Chapter 1

Cooking, it was fair to say, was not Beckett's favourite pastime. In fact, it ranked somewhere slightly below sticking pins in her eyes, and since her view of acupuncture was already subterranean, she would cheerfully acknowledge that she hated cooking.

Unfortunately, it was a bullpen tradition that, in the run up to Christmas, everyone had to bring in home-made treats. Beckett suspected that this was Montgomery's fault, and the man didn't even have the decency to be apologetic about it. In previous years, she had (shhh! Don't tell) bought some ready-made pies from a funny little British shop (mince pies? What the hell had fruit to do with minced meat?), then popped them in her otherwise unused oven until they were marginally charred around the edges, taken them in, and dared anyone to comment. Strangely, they were usually found in the trash at the end of the day, occasionally with one single bite from them.

Until this particular Christmas, her culinary incapability hadn't worried her in the slightest, and Lanie had happily kept her secret, on pain of death by being choked with the mince pies.

But this year there was Castle, and she couldn't stand that he might think her incompetent at anything. He didn't know (well, she hadn't told him) that she lived on takeout and ready meals. And she knew that he was an excellent cook. In their unspoken, but constant competition, she was absolutely not prepared to lose.

Therefore she needed to be able to say – truthfully – that she'd made whatever it was going to be, and whatever it was needed to be delicious.

"Lanie, I need your help," Beckett said, glass of wine at the ready; a quiet table secured in their favourite, comfortable bar.

"Sure," Lanie said happily, and took a large glug of her wine. "What is it this time? Murder, or men?" Her cheerfully lecherous leer made it clear which she wanted it to be.

"Neither."

Lanie's face fell. "C'mon, girl. You're so dried up you're a prune in disguise. You got to get out more. Put it about a little. Shake that booty," she sang.

"How much wine did you have before I got here?"

"Not enough. You don't listen to my good advice. You should put on something pretty and shake that ass under Castle's nose."

Beckett made a disgusted noise, mostly for form's sake. The idea of shaking her ass at Castle had crossed her mind more than a few times lately. Not that she'd let him know that, of course. There were dreams and there was logical reality. She was firmly on the logical reality side of that line – though it didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the dreams, strictly privately.

Lanie was still talking. "Not that he'd be able to find it. You're too slim for your own good. You need an ass that someone can get a hold of. Squeeeeeeeezable," she stretched out.

"If you keep eating those chips like that, half of New York'll be able to get a hold of yours."

"Now that is just plain mean. You're as skinny as a skeleton and you hide what little you got up top under all those loose button-downs. Anyone'd think you didn't want to show off."

"Anyone would be right. I'm a cop, not a lingerie model."

"A bit of model-girl showing off wouldn't hurt," Lanie grumbled. "You don't eat enough to keep a mouse alive, either. I've seen your diet. Half a carton of takeout and four lettuce leaves."

"Ten," Beckett said annoyingly. "And I put full fat dressing on them."

"That's not a meal. It's a chemical reaction. You should learn to cook."

"About that…"

"About what? Cooking? You?" Lanie's glass clunked down on the table, rocking alarmingly.

"Don't you think I can cook?"

"I've seen you try to burn water. And the only roasting you ever do is suspects in the box."

"Lanie, c'mon. I need some help to be able to cook something for this dumb bring-a-treat idea of Montgomery's."

"Why?" Lanie asked, far too acutely for Beckett's taste. She looked at her cringing friend. "Oh. Oh, oh, ooohhhhh! Is someone trying to impress a certain writer who we all know can cook? Hallelujah! Oh, this is going to be so fun." She snickered, and then outright laughed. "Oh, I can't wait. Badass Beckett, who burns her pies every year, learning to cook."

Beckett harrumphed. "I don't wanna learn to cook. I wanna be able to make one thing. That's it. No cooking. I don't do frilly cooking aprons or kitchens or cooking. One thing."

