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Story: "Twelve Days Of Caskett!"
Rating: T
Words: 2,066
On the first day of Christmas my detective gave to me a dead
body up in a tree.
“He’s gonna freak out.” Beckett rolled her eyes but
grinned. “His face is going to light up like a little boy at -”
“Christmas?” Lanie raised her eyebrow.
“Yeah.”
“Oh girl, you’ve got it bad.” Lanie snorted, “At least try
to reign in your face if you two are sticking to this whole secrecy thing.” She
waved a purple gloved hand at her friend and the sunshine bright smile beaming
from her mouth. “Though how you still think people don't know is beyond me.”
“Shut up.”
Lanie raised a second eyebrow to join the first.
“Please?”
“Mmhmm, that’s what I thought.”
“So where’s the...” Castle’s jaw dropped. “Is that...is he
upside down in a tree?” His voice pitched skywards.
“He is.” Beckett watched his face, a comic mishmash of
muscle jerks making his forehead and cheeks jump about.
“Beckett, he’s dressed like bigfoot.”
“He is.”
“And he’s upside down.”
“Yup.”
“In a tree.”
“I know.” She looked up at him from under her lashes.
“Beckett, I love you.”
On the second day of Christmas my writer gave to me a
steaming hot cup of coffee.
“Any leads?”
The cup landed in front of her, no pomp or fanfare, his
fingers at the lid sliding it closer.
“Breakthrough,” Beckett stated, stretching her arms above
her head, “he’s not Bigfoot.”
“That’s disappointing, and I don't believe it. Lanie
confirm?” He landed heavily in the chair at her side, sighed and reached for
the folder forlornly.
She smirked, lifted the cup to her lips inhaling happily,
“Abominable snowman couldn't I.D the body.”
“Call the Loch Ness monster to corroborate?”
“Was waiting for you.” Beckett lifted her eyes from the
cup, swallowed the hot liquid.
“Well I’m here now.” Castle said with a smile, resting his
elbows on the desk.
Beckett slid her fingers across the wood, the tips just
brushing the curve of his bicep. “So am I, Castle.”
On the third day of Christmas my detective gave to me a
sneaky kiss surreptitiously.
She snagged his hand.
Her eyes darted and Beckett shimmered with exhilaration.
“Quickly.” She pulled him closer. Shoved him through the
door and out into the street.
“What’s -”
“Mistletoe, everywhere.” She pushed him into the wall and
her hands landed squarely in the center of his chest.
“Not out here.” Castle’s eyes darted above to the heavy
grey sky, back to her lips, his chest heaving under her palms.
“No.” Beckett spun them so the arch of her spine was
against the cold brick wall. The
twelfth at her back. “Not here. Kiss me.”
Castle’s fingers squeezed her hips, his eyes bright flashes
of blue that disappeared behind his closed lids.
She smiled as his lips parted, his mouth descended, the hot
trace of his tongue stuttering over the seam before it divided the soft pink
line of her lips. He swallowed her kiss in an excited rush, devoured her moan,
pressed her deeper into the icy brick.
One hand at the back of her head, he kissed her again.
On the fourth day of Christmas my writer gave to me
theorizing full of banality.
“Did you check financials?” He sighed into his cup. “Messy
divorce? Screwing around? Did he have an aggrieved butler?” Castle traced the
rim of the cup with the tip of one finger. “Gang violence. Stealing from the
company he worked for?”
Far too many sensible suggestions in such a short space of
time, her mind was awash, swimming in a sea of Castle flavoured confusion.
Beckett tapped her spoon on the ceramic edge, the sharp
ping making him look up. “What’s with you?”
“I thought he was Bigfoot.”
“He was.” She shrugged.
“The REAL Bigfoot.”
Beckett rolled her eyes and left the table.
On the fifth day of Christmas my detective gave to me a
death glare about things made of gold ( which doesn't rhyme but that’s so not
the point, she was scary.)
