9. Mistletoe and wine

Saturday morning finds Beckett in the precinct, studying the limited information on her murder board and considering the best leads to follow. Esposito and Ryan had discovered that Joe had got into an argument in front of a Canal Street stall, but camera footage shows it isn’t Mick with whom he was arguing.  The boys have gone back out to bring the stallholder in.  Rather them than she: it’s snowing again. 

Interrogation throws up that the stall holder had been suffering a spate of shoplifting and is professionally pissed off with all Christmas shoppers, teenagers, and indeed every person under Heaven, no doubt including Santa Claus. When he tries to apply his attitude to Beckett she hits straight back and instead of collecting in Christmas takings the man will spend his afternoon with a police sketch artist describing the other man who had been with Joe.  By the time the sketch is done and she’s chased through every possible line of thought it’s well past dark, it’s still snowing, and it is very definitely time to go home.  It had been time to go home hours ago, but there’s nothing to do in her apartment except solitary reading.

She picks up a ready meal on the way and some soda. She doesn’t often have alcohol at home: only if she’s expecting Lanie.  She almost never drinks alone: twice only, in ten years.  That way lies disaster, and the memories.  She doesn’t need either of those.  She makes her solitary dinner and drinks her solitary soda and watches a solitary movie in preference to reading a solitary book.

Around about nine there’s a knock on the door. When she opens the door there is Castle, with a box in his hands and a sheepish expression.

“I’m sorry. About yesterday, I mean.  I shouldn’t have questioned your decisions.”

Beckett’s look is not inviting. It says very clearly no, you shouldn’t have.

“So I brought you something to make up for it.” She raises an eyebrow.  “Mince pies.  And brandy butter.  Home-made.  Well, the brandy butter.  Not the mince pies.  They came from Myers of Keswick.”  He becomes aware that he is babbling and forcibly stops.  She steps out of the doorway and gestures him in.

“What is a mince pie, Castle? And why on earth would I want to put brandy or butter on meat?”

Castle puts the box down on her kitchen counter and starts peering at her oven and pressing buttons. “Have you got a baking tray?”

“Huh?”

“A baking tray. They need warmed up.  They’re not nearly as nice if you don’t heat them up.”

“Castle, what are these?”  Oh.  That didn’t sound like cuddly soft Kat.  That sounds like irritated Beckett.

“Mince pies.” She looks wholly blank.  “A British thing.  They’re full of fruit – raisins and mixed peel and a sweet sauce – and a little bit of alcohol.  Sweet pies.  No meat at all.  There used to be when they were invented but not now.  You have them with brandy butter – butter sweetened and whipped with brandy.  Or rum.  Or I suppose you could use any sort of spirits.”  Beckett looks slightly more receptive.

“Okay, so now that you’ve invaded my kitchen and kidnapped my oven in order to roast pies that sound as if they’re meat but aren’t, with a sauce that sounds rather like heart-failure-in-a-dish, when I’ve already had dinner, how about explaining?” But she’s smiling.

“They’re a Christmas tradition in Britain. I had them on a book tour once.  No-one likes them here.”  He pouts.  “Alexis won’t have them anywhere near her, and my mother claims they go straight to her liver, though I can’t imagine that her liver would be hurt by anything short of weapons-grade plutonium.”  He pauses and regroups.  “Anyway.  I thought that you might like them, so I brought them over.”

“And the butter?”

“Brandy butter.  Oh.  Well.”  He colours very slightly.  “I made it.  It’s traditional, too.  It’s really easy.  I could give you the recipe, or make some for you to take to your father’s.”

There’s an infinitesimal stiffening in Beckett’s shoulders. “That’s sweet of you, Castle, but we’ve got it covered, thanks.”  She hands him a baking tray.  “I guess I’d better try one.”

Castle files the small reaction for later and looks around Beckett’s apartment. It’s no more Christmas-decorated than it had been two days ago.  He doesn’t have the impression that it’s going to become decorated between now and Christmas Day. 

