Chapter 1: Making a list
Murder will be done tonight. The victim is standing right over there, happily chatting up the nearest hot guy, all done up in spangles and looking like an ambulant Christmas tree. Lanie's even managed a tiny set of flashing Christmas lights around her invitingly low neckline. (It's not that Beckett's jealous of Lanie's – er – endowment. It's just that sometimes she feels a little slim.) Still, she won't need to worry about it in Bedford Hills Correctional. Because sometime in the next ten minutes she is going to kill Lanie for this.
She should never have agreed to come out with Lanie just before Christmas. She certainly shouldn't have agreed to come out dressed with a Christmas theme, even if the whole bar is full of Christmas costumes. But most of all, she shouldn't have agreed that – because she was busy solving homicides, for God's sake – Lanie could provide her with an outfit. She must have been mad. Or drunk. Or drugged. Yes, that's it. Lanie must have bribed Espo to dope her coffee with a roofie. Plenty of those down in Narcotics, and Ryan still has plenty of friends there – she'll kill them both too. If you're going to go down for Murder One, you might as well make a good job of it.
And now here she is perched on a bar stool with a glass of mulled wine – which Lanie had ordered without even listening to her protests that she'd rather have Coke and then added insult to injury by telling her that she's too staid and too sober and Lanie is damn well going to make sure she has some fun, girlfriend. Said in Lanie's patent menacing tone. It had got even worse when Lanie had said she'd ensured it. Oh, God. This is going to be awful.
Because she is currently perched on a bar stool in a Miss Santa costume that wouldn't be out of place in Vice's extensive closets, and it was only by threatening to make Lanie eat it that she managed not to have to wear the hat. The skirt is indecently short – Lanie knows how tall she is, for Chrissake, how could she not get a costume that was at least somewhere near her knees – and the bodice is low. At least there's a cape, but it's not keeping her warm. From the number of propositions and leers she's getting, it's not doing much to cover her, either. She sits on her bar stool and glares impartially around the room, knocking back flirtation from both sexes and her spirits so far from Christmas that she might as well be in Siberia. Where it wouldn't be Christmas for another couple of weeks.
She is definitely going to kill Lanie, she decides, as she brushes off another barfly of unpleasant looks, dubious sobriety, and bad teeth. Dragged her out here, dressed like this – why did she agree? She didn't have to agree. Oh. Because Lanie emotionally blackmailed her, promised that there would be no photos – well, that was a lie – promised that the boys wouldn't come – that was another lie, and she will undoubtedly suffer for the next week – and then threatened her with scalpels and mortuary slabs – which would have been better than this – and with having to watch a full autopsy. At that point, she'd given in. She can cope with most things, but Lanie extracting brains, guts, and entrails and the horrible smell of the dissected bowel is one threat too many. But there is one saving grace. Castle isn't here.
Nor, of course, are Lanie and the boys. Because they are all out in the crowded bar chatting up various people in rather less revealing costumes and having fun. In Lanie's case, if she has much more fun she'll be on an indecent arrest charge. She's an inch from a serious wardrobe malfunction, though from the admiring crowd around her that's not putting anyone off. Beckett pushes her mulled wine away, untouched, and summons the bartender. His response would be flatteringly immediate, if she weren't in such a bad mood.
She orders whiskey, undiluted, and feels the sting of the hard liquor touch her throat. She feels much better for the act of rebellion. That'll show Lanie. Ha! She smirks nastily. Now if Lanie will just keep her attention turned away till Beckett's finished the whiskey, she can sneak out and go home. She's got a good book waiting for her and she can take off this stupid costume and not look like the December picture for a pin-up calendar.
"Well, now," drawls in her ear. Oh hell. Lanie is dead. Lanie is so dead. Beckett is going to eviscerate Lanie with her own scalpels and tie her intestines in a Christmas wreath around her head. Oh, hell. What is Castle doing here? Is this Lanie's idea of ensuring that she, Beckett, has some fun? Lanie is out of her mind. Lanie promised no Castle. Lanie is a world-class liar and absolutely not Beckett's friend any more.
