Chapter 1

She is going to kill Lanie.

Beckett experiences homicidal feelings to her – self-described – best friend approximately once a year, almost always coinciding with Christmas. Lanie does Christmas like it's going out of fashion (oh, if only!) and invariably, and as inevitably as death and taxes, hauls Beckett along behind her, kicking, screaming and threatening.

Beckett does not do Christmas. Ever. She does not do festivity. She would do mulled wine, by the bucketful, but Lanie wants to do shopping (Beckett hates shopping, unless it's books or shoes, neither of which figure in Lanie's Christmas plans); food (it's not chocolate, so Beckett couldn't care less about that either); cheap champagne (just no); and frivolity. Beckett does not frivol.

Beckett does a list, carefully thought through and selected, which she organises with ruthless efficiency in September, purchases in early October, and then forgets about until she wraps the meagre pile in mid-December. In between, she congratulates herself on her organisational abilities and doesn't think about the festive season at all.

Lanie always wants to go get a huge real Christmas tree, which will drop pine needles all over her apartment. Lanie says it scents the air, and will spend a week decorating it extensively (and then four weeks swearing about the pine needles in her feet). Lanie has eight full crates of decorations, and puts every single one of them up. Beckett has, under protest, purchased a table top fibre optic plain white tree of considerable tastefulness and no decorations at all. It's as chilly and calm as she is. Beckett goes with Lanie, if only because Lanie will nag until she has no choice. She declines to assist with the decorating, and regards Lanie's lecherous leering – as Lanie purchases enough mistletoe to stock Bloomingdales out – with distaste.

"Girl, you are no fun at all."

"Nope."

"It's Christmas. Season of goodwill, merriment and festivity."

"If you say so."

"You need something to cheer you up."

"How about a nice messy murder?" Of Santa, for preference. And then all his non-existent elves. She's heard that reindeer steaks taste good, too.

"How about a nice sexy man?"

"Nope."

"Kate…" Lanie says warningly, "if you don't start having some fun I'll drag you out myself for a bar crawl. Bet we find some nice sexy men that way."

"I won't come," Beckett says sulkily. "I don't want a nice sexy man. They're too full of themselves."

"I think you got this all wrong. You're supposed to be full" –

"Lanie!"

"Anyway. I got a better plan. You know I've got the Doctors' Dance next Saturday?"

"Lanie…" Beckett says pathetically, trying and failing to slide away. Lanie clamps a hand on her arm, and short of actually breaking her definitely-not-friend-anymore's arm (which would get Beckett arrested, though it might be worth it), Beckett can't get away. Yet. "Lanie, I can't dance. You try this every year, and I tell you every year I can't dance."

"Yeah, you do. And this year," Lanie says with a wide, satisfied and above all evil smile, "I've done something about it."

"You what now?"

"It's your Christmas present. We're going to dance lessons. It's all booked. Ballroom dancing lessons, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday."

"No!"

"Yes, girlfriend. Doctors' Dance is Saturday, so you're getting three intensive lessons."

"I don't have the right dress."

"You don't need a dress till we go to the real dance, and you've got plenty of dresses. Some of them even look good."

"I don't have any shoes."

Lanie regards her with complete contempt and disbelief. "You have more shoes than Imelda Marcos and you can run a mile in five inch heels. I've seen you do it. You got shoes, girl, and if you try that excuse again I'll make you eat them."

"I don't wanna!" Beckett wails.

She doesn't. She doesn't want to go dancing at all. The last time she went dancing was at that stupid fundraiser, months ago. She doesn't think about that, either. Much. Because not long after that it all went stupidly, hopelessly wrong, and now they're dancing (ha!) round each other like they're made of eggshells and nothing is like it was before. Dancing is over-rated. Sexy men are definitely over-rated. And Christmas is one thousand percent (and she really does not care that mathematically one hundred percent is the maximum available) over-rated.

"You're going."

"I'm not going. You can't make me."

Lanie glares at her. "You wanna bet on that? I can make your life hell if you don't go. Just watch me."

Badass Beckett, terror of the Twelfth and lacerator of lowlifes everywhere, cowers. "I don't wanna," she wails again. "I can't dance. I don't want to learn to dance. I don't want to come to the Doctors' Dance and I don't want to wear a dress."

"All I'm hearing is don'ts," Lanie scowls. "You better start with some do-s. Anyway, it's all arranged. And if you don't show, I'll come round to your apartment or the bullpen and drag you out – and if I have to do that, you'll be in that Showgirls dress that I told you to put in the trash but I bet you didn't."

