Season 2 (part two of two)

The New Drake, as it styled itself, was an installation piece meant to harken back to the days of New York's Roaring Twenties social scene. In 2009, it had a strange sense of impending doom that was all out of proportion to the economic boom and growth in modern industry that so far had characterized these waning early-aughts.

Richard Castle, however, was not complaining. Let them party on the deck of the Titanic or whatever this was outfitted to be. He found it awkwardly encouraging that the developers had so loved a piece of iconic New York history that they had hired a team of creatives to reinvent and reinvigorate the old legend.

What he knew of The Drake included famous British rock bands partying it up and suing the hotel after some money went missing. He also remembered the club and restaurant as being iconic during the disco era, and then some Swiss hotelier had done a massively expensive overhaul of the rock-band-trashed rooms and numerous television shows had put up their guests at the place.

The thing was: Midtown Manhattan had many such buildings just like The Drake, and its facade and even interiors were entirely forgetful for a great many reasons. The fact that he could not recall if anyone had bought the demolished lot, nor if it was even a hot commodity made him think this was something of a PR stunt to pump interest into the real estate.

Ah, well. There was fun to be had.

Rick Castle made his rounds of the Christmas party inside the open-air atrium, stopping at the silver tinsel tree that towered in the center and reached sky-light-ward. Were silver tinsel trees a thing in the twenties? Either way, it had to be a good twenty feet, and there were baubles and balls and beaded garland strung like a Jackson Pollock painting (haphazardly, with no regard for symmetry. He was grateful Beckett hadn't arrived, because maybe she wouldn't have to suffer through this).

Photos were set up in a booth just to the right, with a female Santa dressed as a flapper girl (somehow they had pulled it off) and an elf that reminded him of Frank Sinatra. (Oh yes, he had heard Frank Sinatra had stayed at The Drake in his day.) The boozy part of the evening had definitely commenced, and he averted his eyes from Captain Montgomery and his wife and hurried along to the next station.

A karaoke bar was in full swing, Christmas carols only, and everyone had to be teamed up, so there were no microphone-hoggers belting an off-key rendition of Mariah Carey's Christmas classic. Castle wasn't sure that six guys from the Fire Department plus his publicist squished in the middle singing a Bob Rivers Twisted Radio classic, 'Walking 'Round in Women's Underwear,' was better than a one-man show attempting 'All I Want for Christmas Is You,' but he could be persuaded.

No ice sculptures—Mother had said it would be too derivative—but there was an indoor fountain with champagne stations (not a fountain of champagne, what was he, made of money?) plus a chocolate creation workshop where party-goers could create their own molds and leave with (or eat on the spot) their chocolate delights. (Most people, it seemed, were making penises, which he'd have said was on par with his usual tone for a party, but lately he'd hoped to be a bit more classy than that).

And of course, that was exactly where Beckett found him: taste-testing a chocolate… ahem, balls.

All kinds of things went wrong at the same time: he bit off the tip and nearly broke a tooth, she caught sight of what it was everyone was popping out of the molds, someone laughed expansively and flung a hand into another's champagne glass—which spilled to the floor at their feet—the DJ started up with something overloud on the speakers, and the central twenty-foot Christmas tree got bumped by an enthusiastic dancer and began to sway.

As if in time to the music. As if it had had enough.

People screamed, people tried to flee, people ran closer as if to catch it—

Beckett had him by the arm and was forcefully propelling him backwards (oh her shoes, ruined in that champagne), until his spine hit a cloth-draped pillar and the air whooshed out of his lungs.

She turned, her hand pressed to his chest as if to keep him there, as she faced the mayhem.

He could feel the moment she decided she had to leap in, the tension of her palm against his tie, but it was also the moment the world righted itself: the tree tipped back on its solid metal braces, the ornaments swayed, a few handfuls of tinsel floated to the ground, and the gasping party-goers now tittered and laughed, relief a fine perfume to the air.

He closed his hand over hers on his chest.

She turned and yanked her hand away, stepped back.

"Why, Detective Beckett... were you concerned for my welfare?"

Her eyes flashed. Her spine straightened. But none of that coiled tension, ready-for-battle stance left her. "Paperwork, Castle. Too much paperwork."

"You're not on duty," he pointed out, stepping closer.