"If I'd known that Santa looked like this I'd have behaved a lot better." Beckett glares furiously at Castle. "I never imagined that Santa came in a female variety." He looks her up and down. "This is so much better than a fat, bearded, old man." He runs another appreciative glance up and down her, very slowly. "Mmmm." Despite her Scrooge-like mood, the glance strokes up and down the legs it's examining and warms them up in a most peculiar way. Must be the whiskey.
Beckett recovers some game. "I shouldn't think Santa will visit you, Castle. Santa only visits good children."
"You're always telling me that I'm a child. A – what was it? Oh yes – nine-year old on a sugar rush. So I'm sure Santa will visit. And I've been very good, all year." She waits for the punchline. She's not disappointed. "I'm very, very good. When Santa arrives in my bedroom late at night, she won't be leaving coal. Or leaving disappointed." The lascivious lick of his tongue over the last word gives Beckett a very clear idea of how Castle would ensure Santa was happy. She'd thought that Santa responded to children. And to nice. Not naughty. Especially not naughty in Castle's definition, which sounds pretty adult to her. There's a little spark of warmth in her stomach. It's definitely the whiskey. It's not Castle's proximity and salacious suggestiveness at all. Not at all.
"She won't be disappointed because she won't be there at all. Santa doesn't exist. And even if Santa did exist he's male. Old and fat."
Castle moves a little closer, crowding Beckett against the bar. "Clearly that's not true. Santa's right here, and she doesn't look old, fat or male to me." He's distracted by her whiskey glass, which is close to empty. "Want another?" She nods. He doesn't wait further before ordering two.
"What happened to your Christmas costume?" Beckett asks crossly. If she has to be dressed up, why isn't he? She doesn't want to be the only one looking like an idiot. Though Ryan's Christmas tie – over a Santa suit? Huh? – is truly tasteless. Rudolph's red nose flashes, for heaven's sake. Ugghhh. And Espo as an elf is a picture she'd go to electroconvulsive therapy to have scrubbed from her brain.
Castle smirks. "Wouldn't you like to see my contribution to Christmas costumes, Beckett?" She's not falling for that one. She slurps her whiskey defiantly. "Or you could come and see my Christmas tree. Having a big one is so important, don't you agree?"
"Size is irrelevant. It's how you decorate it that counts." Uh-oh. Castle's eyes darken. How can he make something dirty out of that?
"You could help me… decorate. It's so much more fun with two. Makes… placing the decorations… so much nicer." Hold on. How is his hand on her knee? When did that happen? Why isn't she breaking his fingers for sketching little snowflake patterns on her leg? On the other hand it sounds like he's offering her an out. She can deal with an awful lot of innuendo if it gives her a chance to get out of here. He's still talking. "I'm sure I've been good all year. But maybe Santa needs a little more evidence."
"Bit late, Castle." Another sip. His hand hasn't moved. His hand is warm. Or more specifically, she is getting warm. "This close to Christmas, it's all decided." He's drawn enough snowflakes for them to start to cause a snowdrift, which is now reaching above her knee.
"I don't think so. I think Santa takes account of your behaviour right up till the last minute." His other arm seems to have insinuated itself under the cape. More snowflakes. These ones seem to be settling on her shoulders. She'd always thought that snow was cold. Clearly this is the wrong type of snow. Strange how it feels so very like the right type of snow. "Her opinion could be changed." He smiles sleepily. "Couldn't it? I'm sure Santa keeps an open mind." Why does that sound so very much like Santa keeps something else open? More to the point, how is she relaxing against his arm and still letting him draw snowflakes on her leg? On the other hand, she hasn't been bothered by a barfly since the moment Castle appeared. So that's a definite plus.
She drinks another sip of her whiskey, and looks, surprised, at the bottom of the almost-empty glass. Where did that go? She'd better stop. Two whiskeys is enough. Especially when they don't seem to be doing anything to prevent the snowdrift of snowflakes rising noticeably higher above her knee. This should stop. She clamps her hand over Castle's and tries to pull him away. His hand does indeed leave her leg. Success.