“But Beckett be reasonable.”
“Nu-uh, no jewellery.”
“You said.”
Her eyes narrowed, swallowing light as darkness prevailed
within her.
“That was for my birthday, this is -”
“Christmas.”
A deadly dance of pupil, lid and lashes was waged, his soul
defeated, he trembled at the sight before him.
He quite liked it too.
“No gold, no rings, Castle I mean it.” She leant across his
body, trapping him in the chair.
“Fine, what about candy?”
Beckett smiled. “I like candy.”
“Ring shaped candy.” He pressed. “Wrapped in gold foil.”
“Do your ears work or are they just for decoration?”
“You could hang ornaments on them, make them festive.”
He screeched loudly.
She decided squeezing the lobe between her thumb and
forefinger would be more satisfying.
On the sixth day of Christmas my writer gave to me
heartburn, a stress migraine and something akin to a mini heart attack by
climbing a tree.
“For the love of god Castle, get down.” Beckett hissed.
His foot slipped.
He yelped.
Her stomach dropped about as far as he did.
“I’m Okay.” He yelled.
Thank you, thank you Christmas angel, Santa and the
reindeer.
“Will you shut up.” She whispered harshly. “It’s two in the
morning and you are halfway up a TREE.”
“Hey, do you think if I jumped from here I could -”
“I will shoot you down first you lunatic.” She tried to
snag his foot as Castle swung himself around a branch.
Beckett decided there and then not to look at the thickness
of wood. She didn't want to know.
She had to know.
Oh god.
“Castle that branch is going to snap.”
“I’m looking for evidence, the tree will support me.”
In what way she wasn't sure. Would it take his middle of
the night phone calls? Would it buy his crazy theories? Would it cart his
splintered ass to hospital when he fell head first out of a...
“Castle, I will say this once.” Beckett held up a finger
even though he was rummaging through leaves. “If you ever want to see me naked
again you will get down here right now.”
“I found a bullet.”
“You did? That’s-” She refused to reward insanity. “I stand
by my earlier statement.” She folded her arms.
“I’m coming.”
“Not if you don't get out of that tree.”
On the seventh day of Christmas my detective gave to me
a bandage for my scraped and bruised knee.
“How’s the leg, Castle?” The boys called.
Beckett shushed them and turned with a barely disappearing
grin.
Castle hobbled. “Whatever she told you is a lie.”
He sat down at her desk. Beckett’s head remained
suspiciously ducked down over the paperwork.
Her shoulders shook as the boys spoke.
“So you didn't scream?”
“Didn't squeak when you hit ground?”
“Didn't blame the tree and accuse it of pushing you?”
“Didn't scrape your knee when you kicked it to get revenge and
fell over your own foot?”
Castle looked at each man in turn, before turning to his
kind and loving, totally snickering, girlfriend.
“I found a bullet. I broke the case.”
Beckett snorted, “You're lucky that’s all you broke.”
On the eighth day of Christmas my writer gave to me an
invite to a Christmas party.
Beckett looked around the room.
“Castle, are there any women at this party you haven't
slept with?”
Castle snorted into his champagne flute, choked and stared
at her.
“Valid question.” She shrugged, pointed “Gina.”
“Well, we were married.”
“Paula.”
“That one time in the-”
“I don't need details. The woman at the bar.”
Castle spun on the spot. “Well yes but I told you that was
a long time ago when I was in college and-”
“Me obviously.”
“You, yes, you my wonderful, extraordinary, delightful-”
“Which means the only women here you haven't slept with are
Martha, Alexis, Jenny and Lanie.”
“Well there was that one time...” Lanie piped up.
Beckett whirled around, dropped her glass.
Lanie held her hands up and laughed. “Girl, you should see
your face. He’s cute and all, Beckett, but, he’s a little too..”
“Too what?” Castle asked, almost offended.
“You know.” She waved her hands, her head tilting as she
watched Esposito walk away.
