Chapter 3

Beckett walked out, ushered by Castle, whose large hand appeared to have found a resting point on her back. She stiffened her spine, and tried not to curve into the warmth. She hadn't any headspace for comfort: at least if she didn't want to cry all over him again. So she kept her back straight and her shoulders firm, and didn't curl in at all. With every step towards the subway and the route home to her lonely apartment, maintaining her apparent self-possession became harder. However, she'd won her self-control through her job as a cop; through five years of her father's alcoholism; through beating back, every day, the constant pain that she couldn't find her mother's killer – and she wouldn't…wouldn't…wouldn't…

She shuddered, her shoulders shook and hunched inward, her back bending to drop her head…

And she found herself spun around and cradled in as if she were still a girl.

"Don't cry," Castle soothed. "Don't cry." He patted her back, drew her out of the flow of pedestrians and into a side street. "I'm really not that bad."

"Nothing to do with you," she snuffled. "Christmas…" She dissolved in more snuffles, which turned into outright sobbing. "I hate Christmas. Nothing good ever happens at Christmas."

"I can tell you don't like it," Castle said, a touch dryly. "Come on. I guess I'm taking you home." He summoned a cab, again, but this time gave Beckett's address before she could.

Unlike the previous evening, on this journey Castle didn't let go of Beckett for a second, cuddling her into his now-soggy shoulder and cossetting gently. She slumped against him, barely managing to squeeze a Kleenex between her sobs and the cashmere of his coat, and once more failed to exert any control over her emotions. He was pretty sure that cops could control themselves far better than this woman had so far.

"How old are you?" he asked.

She sniffed damply. "Twenty-five."

Ah. Actually, she was incredibly young, and – "Already a detective? How long have you been one?" She'd said two years, earlier, but he must have misheard and that had been how long she'd been a cop –

"Two years." She snuffled again.

"Two years? How on earth – I thought you had to be a uniformed officer first?"

"Yeah…" she dribbled out.

The cab pulled up. Castle paid, and extracted the bedraggled Beckett, tucking her back into his arm. "Let's get you inside."

"You don't need to" –

"Yep, I do. Since it's not me who's upsetting you, I'm going to" – he almost said cheer you up, but that wasn't going to happen – "comfort you. And me. I'm upset because you're upset and even if it wasn't my fault it's really damaging my fragile self-esteem, because every time I see you, you're crying. It's not good for me."

"Huh?"

"Every time you've seen me, you've ended up in tears. You're murdering my fragile ego."

She snorted through the sogginess surrounding her, moving inside, into the elevator. Castle smiled gently above her bowed head. His insane burbling – and the fact that she'd clocked him as a celebrity and made some fairly obvious assumptions about him straight off the bat – was having the effect he'd hoped: less crying and more cuddling. She hadn't yet realised that she was burrowing into him; seeking something. Warmth, maybe: she was shivering; or possibly simply the comfort he could and would provide.

The elevator stopped. Beckett exited, apparently on autopilot, and Castle went with her. Regardless of his comforting burbling, he was both worried about her and totally intrigued as to her story. Some brief research into the NYPD had given him the idea that it took rather more than two years on the beat to become a detective, and when he'd put that together with her ravaged emotions he'd come up with the word trauma, closely followed by driven and sublimation. Which, together and in more organised fashion, added up to trauma at university, turning her into a person who was sublimating that trauma by being driven to be the best.

Hmm. Some care needed, he decided. Not least because she was ten years younger than he was, and cradle-snatching wasn't his idea of a good time.

Deep down, he wanted her. Wanted that connection that they'd both felt; wanted to find out if it was as electric as those moments. He put his hindbrain firmly back in its box to stop it yelling kiss her (or something kissing-adjacent), and allowed her enough space to open her door. After he followed her inside, he cuddled her in again.

Beckett didn't resist the cuddle. Something about Castle's solid warmth was providing the solace she needed, and she wasn't about to give it up. Not now. Later. She could give it up later. Right now, she needed to be held: comforted and cossetted in a way that she hadn't been since she was a gangly teen. She ignored any concept that this would be a bad idea, and burrowed closer. If only she could travel past Christmas without experiencing it.

