A/N: Castle belongs to Marlowe and ABC, not me. I wrote this late at night, so please don't ruin my story with your logic. December 15th is my birthday. Mix these ingredients together and bake at 180 degrees C in a 20cm round tin.


He remembers this day last year. December 15th. He's not normally one for dates of mundane things. His brain doesn't work like that. His memory is more sponge-like, absorbing information at random, almost without meaning to. He doesn't always remember where he happened by a particular fact or memory. But he remembers December 15th last year, because it snowed. He remembers the date, because they'd had a conversation about counting down until Christmas. And Beckett was wearing a royal blue pea coat at the crime scene that made her glow as the pale light filtered past the clouds to light the city morning. She had been so beautiful, so untouchable. Her features the most delicate of porcelain. Eyes luminescent and fathomlessly dark, glittering against the snow. A faint blush on her cheeks, heightened by the temperature. Mouth pursed into that almost smile that drove him crazy, made him want to taste it, taste her.

But he couldn't.

She wasn't his.

There was a wall.

He had seen the mistletoe that seemed to do the rounds at the station every year, some joker always moving it to a new spot to catch out the unobservant. His first Christmas at the precinct, he had joined in on that game, trying to lure Beckett to wherever it hung, just to get a rise out of her. The second year, he hadn't wanted to push the boundaries on the new and tentative friendship they were developing. The third year, she belonged to someone else. And he tried so hard to be happy for her, happy that at least she was happy, even if she wasn't happy with him. Then last year, even though they were both unattached, her walls stood strong and tall, unassailable. He might be Castle, but she was the fortress.

Last year, on this date, he had yearned but not touched; longed for but not possessed. She had him- she had him in his entirety, had possessed him for longer than this past year, but she was not his. It had made his heart weep bitterly even as he watched her beauty from a distance, only allowed to make contact as gloved hand brushed against gloved hand as she wrapped her fingers around his daily offering of caffeine. Wisps of tiny flakes snagged against her coat, caught in her curls. One tickled her eyelashes as she fluttered her eyes upwards, making small talk about the weather and the date as the approached the crime scene, side by side- partners, friends- but not allowed to be anything more.

What a difference a year can make.

This year, there is no murder to call them from the cocoon of warmth. This year, he wakes to find her limbs tangled with his own, stretched out across three quarters of his enormous bed, forcing him to remain wrapped around her to keep from falling out. Not that he minds. Her skin is still porcelain, but now he knows its scent, its softness. Her lips are parted as she slumbers on, but this year he knows the taste of her lips, their texture, the alignment of her teeth against his tongue. Her curls have no snowflakes caught up in them, but they dance across his chest and shoulder as she breathes against him, one strand lightly tickling his neck. He makes no effort to move it, though, because this year, it is his to touch.

This year, she is his.