Season 4

"Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful."

—Norman Vincent Peale

Kate Beckett was pleased with herself; she'd found an ideal dress for the Ryan wedding, as it was both flattering and also something she'd wear again, given the right conditions. She'd noticed that dresses bought for weddings usually went to the back of the closet never to see the light of day once more, but this one was—

Different. (Not to mention, it had pockets. As a cop, as a member of the generation who always carried her phone with her, pockets were an unlooked-for but thrilling victory. The fact that these pockets were lined with something that might be a metal trim to keep the lines stiff was ingenious.) She kept picturing herself in this dress, catching sight of him in the church or across the ballroom floor, and striding forwards.

Her legs were killer.

And to reinforce that pleasing image, Beckett decided to walk to a subway stop farther south just to avoid the throngs of holiday shoppers. The wedding would be after the New Year, but she hadn't wanted to leave the dress to last minute, now that she and Castle had officially unofficially decided they'd see each other there.

She thought it was sweet he was going to take his daughter.

She did. Honest. Wasn't that the first thing that had attracted her to him?

(No, it had been his eyes. His mouth? Maybe his face, the pretty face, and she'd—)

Beckett shook her head, the garment bag slung over one shoulder as she maneuvered through the crowds milling in Times Square. As a native New Yorker, she most often avoided Times Square, ducked the tourists who inevitably gawked at the sheer mass of humanity, but one of her favorite boutiques had a pop-up shop off Times Square and she had known they'd have the perfect dress.

Thankfully, 8th Avenue skirted the southern edge of Times Square—so she wasn't in the thick of it, but the crowds weren't thinning by any means.

A gust of sharp winter wind down the avenue made her clutch at the lapels of her coat, holding it together with one hand. Her ears were cold, nose beginning to numb, and her fingers gripping the clothes-hanger were already like ice. She should have worn gloves, but she hadn't foreseen staying out all afternoon, trying on dresses in vain until the announcement of the pop-up boutique.

She tasted a dampness to the air that made her think of snow and woods—until the warm steam from the subway system wafted up through a grate.

The sun was only seen in glimpses down the east-west streets as she crossed over, going faster now as whatever warmth the light had been began to wane. She was coming up on the cross street for Midtown Precinct when she realized she wasn't looking forward to the inevitable crush of people at this subway stop, not with Bryant Park's Winter Village feeding into the Times Square and Rockefeller Center castoffs.

Maybe she should have trekked west and…

The text tone piping from her phone made her step out of the flow of traffic and check, not just in case it was case-related, but also because she wanted to rethink her path home.

It was Castle. Hey, where are you right now?

She chewed on her bottom lip and ducked her head, as if anyone could see her cheeks pinking up at just the idea of him thinking of her right now. While she'd been thinking of him. She draped the garment bag over one arm and hovered her thumbs over the keyboard.

Tried to compose something both nonchalant and inviting that wasn't desperate.

Out and about, getting some shopping done and wishing I wasn't in this foot traffic.

She saw it change from 'delivered' to 'read' and her heart did a weird flip. His text in reply was just the three dots for a long time, and she wondered if he had the same flutters of nerves. Did Richard Castle get nervous about texting a woman?

You do know it's Christmas Eve Eve, right? It's too late to get me the Electric Smores maker—they're sold out by this point.

She had to smother a smile he wasn't even here to see, but before she could reply back with a witty rejoinder (which she didn't have), he was texting her again.

Meet me for coffee and fruit cake? I had an idea.

She almost asked what idea.

She paused.

Then she nearly typed meet me at the precinct before her heart managed to dropkick her head out of the conversation.

It was Christmas Eve Eve, and in all likelihood, it wasn't a case idea he'd had. Or if so, it was a thinly veiled ruse for a coffee date.

Okay, but cookies instead of fruit cake, ew. Where?

Castle paused just outside the door of Engle's Bakery, couldn't help checking the glass for his reflection.

Instead, he saw Kate.

