Chapter 7: Trading Heartbeats

In this story, the roles are reversed, with Beckett as the famous mystery writer and Castle as the homicide detective. This chapter is how they spend their first Christmas together.

"You don't have to stay here with me."

Kate glances up from the chair beside his desk, blinking a couple of times before the haze of her writing dissipates, allows her to see him clearly. She's been sitting there for over an hour, filling page after page in that moleskin that never leaves her side; he's surprised her hand hasn't cramped up, makes a mental reminder to rub his thumb to that spot along her wrist that always aches with overuse later.

"What?" she murmurs, lowering the pen to the paper and offering him her full attention.

"It's Christmas," Castle murmurs, glancing to the garland and gold lights she strung along his desk last week for emphasis. "You shouldn't be stuck in a police station for it."

"Where else would I be?" she shrugs, looking so genuinely content to waste the most wonderful time of the year the same way she wastes every other day - stationed next to him in the Twelfth precinct.

But is it really a waste if she appears so proud to show up at his side every day?

"I actually don't know," he muses, shifting away from the paperwork that's been consuming his evening.

They had a case this morning, a man in a reindeer suit run over by a vengeful elf in a stolen Santa sleigh uptown, a sight neither of them will be forgetting any time soon. It wasn't hard to find the guilty elf before she could skip town, getting a confession by nightfall. He expected Kate to cut out after that. They've been together for over a year now, the best year he's had since he lost the only thing that mattered to him. They've healed from the twin gunshot wounds together, have formed routines, and he's over at her loft more often than he would like to admit. He practically lives with her at this point. But there are still many facets to Kate Beckett that he has yet to dig into, to learn.

"I figured you might do something with your dad today, have a special tradition of some sort."

A shadow crosses her face, brief but dark, and he almost regrets asking.

Almost.

"Christmas doesn't mean the same thing to me and my dad that it used to," she begins to explain, closing her notebook, hooking her pen in its slot alongside the leather. He waits, watching her fingers take their time, smoothing over the face of the notebook she carries everywhere they go, gathering herself, her words. "Every winter, as soon as that chill rolls in, I'm right back there in that alley. January 9th and our Christmas decorations were still up. My mom was never in any rush to take them down. "

Immediately, he understands, her lack of enthusiasm for the holidays resonating so strongly with him, it's like a physical strike to his gut. He's never met someone else whose existing joy for Christmas was extinguished so wholly by grief.

"And by the time my dad and I did, it was like we were putting Christmas away forever." She rubs her thumb along the corner of her notebook. "We haven't opened those boxes since."

"Neither have I," he says without thinking.

Kate's gaze rises, flickering with curiosity, but ultimately, with knowledge. She probably had him, his lack of traditions, all figured out before she even got here, before Christmas and the chill of its memories even rolled in. And here he was, having to listen to her spell it out, making her expose another jagged piece of her heart that was sharpened by grief nearly twelve years ago because he didn't take the time to even think about what this day might mean to her. Too busy trying not to think at all.

Christmas was Alexis's favorite.

"Alexis wanted us to keep our decorations up for as long as possible. I didn't end up packing them away until late January, only a few weeks before she was killed," Castle admits, the memory of his little girl's sheer joy every year during Christmas time clear and like a puncture wound to his heart.

Kate reaches out, drapes her palm at his knee, brings him back.

"It's why you don't celebrate," she concludes, the empathy in her eyes a balm to his soul. She makes it easy to spill his guts when she looks at him like that.

Rick slides his hand over hers, tangles their fingers, and rolls his chair closer, close enough to draw her hand to his chest without stretching her arm so far. The scar in her back, where the bullet penetrated, shredded her muscles and shattered bone, has been aching lately. It has to be the weather, the dropping temperatures that have him aware of the lancing pain through his chest where his own scar lies. But the aggravation in Kate's was so fierce, she spent the beginning of December curled in bed instead of writing, the drape of his chest at her back, sealed over the spot with heat, tending to be her only comfort.

Her knuckles fall to rest over his heart. "Why neither of us celebrate."

Kate nods, studying the knot of their hands.

"It's why every year my dad goes up to his cabin and I - I just try to treat it like any other day, get through it," she murmurs, curling her thumb around his. "No traditions. Not anymore."

"This is my tradition," Castle says, casting his gaze across the empty bullpen. "There are families out there that are celebrating together in their homes and I keep watch. It's the only tradition I have left."

"Thanks for letting me be a part of it." His eyes flicker back to Kate, the smile kissing the corner of her mouth soft, grateful.

"I want traditions with you," he blurts out, kicking himself for it, for the way her eyebrows rise. "I mean - I - you know I love you."

Amusement twitches across her lips. "I do."

