Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Kate Beckett may not be a writer, but she has a very good imagination. She's exercising it on her lunch hour—more like lunch half hour—as she walks rapidly through the aisles of Brooks Brothers. She's managed to out run an overzealous young salesman and when she sees exactly what she needs just ahead of her she snags it and heads for the cashier. The OYS intercepts her and asks if he can show her anything. "No, thank you," she says politely, but he persists. Stands right in her way. One steely glance from her sends him the other direction, just as she'd hoped. Please! She has no time for this.
She tucks the little bag inside her own bag, away from prying eyes, especially her favorite pair of blue ones. No, they cannot, he cannot, see this yet. On her way back to work she tackles her other problem: how to get the project done. She and Castle spend almost every waking and sleeping minute together, and she needs time to herself. Hell, it's not going to happen, not before Christmas. She's still mulling it over in the precinct elevator, and when she steps off into the bullpen inspiration strikes. The ladies room! He can't go in there. OK, he had on that appalling day two years ago when he caught her trying to find the vaunted sex scene in Heat Wave, but he's learned his lesson. All she needs is a few minutes here, a few minutes there. The precinct ladies room is the perfect venue. She smiles in satisfaction and flexes her fingers. Oh, yes, she's going to need nimble fingers for this.
When she goes to the ladies room at 3:00 she's pleased to find it empty. The last stall in the row is best. She takes out her lunchtime purchase—a pair of fine white cotton boxers—and a small drawstring bag from which she extracts a pencil, a small wooden hoop, a needle, and several strands of embroidery thread. Quickly but carefully she draws something on the front of the boxers, and then secures a portion of it inside the hoop. A check of her father's watch tells her that she's got two minutes to get this going. She threads the needle with a red strand and begins. Surprised by how easily embroidering has come back to her, she silently blesses her sainted grandmother for forcing her to learn some needle-and-thread skills.
"I'm not trying to turn you into a seamstress, Katie," she'd told her recalcitrant nine-year-old granddaughter. "Who knows, you could grow up to be a surgeon and sew people up for a living. You'll be glad I taught you this."
"Oh, Granny," Kate murmurs. "If you only knew what I was doing." She hopes Granny is not whirling in her grave at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Hopes she might be tickled instead.
Two minutes are up. She puts everything back in her bag, washes her hands noisily in case someone's right outside the door, and returns to her desk, almost giddy with the progress she's already made.
At home that evening she asks casually, "Do we have and red and green marshmallows, Castle?"
"It pains me to say this, but there is no such thing. Pink and green, yes, but they're Eastery looking. Very pale colors."
"I think I saw some." This is a lie. Forgive me, God, she thinks.
He's already up and out of his chair. "Where? Why didn't you buy them?"
"I was in a hurry. They just kind of registered on my retina when I was passing the store. But I thought they were a cute idea."
"What store?"
"Hmm. That candy place on Rivington."
"Beckett, it's not 'that candy place.' It's Economy Candy. A temple. A shrine. A holy place of sweets. I'm going there. Right now."
She feels guilty when she sees how excited he is, but her guilt is mitigated a good deal by the knowledge that even though he'll come home without the fictitious marshmallows, he'll find all sorts of other things things to make him happy. She also figures that this will give her half at least half an hour to work on her embroidery.
He runs out the door. She runs to get her bag. As she stitches she's grateful not just for her sewing lessons but for her less laudable adroitness in forgery. In her semi-delinquent phase during high school she'd signed her mother or father's name to a variety of notes. Now she's sewing a damn good facsimile of Castle's handwriting onto underwear. Who knew? She finishes the first word, JINGLE, in red thread and has made half a B in green when she hears a key turn in the front door, her signal to shove the work in progress back in her bag. She's halfway to the living room, ready to tell Castle how sorry she is that there were no Christmas-color marshmallows, when she sees him holding up a bag and shaking it enthusiastically.
"Kate! I can't believe you found these."
Huh? "What?"
"The marshmallows."
"Right."
"They're not ordinary marshmallow shape, either. You didn't tell me that the green ones are trees and the red ones are stars. This is beyond outstanding."
"Wow. Great." Thank you, God. It occurs to her that she's been doing a lot of praying today.
Two days later she's aware that her almost feverish excitement about Castle's holiday-themed underwear has escalated as she's been sewing her project. She can hardly wait to see what he's going to wear, and she puts a lot of effort into appearing to have only a casual interest. This morning she's finishing her makeup when he strolls into the bathroom in today's choice.
"Whatcha got on those shorts?" she asks off-handedly.