One thing, and then she could go back to her safely non-cuisined life. She had no desire to use – which was just as well, because she didn't own any – mixers (best with vodka), spatulae (sounded like a nasty bodily function), whisks (the only whisking she did was in work, from suspect to box to evidence), wooden spoons (for losers only), rolling pins (just no), or any other food-processing accoutrements. Anyway, all known takeout suppliers cooked far better than she ever could, faster, and they had all the cleaning up to do and she didn't. Takeout was efficient, and Beckett believed in efficiency in all things.

"One thing, huh?" Lanie sniggered dirtily. "Lace it with Spanish Fly and nobody'll notice how it tastes."

"Eurgh."

"You wouldn't be saying that if it had the right effect on that sexy writer, though I guess he doesn't need it to give you a really good time. That man is built, girl, and you don't even take advantage of it."

"Don't wanna."

"So why the interest in cooking? You two wouldn't need an oven to heat up the room."

Beckett muttered a mumbled sentence.

"Say again?"

"Not looking dumb in front of him."

"Prideful, girlfriend. Why do you care? He can cook well enough for both of you, so I hear."

"Wouldn't know."

"Liar. I know you've eaten at his place."

"Once. Breakfast. Only because I went to give that necklace back and was kidnapped."

"Yeah, right. Like anyone makes you do anything you don't want to."

"Are you going to help me with this or not?"

"Hell, yeah. Watching you try to cook anything? You bet that skinny ass of yours I'll be there. Now. What do you wanna learn to make?"

"Dunno," Beckett muttered sulkily. "Something."

"Cake is always good. Or anything sweet. Pies. If you don't burn them."

Beckett glowered.

"See, that's why they burn. You glare at them and they singe round the edges."

"Mean."

"So've you been mean. Sauce for the goose – hey, you could cook Christmas dinner."

"You gotta be kidding. No way am I cooking dinner. I love my dad. I don't want to poison him."

Lanie dropped that idea, fortunately, because Beckett was not going to change the habits of ten plus years and try to cook. She and her father were very happy to buy the whole meal (just like Thanksgiving) from someone who could cook, and then heat it up and eat it with considerable enjoyment and no effort. Perfect. Absolutely the logical and efficient thing to do, even if Christmas was, in general, neither logical nor efficient.

Beckett believed in logic and efficiency. If she needed or wanted an item or experience, she saved up and bought it as soon as she could. If there were things to be done, she did them. She didn't subscribe to the theory that waiting for presents was more fun than simply purchasing them – that was silly. Why shouldn't she have whatever it was to use and enjoy as soon as possible? The point was use and enjoyment. Restricting that was dumb.

And she didn't want to receive random items, either. She and her father happily swapped (efficient) lists, so that they both ended up with something they liked or could use – normally both. No disappointment, guaranteed. She had a nice, energy efficient, table top tree, which didn't shed needles and could be reused next year. In fact, she had a lovely, logical, efficient plan for Christmas, which worked for her. Christmas might not be logical, or efficient, but she could minimise both the illogic and the inefficiency with the application of a little thought and planning.

"I got it!" Lanie broke into Beckett's thinking.

"Yeah? You'll teach me to make something?"

"You gotta be kidding. You'd stab me with the knife before we'd even started. I like my own blood right where it is, not dripping on the floor. I was not created to be a stuck pig, and before you start, I'm not donating my blood for you to try to make black pudding."

"What?"

"I donate blood to the Red Cross."

"No, what's black pudding?"

"Delicious," Lanie said with a lick of her lips. "But you don't wanna know how it's made. Like sausages, you just enjoy it."

Beckett's nose wrinkled. "Sounds disgusting. How can you eat anything like that?"

"After you've seen a few autopsies, nothing's sacred. Anyway, you like sausages, don't you?" She nodded. "Though you should be playing Hunt the Sausage" –

"Shut up."

Lanie shut up. She recognised the look in Beckett's eye. "Anyway," she said, "what you need are cookery classes."

"Classes?"

"Yep." She pulled out her phone and tapped happily for a minute or two. "See, lots of classes. Anything you like. Here's one – pies and buns."