“Don't joke about that Lanie.” Beckett growled, and the M.E
continued to chuckle.
“No, Lanie, don't joke about that.” His eyes flashed to the
bright red cheeks of his suddenly jealous detective. “She has a gun.” His gaze
deviated to her white knuckles. “And a very strong grip.”
On the ninth day of Christmas my detective gave to me a
teddy that wasn't fluffy.
She stood silhouetted in the doorway, a saucy smile on her
face.
He gulped.
“It that a -”
“Yes.”
“Silk?”
“Mmmhmm.” She took a step closer. The light from the fire
flickering over her skin, shining through the sheer material and illuminating
her body with a warm amber glow.
“So, Mr. Castle my question for you.” Beckett brushed her
shoulder, pulling down the red strap with the tips of her fingers. “Have you
been a good boy this year?”
“No.” He closed the distance between them, cast aside the
other strap and let the material fall to pool at her feet. “No, I have been
very bad.” He kissed a path along her neck until his lips found her ear. “Is
that what you wanted to hear?”
She hummed, “Why Mr. Castle, I do believe it was.”
On the tenth day of Christmas my writer gave to me
reason to doubt his sanity.
Beckett couldn't quite believe it. He was singing.
“I saw a mouse. Where? There on the stair. Where on the
stair? Right there.” He threw his arms above his head and bellowed, “A LITTLE
MOUSE WITH CLOGS ON!”
Beckett stared, “What in the name of hell are you
singing?”
“Christmas songs.”
“Jingle bells is a Christmas song.” Beckett counted on her
fingers, “Rocking around the Christmas tree is a Christmas song.
Castle agreed, “Clue’s in the name.”
“Santa baby is a Christmas song, why can't you sing one of
those? Huh? Harsh the herald angels sing is a Christmas song.”
Castle laughed loudly, bumping her hip. “I think it’s HARK
not harsh.”
Beckett raised her eyebrows, “The way you were slaughtering
that poor mouse,” She patted his arm, “I’m gonna go with harsh.”
On the eleventh day of Christmas my detective gave to
me a reassuring hand squeeze and a happy place filled with safety.
“The Captain hates me.” Castle huffed, his back hitting the
wall of the elevator.
Beckett closed the distance, took his hand in hers. “Oh she
does not.”
Castle raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, she does a small, tiny bit.”
Castle’s head smacked backwards against the wall. “She
called me a hindrance and laughed when I gave her a list of reasons why it was
in fact Bigfoot up that tree and not -”
“A boring, everyday, run of the mill murder.”
“Exactly.” He glared at the door, imagining a picture of
The Captains face as he conjured darts within his mind and threw them.
Beckett curled herself into his side. Holding his hand she
brought it up to her lips and whispered across his knuckles. “ I liked your
theory.”
The eyes that turned to watch her were hard but melting
into pools of goo. “Beckett?” He whispered back dreamily, his fingers toying
with her hair.
“Mmm.”
“I liked it too.”
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
yet another reason to believe.
“So, it was Bigfoot?”
Beckett shook her head, “No.”
He hooked his finger through the belt loop of her jeans and
pulled her down next to him on the couch. “He lived in the woods.”
“Yes, but -”
“He ate nuts and berries.”
“Yes but that doesn't mean -”
“He had no name.”
“He had a name Castle, he just changed it and was living
off the grid.”
“Because he was Bigfoot.”
Beckett laughed, her hand on his knee. “No, because he was
an apocalypse nut who
was convinced we would all die in December. So he lived in a
tree.”
“That doesn't explain the outfit. He was hairy.”
“He was not Bigfoot.”
Castle sighed, pouted in her direction. “Beckett, it’s
Christmas.”
She fought the urge to smile. “Fine, he was Bigfoot.
Happy?” She moved closer.
“Ecstatic.” He replied softly, kissing her soundly on the
lips.
Fall
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