It's no secret around the precinct, who does and doesn't do Christmas. The non-Christians, the atheists, the people who would celebrate but really need the time-and-a-half the city pays. The people who have no family, or no family they want to see. They're a sure bet for those who draw Christmas duty and will do just about anything to get out of it.
The surest bet of all is probably Kate Beckett, and everyone knows why, though no one talks about it outright.
It's not like she and her father haven't tried to figure out some way to spend the day together. That first year, well, it was Johanna who made Christmas and she was only six weeks gone, so no one really expected them to be in any kind of celebratory mood. Jim stayed drunk and Kate stayed in bed, and the living room, always filled with coloured lights by the end of Thanksgiving weekend, stayed dark all the way till January. Kate still had friends from high school back then, and with everyone home from college and rambling around the city, there was at least some escape for New Year's Eve. Escape from the monotony of grief as well, because nobody knew what to say about her mother and everyone's relief when she insisted right away that she didn't want to talk about it was palpable. And welcome, as welcome as her friends dragging her to a club to get roaringly drunk and dance till she was so overheated she had to go outside and throw up in the snow.
The second year, it was Christmas at Aunt Margaret's, her dad's oldest sister. All the grandparents were long since gone, and Johanna had been an only child, so Margaret had been the undisputed matriarch since Kate was about twelve years old. Jim was the much youngest of four, still the baby according to his sisters, and the truth was, there were so many years between them, he had barely known them growing up. Agewise, Kate was a good ten years younger than the youngest of her cousins, and ten years older than the eldest of their children, so the gatherings of Clan Beckett generally left her frustrated and bored. That year was the worst, with the only cousin she really knew now living in Europe, and all three of her father's sisters fussing and petting and tsiskering over her dead mother and her broken engagement and her poor poor father who, again, coped with the day by staying drunk. Since then, Kate had successfully managed to find some excuse or another to avoid the yearly summons. By now, even her family accepts that this is who she is and working through Christmas is just what she does. It doesn't matter if its her year to work New Year's Eve instead. Someone will eventually turn up at her desk, sometimes with the offer of cookies, or a bottle of wine. She appreciates the gesture, but it's not really required. Kate's more than willing to do the favour. She thinks of it as her gift to the department; she doesn't need to be bribed.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Karpowski is asking, for the third or fourth time. "I mean, I could ask Rosenberg, he said he needs the overtime."
"I don't mind," Kate reassures her.
"It's just my great-aunt has finally made it over from Poland for the first time, and everyone's gathering, and-"
"Ros." Kate leans over her desk and fixes the woman with what she hopes is a sincere stare. "I don't celebrate Christmas, and everyone knows that. So, for the last time, I don't mind changing shifts."
"I know, I just thought that this year, you might..." Karpowski swallows, as if she's changed her mind mid-sentence, based on whatever look has just crossed Kate's face. "Have, you know, other plans."
"I don't have other plans." Kate checks her face from the inside, makes sure her smile hasn't gone icy. "And anyway, there's a green leather duster I've got my eye on at Saks. So I'm also happy to have the overtime." Happier still (and she wouldn't admit this even upon pain of death) to have an iron-clad, no-arguments excuse to wave off the inevitable invitation to spend Christmas at Casa Castle watching the world's happiest little family opening what she's sure must be an entire floor of Hamley's worth of gifts.
Karpowski is no sooner gone than Castle swans in with two cups of cappuchino and an expression that a four-year-old might wear, having tied his shoes all by himself for the very first time.
'So, about Christmas dinner,' he says, placing one cup in front of her with a flourish. 'My mother always insists we sit down to eat by five.'
'And you're telling me this, why?' Beckett picks up the cup and blows across the top, watching the foam wave and sputter. It beats watching his face, the smile that assumes she will, of course, be grateful for the invitation. In truth, she might be another year from now, when she knows him better, when Alexis is older, when she's ready to...
