Chapter 1

In a tiny, well hidden corner of her heart, Kate Beckett wished that Christmas was, well, different. She would have loved to have had a joyful, celebratory day, full of family and fun and food, carols and cheer and camaraderie.

Sadly, this year, as every year of the last ten, it wasn't going to happen like that. Sure, there would be family – her father – and food – delicious, and they would be content and comfortable with each other, but…

It just wouldn't be Christmas as she'd secretly like it to be: full of lights and decorations and music – and her mother. Somehow, she'd never managed to recapture the magic.

Of course, she didn't admit it. She covered the crumpled, childish hole in her heart with a barrel-load of snark, sarcasm, and sardonic commentary on the appalling commercialisation of Christmas, prided herself on her anti-Yule arguments, and never, not for one single tiny second, allowed anyone at all to know that, although she took a Christmas Day shift every year to showcase her apparent feelings towards the season, she ensured that she never worked late on Christmas Eve, so that she could attend the midnight service, watching late into the night as the shepherds had done. It was enough, but never quite enough.

This year, her hard-won covering was flaking: scratched away by the abrasive cheerfulness and ostentatious happiness of her annoying shadow. He just kept on pushing and pushing on the sore spot of celebrating, rather than – as she had to – surviving the disappointment that it wasn't how it used to be.

And so she snipped and snapped and snarked; shut down every hopeful comment that Castle made, and curled tighter and tighter into herself. The more she snarked, the more Castle tried to convince her she was wrong, and so on in an ever-decreasing spiral.

Until finally, a few days before Christmas, she snapped. There was some excuse. The murder rate had been exceptionally high, the cases exceptionally complex, and she'd had little sleep for some weeks in consequence.

Still, it wasn't (so Castle thought) his fault either. She should enjoy the season, or at least lighten up: if she didn't lighten up she'd be heading straight down the off-ramp to a full breakdown. Even if she couldn't see the stress lines creasing her forehead; the dark shadows below her eyes; or count the number of Advil she seemed to be popping; even, dear heavens, that her consumption of coffee had gone beyond excessive into toxic – he could. He tried everything to talk her down, but nothing seemed to work. So he just kept trying.

Unfortunately, trying was exactly what he shouldn't have done. But Castle being Castle, he couldn't back off when he thought he could fix a problem, especially when his usual methods of fixing problems – talk, talk, and talk some more – worked beautifully on everyone else he knew. Talking it through always worked.

Until it didn't.

"Come on, Beckett. Some nice hot chocolate with Christmas spices and a slice of Yule log is just what you need to sweeten your temper and get you through the day."

"I don't want anything except coffee. Plain coffee. Which is what I am going to make now. Alone."

"But I make coffee better."

"Did you hear me? Alone."

Suicidally stupidly, Castle followed her into the break room.

"Did you not hear me? I said alone. Twice."

"Yes, but you're cross and" –

"AndI want to be left alone."

Beckett gritted her teeth to stop the lava-flow of her miserable fury escaping. Sadly, Castle didn't shut his mouth.

"But you'll feel better if" –

She ran for it. The alternative was spilling out the foul sewerage pit of her unhappiness and anger over ten years of spoiled Christmases and pretending that she was content with the season when she never, ever, really was. Less than two minutes later, she was outside the precinct and heading for a coffee bar to which she rarely went: its chief (and only) virtue being that the caffeine content of its drinks was approximately four times that of any other coffee shop within Manhattan. The fact that the liquid it served was approximately the consistency of tar made no difference at all.

By the time she had purchased her drink, she'd rammed back the urge to burst into furious tears and then unload viciousness all over that dumbassed, jackass, doesn't-know-when-to-shut-up idiot and have him thrown out of the bullpen for ever and a few days more. It was hugely tempting, but she knew that if she did it, just like a small, overtired, disappointed child, she'd break something that couldn't be repaired. She didn't need more breakages in her life: she'd had enough of those.

Two cups of caffeinated sludge later, she purchased her lunch, which would serve as an excuse for her absence, mortared the walls of her composure back into solid place, and returned to her desk.

