Chapter 5

Castle ran an unsubtle look up and down Beckett, marvelling at how gorgeous she was in a bikini, and marvelling even more that she wasn't shooting him for ogling.

Oh. Ohhhhhh. She couldn't shoot him for doing just what she was doing. Granted, she was a lot more subtle about it, but she was definitely checking him out. Of course, so far today she'd kissed hell out of him and seduced him on a sun lounger – absolutely none of which he objected to, and all of which could usefully be repeated on a regular basis.

She'd made the first move earlier…maybe now it was his turn. And maybe if they'd really, er, connected – maybe, just maybe – he could make Christmas a time she enjoyed, not suffered. Even if he couldn't – right now, he could and would (if she wanted to) show her a really good time.

He stood up, stretched and flexed (oh, that caught her eye), and then stripped down to his swimming shorts and plunged in, in a smooth racing dive; following up with a few lengths of freestyle, which had the happy effect of concealing his considerable excitement. Beckett in a bikini was emphatically not conducive to calm. He hid his sneak peeks at her in his breathing pattern, hoped she wouldn't notice that he was switching the side he breathed on with each length so he was always looking towards her, and observed with delight that she was openly staring at him. Another two lengths should do it, he thought.

Two lengths more, and he paddled to the edge and pulled himself out of the swimming pool through sheer arm muscle (and many, many more pull-ups in the gym than he liked to remember). He positively prowled to his lounger, and dried himself with swagger. A faint flush of pink coloured her cheeks. Her gaze flicked down, and up again. He didn't try to hide his feelings with the towel.

Instead, he lifted her magnificent legs, ignoring her indignant noises, sat down, and put her legs back over his lap, as he had done earlier. Not exactly as he had done, however: this time her thighs started across his knees, and then he half-turned, slipped an arm under her shoulders, and simply lifted her fully into his lap.

And then he kissed her: slow, suave, seductive; controlled power and restrained passion; teasing for entrance along the already-parting seam of her lush, soft lips. Earlier had been explosive: this would be smooth. He swept long, tantalising strokes along the lithe outline of her quads, up past her hip to her back, over her shoulder so that fingers danced through the valley of her cleavage and back around her waist to stroke her leg again; an invitation, not an order. She turned a little into him: softening and curving, pressing into his roaming touch; slow burn building to heat and flame in his arms.

He laid her sated body down, and cuddled in, himself unsatisfied but content to wait for later. Loungers were slightly awkward; beds far more comfortable; and anyway the point was that he could wait. Anticipation was a fine sauce; and cuddling Beckett was a delightful occupation; only made better by being pressed against the curve of her ass. She was perfectly fitted to the cage of his bulk. Life attained the peak of perfection when Beckett sighed softly and wiggled in to be painted over every inch of his chest, catching his hand and tugging it into position, entwined in hers, between her breasts. Not an invitation he would refuse.

So, adorably soft and sleepily cute, Beckett snuggled into him and showed no desire at all to remove herself, or him, or any of his appendages. Definitely a win for manufactured summer, even if, outside the screens, the snow still swirled and danced, piling up outside.

Beckett, for the first time in – well, she couldn't think how long, but certainly since Will had unceremoniously been dumped, and anyway he hadn't been nearly that skilled – ages, then, ages – felt totally relaxed and utterly satisfied. Now, snuggled up to a big, warm body; wrapped around her in a pleasingly enveloping fashion; she needn't think about anything complicated.

She felt, in fact, happy, which was somewhat surprising. Sure, sex was good, but… Who cared? She was happy. Warm and cosy and contented and just plain happy for the first time in years. She wiggled into perfect alignment, and tried not to pick her feelings apart, but simply rest and enjoy them.

God knew, they wouldn't last beyond the next day and the return to wintry Manhattan and the hell of Christmas-tide.