"Lanie, that's not fair," Beckett howls. "You're supposed to be my friend."

"I am your friend. And this is me staging an intervention because you've been moping for months and you need some Christmas spirit."

"I need some whiskey spirit," Beckett mutters.

"You're not having whiskey. You're having a Christmas cheer present."

"I don't want" – Beckett is stopped by the sheer force of Lanie's glare.

"You want to hide in a cellar and never come out."

"At least it would have alcohol."

"I'm not letting you. You're going to come out and have some Christmas fun. End. Of."

Beckett stomps home in an even fouler mood than the one in which she'd gone out. Lanie may be her best friend, but she tries this every freaking Christmas and Beckett is thoroughly fed up of it. Unfortunately, Lanie has ways of making her displeasure felt, and since shooting her, even somewhere minor and non-fatal like a toe or ear, would only get Beckett jail time, which would be an even worse way of spending Christmas than a dance lesson or the Doctors' Dance, she can't retaliate.

She spends the rest of Sunday sulking. Not that she calls it sulking, though. Frantically trying to think of a way out of this disaster that doesn't involve deliberately breaking her ankle, though she even considers that, is what Beckett calls it.

Lanie saunters home with a lubricious sway of her hips, induced almost entirely by her plotting. She's tired of watching Kate deliberately ruin her life and ignore the elephant in the bullpen. She thinks back to a couple of weeks ago, when Kate had, yet again, declined to come out for a drink with the gang and instead scuttled off home to hide. Just because she doesn't like Christmas is no reason to act like the Grinch.

Ryan had brought Jenny along – now there's someone who knows how to have a good time – Esposito had been on better (that is, less scowly) form than usual, and of course Castle was his normal cheerful self. Castle is a man who knows how to do Christmas, and he and Lanie had certainly had a lot of Christmas to talk about. And then Lanie had had her brilliant idea. The whole scene floats into her memory, after the others had left.

"Christmas is great," Castle said happily. "Food, drink, happiness, presents, decorations… Perfect."

"Yeah," Lanie agreed. "I love it. Everybody happy."

Castle flicked a glance around. "Except Beckett," he murmured. "She won't even come out for a drink this time of year."

"Probably scared you'll whip out the mistletoe."

"Not likely. I don't want shot."

"Fraidy cat," Lanie jibed.

"Thought you liked me," Castle muttered plaintively.

"I do. I just like Kate better, and I've known her longer." She paused, and grinned evilly. "Long enough to know when she needs an intervention."

"Lanie…" Castle whimpered. "You're plotting, and it's me who's going to suffer."

"It's Christmas. Don't you want to give Kate a present?"

"Well, yes…"

"Listen up, then. Do you like dancing?"

"Dancing?"

"Get with the program, Castle. Three weeks Saturday is the annual Doctors' Dance. It's a charity fundraiser like that one you did for the case earlier this year."

"When Beckett would still actually talk to me about more than just the weather," he'd grumped.

"Yeah, yeah. Stop sulking. So she's pulled back with you. You hurt her, and she's still upset. You know Kate. Grudges might as well be her teddy bears, she cuddles them so close." Castle snickered. "I don't see you doing much to fix it either. Anyway, Writer-Boy, I got a plan."

"Oh, God."

"Don't be like that. I've seen you staring at Kate's ass every chance you get."

"I do not."

"You telling me you're checking out her shoes?" Castle growled. "Anyway. Shuttup and listen. Doctors' Dance. You're going. Black tie. I know that's not a problem for you."

"Why'm I going to a Doctors' Dance? Are you inviting me?"

Lanie leered, lecherously. "You could say that," she grinned. "On Kate's behalf."

"What?" Castle screeched. The look on his face was worth a fortune. "You said you liked me! You're a big fat liar, Lanie Parrish."

"You're as childish as Kate. No wonder you can't get it on. Pair of five-year olds."

"I am a mature adult."

"Who just called me a big fat liar. Yeah. Very adult." Castle subsided into grumbles and grouses. "Do you want to take Kate to the dance or not?" He glared at her. "So you do. No point lying to me, Writer-Boy. I've got you pegged."

