Season 2 (part one of two)

"At Christmas, all roads lead home."

-Marjorie Holmes

"Um... about your Christmas party this year?"

He nearly choked on his coffee. Beckett had notoriously avoided his holiday parties at all costs—she complained about the costumes—and he had assumed she had breathed a sigh of relief at narrowly avoiding this year's. "My Christmas party?"

She looked away. Beckett was so enticingly frustrating, the way she did that, hiding her face or minimizing her words until he was starved for information. She had caught him just outside Interrogation 1 as he'd exited Observation, and though he'd handed her a coffee, he had assumed they were going down to Booking to wrap up this case.

Except she had stopped him, and now stopped herself, and he forced himself to wait. Which he sucked at, waiting, but her being his muse meant he was being taught all kinds of lessons.

He was growing.

Ahem, not in that way.

She blew out a breath. "Is it… tell me about it."

Was that interest? "I think it's small—not to you maybe—well, sort of—it's just I promised Mother we'd upstage the Joneses this year."

She cupped her hands around her mug. "Are those the metaphorical Joneses?"

"Ah, no. It's the gay couple who have the floor just below ours. Last year they had this elaborate snowscape with ice sculptures and a snow machine—" Her eyes grew wide and he winced. "Don't ask. Mother was green with envy. I've let her choose our whole theme and the location this year."

She tucked her bottom lip into her teeth, shook her head. "And that is? The location this year."

"The New Drake Hotel."

"The Drake?" That crease in her brow was really going to kill him. He had the urge, lately, to press his thumb there and make it disappear. It only got deeper the more trouble she thought about—and he was beginning to see he was her trouble. "I thought it was torn down."

He bobbed his head, grateful to have alternate thoughts in his brain. "Yes, yes. A developer in the East Village who had been a former owner or maybe just a silent partner?, anyway, this developer group bought a couple of rundown buildings and put up this historical hotel installation—" He saw her roll her eyes and he grimaced in solidarity. "Yeah, I know right? 'historical hotel installation' so ridiculous, but it's the new thing, all the rage—" Was he doing bunny ears for the quote marks she should hear in his voice? Ug, he was so lame around her sometimes. "Anyway, there are parts you can rent out for parties, so Mother convinced me…" He realized he sounded inane, but he couldn't seem to stop gracefully. He just faltered into wild grasping. "Are you coming? I assumed your silence meant no. Don't you hate my parties?"

"How intimate is intimate?" Her eyes dropped to his lips. "This affair."

His whole body tightened in response. "Ah… it's… thirty people, fifty people." Blew out a breath and said quickly, "A hundred and thirty people, I think."

"A hundred and thirty people?" She looked horrified. She was actually taking a step back.

"My mother has the tendency to go… overboard. She says the Twelve Days of Christmas is a guiding template."

There was a moment of silence and he knew he shouldn't have told her the likely exaggerated number his mother had reported back to him yesterday. Surely not all of those people were going to show, but he honestly hadn't thought Beckett would be interested.

"Your Mother is quite… Is it the Gotham Poker Club and all the 'guys' you know?"

"My guys I'll have you know—" He tried to appear affronted, standing up straight with a faux huff of indignation, just to distract her from the overwhelming nature of that number. If he could coerce—ahem, convince—Beckett to attend, it would be a major coup for him, so best to string her along on a daisy chain of his rambling and maybe she could be goaded into attending. "I have a lot of connections around the city, and they often help solve a case. I don't hear you complaining when that happens."

The corner of her lips twitched. "Am I complaining now?"

"There is a tone, Beckett. I'll have you know."

She gave him a hard look. "Really."

She was downright chilly when she wanted to be, and no it was not sexy. Not even a little. "I'm not deaf to your ridicule. Or your snark. Or your rolled eyes—they have a sound you know. And I can hear it."

"I'm sure you can. Must be used to it by now."

Her pleased self-assurance made him want to… No. Not Beckett.

He shook himself free of that weird appealing fantasy. "If you're asking if the mayor will be there, and Captain Montgomery, and a few City Councilmen and Women, most of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, and… uh, everyone who is likely or could be your boss… yes. I am beginning to see why you never attend my parties."

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you invite the whole damn City administration?"

He paused. "I… yes." He held up a hand in defense, to ward off that evil eye she was giving him. "Look, look, it's a smart move on my part—and yours, might I add—to give your coworkers and those who are in charge of a major portion of your daily life something grand and magical and boozy to look forward to. Then they remember you kindly, and do you favors."

"Except that's unethical," she spat out. "And I'm a cop."

He let out a frustrated breath and stared down at his mug.

"And I'm wondering what a girl has to do get invited to one of your soirees," she muttered.

His head shot up. He stared at her, deer in headlights, entirely astonished that it had been that easy.

Wait, had he seriously convinced Detective Beckett to let down her hair for his epic and legendary Christmas party?

"Invite will be on your desk by day's end," he croaked.

She glared. Nodded shortly. Spun on her heel to head down for Booking.

Had she wanted to come?

Maybe it was pathetic to go begging holiday invites from Richard Castle.

She was undecided on that front. She could, at least, look back on that exchange and be justifiably certain there had been no actual begging. Please had not once left her mouth. She had done a good amount of glaring as well, and he had been put in his place at least twice.

She could be satisfied with that.

Beckett unclipped her badge and laid it in the box beside her holstered weapon. Next came the long chain which hid her mother's wedding band low between her breasts, and she rubbed the diamond to smudge away her work-day grime. It was beginning to lose its shine; she ought to not wear it so much…

But the holidays had her reaching for it. Now that the air had that brittle snap to it, she did too.

Beckett sighed and closed the box, turning away and hoping the movement would also close the box in her mind. Close down the memories.

Maybe it was foolish to manipulate holiday invites from Richard Castle.

She nodded, grim determination as she shucked her sweater and tossed it towards the hamper. Yes, that was a more accurate assessment of what had gone down between them. She had worked it around to her advantage, forcing him to send her an invitation to his Christmas party, but it was a bad idea.

It was a bad idea. What had he called his party? Boozy.

Beckett pushed back the wing of her bangs and inspected her face in the mirror. She'd taken to wearing a lot of red lately to offset how yellow and tired her skin had gotten, and she wondered if the red was for the blood she saw in her dreams each night, visions of her mother's crime scene that she couldn't quite keep locked up any longer.

He'd done that. Castle. He'd pried open that—

She sucked in a breath and turned her face away, mindlessly opened up the faucets for her clawfoot tub. She bent over to plug the drain, added a shake of lavender epsom salts, and finished getting undressed.

No wine and book tonight, a work night. No wine and book for too many nights in a row these days.

It was part of why she'd cornered Castle into an invitation. She needed something to take the edge off and she needed to do it safely, appropriately, and so what better way than a roomful of people who could fire her for any impropriety?

She was not her father, would never allow herself to get close to the pit her father had fallen into, but she had a black hole of her own, widening out there, and she needed to run far the opposite direction.

While she still could.

Coping skills. Every woman had to have them, and Beckett at least had one advantage: she knew what hers were. And which ones were most self-destructive.

Not this year. Never again. She had learned; she had gotten herself together.

Beckett stepped into her bath with a near-desperate relief, sank to the bottom and let her head tilt back against the curved lip.

She had turned thirty a month ago. Her mother had been gone for over a decade now. All of her twenties, gone, a wisp, a puff of smoke.

And still she had not found her mother's killer.

Pace herself. Go slow. Don't let it swallow you.

She did her mother no good if she drowned in it again.

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