Chapter 3

Castle didn't know what had happened. One minute he'd been thinking about flirting as Beckett selected (no surprise) the coffee chocolate, popped it in her mouth, and made sexy little moans around it – and the next minute he'd not just been flirting, he'd practically eaten the chocolate from the inside of her throat. He'd completely lost all control. That had not been the plan. He'd been planning to take it slowly. Feed her a second chocolate, sure – but not hard upon passionate kisses, and certainly not followed by the sorts of kisses that should have ended up in her bed. He'd been rounding second base before he'd realised it, and only a faint fear that she would suddenly object had stopped him: well, that and a faint feeling that he had to get some sort of control of himself.

He was trying to seduce her, not overpower her. Metaphorically, that was. The chance of him overpowering her was precisely zero: both because he'd never force anything and because she could kill him with her bare hands. He wanted her to come to him, slowly: not some clashing, crashing night that would be spectacular – and over as soon as it was done. If she came to him more slowly, surely she would stay?

She certainly liked the chocolates. And she'd liked the kisses: she'd been right there with him. He wondered, suddenly, if he should simply have carried on: blazed through any barriers and gone all out, all in. There had been a note in her voice as he left…

He went to the precinct the next day, and everything was just as normal. But when he knocked on Beckett's door, early in the evening, there was no answer. He dawdled home, depressed, and even the Christmas decorations which he was planning to put up – it being December already – didn't cheer him. Instead, he made a further large batch of chocolates, decorating them with tiny trees, stars and angels, and stowed them with the rest, for the following night.

"I thought I'd have to come find you and drag you out of the bullpen," Lanie opened. "But here you are. Did someone give you a shot of domesticity?"

"No."

She fake fainted. Beckett growled and glowered, which, as ever, had no effect.

"Let's go, then."

The cookery class was full of enthusiastic people (Beckett hated enthusiastic people. Except Castle. You liked him pretty well. Especially when he was - Shut up, she told the brainworm) chattering happily about – oh, God, save her – Christmas. Christmas cookies, Christmas presents, Christmas trees and, of course, Christmas cakes. Beckett wondered sourly if she should add Christmas bullets, carefully aimed.

Before she could act on it, probably by drawing a Christmas tree on her regular bullets, Lanie dragged her over to a table at the back of the room and took the next space.

"This is gonna be great," she enthused. "I really wanna know how to do those cute Christmas frostings properly. Every time I try and pipe a tree it falls over."

"Lumberjack Lanie?"

"Not the look I'm going for. A nice sexy lumberjack in my bed, now…"

"Thought you were eyeing up Espo – and more."

"Off again. He's a booty call, not a keeper."

"Too much information."

The instructor called the class to order. She was a woman who didn't look as if anything as frivolous as a cupcake had ever passed her lips – and if it had, she'd disapproved of it. Her voice was as tight as her pursed lips, and she evidently ingested less than a thousand calories per day, probably by way of lemon juice. Not lemonade. Lemon juice. Unsweetened.

Beckett liked the look of her instantly, as a wonderful antidote to the excesses of Christmas-tide. Her view didn't seem to be reciprocated, but then, not a single attendee had received even the slightest hint of a smile.

"This class is to learn how to make and frost cupcakes," she pinched out. "Anyone expecting anything else should leave now." No-one moved, possibly because they had been flash-frozen in place. "The ingredients are in front of you." That had been obvious to Beckett's trained investigative skills from the moment she had arrived, but seemed to be news to one or two attendees.

"We will begin…" and the class began to work. Lanie mixed her ingredients with aplomb and flair. Beckett worked with considerable exactitude and care, measuring accurately and mixing precisely as directed.

"You've been holding out on me," Lanie whispered, and received a stony glare from the instructor. The glare was shortly redirected at a seasonally-dressed twenty-something who was apparently adding snow to his seasonal sweater by means of spreading the flour around.

Their respective cake mixtures were dolloped into their respective trays of cake cases and put into the oven. Beckett received a small hint of a look of approval as she automatically tidied up her workspace. Lanie didn't, and received a cold stare until she began.

"A clean workspace is essential before decorating begins," the instructor informed the class. Beckett almost managed to feel smug, since her space was pristine. She might not be able to bake, but she was neat. The man with the seasonal jumper appeared to have walked through a blizzard.