She did not back down; he was made faintly giddy by her resistance to his charms. "Duty or not, I'd still be the one doing the paperwork."

"The way you took control..." he said, letting a sigh creep into his voice, a hint of fantasy. "Better than my dreams."

"Castle," she growled her warning.

He slanted a look her way, just to be sure she was truly enjoying the salaciousness of the tease, and sure enough, her cheeks had a spot of color, and the brightness had returned to her eyes.

She liked it. She liked him. Despite her best efforts.

And it made him bold. "Come with me," he said, taking her elbow and beginning to walk.

"Castle," said in a huff, but was that surprise? Surprise he could be forceful too, that he could take control? That their eventual sexual coupling would be a game of give and take? "Where are you dragging me?"

"Elevators," he said, knowing he had to give some of it away just to keep her walking. "The dress is quite svelte, by the way. I was going to say, before you pummeled me into a dark and secluded corner to have your way with me."

"I did not-" She snapped the last of her indignation off like gingerbread, chewed on her fury with herself the whole rest of their clipped walk to the bank of elevators. He'd gotten to her; she hated that; she secretly loved it?

Most of the revelers stayed on the wide pale blond wood steps that ascended in easy tiered landings towards the second floor. Roaring Twenties met Warehouse Industrial, and he thought it was a commentary on gentrification, but he wasn't yet sure. The bank of elevators was deserted, as it was around a bend where the atrium met what would likely one day become an indoor food court, and as he jabbed the call button, a massive industrial sign propped against the far wall actually lit up as well.

Ho Ho Hoes! it spelled in blue and red. At the exclamation mark, a pin-up girl gave a saucy wink in a Santa hat and looked like she was about to swallow the top of the mark.

He chuckled. She rolled her eyes. "You have such a classy party here, Castle."

The elevator doors opened and he ushered her inside, all without having to touch her (the pity). "You mean my mother does."

Their eyes met as the statement dropped, his body already hunched into a cringe, hers stiffening with the unspoken joke. Neither said it. They both dropped it.

He punched the button for Roof Access, feeling a return of smugness, since here she was with him. She crossed her arms over her chest and he once more marveled at the choice of dress.

Black velvet bodice, with off-the-shoulder sleeves (how she had managed to make sleeves so enticing was beyond him), her hair loose and perhaps slightly more artfully arranged than this morning, a bare neck and bare shoulders (was it medieval, the dress, and his lust as well?), with a skirt that hugged her hips like sin and stopped mid-thigh. But it wasn't just that—rose gold, seven-point stars had been foil pressed to the bust, the waist line, the hem, and ran down the sleeves so that she shimmered like brandy, like the darkest red wine, like the night sky itself.

He was quite taken.

She looked ready to gouge his eyes out for all the smug looking he was doing.

Castle stepped off and turned with a signature flourish to her, hand extended, and she—well, she put her hand in his and let him lead her off the elevator onto the roof.

What was wrong with her?

A blast of cold air snaked around her neck and Castle was immediately shrugging out of his jacket and handing it over, without comment, and with far more natural humility than she'd ever have expected. She slipped the suit jacket on over the velvet of her dress, and found herself inhaling a deep breath of his aftershave.

At least it meant she was no longer holding his hand.

He led her around the brickwork that was maintenance and HVAC systems and to a set of poorly-bolted metal steps. "Castle," she warned. Hesitant to follow him up.

He turned at the top, smiling. "Come on."

She breathed slowly and climbed, attempting to avoid getting her heels caught in the grating. She had to concentrate so much on her feet that the hand he wrapped around her upper arm was welcome, and it wasn't until she made it to the roof deck and straightened up, that she really saw where they were.

The wind snatched her surprise. But the view…

The whole city went on as far as her eye could see, with the Chrysler Building bathed in icy blue with white snowflakes, the Empire State Building in bold bands of red and green, a skyscraper lit up like a candy cane on each floor, a snowman on another building, and the myriad string lights and candles, stars and trees celebrating the confluence of holidays in winter.

"Beckett, behind you."

She turned abruptly at the intimacy in his voice, startled (not aroused), to find him standing before a Santa's sleigh get-up.

"The artist was going for a whole virtual Santa's flight experience up here, but it got, and I quote, ruined, so he scrapped the whole thing."

