Castle 1. Chapter 1

**Soooooo, this is a oneshot to fill a prompt I found on castlefanficprompts dot tumblr dot com from 'ELEPHANTSTHEYNEVERFORGET'. I don't think it's quite what they meant but this is how it turned out. AU Season 2. Beckett doesn't escape the explosion of her apartment entirely unscathed. **This is appallingly written and not proofread, so my apologies. ****

She won't talk to him. Or anyone, for that matter. He's set up residence outside her hospital room, sees almost every one of her visitors enter and exit the ward.

Lanie's been by everyday since Kate was admitted, each time leaving the room with a pinched expression and a _nuh uh _in Castle's direction. He has a feeling the twisted look on her face is her holding back tears.

Ryan and Esposito are almost as reluctant to leave as he is, but they gave in after the nurses gave them a hard time. Ryan has taken to bringing a whiteboard in with him that he can write on to communicate with Kate. In turn, she has taken to closing her eyes whenever Kevin enters her room. He comes out looking like a puppy that's been kicked. Espo is more stoic, although his hurt shows in the firm set of his jaw.

Jim Beckett, however, doesn't disguise his. Castle can hear him begging his daughter to talk to him, to look at him, even from outside the room. The pleading isn't getting through to her though.

Of course not. Because she can't hear it. Because she's _deaf._

The bomb, in her apartment caused what the doctors called 'acoustic trauma'. And now she is deaf. Irreversibly so, according to the experts Castle had immediately contacted.

Just thinking about it causes a wave of nausea to sweep through his body, has him dry retching over the closest bin. He can't remember the last time he ate, and can't stomach the thought of food.

Because the most extraordinary woman he has ever met is deaf. Her life will never be the same. And it's his fault. If it weren't for him, she'd have been safe from that… that psychopath. Castle slams his fist into the wall, hard enough that he's sure his knuckles are cracked but he doesn't care.

He needs to apologise, but he can't. Because not only won't she listen, but she _can't._ She can't. So he just sits with her, stays as she resolutely refuses to even glance in his direction, instead poring over the sign language books that the ENT had brought her.

After an hour and a half, he breaks, reaching for her. She flinches away from his touch. And now she's pushing him away, shaking her head and mouthing that she needs to be alone.

So he leaves. He has a plan.

A weekend spent in the New York Public Library and Castle's learnt enough to say what he wants to say. Well, he muses, not enough to say what he wants… but what he needs, yes.

He's surrounded himself with books on American Sign Language, even asked help (with unsteady hands and unsure actions) to improve his accuracy from the deaf browsers looking at the DVD selections for the hearing impaired. So yes, he's memorised what he needs to say, even if he has not a general understanding of the language, not even basic conversational vocabulary.

She's surprised to see him when he walks in, but she doesn't look displeased at his presence, which he takes to be a hopeful sign. If you'll pardon the pun.

Castle moves his chair over to where she's sitting in the other and takes her hands, imploring him with his eyes to hear him out (or so to speak).

He closes his eyes in concentration for a moment, centering himself before making the slow movements. She doesn't understand most of it, he knows; she's only been looking at the books and videos for a few days, but he knows the sentiment has reached her. He knows it from the almost smile on her lips and from the way she reaches for his hand and squeezes it tightly.

"Castle," she speaks finallyand it's too loud, so loud and she must see him wince at the volume level because the next thing she says is hardly more than a whisper; _I'm sorry_. _I didn't mean to shout. _But he doesn't care because she broke her silence. Finally. Her voice isn't hers; it's disjointed - lack of use from the past week combined with the inability to hear herself, Castle reasons. "You're learning sign language? For me?"

He pulls out a notebook and scribbles a 'yes' on the blank page and her lips tighten again - written communication pisses her off. Castle knows this, knew this, from Ryan's vain efforts but still he hands her the envelope in which he has enclosed everything he wanted to say.

_Please, _he signs. He's sure she'll know that much; he's certain it's one of the first things the basic ASL manual taught. And she nods, confirming her comprehension, taking the letter from him.