"And I know that Christmas will never be the same, for either of us, but - Alexis loved it, your mom loved it, and I'd like to believe that they would want us to enjoy it again. Together."

Her lips part, wordless for a moment, before the question slips past. "You think so?"

"Kate, I... I plan to spend a lot more Christmases with you," he admits, watching it ripple across her face. She doesn't expect him to be so sure of her, of them, not when she was the one who spent most of their relationship fighting so hard for them. But it's his turn now. "And I don't want us to have to tiptoe around the parts of it that hurt every year. I want it to mean something again."

"Look at you," she chuckles, but her eyes give her away, glittering. "Being the romantic one."

He scoffs. "What are you talking about? I'm always romantic for you, woman."

Kate chokes on a laugh and stands from her chair, dropping her notebook into the abandoned seat and drawing him up after her.

"Come on then, Romeo. Take a coffee break," she coaxes, but his body is already following hers out of instinct. He'll always follow her, whether he wants to or not, it's something he's grown to accept.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

"And I want the same thing," she adds while they walk to the break room, her fingers twining through his. "For Christmas to be something I can enjoy with you."

"I know it's too late to do anything this year," he sighs, but Kate squeezes his hand, slows to a stop in front of the espresso machine.

"We are doing something, we're here. Keeping watch."

Oh, he loves her. So badly wants to be enough for her, wants to be more for her. Wants more for them both.

Castle slides his hand from hers to frame her hips with his palms, inching his fingers beneath the luxurious fabric of her sweater, a rich purple cashmere he watched her slip on this morning. He's so used to her sharp lines, sensuous edges, but she looks softer like this, a little younger, a little less versed in how cruel the world can be.

"Want to take a break from keeping watch and take a walk with me?"

His palms splay at her ribs, her skin warm and shivering beneath his.

"Okay, but I still want coffee, Castle," she bargains, layering her palms at his biceps. "I'm cold."

"Oh, Beckett," he chuckles, her ribs stuttering into his hands with a breath as he leans in, his lips brushing hers as he speaks. "I'll make sure you stay warm."

Christmas Eve in Manhattan is breathtaking. It's been so long since he's spared a moment in the last thirteen years to appreciate the beauty of it - the lights twinkling from nearly every building, illuminating every street, the impressive Christmas trees on practically every corner, the decorations spanning from unique to classic. It's magical, especially with Kate Beckett's hand wrapped in his, her body tucked into his side as they stroll down the sidewalk.

"I want a tree next year," she murmurs, her cheek on his shoulder. She's gazing at the majestic tree beneath the arch of Washington Square Park where they ended up. "A small one."

"A real one?" he inquires, massaging the bone of her wrist in his coat pocket.

"Mm, I love the smell."

"Is it worth the post pine needle clean up?"

She smirks. "Always something for you to whine about."

Castle presses his lips to her hair, damp with flakes of snow. "Alexis and I used to drive up to this tree farm about an hour from here, close to Connecticut. I obviously haven't been there since, but one year, when she was around six, we showed up late and all the best trees were gone. I never knew a Christmas tree farm could run out of trees."

"What did you do?" she asks, because she knows he had to do something. Could never let his daughter be disappointed for long.

"Well, all that was left were these scraggly little excuses for Christmas trees that looked like sticks with some pine needles stuck to them. Charlie Brown trees."

Kate hums. "I like those. They're cute, charming."

"Yeah? Well, so did my daughter."

"Oh no," she grins, her cheek rising against his shoulder.

"We ended up taking home a four foot, half naked, baby of a tree, but Alexis loved it." His lips quirk at the memory. "We decided she could keep it in her room and I would go find a better tree for the main one. We spent that entire night stringing it up with a single cord of lights and her favorite ornaments, putting a star on top. She cried when we had to throw it out after Christmas."

Kate sighs and lists heavier into his side. "That's sweet. Did you... are there any pictures?"

He glances down to her, hesitant and a little hopeful, and he realizes in slight horror that aside from the few framed photos he's kept on display in his apartment, he's never shown her any pictures from his past, the parts of his life he was actually proud of, all his pictures of Alexis.

"They're all put away in a box, but I know I have to have some of her with that tree," he confirms. "I could show you tomorrow."

"I'd like that," she nods, letting him pull her into his chest for a hug. "I'd like it if we could see your mom too."

He sighs, should've known that was coming. It's still hard for him sometimes, spending days with his mother, but Kate was always pushing him to see her more, to appreciate the time he has with her. Martha is winning in her fight against the cancer, her chances for remission high, but he can't rely on that, can't just expect his mother to live forever and take their time together for granted.