She stepped forward, faintly in awe of the massive gold and red sleigh before her on the roof deck. "How… did you know this was here? How did they get it up here?"

"The latter, no idea. The former, well, I was letting the caterer in to do her last run-through with Mother, and the artist, an interesting guy named Guzman, had me come up and act as his guinea pig."

"Ouch."

He grinned, that rakish handsome-devil look he had perfected. "Come find out."

"Oh boy." But she ruched up her skirt so she could climb up the gold-painted wooden steps (they were, she had to admit, out of sync with the overall aesthetic of the finely wrought sleight itself).

Castle came up behind her.

"If you so much as breathe on my ass, Castle, so help me God."

"What?" he squeaked. "No, far too much a gentleman for that."

Which meant he'd nearly fallen face first into her ass, of course. She rolled her eyes to the heavens (wow, the sky up here glowed blue and pink and there were satellites if not stars), and she sat down gingerly on the red velvet upholstered bench of the sleigh.

Castle stepped in after her, sat down close but not too close, and plucked a Santa's hat from the sleigh bed behind them. When he moved to drop it on her head, she ducked away from his hand with a scowl.

He shrugged and plopped it on his own head, grabbed a heavy flannel blanket to drape over their knees, then seemed to think that meant he could lean in against her shoulder and… snuggle in.

She wriggled her shoulder against his but he didn't move, and she wasn't really that resistant, was she? She was damaged, and battling a black hole that could suck her down, and she had a tendency for self-sabotage when she was in this state.

She should never have come. But here she was.

Beckett sighed and settled a bit more into the plush bench, ran her fingers over the plastic gold railing. It was a bit impressive regardless of the prefab nature of the sleigh; she saw it could be broken down into pieces and carried out on the elevator.

The runners too? They were easily twelve feet.

She inspected the dashboard of the sleigh, wondering what all the gizmos were for, buttons and levers and dials and something that looked like a radar screen, but dark. She wasn't sure if it was supposed to light up or not. But the view, at the highest point of the roof, was rather spectacular.

On this side, they were facing the East River and she could see cars on the FDR, golden yellow headlamps, red brake lights, and if she squinted and used her imagination, they were a string of Christmas lights on the gutter of Manhattan. When she turned her head a bit the other way, the Lower East Side furled out, connected by lights and chocked with buildings, and she could see the Manhattan Bridge, craning her neck a bit for the Brooklyn, all lit up in purple, blue, green, and red.

"Pretty cool, huh?"

"I'm not getting much of the whole virtual Santa experience."

He huffed and bent forward, it was a bit of reach in this over-sized sleigh, and he pushed a button on the dashboard.

Nothing happened.

He grunted, flinging off the flannel, and stood from the bench, hovered over the dials and knobs, trying a combination of things.

Nothing happened.

Castle turned to her with a sheepish look. "Uh."

She laughed, shaking her head, letting her eyes drift to the city skyline. "Real beats virtual."

Castle sighed melodramatically and sat back down on the bench, this time right up against her, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, and she was just cold enough to not move him away.

He was silent as they studied the city. Her city, her home, born and raised and… likely to die here. Her father worried she'd be shot in the line of duty, but she'd always worried she'd cave in one day, that her black hole would suck all the light and life out of her, leave her nothing.

And then she would be nothing. A failure to her mom.

Castle swore softly. "It was so cool. There's this projection of reindeer in the sky ahead of us and the sleigh has hydraulics so it felt like you were flying." He growled, a noise that trembled in her own chest, made her fingers tingle.

She was not going to hold his hand. "You don't have to take it so hard," she said. "It's not your art that, well, missed the mark."

He slumped beside her, dejected puppy. "I wanted you to see something magical," he sighed. "Not just chocolate molds of..."

Beckett looked at him. Every breath she took was laced with his aftershave, and his profile at her side was so earnest in the dark.

She knew, suddenly, that this was an apology. For all of it. Glomming onto her, making her responsible for him, constantly dogging her heels, second-guessing her theories, and most of all, most of all, going where he wasn't wanted: her mother's case.

Becket turned her head to the sky, the lights, the hope. Out there somewhere, not closed to her forever. "Still pretty cool, Castle," she said quietly.

It didn't have to be today. She was only thirty; she had time; she had all of New York City.

And, inexplicably, she had best-selling author Richard Castle.

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