He studies her face as she reads. As ever though, Kate Beckett is a blank mask. He envies her poker face. When she reaches the bottom of the page, she drops the page on her lap, raising her bandaged arms and signing out four letters: _R, I, C, K._

Castle's heart speeds as he recognises his name from the time he and Alexis had learned to sign their names for a project she'd had in the third grade. He supposes the use of his first name is due to it's length, but it somehow feels more intimate than 'Castle' even when not spoken aloud. Maybe especially so.

"It's not your fault." She croaks and when he refuses to meet her gaze, unable to accept her statement, she reaches out to him. Cupping his cheek, she turns his face towards her. "It's not." And somehow the sincerity in her eyes makes his heart ache a little less. Because she doesn't hate him, even if she is mistaken and he is to blame. And looking at her then, he realises with a jolt that he will spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her, though the task is a Herculean one.

**The prompt was 'Castle/Beckett is deaf and Castle/Beckett have to learn sign language to talk to them.' I'd set out intending it to be sort of fluffy but yeah, that didn't happen. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I hadn't planned on continuing this, actually. But people were so lovely about it and a few asked for more, so here it is. This is lighter than the first part. I'm a sucker for a happy ending.**

**Let me know what you think!**

She isn't a cop anymore, and he is no longer her shadow.

She'd tried to resume her role as detective but, hard as she might, it wasn't working. She couldn't interview suspects without the aid of an interpreter, couldn't read the tells in people's voices. Couldn't communicate easily with her team, to her great distress. The quickfire theory building she'd loved so much was gone.

She came to him before she made the decision, after four months back on active duty (not that she'd seen much of the field. Aside from crime scenes, she'd found she was more useful at the precinct, unable to chase down leads by talking to the key players). He'd wiped the lone tear that glistened on her cheek away and she'd let him hold her, rocking her gently as she came to terms with the sacrifice of her beloved job.

That was over a year ago, though; she was happy now. Upon learning of Kate's resignation, months after she quit the force, Jordan Shaw had tugged at a few strings, gotten her an interview with the FBI - as a criminal profiler. Castle isn't surprised when she gets the job.

She comes to the loft at the end of her first week, her face split by a huge grin as she told him all about her work.

_Isn't it meant to be... _(he pauses then, not knowing how to sign the word 'confidential'. He inwardly reminds himself to find out) … _secret? The FBI?_

"Confidential?" Kate repeats the motion for secret as she speaks and he realises it must be the same. "Yes. But it's you." She smiles then, head cocked to the side, tongue peeking out between her teeth.

He's proud of his grasp on American Sign Language. He is far from fluent - it's mostly only those born deaf who have complete mastery. His knowledge of the English language does not help either; the syntax is entirely different with ASL and it throws him off. Kate is much better than him when it comes to that. She's admitted to him that he's better with the subtleties though, that he caught on quicker to the meanings behind the positions of the hands and the facial expressions. He disagrees.

The way she copes with the loss of her hearing cements his belief that she is utterly extraordinary. He paid for a top class signing tutor for her in the beginning, the three months she had off active duty, much to her chagrin. She'd almost refused but she'd seen he needed it, accepted with a tight press of her lips. At the same time, he'd been having daily lessons, thought she hadn't known he was learning too. She surprised him one day when she'd told him to share her session instead of paying for both. She'd been back at the 12th at the time, had flashed her badge and rolled her eyes when he asked her how she'd known he'd been having lessons. So they learnt together. And then they practised together. They went on sign language led tours of New York's famous places together, attended deaf events. Kate sat in the front row as Rick had nervously given his first public address in sign language while publicising the charity he had set up. The press release had aired on TV and she had curled up next to him as they watched from his sofa, wrapped in his arms.

And now she's back on that couch and he's handing her a glass of wine as he reflects on the comment she just made. _But it's me?_ He inquires, settling next to her. She ducks her head, doesn't meet his gaze.

"You've done so much for me, this past year. The least I can do is give you a little bit of confidential information. Don't go running that mouth of yours though." She smirks up at him from behind the curtain of her hair. He loves it long.