Oh. Not success. All that's happened is that he's holding on to her hand, and pulling her up, and now in her scarlet stilettos (Lanie's fault, again. Lanie is so dead.) she's only a little below eye to eye. It's not fair that he's licking his lips. Still, it's only the traces of his whiskey. She's sure of that. Because if she thought he was licking for any other reason she would sit back down on the bar stool or go and hide in the restroom and then make an escape. She'll easily get a cab. Based on the shortness of this skirt, they'll be queuing up for her, along with a queue of every drunk single man in Manhattan. But the arm around her shoulders isn't loosening. It's tightening. There is very little air in this bar. Breathing is getting a little more difficult than she would like, and every time she does she gets another lungful of eau-de-Castle, which when combined with the whiskey is giving her some very strange sensations.
This is all very silly, and not Beckett-like at all. Time to stop it. She does not need strangely seductive sensations pooling in her abdomen. She looks around. Lanie is missing. The boys are missing. Castle is not missing, because he is still holding on to her hand and her shoulders. This is not fair. They've abandoned her.
"Where's Lanie? Where are Ryan and Esposito?" Castle looks smug.
"Well… Lanie went off with someone and said she'd see you tomorrow, or whenever she had some lab results. Ryan went home, and Esposito's chatting up another cop in the corner over there."
Beckett looks over, and rapidly looks away again. She didn't need to see that. Esposito will clearly not serve as any form of defence. He looks very… occupied.
Castle tugs at her. Since she's not expecting it, she ends up pressed against him. He's nice and warm. He pets the velvet of the cape. "Come on, Beckett. Let's get out of here." She rolls her eyes. "C'mon. I've got a surprise for us." Yeah, right. She can just imagine what sort of a surprise. However, all her friends – like hell they are, or they'd be here with her – have deserted her, she's finished her drink, and she wants to go home. Preferably without freezing due to the scantiness of this ridiculous outfit. She can ditch Castle as soon as she sees a cab.
Castle doesn't seem to notice her reluctance to do anything other than go home. He's bubbling over with Christmas spirit and tidings of comfort and joy. Ugh. She's not sure how much he just tipped the bartender but it looks like it's made his year. Well, letting her get out of here will make hers. Her feelings of relief that she's out of the bar are instantly frozen by the outside temperature.
"You're cold," Castle says, with considerable surprise, wrapping an arm round her and pulling her in. It would be nicer if he lent her his coat. In fact – why isn't he? He's not normally rude, and he normally does attend to her comfort. Whether she likes it or not.
"Yeah, genius. This outfit is not warm."
"No. It wasn't designed for warmth, was it?" The expression on his face is clearly suggesting what it was designed for. It's the sartorial equivalent of wrapping paper. And if she could only get home it could be ripped off (and she is not thinking that Castle could help with that. Not not not. Much.) and she could put on something more appropriate. And warm. She shivers.
"It wasn't my idea, either," Beckett mutters darkly. "When I get hold of Lanie…" Her vengeful mutterings are abruptly halted when a horse-drawn carriage stops.
"There we are. Santa needs a sleigh." He hands her up. She'd argue, but the carriage has – oh joy – blankets. Big, warm, fluffy blankets. She's in faster than Santa delivers presents on Christmas Eve, and buried in as many of them as she can fit round herself. Castle grins at her, slips in next to her, and spends the next couple of minutes rearranging all the blankets so that they're tucked in together.
The blankets are beautifully cosy. Castle's arm is back around her, and it's cosy too.
"I couldn't get a sleigh, so this was the next best thing." he says. "So here you are." Despite the cosiness, Beckett is suspicious.
"Castle," she says ominously, "how did you manage to arrange this in the few moments you were in the bar without actually touching your phone?" There is a short silence. "Castle?" Still nothing. Beckett's instincts kick into life. She will kill Lanie. "Lanie told you, didn't she? That… That…" She can't think of a phrase to describe Lanie that doesn't include profanity and the word corpse. She will kill her. "When I get my hands on Lanie I will" – she stops. Mainly because Castle is purring in her ear.
"I'd much rather you used your hands for delivering presents," he growls. She wonders how he's defining presents. A hand settles over her knee. Its fingers are quite a long way above her knee. It's very distracting. More snowflakes. How are there snowflakes under all these lovely warm blankets? All her thoughts of causing murder and mayhem in the morgue are dissipating. "Santa's supposed to bring joy and happiness. Like this." He turns her round and kisses her briefly. That's not fair. Surely he can kiss better than that? That was barely a peck – what? A moment ago she was meditating murder and now she's criticising kisses?
