Chapter 1
Beckett is not happy. She has a multitude of reasons.
Winter is not her favourite season. It's chilly, or cold, and the weather outside is frightful. Sleet, or freezing rain, or slippery snow that ruins her chances of wearing her favourite heels. She doesn't like that.
She doesn't like the way in which everyone is supposed to be delighted by the merest hint of a snowflake; she doesn't like hot mulled wine, which is a waste of a good bottle of red. She doesn't like the relentless pressure to be ostentatiously merry: she doesn't do joviality. She doesn't like carol singing – mainly because the bullpen couldn't catch a tune in a bucket, and the caterwauling hurts her ears. She doesn't like turkey – what's wrong with a nice joint of beef? All the trimmings are simply greedy overkill. And Yule logs are a fast way to ruin a good chocolate roulade.
She doesn't like the fact that every murder is greeted by wails of "But it's Christmas!" as if that should convince criminals to stop being – well, criminal. Her results are all delayed because every tech in town is doing their Christmas shopping instead of their job. Ryan and even Esposito are discussing the best presents for their profuse quantities of relatives. Lanie is an utter washout – the woman loves shopping, and is perfectly prepared to dragoon Beckett along with her if not stopped. Stopped by force, that is, and frequently by the application of a Glock. So far, the safety catch has remained on.
She doesn't like fuss, muss, sociability or shopping; eating too much or large parties; present wrapping or card sending; crimson Santas or tackily decorated trees; excited children of all ages or elves. Or reindeer, which are simply ugly horses with horns and a really good PR agent.
Christmas-tide, in fact, induces in Beckett only the strong desire to shout "Bah, humbug!" at every passing rosy-cheeked child, parent, grandparent and being of any description whatsoever, living, dead or in-between.
And she has a cold. Having a cold is not, naturally, directly the fault of it being Christmas-tide, but right now it's all one oozing morass of annoyance and discomfort.
It's not that she dislikes Christmas. She just doesn't see the point.
Unfortunately, Castle does. Loudly (is he ever quiet?), enthusiastically (is he ever not?) and all the freaking time since November 30. If it wasn't for the constant press of people and Montgomery's beady eye, both of which mean that she can't dispose of the corpse secretly, she'd have shot him. If she'd known in September he'd be like this about Christmas, she'd never have accepted his apology or ever let him back in the precinct.
Right now, he's still talking. Happily, she's not listening. She makes hm noises every so often, interspersed with um, or occasionally mm. It's sufficiently ambiguous for it not to be rude.
If only she hadn't varied the noises by emitting, without thinking or listening, an occasional and indifferent yes.
"Great!"
Oh, shit. Castle only sounds that enthusiastic when he thinks he's got one over on her. She sneezes, pointedly, and blows her already scarlet nose.
"I never thought you'd agree."
Saying I didn't isn't likely to help. Castle won't believe her. Or he'll pretend not to, and then he'll widen his eyes at her and look utterly pathetic and no matter how hard she tries she can't deal with that. If she believed in Santa she'd ask him to give her resistance to Castle's puppy-dog look. That would at least be useful. Asking the Santa she doesn't believe in for a scorching night with someone (and that someone is absolutely definitely not Castle even if his scent when he gets too close does make her knees wobble) would be silly. Far better to get something practical. Not that she needs to wait for Christmas or some mythical and non-existent Santa for that: she can just buy it. And if she wants a scorching night with someone she'll put on a short skirt and a tight top and go clubbing with Lanie. She doesn't need mythical Santas for that either. She can pick up a hot man if she wants to. Usually she doesn't even have to try. Men appear, hot, wanted or not. It's getting rid of them that's the problem. Her Glock helps, again. So if she wants a hot wild night, she can have one.
She just hasn't wanted to for nearly nine months. It's ridiculous. She's just being ridiculous. Nothing to do with Castle at all.
She sneezes again, crossly, and blows her nose again, which hurts. She'll need a pint of moisturiser to soften the dry skin around her nostrils, and a full tube of concealer to damp down the redness. She is not Rudolph's cousin, and if anyone suggests it she will shoot them, regardless of the public nature of her desk. No-one would ever convict her. Provocation defences are totally justifiable. She sneezes, yet again.