Castle wasn't there, which relieved her quite unreasonably. She just could not cope with any more talking. She put her head down and worked, which meant that she didn't have to talk to anyone at all, right through the whole of the remainder of her shift. Precisely on the moment shift ended, she cleared her desk and left without a word of farewell. Home would be quiet, peaceful, and solitary.

Beckett entered her apartment and was instantly soothed by its serenity. Soothed, that was, until she noticed her attempts at Christmas décor: a tree, tastefully covered with toning baubles and lights; a glass star at the window; a holly wreath inside the door where she could admire it. She stared at her decorations as she removed her coat, hat and scarf – and fled for her unadorned bedroom, slammed the door on any hint of Christmas, and cried hopelessly into her pillows.

They'd had Christmas decorations at home. Hundreds of them, hopelessly mismatched and chaotic: ones she'd ineptly made at school or day care; ones they'd bought each other without a thought for those they already had, simply because they were pretty or funny or apt; ones her parents had made for her…

Every one of those decorations had spelt out love, joy and happiness in their mismatched neighbouring on the tree or the walls or the windows. All that her décor spelt out was the lack of any of it. She cried harder, bleeding mascara down her cheeks, streaking her face, staining the pale pillow cases. She wept herself into a crippling headache, from which she fell into stuporous sleep.

She woke no happier. There was no way to improve her view: nothing could fill the crevasse of disappointment that lurked beneath the glacier of her apparent contentment. Work, however, could help her glide over it; without falling into the abyss.

So, to work she went.

From his captain's office, Montgomery had noticed Beckett's early lunch, to-the-minute departure; and Castle's exit only moments behind Beckett's lunch break, and shaken his head when Beckett returned and Castle didn't. Pair of squabbling children, he thought, who both needed to grow up a bit emotionally. Work-wise, they were just fine, though. Hoo boy, his solve stats were through the roof.

He peered out at Beckett, head down, shoulders slumped, and waited until she raised her head. That was not a happy Christmassy face: in fact, that looked to Montgomery like total exhaustion. He leafed through his papers. Ah. How much overtime? Well, that he could do something about. He made a quick calculation, found that over the last three months she'd racked up four full days' overtime, and then checked to confirm his memory that she'd taken the early shift on Christmas Eve, but a full day shift on Christmas itself. O-kay.

"Detective Beckett," he called.

She trudged into the office, and Montgomery got a good look at her, which only confirmed his thinking.

"I have reviewed your overtime records," he told her. "You've done too much."

"Sir," was all she said. It didn't ameliorate Montgomery's worries.

"Four days off. We can cope without you. I don't want you in again until Christmas Day."

"Yes, sir," she said, defeat tinging her tones.

"Starting right now," he added.

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed. Get some rest," he added.

Beckett trudged out of the bullpen. She'd been half-expecting this from the moment she'd caught Montgomery sneaking glances at her from his desk. It didn't make it any easier. She supposed she could wrap up in thermal sports gear and go for a run; it wouldn't make her any more miserable.

An hour or so after Beckett had been evicted from the bullpen, Castle wandered in, bearing coffee, but not bearing a happy mood. Despite the incessant chatter, he'd realised – half a moment too late – that Beckett was really, really upset; but when he'd gone to the usual source of solace in search of her – that would be the nearest coffee bar – she hadn't been there. He'd concluded, quite correctly, that she was hiding from him, which had led him to the unpleasant conclusion that he'd upset her, rather than simply the season. He didn't like feeling guilty. Guilt, however, could easily be assuaged by carefully purchasing, from Beckett's most favourite café, her daily coffee and bear claw, and then conveying it to the bullpen where she would both need and appreciate it.

His strategy was stymied when she wasn't there. While he liked coffee, he didn't much like it with added vanilla, so a bit like any remnants of better mood, the coffee went down the break room drain. He ate the bear claw, though. No point in wasting pastries.

There were still flakes on his lips when Montgomery spotted him and called him in.

"Beckett's taking some of her accumulated time," he said, and awaited developments.

"Oh." Castle drooped.