He was arrested on the sidewalk by the image she presented. Sitting just inside the bakery at one of the tables that lined the window, she had saved him a seat by throwing her garment bag over the next chair, her elbows on the wood top, her legs crossed at the ankles under her. She was looking over her shoulder into the bakery—either for him or because her attention had been snagged—and her profile was exquisite.

She made him ache. That nose, the faint parted mouth with lips made pink with the heat inside. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and wisps curled at her ear, her jawline, at the collar of her open coat. She was dressed in designer jeans and a creamy, off-white sweater, and his hand was shaking as he opened the door.

Her head turned and she spotted him. Her whole face lit up with a smile that made him want to cry.

It was all so close, so impossibly wonderfully unbearably close.

He waved and headed up to the register, but she hissed his name Castle and he turned back. She nudged a second coffee beside her and he noticed only then the plate of iced sugar cookies.

His grin grew wider; he headed for her with the deepest of pleasures. How ridiculous it was to feel so seen by a woman who had bought him coffee and cookies and saved him a seat.

When he took his place beside her, the hard wooden seat was a welcome reminder not to melt, gooey and mushy, because of the green-gold spark in her eyes.

Instead, he took the garment bag from her, which she had moved for him to sit, and folded it over his lap, unwilling to have any of her hidden from him, wanting her not to feel uncomfortable—only for her to stay. "Hey. Glad you were out and about. Been wanting to do this."

"Hey, Castle. Glad for the chance to sit down." She nudged the plate his direction and he took a cookie, snapped it in half, offered her the larger piece.

She smiled, but there was a strange beat before she accepted the cookie. Her eyes locked on his, one slim eyebrow raised in question.

He glanced down at the cookie.

It was—or had been—a Santa hat. It had broken unevenly, so that she now held the white tuft and red curve of the cap, while he had one corner. Her piece looked like—

Well.

A certain member of the male anatomy.

Her lips twitched as the horror dawned on him, but she lifted the cookie to her mouth and parted her lips—

touched her tongue to the white tuft—

the sugary icing began to melt at the damp—

She delicately bit the head—the tuft of white—off the red shaft—red hat!—

His face flamed hotly but he couldn't take his eyes off the entirely too erotic act of eating a sugar cookie.

She swallowed, a chuckle in her throat as she watched him.

He shifted on his seat and drew the garment bag closer, clearing his throat, trying not to let her fluster him.

"Beckett," he tsked. "Really."

She laughed, the back of her hand over her mouth, shook her head. She had another sip of coffee and Castle finally took up his own, a tentative first sip of hot liquid.

"You got me hot chocolate!"

"I got us both hot chocolate," she murmured, eyebrow raised. "Seemed appropriate."

"It's perfect, thank you. I've been running around Manhattan trying to do last minute shopping." He shook his head. "I should be better at this—my kid is how old?—should make a schedule or something. And just when I get thawed out in one of the department stores, it's back out into the maelstrom. It's bitterly cold out there. I think it's supposed to snow."

She was smiling broadly when he finished his giddy monologue. She said nothing but turned to look out the window and he was graced with the lovely column of her neck and the infamous sweep of her jaw. Her hair was coming undone from the braid, and wavy from being tucked away for so long, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush it behind her ear.

He clutched the garment bag instead. "What have you got here?" His fingers started on the zipper tab.

She turned back to him sharply, pushed her booted foot into his shin under the table. "Don't you dare." A warning look, quelling and professional (and hot), and though his fingers itched to tug the zipper down slowly, pointedly, he didn't. "That's my dress for the Ryans' wedding."

"Oh." Had his voice just squeaked? He tired to clear his throat. "And it's a surprise?"

She said nothing to that, simply pressed her lips together and studied him. The way she did frequently these days, as if he were a revelation and she wasn't yet able to divine his meaning.

She studied him the way he used to study her, at the beginning, when he was so fascinated by the mystery he couldn't take his eyes off her. Except Beckett had a knowing in her eyes as she watched him that felt… like ownership.

It was a surprise for him.

No. Surely not.