The ovens started to beep to signal cooked cakes. The instructor looked down her beaked nose at them all.

"To check whether your cakes are done, take the skewer which you will find in the drawer below your workspace, pierce the centre of a cake from the top, then withdraw it. If the skewer is clean, your cakes are ready. If not, cook them for an extra two minutes and then test again."

"Mine are done," Beckett said with some amazement. She wished she'd known about that test a week ago. She'd have bought a skewer, which would have been a lot more useful than the rolling pin. She could have used it to stab Castle. Not that she was bitter about him stopping. No, sirree. Best thing he could have done. She didn't want to be in jail for Murder One. (Liar, snipped the brainworm. You want to stab him because he didn't carry on. He knows just how to get to you.)

Lanie stared at Beckett's beautifully light-brown cakes. "Wow. I thought you couldn't cook?"

"Beginners' luck."

The glare Beckett received in return should have scorched every cake in the room black and charred. It was almost as good as Beckett's normal efforts.

"We are gonna talk about this," Lanie threatened, but was cut off by the instructor.

"While your cakes" – the tone said failures – "are cooling, we will begin to prepare the buttercream frosting." She provided instructions which would have been crystal clear to a toddler, in much the same patronising tone. There was certainly no room for doubt as to what to do.

"Now, separate the mixture into different bowls and add a different colouring to each bowl. You will see the colourings in front of you. You may mix colours to produce further hues. Red and yellow will give orange, for example."

Definitely used to teaching toddlers. Even Lanie bridled.

"When your cakes are cool, I will sample one of each of them, and then we will start to frost them. If you try and frost a warm cake, the frosting will melt, and your decoration will be ruined."

Beckett kept it simple. Pink, yellow and white. Lanie approached it as if she were Picasso, and shortly had bowls in all colours of the (probably-tinsel draped) Christmas rainbow.

The instructor began at the front. Beckett and Lanie, naturally, had gravitated to the back, where the cool kids would normally hang out. Eventually the instructor reached them, by which time her lips were so tightly pinched that they were white. The collective efforts of the class had not, so far, been impressive. Beckett resolutely ignored the butterflies in her stomach. This was not high school and there was no grading system. The instructor regarded her efforts, and pursed her lips.

"A good colour, and they have risen well." She pressed the top of one, and it rebounded. "As it should be." Beckett nearly fainted with relief. "Now, I shall sample one." She cut a narrow slice from one cake, and conveyed it to her thin mouth. "A good effort."

Beckett felt as if she'd won the Medal of Honour. Lanie regarded her with jaundiced cynicism. "Girl, we are gonna talk." She didn't care. She had achieved acceptable cupcakes. This year, Montgomery was going to eat his disbelief, with cupcakes. (And you'll impress Castle. Not the point. Oh? I thought that was the whole point. Not at all. He wasn't going to get a single cupcake. Bullshit, said the worm rudely. The moment he turns up with more of those chocolates you'll give him anything he wants – and I don't think he means cupcakes. You sure don't.)

While Beckett ignored her brainworm, the instructor had – mirabile dictum! – tried Lanie's cupcake, and had smiled.

"Excellent," she said. "Perfectly baked." Lanie preened, and exuded smugness. The instructor stalked back to the front of the largely-intimidated class. "We will now commence piping. It is critical to maintain a smooth, even pressure on the piping bag. Too hard, and it will squirt uncontrollably."

"Premature ejaculation," whispered Lanie. Beckett managed not to splutter.

"Was there something you wanted to ask, Ms Parrish?"

"N-n-no," Lanie stammered.

"Too light, and no frosting will be extruded. Consider your designs carefully before selecting the correct nozzle for your piping bag. Sample pictures are provided around the room."

Beckett marched around, glaring at the Christmas themed pictures (she was sure that the instructor had had nothing to do with the choice of posters), decided rapidly that simple would undoubtedly be best, and chose a wide nozzle and single colours. Surprisingly, she found piping relatively easy, although had she thought about the reasons, she would have understood that the need to have a steady gun hand and constant pressure to pull the trigger smoothly would translate very well to ensuring steady piping of frosting. She achieved a moderately neat swirl on top of each cake, and stood back, well satisfied with her efforts. Then she took a few photos, to prove to herself tomorrow that it hadn't all been a dream.

