Season 7

"Mistletoe. I surmount all obstacles."

― Vanessa Diffenbaugh, The Language of Flowers

"Hey."

"Hey." Kate ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. Muzzy. Reached for the coffee.

Then realized.

Looked up.

Castle was balanced on top of the dining room table, on a chair, arms over his head with… no idea. Okay, hard pass.

"Too early for this," she rasped, focusing on the coffee as it hit the mug and swirled. Coffee. Just get some coffee.

"You didn't see that."

"Castle, I have no idea." She couldn't function. "I had a twelve hour shift."

"Yeah."

She drank the coffee black.

"Oh, that bad," he said. "Not even a drop of creamer?"

"Don't fall off that chair," she mumbled into the cup.

"Right. No. Um. I will endeavor not to."

No big words at nine in the morning after she'd crawled home at four. She was too old for this; she hurt all over. She had reached the age where a good night's rest no longer magically cured everything. Her neck was throbbing, the small of her back pinched, and her ribs sang when she breathed. She hadn't even tackled the guy; she'd been the one holding the gun while Espo had done the hard work. But then she'd been roped into a press conference and that had been truly back-breaking.

There was an awful thump and she cringed, but she looked. She had to. She was contractually obligated because he was her husband.

He was, miraculously, upright and standing beside the dining room table. He looked relatively unscathed, just a muss in his hair. But the dining room chair had tipped backwards off the table and was hanging by a leg and a rung onto the tabletop in an impossible feat of engineering called household accident.

"Castle," she whined.

"You didn't see that either."

She wanted to cry. "I have to be into the precinct by ten."

He gasped. "It's already nine."

"No shenanigans. Promise me. I can't handle an ER trip. Or a phone call saying help I've fallen and I can't get up."

He gawked at her. "Was that an old man joke?"

"No." She panned, covered her face behind the coffee mug, sipped again. Blanched. "Ug."

"Here, you have like fifteen minutes at best. I'll make your coffee, you… shower."

"Shut up," she whimpered. But gave the coffee up to him and headed back for the master bath.

He had her coffee on the sink counter the moment she shut off the water and stepped out, the sweet man, and after downing the whole cup, she felt much more human. And much more in love with him.

She was in too much of a hurry by then to check on the dining room antics, but Castle was at the door to see her off, helping her into her coat, handing her a travel mug, and landing a kiss at her ear as she rushed to get away.

It was only at dinner that night, which he'd ordered as Chinese takeaway and set up on the dining room table, that she remembered the bizarre scene she'd stumbled onto this morning.

She didn't know if she wanted to look.

So at first, she didn't. She dug into her eggplant chicken with extra lo mein, slurping because she was that hungry, trying to force her body to relax, slow down, come off duty. Her hair was a wreck from letting it air dry this morning and then half-braiding it at red lights on her way to the morgue, and she ran a hand through it now, checking to see how it might have held up.

Poorly. She tugged her fingers through the braid, loosening it, and realized Castle was watching her avidly.

More than usual.

She gave him a look and pulled out the rubber band (actual office supplies, and she was stickler enough to make a mental note to take it back to work in the morning). Her hair didn't fall around her shoulders like it might have in better days, but Castle sure was looking at her like he wanted to comb his fingers through it.

She wrinkled her nose and tossed her head a bit, but she gave up on it when her stomach grumbled for more.

Castle was still watching her. She ignored him in favor of savory chicken.

He hopped up and grabbed the wine bottle, sat back down and poured her another glass (had she finished the first one already?), and still he looked at her.

"Okay, what gives," she said.

He cleared his face, sat back in surprise so poorly done she almost rolled her eyes. He placed a hand to his chest. "Moi? No. Nothing. Glad you're home. You've had a week of long shifts and press conferences. Gates is really pushing you into the limelight."

"It's not a serial killer," she jumped the gun.

"I know. As you've explained many times."

"You just keep hounding me to come in."

"And I can't come back. I know. Just grateful I got a Christmas tree up in Homicide."

He looked jokey, cheerful, but she knew he missed it. Missed her. She hated what he'd done to solve that case; they were never going to see eye to eye on that. "Once it blows over," she hedged.

He didn't answer her, just seemed to stare intently.

She sighed. "Yeah, it might not blow over. A detective is dead, killed by the mob you—"

"For pity's sake, look up, Beckett."

She startled. Remembered again the scene this morning, the near-death chair-tipping, his mussed hair.

And looked up.

And laughed.

"Mistle—" The rest of the word was smothered by his lips on hers as he leaned over the corner of the table to land a kiss that was more middle school crush than married man, but she clasped the back of his neck and let it happen.

Showed him high school under the bleachers.

He hummed in appreciation and picked up his game, gave her back listening and paying attention and first serious relationship style kissing.

As their kiss moved through the stages of life, she found herself going ever slower, as if she didn't want the ride to end. His kiss was magic, always had been, from the beginning of things when it was taboo, to a stolen wedding taken back in the Hamptons at sunset.

He pulled back first. Cleared his throat. Watched her mouth as she nibbled on her sensitized bottom lip. (Because he was watching.) Her arms around his neck flexed, but he stayed distant, his gaze like a thirsty man finally quenched.

"Mistletoe," she finished.

"I've missed you."

"How long you been planning that?"

"Years."

She laughed, trailed her fingers through the soft hair at his nape. "I believe it."

"I am sorry for how I've been missing you, and I know it's my own fault. But I can't be sorry for how I… it's hard to make every person black and white when there are so many nuances and motivations. I know I dealt with the mob, and for you that's an obvious no-no. But I—"

She silenced him with a softer kiss, one she'd learned only recently. Since his disappearance. A kiss of you're too precious to me. "But you see the world in stories. Even a mobster has a story. And I fell in love with that, Castle. With you. So don't be sorry for all the color you bring to my world."

His ears were pink, his eyes bright. He took that with a moment of silence, toying with the end of her disheveled braid. "I have a confession," as he began unwinding the braid.

"Oh no."

"The Christmas card poem? We made that up."

"Mm. Is this like the Thanksgiving costume?"

He winced.

She pinched his nape and leaned in, brushed delicate and chaste kisses over his lips, one after another, until he made that tortured sound she loved. "Then, Castle, you know what the punishment is."

He grunted.

"And secondly?" she whispered.

"Second? Wait—"

"You're sending out that damn Christmas poem. That's your true punishment. I want it glossy and with a long exposition of our year in review. I get full editorial rights, plus I choose the photo for the front."

"Oh God. This is going to backfire horribly for me, isn't it?"

"You bet your ass," she grinned. "Merry Christmas."

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