He brushes the strands away though, cupping her cheek tenderly as he lifts her face towards him. He holds it there for a second, running his thumb over her cheekbone and for a second he thinks he's going to kiss her. But he can't and he won't, shouldn't be asking for more than friendship from her, not when that's already so much more than he deserves. Not when her deafness is down to him. _Kate. You don't owe me anything. And whatever I do, it'll never be enough to make this right and-_

She grabs his hands, halting his words.

"Richard Castle. This is not your fault." Her voice is stern, her eyes intense as they bore into him. "You can't blame Jodie Foster for John Hinkley." She pauses for a second. "Although you can blame her for Nim's Island."

He laughs at the quip, pulling her into him, and they remain there in comfortable silence for a long while, chests rising and falling as they breathe in sync.

She speaks up again after a while, her voice small - barely more than a whisper. "Castle." She turns to face him. "I need to know. What we are - what you do for me, with me - the foundation, the sign language… this - is it - is it guilt?" She sounds so very sad, so very vulnerable that it shatters him. He closes his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. She takes his silence as confirmation, he realises as she pulls away with a pained noise, extracting herself from his arms and muttering something about seeing him around with her voice wavering.

"Kate!" He calls after her. He curses himself as he remembers she can't hear him, leaping to his feet and bounding towards her before she can reach the door. He grabs her and holds her to him. She resists for a moment before crumpling into him, her head against his chest. He realises she's crying when moisture soaks through his shirt. Pulling back slightly he leans down to rest his forehead against hers for a second, bumping his nose against hers. She calms, letting out a slight hiccup before the tears subside.

"Castle," She croaks, her voice raw. "Tell me it's not just guilt. Please. It can't just be guilt." She lets out a soft keen and he draws her to him again for a second before letting go of her, needing his hands. He chuckles softly as she holds onto him, but gently pushes her away.

_Kate,_ he begins. He pauses momentarily, bracing himself for her reaction to what he is about to tell her. _In the beginning - I needed ASL to talk to you - to apologise. I was guilty. I am guilty. I always will be. But it was never just that, Kate. Never. _

A watery smile graces her face and she moves into wrap her arms around him again but he stops her.

_Kate._

He raises his right hand, points to his chest.

Clenching both hands into loose fists, he pulls them towards his heart, crossing them as if drawing someone into him for a hug.

He drops his left hand, his right opening, palm up as he extends his arm towards her.

_I love you._

He's said it. Now he waits, eyes closed, for her stammered apology. For her to let him know she doesn't feel the same way, as she rushes out his door and out of his life.

His eyes startle open. Because _she's kissing him. _She pulls away when he doesn't kiss back, frozen in shock

He looks down at her and she looks up at him. She's crying again, her face shimmering with tears as she smiles at him - wide but uncertain.

She draws back, echoes his earlier movements, adding another. Her right hand is palm down, pinky and thumb extended outwards as the other three fingers are tucked in. She slides the hand to the side and back.

_I love you too._

He gapes at her, and she laughs, tugging at the back of his neck and pulling him to her lips. And then he's kissing her.

He never wants to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**I thought I was finished with this, but apparently not. I think I'll probably add more at some point, exploring this universe. Just a short little piece that wanted out. Hope you enjoy!**

His fingers glide over the keyboard, the relentless _tap tap tap_ occasionally accentuated by the splash of a tear against the plastic letters as everything he yearns to tell her but doesn't spills onto the humming white document page.

_I wish you could hear her laugh - it sounds like sunshine, warm and bright and utterly essential for life._

_I wish you could hear the way she says 'Mommy', the adoration in her voice that makes it so clear how much she loves you, even in those two syllables._

_I wish you could hear the way she sneezes; this snuffling little squeal that she gets so embarrassed about._

_I wish you could hear the way her words pitch when she's excited, get higher and higher until they're barely within a range to be audible to humans, I swear._

_I wish you could hear the little noises she makes, so like you. The way she harrumphs at a bad joke, or clicks her tongue against her teeth when I've done something to wind her up._

_I wish you could hear the passion in her voice when she's found something she loves - a book or a word or a concept that she feels so deeply that it tumbles right out of her in the most beautifully eloquent of ways, despite her age. She's going to be ten times the writer I am, I promise you._