Lanie, of course, had produced an unbelievably ornate – and appallingly Christmassy – decoration on each of her cakes, and was rapidly uploading all of her self-congratulatory photos to Instagram.

"Class dismissed," said the instructor. Beckett regarded her with a mixture of awe, admiration, and sheer anger at the tone, which was Schoolmarm-c-1910. "We shall resume on Friday."

"Right, Missy I-Don't-Know-How-To-Bake-Liar, we're going to a bar."

"Nope," Beckett said. "I'm going to put these in this handy box right here, and then I'm taking them home and eating them."

"You'll be sick."

"Nope. I'll be happy."

"If you want happy cakes, I got a good recipe." Beckett boggled. "Not that I've made them."

"Recently?"

Lanie looked conscious, and Beckett monumentally failed to enquire. Trying to arrest an ME was sure to result in painful outcomes, mostly for Beckett. Besides which, she couldn't truthfully say she'd never tried happy cakes, which Lanie knew.

"If you won't come to a bar, I'm coming home with you. And you better have a bottle of wine, because you got some 'splaining to do."

Lanie dogged Beckett's footsteps so closely that she was practically wearing Beckett's shoes, in order not to be left behind. Not that leaving her behind would work, since Lanie was perfectly aware of the location of Beckett's apartment and would merely turn up there and bang on the door until it opened. Lanie was precisely aware of Beckett's tolerance level for embarrassment in front of the neighbours, and wasn't afraid to use it.

"So," Lanie scowled over the rim of a full glass of wine, "spill. How does the world's worst cook suddenly manage to produce an edible cupcake?"

"Not the worst."

"Wanna bet?"

Beckett scowled back. "So I bought a book, okay, and tried it."

Lanie stared. "You did what? You voluntarily bought a cookbook and practised? Girl, you have got it bad. Really bad. The last time you tried to impress a man you were probably in diapers."

Beckett muttered something under her breath.

"You so are. This I gotta see." Lanie looked around, and spotted the wine bottle still in the kitchen. "Oooohhhh! What's this? Chocolates? And you didn't share – what am I thinking? You haven't shared your good chocolate since the first day I met you." She opened the box, and scowled at the emptiness within. "Were they good?"

"Yep."

"Where did you get them?"

"Present."

"From who? Don't tell me, it was Castle."

Beckett nodded.

"Where did Castle get them?"

"Made them."

(You know, all these terse answers just prove you're sulking because Lanie's right, the brainworm smirked. Beckett endeavoured to autopsy it – in vivo. It wiggled out of the way.)

This time Lanie outright gawped. "Writer-Boy made you chocolates?"

"He was practising for the precinct home-baking for Christmas."

"Chocolates? The hell with the precinct, send him to the morgue!"

"You keep your ME mitts off my chocolate!"

"Ooooohhhhh. Someone's getting all possessive. Is that just the chocolates?" Beckett blushed brighter than a supernova. "Ooooohhhhh! What have you been doing, Kate? Or should that be who?"

"Didn't."

Lanie downed her wine and refilled it, bringing the bottle back with her. "What do you mean didn't? Castle finally made a move and you didn't jump his bones? What is wrong with you? Are you sick? Are you dead? Did you get replaced by an alien?"

Presumably Lanie's options were in order of awfulness. Although, since they all meant that Beckett could ignore Christmas, they weren't that awful.

"Didn't get the chance," Beckett muttered into her wine.

Lanie's mouthful of wine hit her knees and the table. "This I gotta hear," she said as she mopped up. "Start talking, and I'll keep pouring."

Beckett – reluctantly – provided an extremely abbreviated version of events, which notably failed to mention the extent of the kissing, any of the, um, touching, and certainly didn't go near being erotically fed chocolates by Castle. "And then he scuttled off like a drunk crab," she wound up crossly, and drained the wine.

"Kissed you and ran off? Sounds like grade school. He li-ikes you," she singsonged. Her face changed. "If you threatened him and that's why he ran off, I'll hogtie you and dump you in the Hudson."

"Nope," muttered Beckett.

"Well, finally."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You finally saw what's been under your oblivious nose since you first met him. You were made for each other, girl, and now you've got him."

(See, told you so. That was entirely unnecessary commentary from the brainworm. It wasn't even true. Is so.)

"Now, why'd he run off?"

"I don't know. Playing dumb games. Don't care."

