Wishes

A Christmas Eve Story

I have seen the promo photos, but I have not seen any sneak peeks for 5x09. I also did read a few spoilers, and those might have influenced tiny details of this, but all major points of the story were written before I did so, and some of this doesn't match them anyway.

"So she's coming after all?" Alexis asks brightly as she pulls a batch of sugar cookies out of the oven. He loves that his daughter has taken up the cause of getting Kate into some of their Christmas traditions, despite the fact that she isn't used to sharing. Might have something to do with the fact that he's been moping all day.

Castle drops his cell back into the pocket of his bright red apron with the words "The REAL Santa" emblazoned across the chest and returns to stirring the bubbling sauce on the stove, the first completely unencumbered smile of the evening drawing his lips into a bow.

"Yeah, she said someone volunteered to take over for her, so she's on her way."

He only bounces on his toes twice. Well, fine, three times, but he wants to jump up and down and clap his hands with glee, and the little tinkle from the jingle bells on the pockets of the apron is really not that loud.

His heart, his whole spirit, has lifted with her words just now on the phone call, a timid sort of excitement bubbling in her voice, too, even through the cell. Having cleared the Santa case yesterday, he'd hoped that meant he would have her to himself for Christmas Eve, since she always tries to see her dad if she's off on Christmas Day. He couldn't stop his face from falling when Kate had informed him she would be working on Christmas Eve, as always giving her fellow officers with families the day to be home.

At the time, he had thought better of reminding her that she had a family, now, too, knowing that baby steps were still in order when it came to their more involved family traditions, especially at the holidays. But he hadn't imagined the tinge of disappointment in her tone when she had called him early this morning to tell him she had another case—hopefully one they could put to bed quickly, but there were no guarantees.

She'd insisted that he not join her, that he stay with Alexis and do all the Christmasy things she knew they had planned, and as much as he'd wanted to be with Kate on Christmas Eve, crime scene or no, he missed his daughter, needed to be with her while he had the chance. But he'd made Kate promise that whenever she finished, no matter how late, that she would stop by.

The fact that it's still an hour until dinner and she is already on her way… Well, Alexis is smirking at him, which likely means his grin is bordering on ridiculous. And he might have just bounced a few more times. Damn bells.

As they have for more than a decade, he and Alexis spent the day baking and decorating and cooking and making eggnog, all the while preventing Martha from singeing, scorching, over-seasoning, or otherwise leaving her signature mark on their feast. The older woman's only job in the kitchen on Christmas Eve is, appropriately, to make the mulled wine, which she manages annually with ever-increasing flourish. The current concoction is simmering happily on the stove, beside the rest of their traditional Christmas Eve feast.

Well, perhaps "traditional" is too strong a word.

Traditional implies things like turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and though those will all be on the table tomorrow, tonight is a bit more unconventional. Tradition for them, nonetheless.

"Dad, you'd better hurry up with the sauce, or else I'm going to have to make the guacamole."

"No! I'm hurrying. I'm hurrying." He turns off the gas under the pan of green tomatillo salsa and carries it over to the pan of waiting chicken enchiladas. "And I still don't understand why you want to burn my taste buds off with all that fresh jalapeño. Salsa is supposed to make you sweat, and then you eat the guacamole to soothe."

"If you can't handle the heat, make it your way… But I'm just saying, Jose Andres says you can put as much spice as you want in it…"

Sliding the sauced and cheesed pan of rolled corn tortillas into the oven, he sets the timer and turns to the pile of ripe avocados beside the sink.

"And therein lies your problem, oh daughter of mine. Jose Andres is from Spain. I learned to make guacamole when I was researching a book in San Antonio, from the chef at Rosario's, who is Mexican. Guacamole came from the Aztecs, in Mexico."

Her eye roll is impressive as she pipes red frosting onto a reindeer-shaped cookie's nose.

"Did you turn on the water under the tamales yet?"

Checking his watch between halving the wrinkly green Haas, he shakes his head.

"Not yet. They just need to warm up before she gets here. Hey, check the queso when you finish Rudolph."

Alexis finishes his antlers and then lifts the lid on the crock pot, gives it a stir, turns an indulgent smile on him.

"Bubbly and cheesy. Chill Dad. She's going to love all of it. Even your bland guacamole."