"Poor you," Castle says, faux-sympathetically, leaving whatever nonsense he's talking behind. She has no interest whatsoever in whatever ridiculous undertaking he's trying to convince her she's agreed to. It's cold, she has a cold, and bah, humbug. "It's no fun having a cold at Christmas."
"It's no fun having a cold. Christmas is irrelevant."
"Heresy! It's much worse having a cold at Christmas. You can't taste all the lovely food and drink properly."
"What, like the food from the comfort truck? I know exactly how that tastes. Same as usual, possibly with added salmonella as a present." She coughs, by way of variation on a theme. She would sniff, but she was brought up with some manners and there is nothing worse than sniffing. And that's another irritation at this time of year. No-one seems to carry Kleenex, and they all sniff revoltingly. One of them gave her this cold, and when she finds the perpetrator they will suffer.
"You have no Christmas spirit, Beckett," Castle droops. "It's very off-putting."
"Christmas is an over-hyped commercialisation of a pagan celebration overlaid with Christian theology. It's not even definitely the right date. The Church just annexed the winter solstice and Saturnalia. There's no proper evidence at all. It's an excuse to have a series of drunken parties and spend lots of money on things that people don't want. All you end up with is a family row about who took Great-Auntie Grace's best muffler and then there's a corpse on the floor."
She sneezes again, and blows her nose in a very conversation-ending way.
"Nonsense," Castle says firmly. "Christmas is about making people happy. You spend time with your family, you do things that you all enjoy accompanied by food and drink that everyone likes, you give them presents that you know they'll appreciate, and everyone is happier at the end than the beginning. No corpses."
"I don't need it to be Christmas to do things to make my dad happy. If you need some stupid over-stuffed turkey and giving expensive gifts on one particular day to be happy with your family you're doing it wrong."
Castle, thankfully, has been silenced. Oh. That's because he's padded off to the break room, probably to concoct some coffee which has been utterly ruined by the addition of spices or flavours which are not vanilla. If he doctors her coffee, he might well end up wearing it.
She blows her abused nose once more, and subsides into a little pool of congested misery, sneezing occasionally and coughing more often than that. She ignores the Christmas cheer around her as entirely irrelevant to her caseload.
Castle wanders back, placing a cup of thankfully ordinary, non-Christmassy coffee in front of her. It is accompanied by a small packet of black-and-white striped candies.
"Thanks," she says automatically, and then looks at the desk. "Why have you brought a packet of candy, Castle?" arrives ominously.
"To top up your supply of humbugs. You've muttered bah humbug under your breath so many times you must be running out of humbugs by now. So I bought you some more. You do know that these are humbugs, don't you?"
He smirks. Beckett considers using these humbug-things to choke him, and then decides that she needs sugar more than Castle needs to be suppressed. She stuffs one in her mouth, which will give her an excuse not to say anything, and turns back to her caseload. The humbug-candy has the happy effect of easing her throat and cough, too. Win-win.
"Anyway," Castle says in a portentous manner, "you agreed to come to a movie with me."
"Ugh," Beckett says, and sneezes. "I've got a cold. I don't want to go out."
"It'll take your mind off your nose," he grins as she blows said nose all over again. "You remind me of Rudolph." He hums, annoyingly, a snatch of the thrice-damned song. "You can light my way."
Beckett scowls blackly.
"C'mon. It's just a movie. Popcorn and M&Ms are on offer…" he entices. He has no right to be enticing. Especially not with chocolate. She always wants chocolate when she has a cold. It cheers her up. Unlike stupid humbug candies, which don't even have chocolate in the middle to soothe her sore throat properly. She glares at the candies. They glare back.
"I don't wanna," she sulks.
"Better than festering at home and feeling sicker and sicker."
"I wanna fester," she says childishly.
"Fester in the movie theatre. Much nicer. Anyway, you said you would. C'mon."
"It's not shift end."
"No, it's not. Shift end was an hour ago. C'mon. Shut off your computer, put your papers away, stand up and put your coat on." He smirks evilly. "Feel free to sneeze as often as you like while you do."