What? Rejoin the human race? That sounds like the kind of thing Castle might throw at her. The truth is, she's tried the Christmas with other people's (Lanie's) family, and she's tried it with the precinct orphans (some real, some too far away to make it home for just one day), and there just isn't any configuration that doesn't make her feel her mother's absence with something approaching physical pain. Only work works, the rush of an open case as good as the monotony of the forms and filing she avoids the rest of the year like the plague. She can be cheerful at work. Useful. Some years she'll be really lucky and have the evening shift, which means she can sleep away the morning and by the time she's finished it's past midnight, and the whole thing is over for another year. That's the part of Christmas Kate Beckett likes best, the drive home from work, and the hot brandy toddy, and the going to sleep feeling triumphant for having done something worthwhile with the day.
She looks up to find Castle watching her with that rare, super-serious expression that always gobsmacks her and never portends anything good.
He says, 'I'm telling you this because I don't want you to spend tomorrow alone.'
It's like falling and having the wind knocked out of her, and for a moment it hurts too much to breathe. Her mind races for something, anything, some joke to counter the statement, to lighten the mood.
She can't think of a goddamn thing but the truth. 'I won't be alone', she says, gesturing to the bullpen-at-large. 'I'll be here.'
-0-
She enters the bullpen the next morning to catcalls and a cry of 'Hey, look what Santa brought us this year. It's Nikki Heat!'
'And I must have been a really bad girl this year,' she answers, unperturbed, 'Cause I got stuck with you, Hernando.'
Karpowski's not the lead detective in her squad, so as her sub, neither is Beckett. She's there if they need another hand, but she's not catching any new cases and her own are either closed, or as closed as they're going to get. Mostly working someone else's shift on Christmas means eight quiet hours to catch up on paperwork. By lunch, she's ready for any distraction, even if it would mean putting up with a caffeine-stoked Castle jittering by her desk.
And as if thinking of Castle were the cue, there's suddenly two unemployed actor-types in catering uniforms rolling a steam trolley off the elevators, and all the guys are crowing about a gift from Nikki's boyfriend. And then the silver covers come off and they're all silent for a moment, a little cowed, because Castle's gift is Christmas dinner. Not a few slices of turkey and some mashed potatoes, but a whole damned bird, and all the trimmings, including three kinds of pie.
'Holy shit,' Hernado whispers, and suddenly Kate's the man of the moment, or woman of, or whatever, but cops live on their stomach and the oohs and aahs and smiles that get sent her way are suddenly full of gratitude instead of innuendo, because they all know that if she wasn't here, it would be the usual cold turkey subs from Granado's up the block. And maybe they've all been good little boys and girls because they manage to get through most of it before the first call of the day comes in.
-0-
She goes on the call, doing what she can, following orders for once instead of giving them. The 'yo, Nikki Heat' keeps going, but she's stopped listening, and probably the fact that once or twice she's even answered to the name is going to come back to bite her on the ass.
Back in the bullpen, Jack Tyler is staring at his murder board. He's the lead for this squad, tall and honey-blond, a former Marine who reminds her more than just a little of a working-class Sorenson.
'Beckett, c'mere.' He gestures her over and she takes the same position at his side, ass on the edge of Eggerstrom's desk, arms folded over her chest. Tyler's been working this case for almost two weeks, if he doesn't get a break soon, he's going to have to put it away and go back on the line. New Year's is coming, and with it, the busiest time of the year. Nothing like a fresh start for settling old debts. Or incurring new ones.
It's not help he's looking for though. 'Don't let the turkeys, and all that,' he mutters, jerking his head back to Hernando and his crowd. 'You think anyone's ever gonna write a book about them?'
'It's not about me,' she says automatically, and shrugs when she feels his eyes cut her way. 'Anyway, the whole precinct thinking I'm sleeping with Castle is probably preferable to them thinking I'm not getting any at all.'
They're silent for a few moments, contemplating blood splatter and body parts. She casts an eye on the clock and sighs. Nearly four. Her shift is nearly done. She wonders briefly if someone on the four to midnight could be convinced to take the evening off.
'Yeah,' Tyler agrees, following her gaze. 'Too early to go home.'
She's never known why Tyler doesn't do Christmas. It's not the kind of thing people around here ask each other, and even the well-developed gossip trail from civilian staff to the mayor's office doesn't seem to know.
'Gym's open,' she suggests. 'I could do with a sparring match, work some of that turkey off.'