Self-awareness has never been his strongest suit, but he recognizes his own hypervigilance tonight. He just can't seem to stop himself. It's their first Christmas together. And now they're actually going to get to spend part of it together-together. They deserve a little bit of perfect with the year they've had.

"Kate just hasn't really done the Christmas thing since her mom's been gone. And we're not exactly the most subtle of Christmas households. I'm afraid we're going to spook her with all our Castle Christmasyness."

His daughter crosses to stand beside him, grabs the second cutting board and starts chopping cilantro.

"She's going to love all of it, because she loves you. So stop stressing."

It hits him in the gut, the fact that his daughter can say the words so freely when the woman in question still cannot. He removes the seed from the last avocado and pries his knife out of it deftly before starting to scoop the soft green flesh into the bowl.

"She still hasn't told you, has she?"

Her voice is laced with disappointment, a hint of irritation. The girl has certainly inherited his perceptiveness. Though she has accepted that Kate makes him happy, his daughter still has her reservations about what she sees as the inequalities in their relationship.

"No. But she shows me every day."

"I know that's supposed to be more important in the long run, but don't you ever just want to hear the words? She's heard them from you."

"Not in a long time, sweetheart."

"But it only takes one time to know that it's always there."

He can't come up with a rebuttal to that, and the words linger in the air, despite the waft of "Jingle Bells" from Trans Siberian Orchestra coming from the speakers in the living room. Because as much as he knows it's there now, shining from Kate's eyes, radiating from the warmth of her hand in his, his grown-up little girl is right. He wants the words. Badly. But emotionally bribing her with Christmas sentimentality until she can't help but let them out is not the way he wants to hear them for the first time. He's content to wait her out.

Again.

He's suddenly glad that this year's world cuisine is Mexican. Smashing the avocados turns out to be an excellent outlet for his frustrations, and reaming out limes also has a therapeutic effect. He didn't get to mash anything last year with the Thai curries, though red and green were appropriately festive for their Christmas table.

Alexis adds the cilantro and grinds sea salt and black pepper on top as he mixes, then grabs a chip for a taste test.

"Needs something."

"Not fresh jalepeno."

"No. Maybe a little more garlic?"

He swipes a dollop up with his finger and tastes.

"No way. Not trying to fend off vampires."

Alexis squints sideways and gives him a saccharine smile.

"You just want your girlfriend to kiss you more."

Then she sticks out her tongue.

"So what if I do? I'm allowed to kiss her now!"

Martha sashays in just in time to break the impasse, snagging a chip and loading it up.

"Needs chili powder."

"You two-I swear that gene skipped a generation."

Reluctantly he sprinkles in about five grains of the dark red spice, gets the evil eye from both redheads simultaneously, and adds about a quarter teaspoon.

"When my ears start smoking, you two have to explain it to Kate."

"Kate's coming after all? Oh, marvelous! That's just wonderful. I'll go pull her gifts out front under the tree."

"Mother, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I don't know if she got anything for us. Maybe we should just wait and see."

"Nonsense, darling. Every woman wants a Christmas gift from her boyfriend."

"But maybe not from his entire family."

"Fine… Fine. I'll leave them where they are. But if she walks in with presents, we're definitely doing a gift exchange before the night is over, since you couldn't get her to stay for tomorrow."

He doesn't say that he's still hoping to sway her, at least into spending the night.

An hour later, when he opens the door to her soft knock, he is nearly knocked over by the face that greets him. Kate Beckett is always beautiful, but tonight her cheeks and nose are pinked from the cold, eyes sparkling, lips curving excitedly upward, hair trailing over her shoulders. She looks absolutely radiant, and he just wants to kiss her right there, with the gravity of this moment, of this evening, of them being together for even one evening of this holiday warming him from head to toe. But he steps back, lets her in instead of pulling her in and hauling her into his arms right then. Treading lightly.

"Merry Christmas."

He can't seem to make anything more coherent come out of his mouth, but then she answers with no more eloquence, so he doesn't feel so bad.

"Merry Christmas."

Closing the door softly behind her, he turns to take her coat, but she's already taken a fews steps toward the living room, seems to be taking in the tree. Proud of his own and his daughter's accomplishment decorating, he moves past her to give her the Christmas tour. When he turns to start his tale of their adventures with lights and garland and that blasted tree stand, he stops short, because she's smiling, eyes upcast, and he sees absolutely everything pouring out of her.