She shoved that thought away. Right here, right now – she would damn well stay happy. She found Castle's broad hand, and pulled it up to clasp in hers and place it neatly at her cleavage. If it should chance to wander a little, that would be just fine with her. If it didn't, that was fine too. She could stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, right up until dinner time, given half a chance. She could stay happy.

Castle felt each twitch and tense through Beckett's back and shoulders, but with astonishing restraint, didn't comment. He was, however, considerably relieved when she sighed contentedly and relaxed. That was much better, and unconsciously reassuring. He couldn't see, but he guessed that there was a tiny smile on her mouth, and her fingers, linked in his, were petting. His petted right back, thumb stroking her palm. So passed a serene space of affectionate time, until he discovered that a brief break was required, and, creaking up to standing, some flexing and stretching of his arm (which was asleep) and his back (which merely ached from the long stillness).

"Where are you going?" Beckett muzzed: dozy and slightly querulous. "You were nice and warm."

"Back in a minute," Castle explained, and disappeared before she could argue or delay him.

When he returned, he brought a fresh jug of sangria and two glasses, but Beckett was unaccountably missing. A second later she reappeared, without comment, but in shorts and a t-shirt rather than a bikini. He pouted a little. He'd loved the bikini – or more accurately, the amount of Beckett revealed by a bikini. She raised a quelling eyebrow, and the pout ran for cover.

"Sangria?"

"Yes, please."

"Pre-dinner drinks felt like a good idea."

"Definitely." She toasted him and smiled. "What are we going to fix for dinner?"

"We could go check out the fridge."

"We could."

He slipped an arm around her and steered her back into the house.

"I know the way," she said.

"Yes, but I like hugging you."

She humphed, but didn't move away.

"You like being hugged," he said smugly. She humphed again. "Humphs don't work on me. If they did, I'd have fled in terror after I first met you."

This humph magically conveyed my life would have been fine if you had.

"You don't mean that," he said, grinning. "If you meant it, you wouldn't have come here."

Yet another humph. Were there four-humped camels? If so, he'd expect to see a herd galloping through the snowflakes – oh. Oh, wow. That was a lot of snow.

"Uh, Beckett?"

"Yeah?"

"It's snowing."

"Yeah? It's been snowing all day, but it's warm in here."

"No, I mean it's really snowing. Like, blizzard snowing. Look."

She did. "Oh. Oh my God." She flung an appalled gaze from whited-out view to Castle's face. "It'll be gone by morning," she said. "Or they'll have cleared the roads, anyway."

"They might have cleared the roads but they won't have cleared the drive, if it doesn't stop soon."

She paled. "They won't? But…we have to get back. You have to be back. I have to be back for the Christmas Day shift. We can't be stuck here."

"I'm sure we won't be," he soothed, but all her ease was gone.

"It'll stop," she said, as if saying so would make it so. "It has to."

"Come and have dinner, and don't think about it," Castle tried. She went with him, but her gaze kept returning to the flurrying snow, lying in ever deeper layers, her fretfulness increasing as the snow piled up.

Castle put pizza into the oven, and cracked open a couple of beers to go with it. "We can take it back to the pool, or eat here?"

"Here," she decided.

"Okay."

Beckett actually wanted to leave, now, before the snow got deeper, but the conditions were treacherous and she wouldn't have wanted to drive in them. She wouldn't ask Castle to do anything that she wouldn't do herself, and she'd blame herself forever if they had an accident. She couldn't help feeling, though, that this was the workings of malign fate. If they were snowed in – it wouldn't be her Christmas that was ruined: she had nothing to ruin. It would be his. She was no substitute for his family.

"I hate" – she almost said Christmas, but changed it at the last instant – "winter."

Castle cast her a sidelong glance, hearing the changed word. "Why? It's got snow and sledges and skiing and fun things and everything." He hoped to tease out her feelings. He didn't expect what he got.