"Likely she'll be at home, decorating for Christmas."

"She hates Christmas," Castle pointed out. "I'd have thought you would know that."

"I would have thought you did," Montgomery jabbed back. "Seeing as how you've spent the last week trying to talk to her about it and getting shut down."

Castle growled.

"You trying to tell me you didn't? How about telling me what you said yesterday that sent her running out the office?"

"Nothing!" Castle exclaimed. "I was going to make her coffee for her."

Montgomery lifted his eyebrows.

"I was," he insisted. "I wasn't going to talk about Christmas at all."

"Hm." Disbelief hung heavily around the Captain.

"Anyway, she went out."

"Hm."

Castle was really getting irritated by that noise. "I'm not her keeper."

"I thought you might be her friend," Montgomery mused. "She's now off till Christmas."

"Try telling her that. I'm not the one cutting off everyone." Castle stomped out and stomped home. Montgomery's meddling was infuriating.

Once at home, he had a warming coffee and then comfort-food lunch, soothed by the slight scent of spruce from his tree, massively over-decorated with everything from delicate glass baubles costing a fortune to lumpy creations from Alexis's day care efforts; lights, tinsel, and the star on the top. Everything about it summed up the best parts of his life: his daughter (always at the top); his family; his writing, wealth and fame; his totally wonderful life.

Except for the little niggle of Beckett, that was. Everything was utterly wonderful in his life except for Beckett's hatred of Christmas, joy, celebrations and anything fun. Fun, in Castle's view, being fun with him. Surprisingly, he didn't necessarily mean sex, though that would undoubtedly be a great deal of fun. He mostly meant – well, togetherness. Time together that didn't involve murder (or involve threats to murder him). Dates. Cuddles. Happiness.

And there was the problem. Beckett wasn't happy. Okay, so sometimes she was cheerful, but mostly she was simply driven. Wake, work, sleep. Sure, she was incredibly good at her job, but the brief satisfaction of putting another killer behind bars didn't seem to last: arrest, convict – next. Rinse and repeat. She didn't do enough sleeping either, though it didn't seem to affect her.

He could make her happy. He knew he could – because she was, well, not happier, but certainly less unhappy than she'd been at the beginning of the fall. She smiled more, though it was still tight and constricted. He didn't think he'd ever seen a full, open, joyful smile across her face – and he ought to. She should smile joyfully; she should be happy; she should relax.

He wanted that to be her Christmas present.

That was the core of it. He couldn't give her anything, because she wouldn't take more than a coffee and a bear claw from him; maybe a box of chocolates on a really, really good day. But he could give her joy.

If only she'd stop snipping and snapping and snarking long enough to accept it.

Castle planted his feet firmly on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and began to turn his considerable intelligence on to strategies to show Beckett that she could have joy. The only issues were that she was neither in the bullpen nor were there more than a very few days before Christmas.

He smiled. He always worked best when a deadline loomed.

Beckett did precisely what she had intended to do. She wrapped herself up in thermal sports base layers, and then, with a specialist pair of running shoes allowing her to run even if it was slippery (they'd cost a fortune, but today she'd gladly have paid double), she went out to pound the paths of Central Park. Her playlist didn't have a single Christmas song on it, and she ignored anything that might have the faintest hint of the season about it until she'd run out her unhappiness and started back for home. Her steps hit the sidewalks harder than she'd have liked, tension still at the base of her shoulders. She told herself that all she needed was a scalding hot bath with scented salts, and her favourite moisturiser afterwards.

By the time she'd reached her apartment, she'd shielded her disappointment with the season again: made herself coffee, and tried not to think of how, in childhood Christmases, there had been spiced hot chocolate, rich and crowned with whipped cream and marshmallows, luxuriously coating her throat and warming her from her joyful heart outwards, from head to toe.

Suddenly her coffee didn't taste as good. She set it down, then, abruptly, tipped it down the sink. She didn't want it any more. She wanted her mom's hot chocolate and Christmas cookies and candy canes on the tree and –

Her mom.

She wanted her mom.

