Chapter 1

Richard Castle liked singing. He was also rather good at it (theatre, you know, he'd shrug at anyone who commented) and, even better, a baritone, which meant that there was always a place in any choir for him, albeit often with the basses. Baritones were, um, desirable.

As was he, of course, which wasn't always helpful. His tolerance for screeching sopranos with no sense of tune, rhythm, or simply shutting up was remarkably low for an otherwise amiable man, but every screeching soprano was also a potential book buyer, and he certainly didn't want to annoy his public. Still, being chased around the back of the choir stalls by pulchritudinous women, looking for a chance to try out his (overhyped) reputation as the most indiscriminate lover since Casanova, had palled some many years back, and, consequently, so had choral singing.

However, it was nearly Christmas, and Castle found himself missing the joyous sounds of traditional hymns and carols; the complex harmonies of a well-drilled choir, and the companionship of other singers. He appreciated that it was a touch late to be trying to join, but he could sight read, he could hold his note, and he thought that male singers weren't so thick on the ground (even in Manhattan) that he'd be turned down flat.

And then he had a better thought. Rather than Googling and making many phone calls, he'd ask around the precinct. There must be something…

Kate Beckett loved singing, though that was a well-kept secret from the rest of the Twelfth's homicide bullpen. She had, she knew (but never mentioned) a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice, and was consequently a major player in the choir she attended – weekly, without fail. Presently, they were practising for Christmas, which was the only part of Christmas which she liked. All the rest was unnecessary fuss and nonsense, but the carols and hymns, the late night Christmas Eve service, and the real meaning behind the day, spoke to something deep within her, soothing her dislike of the season.

Not that she admitted it, of course. She never admitted to anything personal, or a feeling or emotion unrelated to hunting down criminals and killers. It would ruin her badass reputation if she were known to have even the tiniest hint of a softer side.

For that reason alone, she hadn't sought out the NYPD choir. Instead, she'd scouted around the vicinity of the Twelfth, and found a choir nearby. It wasn't large, in fact, it was barely big enough for six-part pieces, and it was distinctly skewed to women, with a few token tenors and one lonely bass.

Well. Nearly lonely. The bass was Beckett's long-time pal, O'Leary, whose six-ten height and fifty-four inch chest allowed him to replace three normal-sized men quite happily. Astonishingly, he could carry a tune, and having lungs the size of Arizona allowed him to produce a volume loud enough, had he tried, to vibrate the building. He didn't try. He and Beckett happily sang their detectival hearts out in company with a strange assortment of others, about whose occupations they did not inquire. Their own occupations were sufficiently obvious that people tended not to stay to chat with them, although the choirmaster was very content to have them.

Now, post-rehearsal, Beckett and O'Leary had found their way to a bar – the same bar they always ended up in after choir practice – and were contentedly sipping beers in perfect harmony.

Until O'Leary's pale blue eyes gleamed with mischief and his lips moulded into an evil grin.

"So, butterfly" –

"Don't call me that, Bigfoot!"

"But it suits you."

Beckett growled and grumbled and groused. O'Leary merely grinned.

"Anyways, so who's this Castle guy you keep talkin' about?"

"You what now?" Beckett's beer adorned the table, along with her disgust.

"Waalllll, you been mentionin' him ev'ry other minute, so…"

Beckett punched O'Leary's arm, which had almost as much effect on him as a zephyr of breeze would on his buzz cut. "I do not!" she insisted.

"Do so. All about how annoyin' he is an' how he keeps pesterin' you an' how he's never away" –

"'S all true. He's a pain."

"Mm. Mebbe so. But what I ain't hearin' in there somewheres is you tellin' him to get gone."

"Can't."

"Don't believe you. Iffen you wanted him gone, he'd be gone." O'Leary smirked fit to have himself shot, if only Beckett had an elephant-suitable gun (not that she'd want to shoot an elephant: she loved elephants. The best day of her life had been meeting a baby elephant in the Zoo) instead of her Glock, which wouldn't make enough of an impact even at point-blank range.

"He's got Montgomery and the Mayor." She descended into beer and black muttering. O'Leary continued to grin evilly.

"I think you like him," he hummed. "You got that sparkle in your eye."

"What?" Beckett screeched. "I do not!"

"Don't make that noise. It hurts my delicate ears an' you won't be able to sing nicely – an' you want that solo to stay with you, don't you?"

More beer poured down the Beckett throat, to soothe the Beckett vocal cords, naturally. Of course she wanted to keep her solo. There wasn't a single other singer in the choir who could even come close to her. Well, none of the women, anyway. O'Leary had a great voice, if you ignored the way it made your bones shudder and the ceiling shake.

"Don't like him," she huffed.

"That's not what your mini-ME says, neither."

"You talked to Lanie? You…you…you rats!"

"Now, now," O'Leary soothed, patting her head. "You need somethin' that isn't yellin' at the boys an' shootin' lowlifes. You don't go out, an' you're not stayin' in with anyone, an' that ain't healthy. You need some fun. Spread those butterfly wings," he chortled.

"You sound just like Lanie," Beckett sulked.

"That's 'cause we're right."

"I'll shoot her, too."

"Naw. You won't shoot either of us, 'cause we're your pals."

"Just watch me."

"I'd have to arrest you, an' that wouldn't be any fun at all."

Beckett relapsed into another round of grousing and grumbling.

"Anyways, you should give it a go. Spirit of givin' and all that." He hummed a note. Annoyingly, O'Leary had perfect pitch. Not sufficiently under his breath, he sang, "Love came down at Christmas". Beckett did not join in. Instead, she glared at her beer bottle, which barely resisted shattering, and then at O'Leary, who simply smiled, infuriatingly not terrified or even mildly perturbed.