So he steps in close, steals her focus, tries to absorb all of the light shining out of her eyes, all of the warmth radiating off her. It's like basking in a sunbeam on a cold winter day, strikes him clear and true and makes him feel invincible. It's love he's soaking up; he knows it by how it lights up his heart, starts a tingle at the base of his spine that spreads through his whole body, leaves him breathless.

"I'm really glad you're here."

His voice has come out gruffer, deeper than he meant. It betrays his heart's musings, but she seems to take it in stride, breathing out her response and inching closer.

"So am I."

The edges of her coat are nudging at his sleeves, her scarf brushing the front of his shirt, and he can't help but close the distance, wrap his arms around her waist, meet her lips gently with the brush of his smile.

Steps in the hall upstairs alert him that his mother or Alexis are on their way down, but they no longer jolt apart when his family is nearby. Hooking his fingers in her lapels, he nuzzles her nose, watches her eyes unfocus at his nearness, lifts her coat up and off her shoulders.

"Did I mention I'm glad you're here?"

Their smiles meet again, and he drags himself away from her mouth to get the coat the rest of the way off, stow it with her scarf. His daughter pads down the stairs just in time offer a hug and an eggnog and be a proper hostess, allowing him to watch from a distance, finish the table while quietly imagining what it would be like to have her here every year, not a witness to their traditions or a guest at their table, but a willing participant.

Dinner passes with his head still in the clouds over the fact that she's really here, and even though he knows he must look like some lovesick sap, he just can't bring himself to care. Because it's Christmas Eve, and he finally gets to kiss the right girl under the mistletoe. Well, he's not going to be a stickler about where exactly he kisses her, but he will continue to do so, as often as possible, poisonous plant or no.

Going through their routine, a look passes between his mother and daughter and he, and they silently skip the gifts, move on to the wishing ornaments. He figures the miniature coffee mug he found at Starbucks won't count as a real gift, and she needs a wishing ornament anyway.

They all take their turn finding a place on the tree, stopping with fingers not quite letting go to close their eyes and make a wish. Alexis is first with a brand new shining "Columbia" crest, and then his mother with her tiny ceramic Playbill, made to match A Midsummer Night's Dream. He nods for Kate to put up hers next, and she finds a sturdy branch for the heavy ceramic cylinder, leans in, lower lip caught between her teeth, considering. When she finally closes her eyes, breath held, he realizes he's been holding his as well, waits until her hand is by her side and she's stepping away to let his lungs inflate.

The red velvet loop of his fountain pen ornament is twined around one digit as he inspects the tree for blanks spaces. Resisting the urge to slide it onto the branch just beside hers, he opts for a higher one, stretches up to hook the ribbon over an empty spot, closes his eyes to make his wish, and suddenly realizes he has no clue what to wish for, because this year, his only wish has actually come true. His eyes open in consternation, drawing funny looks from all three women, but he shakes his head, closes his lids, takes a breath and thinks very hard to himself: "Let's just make it every year, Santa."

After the marshmallow roast in the fireplace, his mother and Alexis bid them goodnight and disappear, leaving them on the couch with their wine, the room lit by firelight and the twinkling lights of the tree.

Kate has been quiet, even for her, and he can't help but think he sees some sadness in her eyes now that the family is gone. He hopes beyond hope that he's imagining the flicker of distance in the blink of her lashes, the cant of her shoulders, the subtly diminished curve of her lips.

"I should be going."

His stomach drops, and his brain scrambles to find some excuse...

"Oh, wait, help me with the Santa presents first. Mother usually does-too many to carry out by myself."

She follows him into his office to the giant pile of wrapped boxes and starts stacking them in his arms.

"Are all these for Alexis?"

His laugh seems to catch her off guard.

"No, these go to the shelter when we go serve lunch tomorrow. When Alexis was eight, she asked why she got so many presents when some kids didn't get any, so we started doing this. She's got a few under the tree though. I just still love to have the giant pile there from Santa on Christmas morning. Reminds me of when she was little."

It takes them two loads each to shift the piles out, during which Kate remains notably silent. As they arrange the last of the gifts, seated and leaning under the tree, he rolls on his back, grabs her hand to pull her down to lie next to him, heads resting against the edges of the fluffy tree skirt.

