A/N: I live in Michigan, typically a very snowy state. We're currently in the midst of our first real winter snowstorm, which, for those that haven't experienced a real Michigan snowstorm, is one of the most peaceful, beautiful, reflective events I can imagine. I was sitting at home, watching the snow fall through my Christmas lights, when I was suddenly struck with the inspiration to write this winter-inspired story. It's a one-shot, with no spoilers of any kind – just a piece of well-intentioned holiday fluff. I hope you enjoy, and please – let me know what you think.
"But for now, let me say -
Without hope or agenda -
Just because it's Christmas -
And at Christmas you tell the truth -
To me, you are perfect -
And my wasted heart will love you -
Until you look like this.
[picture of a mummy]" -Mark; Love, Actually
They'd wrapped the case midway through the afternoon; the suspect had been successfully apprehended and arrested, and the occupants of the 12th lazily waited out the last few hours of their workweek. It was a Friday afternoon; there were two days until Christmas, and the forecast called for snow – not even Captain Gates was foolish enough to believe anyone would be getting much more done that day. Castle was the life of the party as usual, churning out his secret (and delicious) hot chocolate recipe from the break room – the secrecy of his recipe was of such importance that no one had been allowed to enter. Not even Beckett.
Ryan and Esposito had managed to sneak a gallon of eggnog and (Beckett suspected), at least as much vodka, with which to spike it, into the precinct. They'd been taking swigs all day, surreptitiously passing the bottle back and forth underneath their desks. When Lanie had visited around lunchtime, Beckett had caught Espo passing the bottle to her as well. Despite her no-nonsense exterior, Beckett was amused by their antics, but as they began to get sillier and sillier towards the end of the day, she had no choice but to send them home. Heaven forbid they should be called out to a crime scene.
Around 4:30, detectives and patrol cops alike began to drift out the doors, some fudging the numbers on their time cards, but most not caring – trusting to the holiday goodwill of the Department. Eager to return home to children, spouses, and lovers, even the most dedicated of New York's finest had vacated the office by 5:30 –excepting one Detective Kate Beckett, who was still as engrossed in her computer screen as ever. She looked up, surprised, when she heard Castle's laugh echoing down the short hallway as he exited the break room. He turned, heading into the bullpen, and his eyes met hers. The smile he gave her was resplendent with holiday cheer and the happiness bestowed by one too many cups of cocoa – it began at the edges of his mouth and continued all the way up to the soft crinkles at the edges of his eyes. Even Scrooge himself would have melted at that smile, Beckett decided.
"I hope you're not planning to stay here all night, Detective," Usually, such a comment on her personal life would have incited a reaction, but the warmth, the genuine concern for her in his voice stopped her. "It is Christmas, after all."
"Not for another two days, Castle." The quip was automatic, but she said it warmly. She smiled at him, and he thought his heart would melt into a puddle on the spot. He was sure that she had no idea how adorable she looked curled into her office chair, her fuzzy and slightly too-big sweater pulled down over her palms. He was also sure she'd take out her gun and shoot him, Christmas or not, if he mentioned it.
His smile seemed to extend across entire body as he crossed the room, stopping in front of her desk. Belatedly, she realized he was carrying her coat, which he held open to her like an invitation.
"Come on," he said, in a way that felt safe and intimate, "A Christmas drink at the Old Haunt before you go home." It wasn't a question, and for once, she didn't care that he was making assumptions. She rose gracefully, inserting her arms into the proffered sleeves of her coat, even allowing him to help her into it. Even Beckett, Castle realized, was feeling the holiday spirit. He loved this softer side of her – it rarely appeared, but when it did, he was always amazed at the depth and strength of the woman he was lucky enough to call his partner. She contained multitudes. Beckett wrapped her scarf around her, stooping to gather a few belongings before exiting the bullpen, her partner at her side.
A gust of wind blew up as the partners muscled open the Precinct's heavy front door, bringing with it the bitter cold nighttime air and the scent of winter. Rather than feeling the chill of the night, though, Beckett marveled at the warmth she felt – happiness at the thought of the approaching holiday, the case behind her, and the man walking at her side. Succumbing to the holiday feeling, she slipped her arm through Castle's. His eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her.
They arrived at Castle's bar several minutes later and gladly stepped inside, welcomed by the warmth of the building. Castle felt a tug at his heart as he led her over to "his" corner of the old mahogany bar – something about being here with her on this particular night felt so…right. If this were a Meg Ryan movie, he decided, he might call it kismet. Thankfully, his brain intruded, real life bore no resemblance to a Meg Ryan movie. Kate Beckett spent so much of her time immersed in death and murder, chasing an endless string of answers – hers or somebody else's. He was glad to be able to give her this evening away from it all, to see the cares of her life's work lift from her face, if only for a little while.
"What'll it be?" The bartender asked, shaking Castle's hand.
"Two tall glasses of your impeccable hot buttered rum, please, Steve." Castle smiled warmly at the man. Steve was a good friend, as well as the originator of many of the Haunt's most popular drink specials. Castle attributed it to the name – Steve was a great name for a bartender.
"Coming right up," Steve nodded. "A pleasure, as always, Detective." He smiled warmly at Kate, lifting her hand to his lips in a gesture of old-world gallantry. Another reason he made an excellent bartender, Castle noted.
"I'm glad you bought the place," Beckett mused, stirring the glass of rum that Steve had slipped in front of her. "It has a certain…charm."