_I wish you could hear the spark of intelligence that suffuses some of the things she says - she's so wise, Kate, and I know you know that. Know you can read it on her face as she signs along with her words… But there's such _gravity _to her voice, and you know she understands what she's learnt so effortlessly that it's become a part of her. She gets that from you. The fierce intellect._

_I wish you could hear the pride in her voice when she tells people about you. About her brilliant mother who took tragedy in her stride and used it to become stronger. Her mommy who finds the bad guys just by looking at their behaviour, who is so clever she doesn't need anything other than that. Who is so beautiful, and so kind, and so brave - it breaks my heart into a million pieces and then puts it back together, stronger than ever, every time. The strength of her love for you._

_I wish you could hear-_

It gets too much, longing lurching from him in a sob rather than through his trembling fingertips.

He just wants her to be able to experience the joy that is their daughter in every possible way, wants not to see the desperate hunger to know on her face as the kid tosses some tease of an insult over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom.

He'll always tell her after, in a few sure gestures but - it's not the same. The joke has passed, or the humour of it is tainted by the sadness that, for the most part, they no longer feel. Their life is so full of colour and love; a great deal of the time, that's more than enough.

But today, the guilt that he thought he'd put to bed _years _ago is rearing its ugly head.

Their daughter's hesitant face as she asked him whether or not she should take part in her school concert, because she loves singing and playing but _are you sure it won't make Mommy too upset because she can't hear? _is on heart-breaking repeat in his minds' eye.

He'd tucked her gangly nine year old body into a hug, pressed a kiss against her temple and told her not to worry, of course she should perform and that her mother would be nothing but proud of her.

The last part was perhaps a partial lie - of course Kate would be proud. But sad too. That quiet sadness that sometimes hits her in the dead of the night and soaks his neck with the tears it lets loose.

She wishes she could hear.

He wishes she could hear.

Doesn't change a thing.

He snaps his laptop shut as he hears the door to the loft opening, stands to greet his wife. Hums his love for her against her cheek so that she can she can feel the words vibrate through her skin and takes her coat, hanging it in the closet. He turns around to find her still standing there, not having moved to collapse onto the sofa like he'd expected, like she usually does after work.

Instead she regards him with a soft smile and brushes her hand through his hair, tension draining from him with her touch.

"I love you," She tells him earnestly, uncertainty of why he looks so sad written in her features as he pulls her in for a hug, returning his embrace and murmuring soothing sweet-nothings until he breaks away, eyes considerably lighter.

Moments like this are all he needs to alleviate the guilt that still crushes him from time to time.

He doesn't need to use his hands to make his message clear. It's all there in his eyes.

_I love you too._


	4. Chapter 4

**I have an essay to write. Instead, this happened. Fic-writing procrastination has hit me with a vengeance this weekend. **

**This is a jump back in time, by the way. The chronology of this series has been disrupted and it'll just be snippets in time, now.**

**Hope you like it!**

**(P.S. I made a Twitter today, and I have five followers. Which is, you know. Super exciting. But I wouldn't object to a few more: ' _sfv'. Thanks!)**

* * *

He's returning from a long day of meetings when he finds her, slumped heavily against his door, head seeking solace in the palms of her hands as she cradles it against her knees.

"Beckett?" And then he kicks himself for forgetting, like he still does sometimes, kneels in front of her - hesitant to touch but his body leaning towards her of its own accord; the urge to squeeze her tight and never let go almost too much to resist.

A pitiful breath of a sound floats to him from her huddled form, soft and sighing and shattered. His gaze traces the skin of her hands - black mascara stains smudging the delicate porcelain. His throat twists, clogging uncomfortably and suddenly he doesn't think he could speak even if it could do any good. If she could hear him. So he stays perched in front of her, close enough that he's sure she can feel his breath against her hair as he hovers. Not making contact but desperately aching to.

"Hi, Castle." It's been a few minutes, by the time she addresses him, and his knees ache in spite of the cushioning the plush carpet of his hall provides. The weak shudder of her voice shreds the part of him that's holding back and he gives in, wraps his arms around her.

She doesn't push him away. Instead her hands grasp at his collar, face finding comfort in the junction between his throat and cheek. Burning hot tears spill against his skin yet do not scald - rather they settle like sleet, chill him to the bone.