"This is my favorite way to look at it."

She tips her gaze up to match his.

"You guys did a great job. It really is beautiful, Castle."

After a moment, his eyes are drawn to her face, the white fairy lights painting her skin with their snowy glow, sparking her eyes from hazel to bright green. He squeezes her hand, the tree the last thing on his mind now.

"Yeah, I think so, too."

A knowing smile quirks her lips, and her eyes slant over to meet his.

"Sap."

Frowning in indignation, he banters back.

"It's Christmas. I'm allowed to be sentimental. It's a requirement during the holidays!"

"Oh really?"

Rolling toward her, he releases her hand to prop his head up on it.

"It's a Christmas tradition."

"What other Castle Christmas traditions should I know about?"

A warmth that has nothing to do with the wine simmers deep in his chest at the realization that she's actively asking, that she wants to know what makes his little family tick. And she's lying on his floor in his living room, staring up into his Christmas tree at midnight on Christmas Eve, showing no sign that she's looking to flee in holiday-induced fear any time soon. Maybe he's lulled her into complacency, hypnotized her with tinsel and shiny baubles and twinkling lights. He'll take it. He'll take anything that keeps her here even a minute longer. So he answers, giving her his best welcoming smile.

"I think you saw the evidence of the Christmas cookie bake-off."

"I think I ate half your evidence." She pats her stomach, flat as ever as far as he can tell. "Gonna have to go for a Christmas morning run thanks to Alexis' team of not-so-tiny reindeer."

His hand gravitates toward hers, laces his warm fingers with her chilly ones over her belly button. As her shirt shifts upward with the extra weight of his arm, he sees goosebumps on the soft skin just above the waist of her pants. He kicks himself for not thinking of it. She's not even wearing a sweater, and her feet are bare, and she's tiny and they're on the floor and now he's let her...

"You're cold. Why didn't you say something? I didn't have the heat up because we had the ovens and the stove going and then the fireplace…"

Her eyes stop his rambling, send a bolt of... something straight to his heart, and then her mouth opens and he's almost gasping for air at her words.

"Don't turn up the heat, you can keep me warm."

Scooting in closer, he curls himself around her, nudging her knees up to drape them over his thighs. His chest is pressed against her side, free arm encircling her waist, hand tucked tightly between the rug and the small of her back. She's relaxed into him, leaning in to touch her temple to the curve of his shoulder.

"Better?"

God, it's so much better. So much better than years of imagining where she was, what she was doing, if there were tears and ghosts and shadows keeping her company instead of smiles and family and light.

"Much."

His heart settles into a slow canter, and he tries to resurrect their earlier conversation.

"Actually, after tonight, you've seen most of our holiday craziness. Want to tell me about some of yours?"

Her eyes close once, and she takes a slow breath, as if opening up the book of her memory to a very old, delicate page, one that's yellowed and might crumble if not handled just right. Her words are slow, quiet, reverent when she opens her eyes, dark and bottomless, and looks into his.

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

With that openness, that trust she's put in him, he won't let there be any sadness tonight, not from his questions. Their first Christmas won't be marred by so much melancholy—not when everything has been so bright. Falling back on what they do best, he keeps his tone playful and light.

"Did you open your presents on Christmas morning, or Christmas Eve?"

"Christmas morning, definitely. Except for one. We always got to open one the night before."

Oh, wasn't that an excellent piece of information. Useful. Very useful.

"Real tree, or artificial?"

A smile graces her whole face as she starts to speak.

"Real, though my dad was totally allergic. He had to take allergy medication for the whole month of December, sneezed his way through putting it up and getting all the millions of ornaments on it, but he always said it was worth it to see me and my mom bury our noses in the branches every time we walked through the door."

"Where are all your ornaments now?"

The question came out before he could think better of it, but she didn't seem sad.

"My dad has them. Puts up some on a little tiny fake tree in his apartment every year."

"But it's not the same."

"No."

That's why she stood staring at this tree when she first walked in. He hopes she knows she could bury her nose in it, too. The air clogs a bit in his lungs as he makes the decision, takes the leap.

"Bring some next year?"

No air enters, no air leaves, as he watches her, sees the corners of her eyes tighten, considering. The look on her face is teetering on the edge between happy memory and wistful regret, but he thinks she's handling it, choosing to remember well and thoroughly maybe for the first time in a long time.