"Much like its owner, I suppose?" He should trademark that grin.
"You flatter yourself, Castle." Something about the season had her feeling charitable. "But yes."
The bar really was quite a sight in full holiday regalia – old wooden tables and dim lighting gave the room a classic feel, and the tasteful addition of multicolored lights and candles, as well as a small Christmas tree in the corner, completed the setting. The clientele was as eclectic and warm as the interior – young lovers, old married couples, groups of middle-aged families meeting friends. The bar flowed with an undercurrent of warmth and holiday mirth absolutely reflective of its creator. Beckett marveled at the realization – this really was his place. He was everywhere in it, from the polished barstools to the laughing couple holding hands across table 5 – this place was a physical representation of the best in him.
"Before I tell you this, Beckett," his voice interrupted the flow of her thoughts. For once, she didn't mind, "I'd like you to remember that physical violence is not an appropriate way to communicate your emotions – I know we said no presents, but…I've gotten you a little something for Christmas."
"Castle, you know you didn't have to," despite her words, her voice conveyed that she was touched by his thoughtfulness. "But I got you something too." He handed her a small box, carefully wrapped in red and gold paper. She could tell from the slightly crinkled corners that he'd wrapped it himself, and for some reason, the realization brought tears to her eyes. Was there no end, she wondered, to the size of this man's heart? Never one to worry about saving the paper, she happily tore into one end of the wrapping, revealing a small box.
"Castle, it's wonderful." She breathed, as she lifted the lid to find a stack of typed papers, highlighted and marked up in his handwriting – his personal copy of the publisher's draft of Heat Wave. His notes covered each page, giving unique insight into the mind of the man behind the words she loved so. She was touched that after studying her process for so long, he had seen fit to provide her this small insight into his own – it was an intimate and deeply thoughtful gift, a handwritten copy of his story – a story about her. She flipped quickly to the dedication page and there they were – the words she now knew by heart. What she didn't expect was the handwriting that covered the rest of the page; within the space of the margins, a dozen or more other dedications appeared – annotated, crossed out, and rewritten, but all sharing a single theme. They were all to her. Tears sprang to her eyes once again.
"I'm glad you like it," he replied sincerely.
"Castle, I – wow. This is the best gift anyone's ever given me." For someone who made his money largely based on his reputation as a playboy, she mused, he was entirely too sweet. They must airbrush out that heart of gold for the interviews. Unable to find words to further thank him, she settled instead for handing him her own small box. She laughed as he tore into the wrapping paper like a kid on Christmas morning. She'd gotten him an NYPD Detective badge, the twin of her own. It bore his name and his driver's license photo (which she'd shamelessly lifted from the DMV, despite her own scruples about the appropriate use of police resources), as well as the words "honorary detective, 12th Precinct". He enveloped her in a bear hug as a means of thanks, before slipping it proudly into his jacket pocket. A sentimental gift from Kate Beckett? He thanked every deity he'd ever heard of.
The holiday cheer of the bar around them was still in full swing, but something told Castle that it was time for the two of them to make an exit. He gallantly offered Beckett her jacket, and she thanked him with a shy smile. Saying their goodbyes to Steve and the regulars, the duo made their way to the heavy oaken door. As Castle pushed it open, he caught a glimmer in his partner's eye that made his heart stop. His eyes immediately followed hers to the fat white flakes that had begun to fall just after they arrived at the bar. They now coated everything in sight, and they were still falling.
"Snow." Kate Beckett whispered, twirling blissfully, with all the care and innocence of a child. She was so free, so uninhibited and peaceful, snow falling on her face, sticking in her hair, her bright eyes shining. Someone watching her in this moment would never have believed that her mother had been brutally murdered or that she faced down the barrel of a gun every day on the job. She threw her head back and laughed, catching snowflakes on the tip of her tongue. Castle knew that the image would stay with him until the day he died. She turned her eyes back to where he stood under the awning and giggled; he was floored. Detective Beckett was a woman of action; she knew what she wanted and she went and got it, whether it be forcing a confession or finding the missing link. She was a force of nature. But this new side of her he was just getting to know was not Detective Beckett; she was simply Kate. And Kate…giggled. Castle watched her reverently; she was moving closer to him, and he could have sworn he was dreaming. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes as she rested a gloved hand on his chest, smiling as she pointed upwards with the other.
"Mistletoe," she breathed, and the next thing he knew, her snow-covered lashes were brushing against his cheek, and her mouth had made contact with hers. Exceedingly grateful for the strategically placed plant, he made a mental note to give Steve a very generous Christmas bonus this year. Wrapping both arms around Beckett's waist, he drew her into his embrace, as close to his heart as physics would allow. The kiss was long and deep and sweet, full of unspoken promise and great love. With his right hand, he captured the strands of hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head up to meet him. When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, before drawing her into his chest and holding her. He'd wanted his whole life to hold her like that.
She tilted her face up, her shining eyes meeting his, and he thought his heart might burst inside his chest. After a kiss like that, well – there was only one thing he could say.
"I'm telling Ryan and Espo," he stammered.
"I'll deny it," she replied, "They'll never believe you." She grinned impishly, infectiously. She kissed him once more, soundly on the mouth, and trailed her fingers across his chest, walking away before his shell-shocked heart had a chance to restart itself.
"Katherine Beckett," he whispered to the biting December wind, "You will be the death of me yet." She hadn't heard him, but still, she turned around, eyes sparkling and full of mischief. She held out her hand.
"You comin', Castle?"