"It's dark, and cold, and there's nothing good about it," she half-spat. "It's just a constant black hole of bad weather and worse behaviour. It's everybody's excuse for pretending to play happy families when mostly they're just a seething mass of dislike and annoyance. Thanksgiving and Christmas are just a consumer-led disaster for big business to make profits and fuck the real meaning. It's nothing but one long disappointment."

She saw his horrified face – and fled, shoving the door shut behind her and, inadvertently, in his face. In her room, she changed rapidly into warm clothing, snatched up her hat and coat, and ran out of the house before he could stop her.

Outside, she took a few steps, and realised that being outside was probably the stupidest thing she could have done. The snow was stinging; more ice than snowflake; and the wind harsh and biting through her heavy coat. She slipped around the corner of the house, and found a nook out of the gusts. All her ease and happiness had collapsed in one biting sentence from Castle. He hadn't even meant it to hurt.

But it had. She huddled into the nook, small trails of ice forming on her cheeks: her coat keeping her body warm; her soul frozen. Snow piled up on her hat, undisturbed by the wind. Her hands clenched in her pockets, ungloved.

She'd ruined it all. How could she go back inside and face Castle? She didn't know why she'd even come, when all she did was disappoint: herself, her father, Castle. She couldn't even leave. They couldn't leave until the snow stopped: and now, because of her, his Christmas would likely be spoiled too. He loved Christmas, and because he'd tried to do something nice, he wouldn't get it.

She steeled herself, and walked back into the driving snow, and into the house.

Castle stared at the door which had shut behind Beckett, hoping for answers that inanimate wood could not give to him. He didn't go after her. All his experience of living with his over-dramatic mother, ex-wife, and sometimes-dramatic (she was a teen, after all) daughter told him that getting between a dangerously overwrought woman and her explosion was likely to be fatal; and in Kate Beckett's case, that might not be metaphorical. He was sure she wouldn't do anything dumb.

That certainty dissolved as he heard the outer door open and close hard. He thought for a moment. The wind was driving…okay, if she simply walked around the corner of the house she'd be in the nook between walls, and therefore out of the worst of the storm. He quickly looked out of the window, and saw that she had found it. She'd be safe there, and if she hadn't returned soon, he'd get her then.

Since he had nothing better to do, he called Alexis, told her about the storm, found that Manhattan was also under blizzard conditions, reassured her that he wouldn't do anything dumb like try to drive home if it wasn't safe, apologised over and over if he wouldn't get home in time, listened to her practical suggestion that they simply have Christmas a day later, or whatever prudence imposed upon them, fussed and sulked and pouted at the vagaries of the winter weather both in the Hamptons and in the city, and finally finished the call.

He'd heard the outer door open and close, softly; and when he looked, there were damp footprints on the mat, and a few drips of water where snow had melted. There was not Beckett. However, she'd returned. He padded down the hall, and marked the closed door to her room; as well as small sounds of muffled misery. In a sudden burst of common sense and uncommon tact, he silently padded away again, poured himself another glass of sangria, took his pizza, and went back out to the warmth of the pool area. He was betting on Beckett trying to repair her shell…but you can't repair a broken eggshell, and he was determined to get to the yolk: in this case, the core of the problem.

He didn't even have to think hard. One long disappointment, she'd cried, and taken his utter shock at hearing truth about her emotions as disgust at the sentiment. More, she'd been (for Beckett) frantic at the risk that they couldn't leave; and that wasn't because she hated the prospect of being snowed in with him. She'd said you have to be back, and only then that she did.

But how could Christmas be a disappointment? Beckett had her father.

Oh. Oh you idiot, Rick. Beckett had only her father. Her mother was ten years gone, murdered – he knew this – just after Christmas. And her father had spent five years drunk. Oh, Beckett. Oh, Beckett. No wonder Christmas disappoints you. And in an unsupported leap of gut reaction: you miss your mom. He finished his pizza, drank the sangria, and, when Beckett still hadn't appeared, went back inside. It continued to snow heavily, which wasn't encouraging for their chances of getting back into Manhattan.