“Don’t you have a tree?”

“Nope.” She looks at him.  “No point, when I won’t be here.”  Castle ignores that bait – the challenge in her eyes is obvious – and slides two pies on to the tray and into the oven with smooth efficiency.

And then he turns round to Beckett, who is standing far too closely behind him for resistance to his urges to be anything other than useless, looking curiously at the remaining pies and clearly planning to poke one to see what happens, and with the same smooth efficiency draws her into his arms and kisses her. She gives in to it without a single protest by word or deed and when there is no resistance he takes charge of proceedings and starts to explore and investigate and take her mouth more deeply, holds her closer until she drops the shell and softens into him and accepts his lead.  He thinks she needs to relax, and he knows how to achieve it.  He wants to find Kat again: to work out what triggers the need to be Kat, who simply wants comfort and affection and not to be in charge.  Curiosity has always been his besetting sin.

He runs a firm hand over her back to encourage her to curve closer, settling it in the small of her back, and continues to provide the searching, forceful kisses that she had liked so much. Eventually he stops kissing and simply holds her, stroking her hair and still keeping her close.

“That’s more like it,” he says with satisfaction. “You taste even better than the mince pies.”  There’s an indignant squawk below his chin.  “What?”  He tips her face upward and kisses her deeply again.  “Definitely.  Conclusive proof.” 

He tows her towards the couch and notes with some interest that she still isn’t arguing. Seems he’s forgiven.  Next time, he thinks, he’ll be more careful.  Something that he simply does not understand is behind all this: the occasional odd reaction, the solitary life, the lack of celebration, the change to her personality that takes place in her own space.  Being careful, however, does not preclude providing kisses, affection, and generally taking the lead.  It’s particularly convenient that what Beckett, in this interestingly different guise, may like matches rather well with what he likes to provide.  Not that he didn’t also enjoy the fast, hard results of Beckett taking charge, but he didn’t like the feeling of being second-best it left him with and he is determined that he will not be regarded as in some way second-best or being settled for again. 

Beckett is confused. It’s not a feeling she particularly appreciates, especially at home.  Nothing at home confuses her.  She eats, she sleeps, she reads or watches TV or a movie, she surfs the net.  Insofar as she ever does, she relaxes: sometimes she plays her guitar quietly, she does yoga.  This apartment is her still centre, a place where there are no distractions and no memories.  She has no photos, and her pictures are abstract: soothing swirls of colour that calm the mind and demand little.  The only memories are in the dedications pages of the books that line the walls, and she doesn’t look at those. 

This is her sanctuary and her haven: her hiding place; few people come here. Her father, though she prefers to visit his home; Lanie, though she prefers that they go out.  And now spoilt, sexy Rick Castle, who turns out to be interestingly capable of providing something she needs.  If only he can do so without researching, without asking any difficult questions about her history, without asking about her choices, without ever asking Why?

Here he is, bouncing into her quiet apartment with some peculiar form of food that he’s insisting she tries, forcing Christmas spirit on to her, and now simply pulling her into his arms and under his lips and kissing her as if there's no question at all but that she’ll allow it; not asking for decisions or demands, but only that she consent and enjoy where he takes her. A chance to forget is on offer: an evening where she can lay down the cases and lay down the memories and rest from the road.  Think of it as a Christmas present.

Her soft contentment is disturbed by the oven timer chiming. Castle makes a noise that’s an interesting combination of happy expectation and irritation and lets go of Beckett in favour of dealing with his pies.

“Where do you keep plates and cutlery, Beckett?” She unfolds herself and rapidly sets out two plates,  two forks and a spoon to deal with this brandy butter stuff.

“This better be worth it, Castle.” Castle smiles wickedly at her.

“If you don’t like the taste I’m sure I can find something else that tastes good.”

“I’ve only got water, or soda,” she deflects.

“Water will be fine.” But he wonders the more.  She’s perfectly happy to have a social drink, but she has none at home?