Oh. Ohhh. The snowdrift is beginning to reach towards rather more… intimate… areas. It's getting rather close to the hem of the entirely too short skirt. The skirt was barely covering anything important. This should not be happening. This is definitely naughty. But it's very, very nice. But it's naughty. Santa does not reward naughtiness. Which means that no matter how appealingly he looks at her, she is not going to give him any encouragement. She isn't. Not at all.
If she's not going to reward him she should take her hand off his knee. She should probably also take her mouth off his. And his hand off her leg. It's nowhere near her knee now. She's certainly not cold any more. Any snow anywhere near her would be melting. She's melting, right into Castle, who seems to have learned how to kiss properly sometime in the last sixty seconds. He's obviously a fast learner – ohhh. Where'd he learn that? That is very, very naughty. And very, very nice.
The carriage pulls up outside the door of her block and Castle hops down, hands some bills to the coachman and then courteously hands her out. He puts his arm back round her and steers her inside – she knows the way, she doesn't need shown, it is her block – and into the elevator. Fortunately there's no doorman in her building. She doesn't need anyone else – apart from half New York, of course, in that damn bar that Lanie insisted on – seeing Castle wrapping himself round Beckett-as-sexy-Santa.
She makes very sure that she doesn't bend at all when unlocking her door. The skirt is embarrassingly short. Not that anyone would notice. Castle's crowding her again as she opens the door, hand firmly on her waist. She's fairly sure it's not because he's being a gentleman and protecting her from the leering masses, since leering masses don't exist in her building. Well, apart from the single leering mass behind her. Once she gets inside she's certain that it's not because he's being a gentleman. Though she's pretty sure he doesn't want any leering masses anywhere near her. This would definitely not be improved by an audience. Castle didn't bother waiting for permission before he'd crashed down on her mouth and shown her that she really shouldn't have criticised any of his kisses.
"I've always thought it was rather unfair," he says, "that Santa only got a small glass of juice." He kisses her again, deeply, and pulls her against him. "She deserves so much more." His tongue prevents her answering. It also provides considerably more stimulation than the hypothetical glass of juice. She curves into him and slides her hands up round his neck.
"Maybe you should prove that you're a good boy." Oh. Maybe throwing down that gauntlet was a little misjudged. She's not at all sure that boy was the right word. He doesn't feel boyish at all.
"I'm very, very good. But I'm not a boy." Okay. She'll give him that. He's searched her mouth and plundered every present it could give, and now he's nibbling round her neck to see if he can discover any other treats. He nips her earlobe and she squirms. "I'm very definitely all man," he purrs into her ear. His hand has wandered downward to ensure that she's caught close enough to notice that.
The cape has gone. Castle had untied it without so much as asking, slithered it off her shoulders, and taken full advantage of the opportunity to run his hands over the skin revealed. Now he's gazing hotly at the dress. She wriggles. "Santa definitely never looked like that when I was growing up." He slides a soft finger across her collarbones, and watches a delicate flush creep across them. "I would never have done this to the Santa in the mall." His head bends and he draws a wet, dirty line across the neckline of the dress. "I like this Santa much better." He acquires a lazy, sleepy, sexy smile. "Santa works so hard" – his head lifts and his fingers slip under the neckline and she gasps – "that she deserves a break. A gift of her own. Something she'll really enjoy." She's enjoying his fingers. Oh yes. She arches against them and starts to plan a little gift-giving of her own.
She starts with a Christmas kiss, deep, wet and dirty like the Manhattan snow, and follows up with a nibble to his lower lip that makes him tense and grip her harder. One hand stays in his hair, keeping his mouth where she wants it, one slides down over his ass. He's rigid against her. "Have you been good, Castle?" she whispers. "Only good boys get a present from Santa."
So a little piece of Christmas fluff in two chapters. Second tomorrow.
There is no excuse for this. Not much plot, either.
Thank you all for reading. Reviews are much appreciated.