He finds himself humming soothingly, as though he were comforting a baby Alexis and although she can't _hear, _she responds, pressing closer to his throat as if soaking every tiny vibration that oscillates through it. She's shaking, shoulders racked with sobs every few seconds and it kills him, this - to see her so vulnerable and know he is to blame.

It's been a few days since he saw her last - a rarity for them lately. It's not often he goes forty eight hours without seeing her. But she'd asked for space, and he'd given it to her. Would give her anything should she say the word.

He knows what this is about. Five days ago she showed up here and told him she was going to resign from the NYPD. Let him tuck her against his chest as she released a single, silent tear - and then left, promising she'd call when she wanted to talk. Said she needed a few days alone.

And - oh God. He'd had his phone off in meetings all day. He reaches into his back pocket, cautious not to dislodge her from his chest and _shit. _Six missed calls. One text, from three hours ago.

He opens it, heart in his throat, spilling the bitter taste of sorrow onto his tongue as he reads it.

_I need you_

She'd needed him. And he hadn't been there.

Guilt pounds through his veins to a harsh, unrelenting rhythm. Flushes his skin with shame and pools in his tear ducts. His cell clatters to the floor and crushes her to him, fat drops of salt water racing down the strong slope of his nose and into her curls, in disarray from her hands running through them too many times. He's just-

"_So sorry_, Kate. I'm so sorry," is his mantra, whispered over and over into the silk of her hair. He can't help it, even if the words are lost on her. "So sorry."

"Not your fault, Castle." She objects quietly. (He doesn't know how she knows what he was saying, how she interpreted the hot puffs of air at her scalp, but he's not surprised. She always does). She says it firmly, though the words are muffled against his throat. The delicious movement of her lips on his skin has him swallowing hard and _hell _if it doesn't make him feel worse. He pushes away the burning threads of arousal that threaten to spin a web around his self control and hide it away until he breaks, crushing his lips to hers and tasting the salt of tears dried in the cracks of the precious red flesh. Shoves it down so he can be the friend she needs right now. Just shakes his disagreement with her insistence with his head, chin bumping softly against her crown.

She pulls back, grasps his face in her palms. Thumbs scraping gently over his stubble, she regards him like he's something precious.

He wishes he could deserve the look in her eyes.

"You know I don't blame you, right? Not your fault, Rick."

He nods dumbly, unable to speak. Tongue tied as he realises in horror that he's made the situation about him_. She's _comforting _him._

It's all he needs to force the chalky dust of self-loathing back down into the darkest parts of himself to join the rest of the remorseful sediment building there. A bone-deep ache that he's used to, rather than the acidic sting.

_You wanna come in?_ He signs carefully, tightly controlled to moderate the tremble he can feel threatening to come alive in his hands.

A slow dip of her head in agreement, and he pulls her to her feet. Opens the door, makes sure she's settled on the couch.

And then he makes her coffee.

She accepts it with an almost smile, fingers brushing his in thanks. Shuts her eyes as she breathes in its aroma, lets it soothe her ragged edges.

She's beautiful, he thinks as she visibly softens, tense angles of her body melting into his sofa. Into him, as she pulls him down next to her. He tells her so. Says it out loud and lets the fearful truth find solace in the knowledge that silence is all she now knows.

It's a while after, when her coffee is finished and she's spent long minutes analysing the golden dregs that she speaks.

"I did the right thing - didn't I, Castle? The right thing."

It's new, this Kate Beckett who seeks his approval. The need in her tone cracks his vulnerable places and his soul bleeds for her-

-she's not been reduced by her ordeal, not by any means. But she's questioning herself, feels like she's lacking - like she isn't... everything.

Which she is.

_Everything_.

His head bobs, up then down - again and again and again. Anything to reassure her.

Where their legs tentatively brush, her hand comes to rest. Covering it with his own, he interlaces their knuckles; observes the ridges and valleys. The ups and downs.

She'll get through this.