She found herself sitting on her couch, tucked into Castle's side – and still snuffling disgustingly emotionally into his broad shoulder. He patted her back gently and murmured there, there at her, then, ridiculously, pulled out a Kleenex from his coat pocket.

"Blow, sweetie," he said.

"You what now?"

Castle coloured. "Uh…fruits of being a parent?"

Beckett removed herself from his shoulder, blew her nose, and scowled. "That might be appropriate for your child, but I'm not nine."

"It's automatic."

"Really? De-automate, then. I'm not a child."

"Nope." He grinned. "Last I heard, they don't take children into the NYPD."

Unwillingly, Beckett smiled back. "Thanks," she said. "Uh…I didn't mean to weep all down your coat."

"It'll survive – if I take it off and hang it up it'll dry."

Beckett raised her eyebrow, which generally caused strong men to reconsider their choices. Castle merely grinned. "And please could I get a coffee or something? It's cold out there and now I'm not cuddling you – you make a very nice hot water bottle, you know – I'm cold."

Beckett boggled at him, which quite removed the last traces of soul-deep misery (at least for the moment). "I am not a hot water bottle!" she griped.

"Well," Castle said, with a face clearly displaying I know I'm pushing my luck here but that's what I do, "there are some significant differences." His gaze wandered up and down her figure. Beckett growled. "Hot water bottles usually don't have hair, or arms."

Beckett's growl acquired an edge normally only found when a full-sized tiger trapped its prey. Castle continued to grin. "Why, Kate, whatever were you thinking?"

"Nothing that implied you had pure motives." She went to her small kitchen, and clicked the kettle on. "Which you knew."

Castle nodded at her.

"So you did it to cheer me up," she jabbed. "How did you know it would work?" Her tone was straight from her interrogations.

"Because you tried everything you could not to show me your emotions – and because your first reaction to me was irritation. So irritating you was bound to work because you were more irritated than sad, first time we met."

"That makes no sense at all."

"It still worked. Please could I get that coffee? And then…"

"What?"

"I wanna know your story."

"What?"

"I want to know your story," Castle said cheerfully. "I told you, everything – and everyone – is possible inspiration. You're…intriguing. You shouldn't be a detective already: you've barely been out of college for five minutes, but you've been a detective for two years. You hate Christmas, you aren't admitting to any family including parents, and you've clearly had something really bad happen to you so you're burying yourself in work so you don't have to think about it." His brow creased. "Nope, that's not quite right. Something really bad happened to someone close to you. If it had been you – you'd never have let me cuddle you. Though I could stand a lot of cuddling you…" He trailed off as he caught up with Beckett's stunned, half-furious expression. "What? Good writing is half psychology" –

"And half insanity."

"I prefer to call it childlike wonder at the universe. Now please, please can I get that coffee? The kettle boiled already."

Beckett looked as if she wanted to throw her hands up to the sky in despair, but she wasn't crying and didn't look like she was going to. She might explode, possibly. Castle ambled over to the kitchen and the possibility of coffee, and tapped her shoulder.

"What?"

He didn't answer – in words. He simply gave her a hug, dropped a peck on the end of her nose, and stepped back – out of range. He wasn't sure whether she'd kiss him back or kill him, and he wasn't going to take the chance.

She actually made the coffee – one for him, and, as he had guessed she would, one for her. That had been his plan. She might have stopped shivering, but he had the feeling that she ran on coffee, and she needed a hot drink (and more hugs, his brain suggested, but he ignored that).

"Thanks." He took a gulp, and then sat back down on the couch. Surprisingly, Beckett sat down too. Astoundingly, she was quite close. Not quite touching, but in a position where she could easily be tucked in again.

"Can I get the story now?"

"You don't want it."

"I'm all on my own at Christmas, and you won't even tell me a story?"

Castle knew instantly that he'd blundered.

