Disclaimer: Santa says he's working on it...
Santa Baby
Chapter 1: Curb Your Enthusiasm
"So, Alexis gets home Friday. That'll give us the entire weekend to decorate the loft and find a tree. We usually do all of that a lot earlier, but since she has classes until last minute this year…"
Castle is chattering away, nineteen to the dozen, about his Christmas plans for cooking and decorating and gift buying, and Kate is trying hard to stay interested in the conversation. But her brain keeps tuning him out, and now he's staring at her, and…oh god, he looks like he might have just asked her a question...
"Sorry, you were saying?" she asks, trying to quash the blank look she suspects is showing on her face.
But he's so wrapped up in his own little spruce-scented, jingle-belling, snowflake dusted world, oblivious to her disinterest that, if she's honest, is bordering on actual distress, that he doesn't even notice.
"So, I thought a…a book for your dad…a first edition maybe. You can help me choose, right?" he muses aloud, not even stopping to check on her reaction, away with the fairies in his own little gifting fantasia.
"Or…or Yankees tickets," he proclaims enthusiastically, clapping his hands and bouncing in his chair when inspiration hits. "I know a guy who can get us excellent seats for whenever your dad is free."
When Kate next looks up, his face is actually flushed, deciding on the perfect gift clearly about as stimulating as sex where Richard Castle is concerned.
"This Christmas is going to be awesome!" he declares, pressing his fingers over his mouth to contain the excitement that looks ready to fly out of him and race around the room somewhere near the ceiling, like the witch in the Wizard of Oz.
Kate nods along, flicking her eyes between the paperwork on her desk and her Christmas-crazed boyfriend-slash-partner.
They have an active case they're supposed to be working. But it doesn't help that it's a case about a dead Santa, giving Castle the green light to go all 'Holiday Season' on her. The case is also the perfect cover, enabling him to sit by her desk all day obsessing over stuff, like the high tech digital 'singing' tree ornaments he spotted in the SkyMall catalog, whenever Gates wanders past glaring at him.
He's out of control, and, "Castle, we have a dead Santa on our hands," just isn't cutting it.
"No. We have THE dead Santa on our hands, Detective," he corrects. "Please note my use of the definite article," he adds, scolding her grammar, (really?) before drifting back into his mental winter wonderland.
He also seems to want Kate's opinion on the kind of tree he should get for home. He's been doing this for the last five years without her, even longer before that, so she can't quite understand why her input is so crucial all of a sudden.
Douglas Fir, Scotch Pine, Blue Spruce, Ponderosa Pine, Balsam Fir, Norwegian Pine, Leyland Cypress – he rhymes them off, and she really had no idea there were so many kinds, and then she makes the fatal mistake of letting him know about this gap in her tree-buying knowledge. So now he's going to make her choose, but only after educating her on the origins and life cycle of the Christmas tree. There's a website apparently, with 'a virtual tree farm, instructional videos and everything, Beckett. You'll love it.'
She's trying not to scream, she really is.
But when Ryan joins in and starts spouting his theories on how to prevent 'needle drop', she turns to Esposito and mouths, 'Is that even a thing?'
Esposito shakes his head at her and shrugs his shoulders, mouthing back, 'Damned if I know.'
And then all hell breaks loose.
Castle and Ryan commandeer the murder board for (quote) 'instructional purposes', and then they start strategizing: writing up a detailed list of items required to prevent the aforementioned needle drop 'thus prolonging the life of your tree, Beckett'.
After two minutes they're only talking to one another, since Espo and Kate are now filling out request forms (by choice) to get LUDs and tolls on Santa's cell phone, while Castle and Ryan argue over the best way to affix a water clamp to the base of said Christmas tree.
'What the hell is a water clamp?' Javi texts Kate, making her snigger.
Ryan says something about it all boiling down to 'to strip or not to strip', and when Castle of all people argues for 'never ever stripping', Kate's eyebrows shoot up, and he has her attention again.
For a few seconds.
"The bark has to stay on, Kev," Castle tells Ryan. "No stripping."
And…lost her attention again.
A couple of minutes later, Castle sits down on the edge of her desk, jostling her papers while she's trying to write, clearly bored, pandering for her attention. So he starts in again with the questions.
"If you could ask Santa for anything, Beckett, anything at all. What would it be? Hmm? World peace? A signed copy of Frozen Heat? Bigger boobs?"
"Really?" she asks, freezing him on the spot with just a look.
"Come on. There must be something you've always wanted, Kate? Let your imagination run wild. Anything?" he pushes.
"I…I'm actually pretty sure I have everything I need…right here," she adds, sotto voce, giving him a secret smile that shuts him up and gets him grinning.
He leaves her alone for thirty seconds after that, a hazy, loved-up look on his face. But her admission is evidently not enough to quell his need for her undivided attention.
When he starts parading one of her elephants across her desk, humming, "We Three Kings of Orient Are", she snaps, and tells him, "Castle, I have work to do."
She wants to smile, she really does, because if this were any other 'thing' of his it would be adorable – his excitement, the way he wants to include her, his enthusiasm, his smile and that sparkle in his eyes. But it's Christmas, and although she's no Grinch, she's no Mrs. Claus either. (He already asked if she'd wear the outfit. She already told him no.)
Christmas is a difficult time for her; full of good memories paired up with a deep, aching sense of loss. She usually gets through it by working and drinking and forgetting and catching up on missed sleep. But she suspects she won't get to use any of those coping strategies this time around if her partner has anything to do with it.