"So you want me to walk into the bullpen announcing that I've got great buns?"

Lanie spat her drink over the table as she choked laughing. "Maybe not," she managed, when she'd stopped coughing. "Chocolates…no, that's complicated. Um…mmmm, taffy. Still complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"Thermometers, and temperatures. I'd be fine. I'm good with thermometers."

"I don't want to know where your thermometer's been. I'm never having taffy at your place again if it involves your thermometer."

Lanie magnificently ignored Beckett's snark. "Here you are. Cupcakes. Easy. Even third-graders can make cupcakes."

"If a third-grader can do it, I can do it." She hoped she could do it. And if not, there was always Magnolia, and Montgomery could sit on a rolling pin and swivel if he didn't like it. Oh. Her own delicious work. Truthfully.

"Great. I'll book them now, for both of us." Lanie tapped happily while Beckett struggled to close her mouth.

"What?" she finally managed. "Why are you coming?"

"Moral support. And I always wanted to know how to pipe frosting properly, and now's my chance. Win-win."

"You'll laugh at me," Beckett sulked.

"Remember that yoga class you talked me into? I couldn't unbend my knees for a week. I've been waiting for a chance to get revenge forever. Suck it up, girlfriend."

Beckett grumbled and groused and muttered and mumbled and gave in. "Okay. So when is it?"

"Twice a week. Wednesday and Friday, at six."

"What? More than one? But" –

"Four classes. Takes you nicely up to mid-December, and you can always practice at home in between." Lanie grinned, far too cheerfully for Beckett's jaundiced emotions. "It'll be fun. Worst that can happen is that your cakes will sink in the middle, and if they're awful you can feed them to Espo. That man would eat anything." Beckett raised a sceptical eyebrow. Lanie leered. "Yep."

"Too. Much. Information."

"It wouldn't hurt if you got Castle to lick your frosting" –

"Lanie!"

"Just sayin'."

Beckett buried her nose in her wine and tried not to notice her own reaction. She wasn't entirely successful.

"And no excuses. Only a verified dead body where I'm the ME will be accepted," Lanie finished up. "It's gonna be great."

Beckett wasn't nearly so sure.

Castle made no secret of his love of Christmas – rather the reverse. As soon as Thanksgiving was over, he started planning for Christmas dinner, purchasing presents (usually to add to those he'd been purchasing whenever he saw them), considering the correct (enormous, gigantic or titanic) size of tree and the best lot from which to source it, and plotting ever more wonderful decorations. In between, he watched cheerful Christmas movies, and enjoyed them just as much the second, third or thirtieth time as the first.

Christmas was the holiday most suited to Castle's infinite capacity for joy, happiness, love and fun, in fact. It allowed him to give all the people he loved or liked presents, which was an activity he adored; he loved all the traditions of the season; he got to decorate lavishly (also an activity he adored); and best of all, he got to cook delicious food in wholly excessive quantities. He loved cooking, and he loved sharing the fruits of his labours. Even Thanksgiving wasn't quite as good as Christmas.

Castle, in fact, had been utterly and volubly delighted when Montgomery had informed him of the bullpen tradition of bringing in homemade baked goods, and had had to have his plans for bringing something daily firmly nixed. He'd pouted, but Montgomery had been immovable.

"It's team bonding, Castle. If you bring something every day, it spoils it. Everyone has to do their bit." He'd smirked evilly. "Even Beckett bakes something." He hadn't specified what, and not a single flicker of a Captainly eyelash had disclosed that Montgomery was pretty damn certain that Beckett had cheated every year. He just didn't dare call it out in case she made him eat those disgustingly sweet, sticky things. Brits had no taste. Give him pecan pie any day, with plenty of cream.

"Beckett bakes?"

"Sure she does."