"You are all on your own for a few days. I will never see my mom again and my father's dead drunk, so he'll probably be dead if he doesn't stop soon. So who's all on their own?" She slid emphatically to the other side of the couch. "I am." Her mouth twisted, and it wasn't the coffee she was drinking, which she'd made at least twice as strong as his. "You'll have self-pity for company. All I have are memories." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "There you are. There's a story for you." Her voice dripped finality, and an unhealthily large dose of go away now.

Naturally, Castle didn't go anywhere. The pattern had already slid into place in his head: dead mother, alcoholic father – only child, which was the most likely deduction. He looked at his scowling sulks of the previous day, and cringed. Self-pity, for sure. Ugh. Not attractive.

He looked at Beckett's dark, choppy-cut hair, hiding her face, and laid one hand carefully on her knee, below the elbow still resting on her leg.

"You were wrong," he murmured. "I did want the story, however sad. I'm sorry that happened to you."

She glanced up at him: face closed and hard, and suddenly he saw how she might be in interrogations, or when bringing down a suspect.

"What sort of a detective?" he abruptly asked. He needed the confirmation of the previous day's comment.

"Homicide."

Oh. Ohhhh. Castle jumped straight to a conclusion untrammelled by any evidence or logic, and only just managed to keep from blurting out your mom was murdered? He'd blundered quite enough for one evening.

Except he'd made one more blunder, because touching her had been a huge mistake. He could feel the sharp burn of their connection racing through his veins and nerves, swelling hotly in his body. He consciously didn't tighten his grip, or pull her back in, or –

Or anything -

Because she was hauling him in and kissing him: rough and angry and just so scorchingly hot he couldn't think or resist or bring any sense to this because he had to kiss her back, and then she was in his arms and on his lap and then…

She pulled away.

"What was that?" she gasped.

"You tell me," Castle said, trying desperately to contain his raging arousal. "You started it."

"You touched me!"

"That was for comfort. You kissed me. That's…" He stopped. "Why did you kiss me?" She shrugged, which wasn't any sort of an answer, but she hadn't slipped off his lap. He essayed an arm around her, and wasn't instantly shaken off. "I mean, kissing you is amazing, but…" it didn't feel affectionate or even aroused, it just felt like you were so mad it was that or slap me. He managed not to say that.

"You touched me," she repeated. Her hazel eyes blurred. "I…" She stopped.

Castle, finding some of the sense that had deserted him earlier, cuddled her in and petted. She softened into him, and tucked her head against his shoulder. Funny, that. When they'd been walking, her head had been much higher…oh. He looked at her properly, and realised that most of her height was in a pair of lengthy legs. He didn't drool, but only because his mouth was shut.

"It's okay. You've had a lot to deal with." He smiled smugly. "You can kiss me as much as you like, as long as I can kiss you back." She shrugged. "I like being kissed. I'm very kissable."

"Really?" she snipped, but her head was still on his shoulder and she wasn't objecting to being petted.

"Oh, yes. You should test it out." He sensed the smile against his neck.

"Does that line work for you?"

"Usually I'm pretty sure that the woman sitting on my knee wants a kiss, so I don't know. Does it work?" He batted eyes at her.

"You're not five. Cute looks don't work when you're an adult."

"And yet you're sitting on my knee. You must think I'm a little bit cute." He smiled, adorably. Beckett, astoundingly, failed to adore it.

"No. I think you're" – she examined his face – "about thirty years too old to try that. Cute is over-rated."

"Awwww," Castle drawled, "but okay." His entire demeanour shifted. "How about adult?"

The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant. The immediate heat should have melted the snow for miles around; the weight of expectation exceeded that of millions of children waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve. Children, however, would have been entirely unwelcome.

Beckett's eyes showed little golden flecks; tiny snowflakes of sheer desire around the black-ice of her pupils. Castle turned her in the crook of his arm, so that he could meet those piercingly beautiful eyes, and stroked along the jut of her jaw, skimming his thumb across the seam of her lush lips; the touch as soft and as inexorable as the fall of the snow outside. "What do you want?" he purred dangerously.

She leaned in.