Unusually, he didn't know quite what to do. Finely balanced were the twin horns of his dilemma: leaving Beckett to her misery, and possibly entrenching her belief that he was appalled rather than totally sympathetic; or entering her bedroom uninvited, sweeping her up and into his embrace, and hugging her until it was all better, which might have him shot or otherwise damaged. Beckett ran away and hid when upset: he knew that already – see, which he remembered crystal-clear, the summer. He'd left her to it then, but he still wondered if that had been the right approach. She'd told him to get out and stay out…but if he'd gone and apologised then, as he had later, would she, could she, have relented far earlier?

For all his observations and Beckett-knowledge, he still wasn't sure about that, and he wasn't sure what to do now, either. Finally, he decided that he would rather die having acted, and padded trepidatiously down the hall to the door of Beckett's room. He hesitated, listening: listened harder, and heard ragged breathing; stifled sobs. Hesitation vanished.

He plucked her up and swathed her into him. "Don't cry," he murmured, as soon as he had her in his clasp. "Please don't cry." She didn't even try to claim she wasn't crying, which worried him: normally, he thought, she'd have denied it even as the shirt he was wearing dripped with mascara-stained tears.

"Spoilt," emerged from his shoulder, which didn't give him much help, followed by "Should be happy," which – oh.

"You don't need to force yourself to be anything," he soothed.

"You did," she snuffled, which he really didn't get.

"I never force myself to do anything," he said cheerfully. "That's why Gina is constantly on my ass about my chapters and I spend all my time procrastinating."

His cheer had no effect on the raincloud formerly known as Kate Beckett. "I want to go home," the cloud rained. "It's all wrong. I'm spoiling it all and I just wanna go home. I want to go back."

He patted the soft sweater covering her back; stroking down the knit, idly speculating about cashmere or angora mixes in the fibre while her shoulders shuddered and her breath tore raggedly through the quiet air. He didn't point out that they couldn't go anywhere: that the still-blizzarding snow prevented it. If it hadn't been so close to Christmas, he'd have appreciated the manifold possibilities of being snowed in with Beckett, though the many rooms of his Hamptons mansion prevented the even more attractive romance-writer's trope of being snowed in with only one bed. The universe – or Castle's realtor – clearly had not had any sense of what was fitting.

However, whatever he'd said to Alexis, he would far rather be at home for Christmas, with his family (and with Beckett, if only that were possible), than not. He peered over his bundle of Beckett and saw that the flakes were still tumbling dizzily, the view solidly white.

He became aware that Beckett had stopped shuddering, though she hadn't so much as tried to pull away. Perhaps, he thought, she was simply too tired to fight. Montgomery had benched her for five days, and he wouldn't have done that without excellent reason.

Now there was a point. It was only December 21st. There were a full three days in which roads and drives could be cleared and the return home achieved. He needn't worry. The chance of a four day blizzard was exceedingly small, at least before January. He patted Beckett's hair, and dropped a tiny kiss on the top of her head. All that happened was that she slumped into him, utterly disconsolate and radiating miserable defeatedness. He peck-kissed her again, and wrapped her right in against his broad, now damp, chest.

"I'm sorry," she eventually muttered.

"What for?"

"You're stuck here and I can't even be happy." She sniffed. "I've ruined your Christmas."

"There's four days till Christmas, including today. Plenty of time to work on my suntan and then get home." She made a hopeless gesture at the snow. "It'll clear," he said. "I'm not worried."

She sniffed again. She hadn't looked at him once, and her whole body was locked down tight, trying to curl into itself without actually moving.

"And being happy isn't compulsory. I know you hate Christmas." He didn't think before carrying on. "You miss your mom. It's fine."

She dissolved again. "It's not fine. You did all this and I can't even be happy with it."

He frowned at her hair, being all he could see. "Beckett," he said direfully, "have you been forcing yourself to pretend to be happy?"

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests whom I cannot thank directly.