't. "I'll go myself, seeing as I've got to get up anyway."

"Quick," he urges, withdrawing his hand and just pressing against the bare skin of her thigh.

"Busting?" she mocks. But she understands as she grabs her wallet, managing to smooth her dress as she stands, leaving only the typical rumple that occurs when sitting, balmy and drunk in a booth, huddled in tight.

He shakes his head and slides up close behind her.

"Anyone else want anything?" she asks, stopping on the edge of the bench, his chest against her back.

He expected her to stand, another point for her.

"Yeah, can-" Espo starts but stops as Kate flicks her eyes to Lanie, shaking her head as subtly as she can.

She watches her friend gape, drop her mouth open then stare at Castle's shoulder, hands now pressed into her back forcing her to stand or fall onto the floor.

Espo turns to her abruptly, questioning and she waves him off with a flick of the wrist. "We're good," she drawls. "Have fun."

She moves away from Castle, already headed away while she knows he battles with confusion with what just transpired and a desire to follow her.

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