Lanie bounces happily at the memory, though not too much. Kate had been ridiculously anti-dancing. Castle, on the other hand, had been totally delighted with the tango theme. Eventually. After Lanie had promised to stop Kate killing him. Quite how Lanie will manage that, she has no idea. Especially as she won't actually be there. Well. She will be there. At the dance lessons. She's always wanted to improve her rather…um…raunchy… style. She'll be at the actual dance, too – with her own date. Mr July, from the firefighter's calendar. Brains are not what Lanie Parrish is looking for. No sirree. She, Lanie Parrish, MD, knows how to have a good time, and it's not lots of brains she's looking for to have that.

Wednesday arrives far too quickly for Beckett's peace of mind. Her day, and indeed the entire week so far, has not been improved by Lanie's constant reminders of her dancing lessons. Beckett does not want to learn to dance. She'd managed precisely one ballet class, aged six, and refused to go back on the grounds that she couldn't stand pink, frills, pwetty wittle giwls, or the teacher's insistence that they pretend to be fairy princesses, which – as she had pointed out – don't exist. The teacher had been almost as relieved as Beckett that she hadn't returned. Her parents… had not been surprised.

Come shift end she stomps out with brusque farewells and a scowl fit to start fires. Not even Castle manages Christmas cheer in the face of her glowering. Beckett is sure that he's hiding mistletoe in his pocket – this is Castle, after all, who is sneaky, as well as sexy, not that she's paying attention to that latter attribute, no way – and is therefore avoiding any possibility of being trapped under it. She hates Christmas, dancing, Christmas, cheerfulness, Christmas, and indeed, just for good measure, Christmas.

The dancing lessons are in a studio not far from the precinct, unfortunately, which gives her no excuse to get lost, accidentally-on-purpose, or to be late. Especially as Lanie has called her twice already to make sure she's on the way. Anyone would think that Lanie didn't trust her.

Anyone would have been right.

Beckett stalks into the studio with her shield and gun on overt display, which does nothing for the atmosphere. It goes from cheerfully jovial to terrified in half a second flat, which is in no way relieved when Beckett admits to being part of the class.

"We have lockers," the dance teacher suggests, tentatively.

"I don't need a locker."

"We don't normally have people wearing… guns…in…" the instructor grinds to a halt, in the face of Beckett's searing glare. He doesn't restart. Beckett goes and sits next to Lanie, who regards her with disgust but doesn't try to change her mind.

"Okay, everyone," says an offensively perky female in a red dress with white marabou trim, clearly selected to induce Christmas spirit, joy and happiness. Certainly in every male, since it's barely decent at the neck. It induces in Beckett a desire to arrest her for offences against good taste. "Let's get started. This is a beginners' class: no experience required. We're going to learn the tango."

"Tango?" Beckett whispers furiously to Lanie. "What the actual fuck?"

"Shh! It's an Argentinian theme this year. Tango."

"The tango is sex on the dance floor. I'm not doing any freaking tango."

"You're not doing any other sex either, so you're doing this."

"My sex life is none of your business."

"Doesn't seem to be any of yours either, since you don't have one."

Beckett growls viciously and produces a glare which should, but unfortunately does not, incinerate Lanie, the dance studio, and most of Manhattan including every Christmas tree, on the spot. She decides in that instant that her Christmas present to herself is going to be killing Lanie and then emigrating to somewhere that they don't do Christmas. A yurt in Outer Mongolia is looking pretty good, right now, and there is no extradition treaty. Or Santa, elves, reindeer or dancing. Perfect.

She is approached by a dance partner dressed in a black open-necked shirt and dress pants. When she stands up, Lanie stifles a giggle, not effectively. Beckett, in her usual heels, is four inches taller than the man. He scuttles off, to be replaced by someone who is at least the same height as her but rake thin (she likes broad), slicked back black hair (she likes soft brown), brown-eyed (which is all very well but she prefers blue), and with a slightly supercilious expression. He is clearly trying to look as if he's a Castilian hidalgo, in which he is failing spectacularly, achieving only third-rate gigolo circa nineteen-thirty. His supercilious expression rapidly changes to cringing horror as Beckett divests herself of her jacket and the gun and shield are revealed. She doesn't take them off.

Lanie (traitor) has already launched herself on to the floor with the shorter man. She looks totally happy. She also needs a more supportive bra, Beckett thinks snidely, though her partner is certainly not objecting.