"Oh," he says, glancing down. "You might like these. There's grammar involved."
"Turn around so I can get the full effect." He does, and she sees that they feature a family portrait of Santa and his wife holding their heretofore unknown children on their laps. All of them are wearing red hats with white pom-pons; underneath the kids are the words DEPENDANT CLAUSES. "Nice," she says, and pats him on the butt.
Nice. Nice. Hmm. She needs to check on something. Do a quick internet search. Quick is right. In two minutes she not only finds what she's looking for but where she can get it, right in Manhattan. She might have to go there in disguise, though. Doesn't want anyone she knows seeing her.
The day is frustrating and the case they've caught is particularly unpleasant—the victim was stabbed three times and shot four before someone stuffed him into an oversized suitcase. At least a week ago. At seven o'clock Gates tells them to go home and they're all eager to rid themselves, at least until tomorrow, of the bad taste and the even worse smell of the case.
"I have to run an errand," Beckett tells Castle on their way out. "You go home without me."
"I'll come with you," he offers.
"No, this is a girly thing. You're not allowed."
He looks crushed. "All right, then. I'll just start drinking the incredibly expensive bottle of wine I have on hand without you."
"Not going to take me that long," she says and squeezes his hand. "Girly thing." Another lie, but for good reason. Surprise!
She'd put a woolly hat and an enormous pair of sunglasses in her bag before leaving the loft this morning. When she gets out of the subway at 34th and 8th she puts them both on and starts walking to her destination, which is six blocks away. She winces as she sees the blinking orange neon sign over the door, but puts on a bland expression as she steps inside the Tricks of the Trade. Adopting a Russian accent that Castle has clamored for since he first heard her use it at a Russian mob poker game three years ago, she tells the man at the front counter what she wants. He looks her over in what might politely be called an unsavory manner before going to get the merchandise. When his back is turned she shudders; when she pays—cash—he strokes her palm, tickling it with his grubby fingernails, as he gives her her change. Agggh. This had better be worth it, she tells herself.
After dinner, while Castle is making coffee, she takes a quick shower. After drying off she puts on her Tricks of the Trade purchases, but covers herself up with her floor-length robe and fuzzy slippers.
"Thanks for the coffee," she says a quarter of an hour later, shivering a little and snuggling up to him on the sofa.
"You still cold, Kate?"
"Yeah, even though I took that shower."
"You're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"No, no. I feel fine. Just need some warming up."
"That happens to be one of my specialities."
"So I've heard," she says, batting her eyelashes at him.
"Would you care for a demonstration? On the house, of course."
"I was hoping for on the bed."
"That could be arranged. Come right this way, please." He takes her hand, pulls her to her feet, and with his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder walks them to the bedroom.
"Why don't you get comfy," she purrs. "I just have to duck into the bathroom." She closes the door, sheds the robe and slippers, and retrieves her highest-heeled, black-satin shoes from the cabinet where she'd hidden them behind a stack of towels. She applies some vivid red lipstick and checks the mirror before cracking open the door to see where he is. Ah, propped up in bed wearing nothing but those adorable "dependant clauses" boxers. They'll be off in no time. His (G-rated) underwear is not an appropriate match for hers.
"Hi, Castle," she says, strutting towards the bed. The shoes she has on encourage strutting.
His mouth falls open and he looks her up and down. Twice. "Oh, my God."
"You like it?" Her voice is as sultry as he's ever heard.
"No. No. No, I love it."
She's wearing sheer black stockings that say NICE in large letters, the NI falling above the knee and the CE below it. "So," she says, running a hand down her thigh. "Which do you prefer? Nice? Or—" she snaps the black lace garter belt that says NAUGHTY in the same lettering as the stockings. She's wearing nothing else. "Maybe you like naughty?"
"I think I like both," he says, swiping a hand across his chin because he's pretty sure that he just drooled. "I'll have to try both. So I can make an informed decision."
She gets on to the bed and straddles him. "I believe—and please correct me if I'm wrong—that you asked me a little while ago if I were coming down with something?"
"I did ask that."
"I wasn't sure if I'd heard you correctly. I thought maybe you asked if was going down on something." She stares at the hard-to-miss bulge in his boxers. "Because I think I see something that I like."
"You do, huh? Because I do, too." He looks down at her. "It's at the intersection of Naughty and Nice."
"Well," she says, leaning forward until her breasts are pressed hard against his bare chest, "you'd better get busy, then. Before there's any, you know, traffic."
"You gonna calls the cops?"
"I am the cops."
"Perfect."
TBC
A/N She'll finish embroidering those boxers in the next chapter.