She'll see what she's worth - he'll show her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Christmassy addition to this little deaf!Beckett universe because the idea wouldn't leave me alone and it's the only vaguely coherent thing I've managed to write in a little while.**

**For Bogi - how did I get so lucky as to have you as a friend? 3**

**This is set their first Christmas after they get together, so I think that would make this season 4 sort of time? My own timeline is confusing me terribly oh dear**

* * *

He's dancing around the kitchen, tossing ingredients into the huge saucepan simmering on the induction hob, and crooning along to Eartha Kitt's _Santa Baby. _He dips a spoon into the mixture, taste-tests the mulled wine and hums around the mouthful.

He swallows hurriedly - doesn't want to miss his favourite part. "Santa, honey… one little thing I really need: the deed… to a plat-in-um _miiine."_

He spins around to the rhythm of the music to find his girlfriend (...! Yeah, he can't believe it either) laughing at his less than graceful routine from where she sits with her advanced copy of his latest manuscript.

"Are you _singing?" _She asks, and for a second he wants to be sad for her, for the loss of her hearing but there's nothing but light in her eyes and he's not going to be the one to darken the mood. So he just nods, grinning and ladles out a little of the Christmas drink for her to try.

"_Thoughts?" _He signs.

"Mmm - it's good. Needs a little more citrus though, I think?" She's leaning over the worktop to grab some orange rind even as she speaks, flings the peel with precise aim into the pan across the kitchen from her. "What song?"

He flushes a little, and she lifts up in her seat, stretches the span of the counter so she can prod him into giving her the answer. "_Santa Baby," _he tells her, blood crawling to his cheeks and he's sure the apples of them are burning as brightly red as the Christmas hat perched on his head. Delighted mirth diffuses across her features, smile wide and toothy and childlike and eyes sparking with amusement.

"How very manly of you, Castle." She teases, taming her grin into a smirk.

"_Just shows how secure I am in my masculinity," _he counters, checking his concoction briefly before leaning on the worktop, elbows resting on the cool surface.

"With good reason, too." Her eyebrows lift suggestively and he preens a little, can't help it. As he saw it, his options were a) gloat, or b) take her on the counter right this second - perhaps preferable in some ways, but Alexis is home and Kate is loud. _Really _loud, even if she claims he must be exaggerating. "Are you a good singer?"

He hums, distracted by his train of thought.

"Castle. Can you sing?"

"Wha-?" Oh. "_I'm not bad," _he confesses.

"I wish I could hear it," she sighs and he looks up at her warily. It's not mournful though, not sinking into the pit of depression that still sometimes pulls her under. Just an honest utterance, a fact. "We could have dueted, Castle. I used to love singing. Sang in a choir as a kid, every Christmas until…"

She trails off but he knows exactly what's implied. Recognises how hard this season is for her since her mother's murder, even though she's trying her hardest to immerse herself in his traditions, celebrate with him.

"_Have you tried singing since the explosion?" _She shakes her head no, but her nose wrinkles a little as if in conflict with her answer.

"Well. Only in the shower. Alone."

"_I'd love to hear you." _It's a silent suggestion without pressure and he prays she takes it as such, doesn't want to push her into it if she's uncomfortable.

"No," she says; for the first time today that aching melancholy bleeds into her tone and the lugubrious words into little more than a heavy exhale. "I don't think I can anymore. You know I still struggle with volume and pitch sometimes. Don't want to be reminded of another thing I've lost."

He circles the island in a few short strides and steals the sadness from her lips until she's smiling against his mouth once more.

A few weeks ago, when she'd told him about her struggle with the holiday, he'd promised her he'd help her find the joy in Christmas again-

-and now he has an idea.

* * *

"Castle, I thought we were gonna stay in…" She's not really _complaining _per se but there's definitely a whine to her tone, the bite of her lip implying just what her plans for the evening had been.

If he weren't so excited for the night to play out, he'd be inclined to give in and just spend it tangled in bed with her. But he is, so...