But her mom was dead. Nothing would ever bring her back. And there was no reason to be so upset this year when it was ten years since she'd…gone. Beckett had managed just fine for the last five years, and she would manage just fine this year too.

The cushion that she'd found herself hugging squelched. The crystal star at her window gleamed, but it was a cold, clear light, giving no solace. In the bleak midwinter, she thought, and the wind whined coldly at the window; as cold as her locked-down heart, as sad as the tear trickling down her cheek, unmopped. The night drew in, and still she sat, chilled and alone.

And then she stood up, and removed every single decoration from the walls and the tree, dismantled the tree, and put it all away, where she couldn't see it and wouldn't think about it. Not one ornament remained – except for the cold, clear crystal star, hanging in the window. None of it had made her any happier, so why bother? The star was all that she wanted or needed. Cold, remote and uncaring.

Just like she should be. The cushion squelched again.

Eventually, she thought that she should eat some dinner, though she wasn't hungry and nothing appealed to her to provide her with an appetite. She glanced into her fridge, which was empty, and her small freezer, which was equally deserted; leafed through some takeout menus and found nothing to tempt her to make any effort. So she didn't.

Some time after eight, a knock on the door roused her from unthinking stillness. She didn't want to open the door, but she didn't have a good excuse not to. If it were Lanie, she'd just keep banging on the door till Beckett answered, or if Beckett didn't answer, Lanie would start calling her. On the other hand, Lanie might have brought wine, which wouldn't be a bad plan.

It wasn't Lanie.

"You," she said, standing in the doorway.

"Me," Castle said. "Though actually I should say it is I, to be grammatically correct."

"Ego and super-ego, come to visit. Should I be impressed?"

"Mean," Castle said. "I brought you something."

"Really? Why?"

Not, Castle noted, what? Why?, instead. "I thought you'd like it."

"Oh. What is it?" She didn't sound enthusiastic, and she was still blocking the doorway.

"Dessert." She didn't smile. "Summer pudding, to be precise."

"What?"

Castle grinned. "Summer pudding." She gaped at him. "Can I come in? It's a dessert." Slowly, Beckett moved aside. Castle took the pudding through to the kitchen area, and began to open cupboards and drawers.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding plates and cutlery so you can sample your dessert."

"What?"

"I have brought you summer pudding," Castle said slowly and clearly. She scowled. "You don't like winter" – he very carefully avoided saying Christmas – "so I've brought something summery to take the thought of winter away." He located plates and then spoons and forks. "There's cream to go with it, too."

Scowl faded slightly, and Beckett came over to the counter to see what was appearing. She peered at the box. Castle opened it, and drew out cream. She knew what cream was.

She did not know what that was.

That was red, and wobbly. "It's Jell-O!" she said, disgusted.

"It is not!" Castle retorted. "Absolutely not. Jell-O is for hospitals and small kid birthday parties. This is summer pudding, like I said, made by my own fair hands to banish winter from the day." He had, though he'd made it yesterday, intending to eat it with his family tonight.

"You are so full of it."

"Dessert? Nope. I brought the whole pudding to share with you. I am empty of eating, devoid of dessert, parched of pudding" –

"Stop! That doesn't even make sense."

Castle smiled happily. "No, I know. But it's summertime, and nothing needs to make sense in summertime. It's for drifting through warm meadows, scented with stocks" –

"This is not Wall Street and stocks don't smell."

"It's a flower. Though they say money has its own aroma."

Beckett screeched. Dimly, if she had but realised, she'd have noticed that she felt better – and hungry.

"Anyway, here is the sumptuous supremacy that is summer pudding, all ready for your delectation and delight." He carefully cut into it, and placed a slice on a plate, dousing it in cream; then cut a second, equally drowned. "I do love cream," he said happily.

"You'll get fat," Beckett snarked.

"Not if I exercise."

For some reason, the glint that flickered momentarily in his eye made Beckett think of exercise in pairs, some distance from a gym. Ridiculous.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Eight chapters of Christmas fic, posted Sun/Tue/Thu. Rating will change to M later in the story.