"Su-u-ure," Lanie drawled. "That's why you're as grumpy as the Grinch."

"The Grinch had the right idea."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You hate Christmas, yada, yada, yada. Listen up, or I'm gonna slap you. Go see Castle, and take those cakes with you."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"He ran out on me. I'm not going chasing after him."

"Bit more than kissing going on?"

"Shut up."

Lanie acquired a profoundly satisfied expression. "Bout time."

"Shut. Up."

"You'd cure all that bad temper if you burnt up the sheets a bit. It's suppressed sexual frustration."

"You're an ME, not a shrink."

"Okay, in ME terms, go get laid."

"Lanie!"

Lanie merely smirked, and finished her wine. "Since you won't take my good advice, I'm going to take my cupcakes and go home. See you Friday, at the next class."

"See you," Beckett said, and sighed with relief as the door shut behind her sometimes-but-definitely-not-when-telling-her-to-get-laid friend. She'd have been a lot less relieved if she'd known that Lanie's first act after getting out of earshot was to call Castle.

"So you and Kate finally got it together, and you ran out on her? What's the story? You two should be burning up the sheets."

"Hey, Lanie," Castle said resignedly.

"Well?"

"That's not how it was." Well, not much. "I came round earlier but she wasn't in."

"She's upset."

"Uh?"

"But I'm sure that enough chocolate would solve that pretty quickly."

"Huh."

"And if it works, I want a boxful."

"If it works, you can have three boxfuls," Castle said expansively.

"Done.

Castle arranged a large number of chocolates – heavy on the coffee varieties – into a beautiful, multi-layered box, decorated it with a crimson, Christmas themed ribbon, curled the ends so that they looked thoroughly professional, and was on his way to Beckett's apartment less than fifteen minutes later. A judicious incentive for the cab driver ensured that he reached the apartment astonishingly quickly.

Beckett didn't feel like seeing Castle – she was quite sure it was Castle knocking, and even more sure that Lanie had interfered. On the other hand, there was the prospect of more delicious chocolate, and if he hadn't brought enough chocolate to fulfil the requirements of a proper apology for disappearing like a scalded cat, she could keep what had been brought and send him home till he'd made enough. A year's supply would do.

She opened the door.

"I didn't mean to upset you but it was going so fast and I didn't want you to do anything you didn't want to so I thought we had to stop but Lanie said you were upset so I brought you all the ones you liked most and can you please let me in so I can put them down and stop glaring at me like that" – Castle ran out of breath. Beckett boggled, then caught sight of the enormous box and removed it from him, cradling it possessively.

"You can come in." He followed. "Coffee?" The enormous box was definitely a proper apology, and Castle's incoherent prolixity meant that he was considerably discombobulated. Beckett considered. Chocolates…mmmm. But…

She decided.

"Beck – mmmmfffffff." A moment later she allowed him to raise his head. "Guess that means we're okay?"

"Chocolate is always a good start." She turned to make the coffee, and found herself turned back.

"C'mere," Castle purred, and returned the favour with interest. "Coffee can wait." He kissed her thoroughly and with enthusiasm. She curved against him, and let him take and roam as he pleased. It certainly pleased her.

It did not please her when he stopped, without attempting non-osculatory explorations. She humphed. It was nice being tucked into his broad chest and firm, enclosing arms. He was just the right size, and applied just the right amount of strength.

"I thought you might want a chocolate." Castle reached for the box. Since her arms were confined by his, she couldn't stop him. They were her chocolates. "Tree, star, angel or holly berry?"

"You what now?"

"It's December. Christmas-time. The chocolates have Christmas patterns on them" – he stopped suddenly. "What's this?"

"Huh?" Beckett managed a strictly limited turn, and saw the direction of his gaze. "Oh."

"Oh what?" Castle snagged the box of cupcakes, and opened it. "Ooohhhh. You've been cooking too. Can I have one? I didn't know you could bake – you never said," he accused.

Beckett tensed, very slightly. "Yeah," she replied. "You can have one." No doubt it wouldn't meet the Castle cordon bleu standard, but the instructor had liked it. Anyway, he shouldn't be spotting the cakes, he should be letting her eat her chocolate.

(No, he should be kissing you. In bed. She choked the worm with cupcake frosting. It swallowed the lot and demanded more.)

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.