"_Nope. Come on, I told the Ryan and Espo we'd meet them at the Old Haunt."_

She looks even more disgruntled at that, muttering complaints under her breath - only she hasn't been great at that since her hearing loss, so he heard every one of her grumbles about being turned down in favour of drinks with the boys. ("_Hmph, _see if you get to unwrap me when we get home tonight," is one that catches his attention in particular. Maybe he's not the only one that had special plans for this evening…)

It's Christmas Eve and their chances of getting a cab are slim to none so he calls the car service, dragging a reluctant Kate out of the loft by the hand and awkwardly signing with the other - meaningless nonsense in an attempt to illicit a smile. He succeeds in drawing one from her, though she hides it behind a curtain of her hair as she dips her head forward. Still. Mission accomplished.

He knows there's more to her disinclination to go out tonight than a simple urge to spend it in bed, he's not stupid, he understands her… He's just hoping that tonight will turn things around for her, if only a little.

* * *

"Karaoke night?" Beckett hisses as they reach the entrance to the bar he'd bought on a whim after Ryan had told him it was destined to become a TJ McChucklenuts. Castle winces at the further souring of her mood despite having expected it. He hopes the outcome is worth her current bitterness.

She's not pleased right now, that's for sure. Espo and Ryan make eye contact with him as they hug her hello, the three men sharing discreet nods in honour of their little scheme.

* * *

Time wears on and Kate's loosened up a little, had a couple of glasses of that wine she likes and - _oh, _she must be less irritated with him now because her hand is suddenly on his thigh, nails scratching against the denim of his jeans.

Castle figures this is the time to act.

"_Come on, Beckett. Our turn_," he signs, pulls her to her feet and has her halfway to the stage before she knows what's happening.

"Rick, _no!" _He stops immediately, lifts a hand to brush her hair back and she may be upset with him but it doesn't stop her from leaning into his touch. "I can't, I told you a few weeks ago, I-"

"_You don't have to sing if you don't want to, sweetheart, though I'd love it if you did." _His thumb slides across her cheek, drops so that he's cradling her jaw.

The few seconds before she gives in stretch out for an eternity but eventually she nods, covers his hand with hers and laces their fingers before guiding him up to the little stage that he's had set up for tonight.

"_Fairytale of New York okay with you?"_

"_Perfect." _She signs back before reverting to speech. "Means I get to vehemently and vitriolically insult you in revenge for this."

"_You love me really," _he insists, drops a kiss to her forehead.

"God knows why." She smiles slightly and squeezes his hand, and then they're up.

Her eyes are on him as he starts singing, pulling ridiculous facial expressions for her benefit, but he can see everyone moving into position from the corner of his eye. When it's her turn, her gaze still doesn't stray. It strikes him Kate Beckett is self conscious, thinking she's desperately out of tune; the truth of it is that her voice is gorgeous, the occasional flat note far less frequent than most of the people who have claimed the microphone this evening. "_Beautiful." _He tells her as their voices join. They blend well, he thinks.

Kate grins shyly and ducks her head, bashful. But then it's time, and he inclines his head away from the stage, directing her to look at the audience.

In front of them stand nearly everyone from the Twelfth and a few others, guys Ryan knows from the Emerald Society - and they're all signing along to the song, Espo holding a banner aloft with 'Boys of the NYPD Choir' scrawled across it (and damn it, Castle knew he should have written that himself. Javi's writing is near illegible) and Karpowski standing a couple of rows back and waving a sign saying 'Girls too!'. It's like some weird dance routine, the crowd of arms and faces a sea of movement and Castle is _so _glad he'd roped everyone into this so soon after the idea had struck, because practice really does make perfect. Everyone is in time, in sync, all the people she'd worked with for so long and a couple of her current FBI crowd here to support her and it's even better than he'd thought it would be.

Kate's hand comes up to cover her mouth and she turns to him, laughing with tears in her eyes as she takes it all in. "Thank you, Castle. You - I - I have no words." He hopes maybe she feels some of that Christmas magic she's been missing for such a long time.

In the end, she misses out on singing the slurs she'd been so excited about - she's too busy kissing him, instead.

* * *

**So I thought the idea was cute, haha - not so sure about the execution though.**

**Hope you enjoyed! **

**Merry Christmas, in case I don't post anything else before the 25th! :) And Happy Hanukkah/Holidays/whatever you celebrate. Just. Be happy, haha. **

**tumblr: castleholic**

**twitter: _sfv**


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