He slides the pies on to the plates and offers her the butter: she looks very suspiciously at it but takes a dollop and sits at the table. Castle looks mildly unimpressed by that – clearly he’d been hoping for some snuggling on the couch, but she has the feeling that these little pies will collapse into a pile of crumbs as soon as she puts a fork into them and picking pastry out the cushions isn’t her preferred form of entertainment.

The pie oozes unctuously over her tongue, the brandy butter that slathered it oiling its path. It’s delicious.  Delightful.

And abruptly familiar. She falls off the seat away from the table and into her bathroom without a word of explanation or apology.  She feels as if she’s going to throw up.  She presses her forehead to the cold tiles around the mirror and can’t stop the memory slicing through her.

A year after. Christmas time, and they were trying to pretend everything was normal, everything was fine, even though it hadn’t been normal or fine for almost a year, even though her father was already slurred at noon, even though she was tense and unhappy and waiting for the real misery to start.  But families are together at Christmas, so that’s what they did.  Pretending everything was fine: a small tree, lopsidedly decorated; tinsel, hung drunkenly from pictures, a holly wreath lurching from the door.  But pretending everything was fine.  After all, it’s Christmas time: there’s no need to be afraid; at Christmas time, they let in light and they banish shade.  If only.

They’d eaten Christmas dinner. Well.  She had eaten, though the food was all from a good store: she’d had no time to cook and her father neither ability nor sobriety: everything was ready-made and required only reheating.  Her father had drunk most of his meal, and by dessert was on the verge of maudlin weeping over memories of times past, already starting on the road of Do you remember?  Do you remember how your mom made chestnut stuffing?  Do you remember when we got your first bicycle?  Do you remember last year when your mom was here?  Why isn’t she here now?  Who did this to us, Katie?  Why haven’t they found them?  Why?  Why?

So many whys, and no answers.  Only more wine, and then – oh God.  And then brandy, and he’d brought out those little pies and said – oh God – he’d got them in some little Brit-owned shop and he’d doused them in the brandy but she’d had to try one to stop the dinner becoming a total disaster even though it already was and then the day had gone the way it always did and she ended up putting her father to bed and cleaning up the spilt booze and vomit.  No wonder she’d forgotten them.  She’s tried so hard to forget all of those days, and anyway he’d been too drunk to tell her what they were.

She scrubs her teeth frantically, trying to wipe away the vision in mint toothpaste and then mouthwash, holding back the tears and the memories. It’s not like that any more: her father is sober and Christmas will be dry and as long as she’s near him or he can call her whenever he has to then he’ll stay dry.  She’s his mainstay and his strength.  But she can’t face those pies.  For a moment or two she stands, leaning, still, against the cold tiles, re-establishing control, pulling Beckett who can cope with anything back over herself, the shell that will get her through this.  She can get through this.  She’d got through everything else.  This is simply a memory, and she is stronger than her memories.

She walks back out.

“You okay, Beckett?” Castle sounds genuinely concerned.  She doesn’t look at the table, keeps her eyes on his face.

“Yeah,” she lies. “Must have eaten something at lunchtime.  My stomach…”  She lets him take an implication she hasn’t stated.  “D’you mind… I don’t think the pies will agree with me.”

Castle looks at Beckett, armoured to the nth degree, and wonders what she’s hiding. She does, though, look greenish, and it’s fairly clear that she’s upset.  He just doesn’t believe it’s only an upset stomach.  He helps her clear away the plates, noticing that she is not looking at the remaining food on hers.

Then he tows her back to the couch and arranges her next to him, pulls her legs up over his lap and cuddles her in without asking permission or indeed waiting for consent.

“What’s really up, Beckett?” He doesn’t want to call her Beckett, but there’s no other name he can use and get away with.  She doesn’t answer, only curls into him in an inviting way against which he isn’t proof.  His arms tighten without any conscious decision.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”  His tone is firmer, building on the knowledge that sometimes she doesn’t want to take the lead.  So he’ll try now, he’ll try to lead her to… oh.  Beckett is quite definitely back. 