"Christmas ham or roast turkey, Beckett?" he asks her, the question barely registering as she falls into a daydream so vivid - she and her mom making cranberry sauce together in their old kitchen - that she can almost smell the sharp tangy berries, the sweet citrusy hit of orange peel and the warm spice of cinnamon.
He's making her remember, with his questions and his Christmas cheer, and she's not sure she likes it. She's not sure she likes it at all.
"Castle, we're at work, in case you haven't noticed. Just…pick whatever," she says, waving her hand dismissively, her tone clipped and full of frustration, head already bowed over the page, fingers gripping the edge of the desk too firmly.
His face falls, eyes shuttering, and her heart clenches in her chest when she glances up and sees how this hurts him. What would it cost her to be nice, to play along?
But she can't bring herself to do that right now, so the case offers her a viable excuse to dodge the question he's been hounding her with for days: Will she spend Christmas with him and his family?
He actually wants her there from Christmas Eve through January 2nd, staying at the loft. She's pretty sure he'd push for Thanksgiving if he thought he could get away with it.
So she sighs, sits up straighter in her chair, preparing to make peace.
"Look. I just…I need a little time, okay?" she tells him, softening her voice and bringing her eyes along for the ride.
But her words don't seem to be doing anything for him today. He still looks like a little boy who just heard that Santa put him on the 'naughty list' this year.
"Time for what, Beckett?" he asks, not doing a very good job of hiding his disappointment. "Did you get a better offer or something?"
"No," she frowns. "No. Of course not." Looking up at him and shaking her head so he can see the truth written across her face.
"Then what exactly is the problem, Kate?" he whisper-hisses, pressing his palms flat on her desk and leaning towards her.
"I can't talk about this now, and I'm certainly not discussing it here," she hisses back, jerking her head towards 'Santa's little helpers', aka Detectives Ryan and Esposito, who're all into the conversation but their feet.
Elves have smaller ears than these two.
"Then where? Because you've been ducking this for days, and…"
He shakes his head, slumps back in his chair away from her, falling silent; backing down from whatever ultimatum he was about to throw her way.
Wise man.
"Later," she whispers, briefly covering one of his hands with her own and squeezing, before quickly withdrawing back to her own side of the desk and focusing on the murky set of financials that may just have ended Kris Kringle's life.
He hangs around for another half-hour, moving desks to sit with the boys; he and Ryan trying to best one another with their sentimental plans for the holiday season – Ryan's first as a married man and Castle' first…what?
She hears Ryan suggest it first, but doesn't hear Castle's reply, just catches the gloomy look on his face when Ryan says, "So, you must be pretty excited. First Christmas with Beckett 'n all?"
The non-specific grunt is classic pouty-Castle, and when he looks over at her, most likely checking to see if she's listening in to this, she quickly flicks her eyes away, trying to make sense of the jumbled numbers and letters on the call sheet in front of her, her jaw set firm.
He gets up five minutes later, makes a show of stretching, arching his back and spreading his arms wide, exposing his broad chest to her, flexing his biceps for good measure. Then he yawns, loudly, and finally strolls over to pick up his overcoat from the back of his chair once he's absolutely certain that she's watching him.
"I'm gonna head out, Beckett," he tells her, trying to act nonchalant.
"Oh, right?"
She's surprised, but tries to hide it, ends up doing a bad job of course. Because much as he has been annoying her, and as much as she doesn't want to commit to Christmas at the Castles just yet, she also doesn't want him to leave…not like this.
But he's already saying goodbye to the guys and heading towards the elevator.
"Wait. Castle, wait up. I…I'll walk you out," she stammers, quickly trailing after him, no clue what she's going to say, but feeling the need to say something.
They stand awkwardly out in the hall, facing one another while they wait for the elevator to arrive, the dry crackle of electricity sparking between them.
Suddenly Castle looks up, and they both realize that they're standing beneath a pathetic looking bunch of mistletoe someone no doubt hung there as a joke; the berries already browning and shriveling. And Kate hopes this isn't an omen, a comment on the state of their relationship.
Their eyes drop and they silently stare at one another, kissing beneath this pitiful sprig of foliage so not an option in the Precinct.
"Kate, about earlier… About Christmas," he says, his face softening, looking every inch the generous peacemaker, as usual.
"Castle, I…" she frowns, shakes her head lightly, curls dancing around her shoulders.
"If you aren't ready, just tell me?" he suggests, so gentle and fair like always.
"I'm…look, it's not…" she struggles for the right words to explain the breadth and depth and complexity that all of this holds for her.
They both startle when the Captain appears behind them.
"Mr. Castle, leaving us so soon?" purrs Gates, her tone managing to convey criticism and amusement at the same time.
Kate unconsciously flicks her eyes up to the mistletoe once more, and then she forces herself to focus relentlessly on Castle's face. Not his mouth. No, never on his mouth. Not here.
"Well, have a good evening," Kate says loudly, aiming for breezy and casual, stepping back, any chance for a private discussion sabotaged while Gates is watching them anyway.
"I'll call you...if the trawl through Santa's cellphone dump throws up anything interesting," she adds for effect, already halfway down the hall towards the bullpen, walking backwards away from him.
Castle steps into the elevator and raises his hand in a half-hearted wave, his lips pressed into a firm line that tells her so much more about how badly she just let him down than any yelling ever would. She feels like Peter the apostle (it's that time of year her subconscious tells her); denying Castle - everything they mean to one another, their whole relationship - in front of her boss. And it makes her feel sick to her stomach.
Gah! This whole Christmas thing…it's going to be the death of them.
A/N: This might last a few chapters, one more at least. Amazing how one nano second from a promo can send your brain reeling into fanfic space. :D Liv