"Sure. I think my mom would like it if they were on a tree."

"Your tree."

"I haven't had a tree since-"

"This tree, Kate. This can be your tree, too, if you want it to be."

Her eyes close, lips press tight together, ribs cease to expand under his hand. He's tipped her over, sees the reality of it swamp her when she had been floating blissfully along in a land of "what if." And his heart clenches, the voice in his head berating him for always taking it one step too far. She has been so happy all night, and then he screws it up, pushing her into something she's not ready for. What an idiot he is.

"It's late. I really should be heading home."

Uncurling from his hold, leaving a cool vacuum in place of her soft, sweet body, she's up and away before he can even retract his statement, and by the time he catches up with her, it's too late to even try to take the silly, optimistic words back. In full panic mode at this point, he has reached his epiphany-she is leaving right now unless he can stop her. And he knows there is no way to accomplish it physically. All he has are his words to convince her.

"Please don't."

To his credit, those two words stop her in her tracks. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's pity. He doesn't care, because it gives him time to catch up to her, to get his body between her retreating form and his front door, to get his fingers intertwined with hers and their eyes entangled.

"Just stay. Stay with me, Kate."

He can't read those eyes. He can always read her eyes, but now his telepathy is drawing a blank. The flecks of green sparked into life by the lights on the tree are giving him no clues. The tight line of her jaw, the measured breaths-none yield any hint of her answer.

Desperation takes over, the need to have her here, to face her demons with her, is suddenly overwhelming. As a rule, Rick Castle doesn't beg. But obviously that rule has never applied to this gorgeous, inscrutable paradox of a woman blinking soulfully before him.

"I used to think that, other than Alexis, the thing that made me happiest in the whole world was Christmas." Her hands still feel cool in his as he takes them, the bones delicate spindles stretching out toward him from her wrist, her whole form backlit by the light of the tree. But she grips his fingers fiercely, and that single clench of muscles and tendons gives him the courage to continue. "And then I met you."

Her eyes soften, take on a shimmer of moisture as they bore into his, and one hand loosens from his grasp, finds just enough of his shirtfront to wrap around.

That's the only response he gets. No words-just a fist full of his buttondown. But he'll take it. He'll take it and run.

"I love you, so much. I can't imagine wishing for anything more than to wake up on Christmas morning with you next to me, even if it's only for a little while."

He thinks he has her, sees the love pouring out of her, as it has been all night, but he can't take the chance that he's talking her into this for the wrong reasons.

"I don't want you to do this out of... pity. If I thought that's all this would be, I wouldn't be asking. But I can see it. I can see a part of you wants this, craves it, has to work hard to push it away. It's just that another, smaller, louder part of your past keeps telling you to leave, to tuck away all the pain this season brings back and hold it tight to yourself."

Her eyes shift away, find a spot somewhere near his front door to focus on, and he knows he's hit it exactly right, knows he can break through if he can just keep finding precisely the right words.

"You don't have to live in the memory to keep the memory, Kate. You can make a new one, one that maybe someday will help the sadness fade, and leave you with the good parts of your past shining through."

Covering her tightly fisted hand with his own, he finds it warm, works her fingers loose until they tangle with his, pulls them to his chest.

"I want all of you-not just the happy, smiling, well-adjusted parts. Just let me be here, let me help you find the joy again."

Her eyes return to his, swimming, luminescent. He doesn't want her to cry, but he thinks this night must usually require it of her, and so he's happy to dry the tears.

One leaks past her lashes, and she blinks hard, trying to stop the rest from spilling over. But his thumb is there to catch them, arcing along the curve of her cheek. Swallowing once, she makes the effort to lift her lids, to find him through the unshed tears, and hope buoys his heart at the look she gives him, piercing, direct, undaunted. When she opens her mouth, he can almost hear bells ringing softly in the distance, is sure there's a star streaking across the night sky.

"I'll stay."

# * # * # * #

There is probably more of this. Probably.

Joy, my beta, my friend, all the pretty snowflakes go to you for reading this one. And maybe a peppermint mocha, too. Sheep, I promise I have not forgotten the whipped cream. It's coming. And that was NOT DIRTY. STOP IT. Really. It wasn't. The artwork is mine. Feel better, Angie!

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