She’s dragged his head down and his mouth to hers and right now she’s invading him in a way that strongly suggests the next stop is her bed. This isn’t anything to do with an upset stomach at all.  This is a very deliberate move to stop him asking questions and to forget whatever it is that has disturbed her.  Maalox for memories, he thinks alliteratively – and stops on that thought.  Memories.  Taste and smell invoke memories.  She tastes of peppermint mouthwash.  He’s wrenched away from thought because her hands are already opening his belt, the button and the zipper.  No.  If they are going to do this – and they are going to do this – they’re going to do it his way.  He catches her hands to stop her.

“No.” She looks up, a flick of abandoned hurt through her hazel eyes.  “Not like that.  That’s not what you really want.  Leave it to me.  You don’t want it like that; you want someone else to lead.”  There’s an uncertainty behind her expression.  “Not lead like that.”  She relaxes very slightly.  “Nothing you don’t want, no pushing, no questions.”  Another degree of relaxation.  Ah.  That’s what she’s hiding from.  Questions.  “All you have to do is agree, or not.  Nothing else.  We’ll take it from there.”  He’s projecting conscious confidence; reassurance that she can rely on him to give her what she really wants.  He’ll work out why she might want it, and what is really going on, later.  For now, though he really hadn’t planned this, matters seem to have fallen – well, into his lap.  Curiosity may be his besetting sin, but he’s pretty keen on lust too, even when this isn’t just lust any more.

He tucks her in more accessibly, and slides a gentle palm around the curve of her jaw, the line of her sharp-cut cheek; his other arm behind her, supporting her, dropping diagonally to his hand on her hip, softly stroking, intent in the control in his fingers, restraint in the gesture. Affection, assertion, but no need for aggression, from either of them.  For a moment he thinks that she’s going to object to his assumption of the lead, but then her hands fall lax on his shoulders and she lets him position her as he pleases and suddenly, almost unexpectedly, Kat is back, pliant and pettable and perfectly placed and pleased to be kissed.  It would be a terrible shame not to indulge her, and Castle tries very hard never to disappoint when it comes to indulgence.

He starts slowly: a delicate nudge of his lips to hers, a soft request for entrance, not denied; and then a more forceful press of his tongue, a swooping raid to take possession and show her that in this he has every intention of leading the way. His hand on her hip shifts to turn her into him, then slides up her back and into her hair and keeps her there, freeing his other hand to drift along the lean line of her leg as his mouth drifts along the base of her cheek and round to her ear and that small spot that he found the first time and hasn’t forgotten since.  He hears her soft mew with satisfaction and kisses it again to produce that same noise, which this time is accompanied by a wriggle.

“Like that?” he rumbles deeply. She makes a soft murmur of agreement, without distinguishable words, and cuddles closer.  A slim hand runs round his neck to lodge in his hair.  He drops to her shoulder, opens a button to give himself better access to the smooth skin covering her clavicles, draws a wet line along and back again and hears her gasp and feels the immediately tighter grip with pleasure.  When he lifts, traces a finger over her lips and her tongue flickers out to twist over it, runs the finger down again to the opening of her button-down, she leans back against his arm to provide access: heavy, sleepy, darker eyes allowing him his way.  Another button opens, an edge of white lace peeps out, and Castle’s lips follow his finger downward to the creamy curve of skin.  There’s no haste to his movements, no need to hurry, just slow assertion of intent and desire, leading without pressure.

Beckett curls in and gives herself over to sensation and firm, steady, controlled touch of hands and mouth, happily responsive to the growing heat between them. She essays some unbuttoning on her own account, discovering warm skin and nicely firm muscle under the smooth cotton, and as she strokes over it is rewarded by a deep growl and a return to hard, deep kisses and a firm hand palming over the edge of lace.  She arches into it, pressing peaked nipples against the resistance and using her grip on Castle’s wide shoulders to try to pull him over her.

He doesn’t move.