Well, that was pretty clear, Castle thought, before his mind (such as was left of it) was entirely drowned in kissing Beckett. This time, he wouldn't be on the back foot. This time, he'd be the adult male that she seemed to want: her edge of anger had lessened though it wasn't entirely gone, as he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, flirting, teasing, inviting her to open to him. Seduction was his game, now.

Deep in his mind, the idea that he should see a lot more of Beckett began to insinuate itself. She'd arrived in his life by accident – but all the best presents were a surprise, so…maybe this Christmas wouldn't be quite as lonely as he'd thought it would be.

That settled, he returned to seduction: a delicate meeting of lips, a soft stroke at her waist. She made a happy little sound, and moved closer. His stroking became a touch firmer, his mouth more demanding, and she opened to him without any hesitation.

She couldn't stop kissing Castle. It was a bad idea, it was a worse plan, and it was a truly terrible decision – but something about him tripped every synapse she possessed. She'd known that from the first, careful touch. Sometimes, the worst ideas turned out to be the best ideas – and if Castle could chase away her utter misery and give her just one good time at Christmas – then she was going to take it.

She dived in.

As soon as she did, Castle did too. His kiss turned harder, much more assertive; his hands caught her more firmly, sliding over her spine, cupping her head to take and keep her mouth where he wanted it, perfectly positioned for him to explore. Oooohh. He really knew what to do with that mouth. If he could just be as good with his hands – ohhhhh. He hadn't even gone anywhere…interesting. Yet. Maybe there were some advantages to maturity.

There were definitely advantages to maturity. This was nothing like anyone she'd touched before. Everywhere his fingers rested, tiny sparks sizzled against her skin – and his fingers weren't even under her shirt. Every tiny sizzle burned away another fraction of her miserable, Christmas-hating mood – and there were a lot of sizzles. Castle did something hotly arousing with his mouth – how could mere kissing have her soaked and squirming? – until she stopped worrying about Christmas, and then stopped thinking at all, falling into the sensations of Castle's expert mouth and hands.

Castle, expertly experienced as he was, hadn't had this blazing a reaction to a woman since…oh. Meredith. He forced that thought out of his mind, remembered that he was older, wiser, and capable of using protection as part of foreplay, and decided that since Beckett had presented herself at Christmas, he'd open this unexpected present and give them both a thoroughly great time. Santa, he decided, wasn't the only person coming this Christmas. He turned his attention to all the best ways to arouse a partner simply through kissing, and found that Beckett's arousal wasn't the only rousing in the room. Still…he could wait, anticipation being the best sauce – and besides which, he absolutely adored it when he could give a woman the best night possible. Especially as it usually meant that he had the best night possible too.

He detached her button-down from her dress pants, and slid his hand on to her skin.

He might as well have lit a short fuse on a barrel of gelignite.

She turned into him, and flicked his shirt buttons open, dragged a slim hand across his chest and lit him up with a bang. The slow seduction incinerated as he whipped her shirt off, undid the button of her pants and lifted her to slip them off too.

"That's pretty," he growled. "Really pretty." He traced a line from clavicles to navel, then back up to the V of her cleavage, where he diverted to run his index finger along the deep blue lace trim. He didn't know how he could be so controlled, when all he wanted was to find her bedroom and turn her into a screaming, writhing, out-of-control mess of desire and heat.

"You're overdressed," she gasped, and took his mouth before he could answer. His hands were a little busy teasing at the edge of her bra to do anything about that right now. If she wanted him less dressed, she'd have to - ohh. His shirt had been shoved off his shoulders. He took the hint, stopped playing for an instant, and shrugged it free.

"That's pretty too," she purred, and then dived back into his mouth.

He pushed her back a fraction. "Pretty?" he said indignantly. "I'm not pretty. I'm ruggedly handsome."

"And vain," she teased.

He grinned back. "Yep. But it doesn't make me a bad person. Or a bad lover, either." The grin shifted to a seductive smile. "I could show you…" he enticed.

"Knock yourself out."

A challenge? How intriguing, Castle thought happily. He never could resist a challenge. "I think we'll start here," he growled gently.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

The next chapter is M-rated.