She growls. It's interrupted by a sneeze. Castle's smirk expands. Begrudgingly, she powers down and puts things away. She has no idea why she's going along with Castle's plan, except that if she goes home she'll probably take cough syrup and whiskey and watch cult B-movies which will magically all make sense under the influence of the mixture, when normally they make no sense at all.
Castle locates a cab, ushers her in, and sits tidily on the other side without touching her at all. He's probably trying not to catch her cold, she thinks crossly. Not that she wants him to touch her. No. But she doesn't want to be treated like a leper either. She huddles into her scarf and coat, and coughs.
It's undoubtedly the fault of the coughing, which is beginning to give her a sore throat, that she simply sits down while Castle happily informs her that he'll get the tickets, some ice-cream for her cough, and some snacks. It doesn't occur to her to look at the list of films which are being shown, and even if she had there is a wide variety.
When he returns, bedecked with drinks, ice-cream and snacks sufficient to provision Scott of the Antarctic, he whisks her through to the screen without really providing her with time to note what they are about to watch. She would be cross, but she's too grateful for the ice-cream for any hint of crossness to be given house-room. She unbundles herself from the scarf and coat, takes off her hat and curls into her seat. Castle slides in next to her and arranges himself and the immense quantities of sustenance (how is he not the size of an elephant?) tidily. She sighs, coughs again, blows her nose and crumples slightly.
"Are you okay?" Castle asks, with none of the earlier smirk.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
Castle makes a very sceptical noise, but doesn't actually disagree. Trailers begin to run for all sorts of movies, at least one of which Beckett might consider attending without actually being threatened at gunpoint to make her go. She huddles some more, and shivers.
"You're cold," Castle says. "Must have been the ice-cream." She's still reeling at the illogic when his arm arrives around her slim shoulders.
"What're you – atchoo! – doing?"
"Keeping you warm. You're cold."
She is a little cold. Well, she was a little cold. She isn't cold now. Castle is warm. She is very, very warm. Hot, one might say. She doesn't protest further at the arm. It's comfy, and comforting. It's only because she's not feeling good. She hates having a cold. Anyway, the movie will cheer her up.
The start of the movie does not cheer her up.
"What the hell, Castle? A Christmas Carol? By Disney?" she squawks, regrettably sotto voce to avoid being evicted. She hasn't quite finished the ice-cream, and there is chocolate. "What makes you think I'd want to see any Christmas movie?" She wanted a nice gory action movie with no plot, no intelligence required and lots of big set piece explosions and bad guys dying messily.
"I thought you'd have some fellow-feeling for Scrooge," Castle says provocatively, right into her ear. She would kill him, but his proximity to her ear and – she thinks; she isn't quite sure because it's so fleeting and so light – the flick of lips over the lobe is producing some very strange effects on her muscles. They don't seem to be entirely under her control. Must be the sneezing.
Strangely, her head has migrated to Castle's shoulder. Except when she's sneezing. There is a rhythm developing. She sneezes, and jerks forward, Castle catches her and repatriates her to his broad shoulder, ensuring that his arm is around her at all times. In between, she eats the M&Ms. The chocolate helps. Chocolate always helps. Far better than Christmas, and always available at any time of year.
Gradually the movie grows on her. Mostly, this is because she does indeed have a fellow-feeling for Scrooge. He had the right attitude, and the Ghosts are really just meddling busybodies who don't get that not everyone needs to have the same views. Even with this entirely reasonable view, however, she's still startled and just a little scared by the demon horses, and jumps.
"I've got you. Don't be scared," rumbles smugly in her ear. She would retaliate, but he's done that maybe-ear-nibbling thing again and it has totally distracted her. Especially as it was followed up by a very definite nuzzle of her hair. She should move. Her hair is not for nuzzling, no matter how nice it feels. Nor is it acceptable to be kissing her hair. That must have been her imagination.