He swallowed and put the hot chocolate to his mouth just to have something to do, somewhere else to look, and yet her boot was still pressing against his shin, her foot balanced on her three-inch heel so that he was pinned.

"How's Alexis?" she was saying, crumbling a cookie on the plate for a piece of a snowflake. "Has she found a dress?"

He scoffed. "She doesn't need a dress, she's a teenager."

Kate looked amused. "Mm, sure."

He narrowed his eyes, patted his back pocket to be sure his wallet still remained intact. "Alexis is fine," he insisted. "She's doing Christmas shopping of her own right now. And Mother is… actually, I'm not sure what Mother is doing. Or should I say whom? She likes the Christmas party scene a bit too much. I think it's the nog."

Her lips twitched, but he saw fondness. It was good that someone was.

She pressed a piece of cookie between her teeth and seemed to kiss her thumb for the crumbs.

He had to stop obsessing over her mouth.

He focused on the cup before him, one hand wrapped around it, brought it to his lips.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's… raining? Snowing?"

He glanced up, casting his gaze to the window. A hard pellet bounced off the glass and then he saw a handful more, now hundreds more littering the sidewalk, as if thrown by a hand in the sky, tossed like confetti. "That was weird, is it—"

The flurry of pellets returned, a gust of wind that rattled the window, a scattering of hail. Those initial forays morphed into a steady rain, a wintry mix that included a few harder pellets of ice against the window. Umbrellas had come out in the holiday crowd, the neon and streetlights glinting off growing pools in the streets.

Kate sighed. "I'm glad I'm here and not out there."

But really, all he heard was I'm glad I'm here.

"Me too," he said quietly.

Her eyes darted to his, and he saw pink flush her cheeks, a soft and pretty color that had him leaning into the table and flirting with the edge of the cookie plate.

Wishing it was her hand.

As if she could hear his deepest desires, she leaned in. Her hands came to the table top, fingers pressing flat before curling, almost touching her cup but still free. Her lips were parted, her tongue was pressing against her top teeth, almost a smile. Almost, almost. Everything was almost.

With the rain in gusts against the window and the occasional scatter of icy pellets, the threat of a chill at the glass but the warmth of the bakery and the scent of chocolate and the air of Christmas, it was all too easy to lean in…

The bell chimed over the door, disrupting the spell.

She sat back, hands pulled down into her lap, a dart of her gaze to the newcomer coming into the bakery. She took up her hot chocolate, brought the cup close to her chest.

Defensive postures, all.

He suppressed a sigh, curling his hands around his own cup, taking a sip. Even a quiet and silent Beckett was better than no Beckett at all.

A skitter of rain against the window had him looking out, really seeing the scene: the harried faces under their hoods or soaked through, the bulging shopping bags beginning to wilt, the frustration and cold. Nothing more depressing than a wet Christmas and no snow in sight.

But just as he had that thought, there came a little girl clutching her mother's hand, hopping puddle to puddle or tilting her head up to catch icy pellets on her tongue, sputtering and laughing, making even her mother laugh. She wore a bright red coat and a scarf that dragged to the sidewalk every now and then, causing her mother to tuck it up again and again.

He realized he was grateful to be inside this bakery with Beckett, out of the rain, but even if they were both out there in it, he was somehow assured that Kate's presence at his side would make everything okay.

Assured that she had met him in this little bakery because she wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see her.

"You said you had an idea?"

He stiffened, turned to look at her.

A lifted eyebrow, a curiosity layered thinly over a deeper knowledge.

His ears burned. "I… may have come up with a bit of pretense."

She laughed. "I kind of figured."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, the idea was coffee itself, so it wasn't that much of a ruse." He sighed. "Yeah, but that was all I had."

Her fingers suddenly brushed his over the cup; a hook of her fingers in his. "I would have met you without the ruse." She squeezed his fingers but right as she was about to let go, he caught them, squeezing back.

Under the pretense of that reassurance, he held her hand on the battered wooden table top, just a hook of fingers really, but joined.

Together.

It was the best holidays he'd had in a long while.

—-