His grin is wide, the message clearly received. Beckett goes back to her desk, suddenly ready for that little hand to be hitting four.
-0-
She's not kidding about the gym or the sparring or the need to work something off. Tyler's not an official coach, but he's a pretty blond boy from the South Bronx, and his street survival tactics were well honed long before he was recruited for special ops. Growing up the pampered child of intellectuals hadn't exactly prepared her for physical violence, and at the Academy it was the only subject in which she consistently ranked bottom of the class. She's improved a thousand times since, mostly thanks to guys like him. And it doesn't hurt that they all look damned good in a tight t-shirt drenched with sweat.
What Tyler teaches her is mostly defensive - her reflexes are whipsharp and she has a pretty good right hook, but she's thin and light and easy to throw around; her best bet in any hand-to-hand situation with a much larger male is simply not to get hit. They bob and weave and dance and she even gets in a couple of solid hits, but this isn't really about mortal combat. It's foreplay. Beckett doesn't even bother to hide her attraction. They both knew where this was going even before they began.
They grab a cab to her place before the sweat can dry on their bodies, before they've had a chance to cool down and think about it.
-0-
She's dozing in a happy haze, Tyler's arm warm and heavy around her waist, when the knock comes on her door, jerking both of them instantly awake.
'You expecting someone?' he asks.
Kate untangles herself from the sheets and slides out of bed. 'Not really,' she answers, but there's only one person she can think of who would come knocking on her door at 9pm on Christmas night. She grabs her robe from the bedpost and points a finger at Tyler. 'Stay there. Stay quiet. I'll be right back.'
He stretches out, lacing his hands behind his head so the sheet slides down, revealing his splendid abs. 'Yes, ma'am. Anything you say, ma'am,' he says, and her mind instantly summons several possbilities for making him prove that statement. Damn her and her weakness for men with wicked grins.
Kate hurries to the peephole, throwing on her robe in the process. Sure enough, it's him, hand raised to knock again. For a moment it crosses her mind to simply not answer, but they've left the music on in the living room and she's pretty sure it's loud enough for him to hear it with his ear pressed to the door. And she's pretty sure Castle would, indeed, be pressing his ear to her door if he had the slightest suspicion she was home. Kate curses the day she bought a stereo with a 10 CD stack and gives up, opens the door.
'Merry Christmas, Det-'
The big cheesy grin freezes on his face as he takes her in, the crimson silk robe hastily belted over bare skin, her face without makeup, her hair a mess. Surprise turns into an unconsciously lascivious lick of his lips. 'You were asleep at this-'
Another sentence dies as he looks past her, at the man-sized shoes in the hall and the trail of clothes leading through the living room to her bedroom beyond. Lascivious falls from his face and becomes blank understanding. 'Ah. Not asleep.'
She feels an apology on her lips and presses them tight to hold it back. She hasn't asked him to come over, and the cold from the hall is raising goosebumps on her skin. Probably raising something else, since his eyes keep straying to her chest, then snapping back to look anywhere else. 'What is it, Castle, and why can't it wait till tomorrow?'
'I just...I wanted to give you this.' He whips a package out of his pocket, wrapped in expensive silver paper and suspiciously small. 'Merry Christmas?'
He tries the big flashy grin again, although it's more question now than statement. Kate looks at the gift and for a moment, all the loneliness she's held at bay all day comes rushing up like a kick square in the chest.
'Thanks, Castle,' she finally manages, not letting go of the door. 'But I don't have anything for you.'
'I know. You don't do Christmas.' He holds out the gift. 'No strings. It's just something I wanted you to have.'
She doesn't feel ready to take it. 'Why don't you give it to me tomorrow?' she suggests, and his face suddenly brightens.
'That's right, you're off work. So, no excuses, young lady. I expect to see you at Casa Castle for brunch, promptly at noon.'
'All right,' she agrees, though not entirely certain what she's agreeing to, and fairly certain she's going to regret whatever it is.
He puts the gift back into his pocket and nods, but before she can close the door, he leans forward and takes her chin in his hand, forcing her to look him directly in the eyes. 'I'm glad you're not alone tonight,' he says, quite sincerely. And then he's gone, leaving her standing there breathless, in that way that only Richard Castle can.
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