She sneezes, follows up by blowing her nose as quietly as possible – which in practice means that she is merely making as much noise as a single baby elephant and not a full herd – and then starts to cough. She manages to smother that only by turning, in absolute desperation, further into Castle's shoulder and muffling the noise in his sweater. It's not good manners, but it works. She's already getting black looks from surrounding people. Really, don't they know it's Christmas time and forgiveness is essential? She just bets they'd claim that they're full of Christmas spirit, so why are they glaring at her? She, on the other hand, is entitled to glare. She has no Christmas spirit whatsoever, and isn't planning on acquiring any.
Muffling herself in Castle's sweater-covered chest was a very bad idea. Firstly, it smells quite delightful and in no way of Christmas at all. Good. But bad, because she could definitely deal with breathing the scent in for some considerable time, especially if she were two layers closer to the source, as it were. That is not a good thought. Secondly, because Castle thinks her action is an invitation and has accepted it as eagerly as a four-year old opens presents. With significant difficulty, she extricates her head from his embrace.
"Don't do that," he murmurs. "Come back and be cuddled." Somehow, the smooth dark molasses of his bedroom voice (she hopes it's a bedroom voice, because it certainly shouldn't be allowed out anywhere else) are sliding down her synapses and stifling what little sense her cold and anti-Christmas feelings have left her with. Surely that's why she isn't unfurling from him? She's only just turned far enough to see the screen – at which she startles again as Scrooge falls into the grave, which causes Castle to cuddle her back in again.
And then, of course, the movie starts on the obligatory Christmas happy ending. Yes, Beckett has read the original book. Yes, she knows it has a happy ending. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bah, humbug! It would have been much better if Scrooge had remained a curmudgeonly old man – and more realistic, too. Leopards don't change their spots, and all that. She harrumphs, sounding remarkably like Scrooge.
"No harrumphing, Beckett," Castle says from above her head. Oh. She's still clasped against his sweater.
"Why not?" she says crossly, smothered by the sweater. At least it's not one of those dumb Christmas sweaters. It feels like cashmere, and why would anyone waste good cashmere on a tasteless Yule design?
Castle pats her. Since she's still all snuggled up – purely because he hasn't let her go, of course – it's actually more of a stroke.
"Because the next stop is hot chocolate. I know this gorgeous little family-owned café that does the best hot chocolate anywhere. Smooth and rich and soothing – a bit like me, really. It'll ease your throat."
"Will it have stupid spices spoiling it?" Beckett says.
Castle tuts at her. "That's not nice," he chides. "They'll make it however you like. Just because you're cross is no reason to be nasty."
Beckett blushes shamefacedly. This allows the rest of her face to match her nose. "Sorry," she mutters.
"C'mon. It's only a couple of blocks."
It occurs to Beckett, through a fog of stuffed-up nose and cold, that Castle seems to have something of a plan. Possibly the choice of movie theatre wasn't random. She trails along behind him. Well, she tries. About three steps in Castle realises that his bouncy enthusiasm is carrying him along rather faster than the sneeze-ridden Beckett, slows up, lets her get half a step ahead and then basely uses their relative positions to sling his arm around her. She doesn't even complain. Being covered by a nice warm strong arm is pleasant.
The café would likely be pleasant, if its ordinary décor could be seen under the several tons of tinsel and other decorations. Castle had monumentally failed to mention that gorgeous translated to addicted to Christmas. Beckett looks dyspeptically at the shiny baubles, flashing lights, and eight-foot fully decorated tree, and aims straight for a corner seat where she can look out the window and avoid the migraine-inducing fractured multi-coloured sparkles. It's also well away from draughts and cold blasts from the opening door, though looking out the window will undoubtedly involve the expectation that she admires the swirling snowflakes. She doesn't. It just means that there won't be a single cab around to get her home.
"Plain hot chocolate, please," Beckett requests, "with whipped cream."
Castle looks just a little disappointed in her. "But you could have cinnamon, or nutmeg, or even rum in it."
"Just ordinary, please," she says, with emphasis on the ordinary. She can hear Castle grumbling about her lack of adventurous spirit and Christmas cheer all the way to the counter.
A two-shot piece of sardonic Christmas fluff, with little plot, less reason and no excuse. Second chapter Wednesday.
What's in a Name will return on schedule Tues and Thu.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.