Castle disappeared rapidly, missing Montgomery's wide grin and almost-suppressed sniggers behind him. That should ensure Castle's contribution was exceptionally good, and Montgomery felt that he deserved exceptionally good baking for allowing Castle back at all. He'd been deeply worried that Beckett would kill him in some creative and undetectable fashion, but it seemed to have worked out okay. Next step in his grand plan: to move them a bit closer together. It was obvious that they should hook up.

What to bake? Castle thought. Something delicious, something sweet – and something he could make in industrial quantities, since the bullpen's tolerance for sugar was enough to give the entire population of Texas diabetes. Hmm. He'd think about it for a while. He had plenty of time.

In the meantime, he'd muse about Beckett, and work out what she would like. Sweet – God alone knew how she had perfect teeth, because she was able to dispose of sweets like a wolf on an elk – and again, sweet, to balance out all that snark. He wanted to make something incredible, simply to please her. He ambled home, dreaming of cordon bleu standard baking, or maybe chocolates? Home-made chocolates? He could make them over several days, in batches, and box them up: easy to carry, easy to make lots: he could even do a selection. And there would be some left over for him.

Perfect. He settled down at his laptop to begin to research the most delightful chocolates that he could imagine, and a couple of hours later emerged from culinary heaven, starving.

Beckett woke the following morning with a tinge of headache, which she attributed to the wine; and a feeling of existential dread, which she attributed to the need to attend cooking classes. As she was off-shift, however, she could start the day slowly, with three buckets of good coffee and a slightly stale croissant that she'd found in the fridge. (She had no idea how it had got into the fridge. Croissants belonged in her stomach, not in the fridge.) As the coffee percolated through her body and started her neurons firing (or, more accurately, misfiring before finally sputtering into life), it occurred to her that – if she wanted not to look dumb in front of the cookery class, which was a consummation devoutly to be wished (not the only one, said a naughty wiggly brainworm, which she ignored) – she could go buy a cookbook and some ingredients, and practice at home.

She'd rather undertake a self-appendectomy without anaesthetic.

She dragged herself into the necessary frame of mind to brave any type of stores in the season of Christmas-tide, sharpened her elbows, considered sunglasses in order to reduce the blinding effect of tinsel and baubles and flashing little lights (she would have a migraine, she was sure), and marched out with something of the demeanour of Captain Oates taking his walk into the South Pole winter.

Nearly two hours later, a frazzled, out-of-temper Beckett marched back, dumped a half-ton of assorted stuff (cooking kit, the brainworm corrected. She ignored that, too. Brainworms had no business in her brain) on her table, and made herself an espresso that was strong enough to serve as a dance floor at the Ritz. That swallowed in one aggravated gulp, she made another, chased it with a third, considered vodka and declined it purely on the grounds that vodka before noon was uncivilised, and finally stared at the stuff (kit! squawked the brainworm. STUFF! yelled Beckett) on her table.

There was a bowl, a wooden spoon, and a metal contraption which looked like a torture device or a very perverted sex toy, which the store staff had called a whisk. There was flour, butter, sugar, and six eggs. There were "cups". And what the hell was that all about? She had cups. Apparently they weren't the right kind of cups. So she'd had to lay out another few dollars on baking cups. There was even a rolling pin.

Baking, Beckett concluded bitterly, was just another money-making scam by storekeepers. Not to mention the extortionate price of the cookbook. A very basic cookbook. And she was never ever ever ever going to let on to anyone in the entire world that it was a cookbook for third-graders.

She shook herself firmly. How hard could it be? If a third-grader could do it, she could do it. Everyone could cook. So she could cook. She would bake cupcakes and they would be edible, even if she had to practice for the next four weeks every single night.

Which, looking at the pile of stuff on her table, was entirely probable. However, she was not going to look dumb in front of Castle, so she'd better get on with it.

After lunch.

Which was takeout pizza. Logical, efficient, and tasty.

Oh God, this was going to be a disaster.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

A light and fluffy Christmas story, which will become M-rated in later chapters. Posting will be every other day. Probably 7 chapters.

No cooking implements or cupcakes were harmed in the writing of this story.

Fanficfan39: are you okay, if you're out there?