Beckett strides on to the floor with no concession to the professional's attempts to lead her. On the other hand, she might hate being here (this is a totally shit Christmas present, and Lanie will be getting one lump of dirty coal and a switch from her) but she hates looking stupid or doing things badly even more, so she is going to ram Lanie's present back down Lanie's dumb throat by being relatively good at it. Even if this dance partner is the wrong size, wrong shape, and just plain wrong. (And she is not thinking about her last dance partner. Not at all. Absolutely not at all. She'd been able to dance with him – No! Not. Thinking. About. Castle. Even if she absolutely wishes it was he and not this sleazy, greasy professional.)

She takes her place, listens carefully, applies a fine mind and a great deal of focused determination, puts the step sequence into her steel-trap memory, and after two or three tries in which her main problem is remembering that she does not lead, forces her feet to follow the right pattern and not stamp on her partner's. He seems relatively pleased with her progress.

"Okay," the professional says. "Let's try the whole pattern." Beckett regards him with dislike. He cringes. (Castle wouldn't cringe. Castle would smirk, and say something suggestive.) "You've picked up all the steps just fine, so now we're going to put them together." The music begins, and so do they. It works, sort of. By the end of the lesson it's working rather better than that.

"Well done," says the professional with an unflattering note of surprise. "You've made really good progress. Is this really your first time?"

"Yes," Beckett says, thinking and I wish it was my last.

"By the end of the course you'll have no problems. You won't be entering Dancing with the Stars" – Beckett's grimace says it all – "but you'll certainly be better than most. Have you done a lot of other dance?"

"No." That closes off that conversation. Maybe it's the yoga, or high school gymnastics, that's left her flexible.

"Anyways, see you tomorrow for the next lesson. Try and practice at home, if you have a few moments, just to fix the step sequences in your mind. After that we can talk about the emotion of the dance. No point in doing that before you get the steps right."

Beckett is not interested in the emotion of the dance, especially not from a slicked-hair, slightly sleazy professional. She has no interest in the story behind the tango, no interest in visiting Argentina, and she is only doing this so that she doesn't make a total ass of herself on Saturday. After that she'll forget it with considerable relief.

Right now, she's going to go home with considerable relief, and eat chocolate ice-cream till it comes out of her ears.

She hasn't reckoned on Lanie.

"Right, girlfriend. We're going dress shopping."

"You're going dress shopping. I'm going home." Or possibly back to the precinct, where nobody will disturb her.

"Okay," Lanie says so quickly that Beckett thinks she's planned it. "We're gonna make sure you've got the right dress – and I don't mean that red one Castle bought you. No way."

That's good, since Beckett had no intention of wearing it. It's as far back in her closet as it can be without it visiting Narnia. There's a thought. Maybe she could visit Narnia. It's never Christmas there.

Lanie drags Beckett back to her own apartment and without hesitation dives into her closet. Less than five minutes later all her dresses are out, and Lanie is appraising them. She is also throwing them into two piles.

"Ugh," Lanie emits. "Double ugh. Where'd you get this one? Ma Walton's Hick Hillbilly store?"

"Hey!"

"It's awful. It doesn't even suit you. What were you on?"

And so on, and so forth. Beckett betakes herself out of her own bedroom, and makes herself coffee. She doesn't offer Lanie one. She also doesn't go back into her bedroom, but huddles into the couch and sulks. Finally Lanie reappears.

"Right. You have no dance dresses. We're going shopping tomorrow." She looks around. "For a dress and some Christmas decorations."

"No. No decorations."

"But" –

"Lanie," says Beckett, in a tone that would stop God in His tracks. "No decorations." Lanie scowls, but leaves the subject.

"Dress shopping, then."

"I've got plenty of dresses."

"Nope. You have three dresses."

"What?"

"Once I culled all the ones which I told you to put in the trash last time, there were three left. None of them are right for the dance. So we're going shopping."

"You culled my dresses?"

"Yep," Lanie says unrepentantly. "And if you ever took my advice you'd have done it six months ago."

"But… but… but…"

"But you haven't worn any of them for five years. But they make you look like an explosion in a paint factory. But most of them make you look like you chose them with your eyes shut."

"You're supposed to be my friend."

"I am your friend. That's why I'm not letting you go out in those dresses. We're gonna go get you a dress that'll knock every doctor dead."

"There are easier ways to get promoted to Chief ME, Lanie."

Lanie giggles. Giggles. Beckett considers strangling her. She'd use tinsel, except she has no tinsel. "You need some fun. C'mon. I need to buy a new dress too. Bonding time. I've got the perfect shop."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Five chapters of Christmas spirit. Or something like that. Tue/Thu/Sun, as usual, subject to travel or unexpected loss of wifi.