"I'll call her in the morning," Rick murmurs, earning the flicker of pride in her gaze. "I'm sure she'd love to do something for lunch, maybe a Christmas dinner. She used to be so great about those, making them as magical as possible even when it was just the two of us in a tiny one bedroom apartment."

Kate's smile softens. "Let's go home, you can tell me about those Christmases on the way."

She laces her arms around his waist, the front of her body sealing against his as her head tilts back just slightly to meet his gaze. Snowflakes catch in her lashes, but she doesn't blink them away, staring up at him with those liquid gold eyes, white crystals in her hair - the image of all he could want for Christmas.

"Our stuff's at the precinct," he points out, feeling her hands slip beneath his coat, bridge at the base of his spine.

"Just my notebook and your paperwork," she murmurs, one of her shoulders lifting in a halfhearted shrug. "I'm done writing for tonight anyway and your shift is over."

His chest tightens, his scar screwing up. He wants to, wants to follow her home like he does every night, forget about work and murder and in this case, the bittersweet taste of Christmas. He wants bury himself in her instead. But he doesn't know how, hasn't left his station at the Twelfth on Christmas for years, typically opting to just spend the night at his desk or on the break room sofa.

"You told me you want new traditions. One of them should be getting some actual sleep for Christmas," she points out, only half teasing him. Her knuckles brush along his sides, soothing and warm. "Let yourself rest for a night, Rick."

He drops his forehead against her, feels her lashes flutter at his cheeks. He only finds rest in her.

"Only if you will," he compromises, scaling one of his hands up her back to curve at her nape. She's better at hiding it than he is and he may still have a lot to learn, but he knows her well enough to see how the memories have swarmed her, threaten to suffocate her. They both want Christmas, but tonight has been enough, enough for this year. "Let it rest, Kate."

She sighs, but her nose brushes his as she nods.

"Take me home then, Castle."

She keeps referring to her apartment as home. He no longer has the urge to correct her.

He doesn't set his alarm for the next morning, knowing his body will naturally wake him, but when he does open his eyes on Christmas morning, it's to empty sheets.

Castle sits up in her bed, searching the room with bleary eyes, but she isn't here. Unusual for her. Kate tends to enjoy lounging in the sheets with him on the rare lazy mornings they're able to share. He's a little disappointed; his only hope for Christmas after last night was for Kate to wake him with the gift of her body over his.

He stretches, spine popping, before he's untangling from the sheets they tangled in overnight. He snags his boxers from the floor, his robe from the armchair near the bedroom door, and pads down the short hallway to her living room. He doesn't have to look far to find her.

His heart flips.

"Kate," he whispers, earning the immediate lift of her head, the tentative quirk of her lips. She's curled up on the couch by the snow frosted windows in nothing but his dress shirt, her slim fingers cradling a cup of coffee, a scraggly Christmas tree that can't be more than five feet tall standing beside the sofa's arm.

Just like the one Alexis used to adore.

"Morning, babe," she murmurs, chewing on her bottom lip. "Is it too much?"

"Too much? It's a Charlie Brown tree," he chuckles, the constricting vise around his heart unfurling. It's just as pathetic as Alexis's little tree, but somehow, it fits well in her apartment, standing proudly in front of a window and framed by her favorite painting that claims the majority of the wall at its side. "Wait, where did you even get this? Don't tell me you went out and-"

"No," Kate shakes her head, a relieved smile playing across her lips. "I know a guy."

"You know a guy who delivers wannabe pine trees on Christmas morning?" he challenges, shuffling towards her and the tiny tree bare of decor.

"Said guy doesn't celebrate Christmas and owed me a favor anyway," she points out, watching him brush his fingers along one of the slim branches. "Want to decorate it?"

"We don't have..." But she's holding up a single box of classic round red ornaments when he glances back to her.

"We can make up a better collection for next year, but for now, I've got balls."

"Kate," he chokes, the laughter clogging his throat as her lips split with a grin, proud of herself for that one. "Fine, but there's another tradition I want to make first."

She arches an eyebrow in question, but knows exactly what he's talking about the second he turns away from the tree and towards her. The box of ornaments return to the coffee table along with her cup of coffee and Kate reaches for the edges of his robe once he's close enough.

"Hey," she murmurs before he can kiss her, looking up at him with a lot more than lust in her gaze. "I - it's been a long time since I didn't dread Christmas, Rick, so thank you. For making this feel so easy."

Castle shakes his head, bows it to rest against hers.

"And for the new traditions," she adds, caressing his jaw with the soft trail of her fingertips, tracing words and warmth onto his skin. He doesn't have enough words in return for her, never does, but he touches his lips to hers in a whisper of a kiss, feels his heart swell with it, pushing the truth from his mouth onto hers.

"You're the only new tradition I need."