"Shut up."

"I wanna meet this guy."

"Not happening." Beckett pulled on the remains of her beer in a very conversation-ending fashion. "You were off-key in the final section of the cantata."

"I was not!" O'Leary squawked, indignation at full volume. The table wobbled. Beckett sniggered nastily. "Meanie," he sulked. "See if I compliment you next time we duet."

"You never do. So I won't miss anything."

Sometime later, they finished their beers and departed.

Castle, almost a week later, had discovered that there was no precinct choir, which was disappointing, but that a small choir existed almost around the corner. After a brief try-out, which took no longer than it did to establish that he was male, baritone, and not flat, he was told to arrive the following day, and given the music. Thankfully, it was largely traditional carols and Christmas choral pieces, most of which he already knew. Still, not wishing to be caught out or look foolish, he spent some time listening to YouTube renderings of the unfamiliar scores, and then brushed up on his sight reading, sadly neglected.

"What are you doing, darling?" his mother inquired, sipping – hang on, that was his good white wine, carefully hidden to avoid his mother drinking it all.

"Drowning my sorrows in song, since you've stolen the wine in which I planned to submerge them," he riposted.

His mother raised an elegant eyebrow. "I live here."

"I know," Castle sighed. "My booze bill tells me so, every week. Now pass over my wine, so that I can try it before you finish it."

His mother cocked an inquisitive eye at him. "Still moping about your detective's lack of interest? You need to find a new hobby."

"I have," he said smugly. "I've joined a choir."

"So that you'll be in tune when you try to serenade the girl?" she snipped.

"Indeed, Mother. Unlike your efforts last night, which were sadly off-key, no doubt due to the amount of wine – of mine – you had consumed."

Martha huffed, offended. "How unfair. I think you should devote your attention to charming your detective, because it's clear that you'll continue to act like a bear with a sore head until you manage it." She made a theatrical exit in high dudgeon, but still managed to take the glass and bottle with her.

Castle knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. He wasn't. His mother had irritated him, which was normal, and he'd bitten back, which wasn't. But he wasn't ashamed. He was tired of never getting to drink his own wine, tired of being twitted about Beckett, and tired of the endless dark and sleet-rain of early December. The joy of Thanksgiving had palled, and the joy of Christmas-tide hadn't yet shown itself.

He went out to his first venture into the choir in a less-than celebratory mood.

The small church that he entered almost instantly soothed his abraded emotions. It wasn't decorated – in fact, it was completely plain: whitewashed, no stained glass or carved woodwork, no ornament on the pews or pulpit – but it radiated peace, contentment, and a sense of infinite time and place: the greatness of the Spirit to whom it was dedicated. Castle wasn't a great church-goer, except Christmas and sometimes Easter, but he recognised and appreciated the faith of those who were.

He took a deep breath, greeted the choirmaster, and was directed to the back of the stalls.

"So," the choirmaster said to him, escorting him in case he lost his way in the ten yards or so, "it'll be nice to have another male voice. Baritone, you said?"

"Yeah."

"Great. We've got a bass, but there's only one of him, and a handful of tenors, but we really need more male voices. As ever, there are plenty of women, though there's one standout voice – pals with the bass. You can't miss her." He bustled off, having done his introductory duty, and Castle sat in a pew, waiting for whatever turned up next.

Wow. Whatever turned up next was a giant. Goliath. Gog or Magog – or a Titan from Greek lore. He was huge. His eyes fell on Castle, and he smiled, wide in his homely, blue-eyed face. It made him much less threatening, though no less large.

"Hey," he said. "You're new. Nice to see someone new. What d'you sing?"

"Baritone. I guess you're the bass?"

"Sure. I'm Colm." He held out a paw that would swamp Central Park.

"I'm Rick," Castle said, shook, and definitely didn't give his surname. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. How much singing have you done?"

"Used to do quite a lot, but I've been out for a while." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Sure do. I make time for this, but I ain't got much spare after that." They exchanged understandingly sympathetic glances. "You know the music?"

"Some of it. The carols and hymns, sure – as long as you're not doing completely new music?"

"Naw," Goliath drawled. "We keep it traditional-like."

"Good. So I know most of that, but I haven't sung the choral pieces before, I don't think. I can sight read, though, so I'll get by, and once I've heard it sung I'll pick it up better." He smiled self-deprecatingly, which wasn't something Castle often did. "If I'm not up to scratch I'll slink off," he said.

"If Ben's approved you" – Ben was obviously the choirmaster – "then you c'n sing. He'd know, an' nice as he is, if you can't sing, you wouldn't be here." Castle grinned. "Anyways, it's just about time to start. I c'n see the girls" – Castle blinked – "comin' in. Let's get settled."

Castle followed his new friend in standing up, but found himself at an angle where he couldn't really see the women through the tenors, who were (quite deliberately, he thought, knowing tenors) making sure that they had a perfect view of the female majority. He caught a flick of profile, framed in brunette hair, which reminded him of Beckett, but she'd never, ever mentioned that she could, would, or did sing; and her commentary on holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas had left him with a very clear impression that she'd see the whole world swallowed by a supernova before she managed an iota of celebration.

Warm-up over, after which Castle swore he could feel the marrow of his bones shivering from the sub-bass resonances of the monster beside him, they began on the main repertoire. After the first couple of well-known hymns, Colm looked down from Olympus and grinned. "You're better than you made out."

"So are you," Castle replied. "I've heard professionals do a lot worse."

Colm raised caterpillar eyebrows. "Do a lot of theatre stuff, do you?"

"Yeah. Grew up around it. I still go, when I've time."

Castle was being more than a little disingenuous, but he'd taken an instant liking to Colm-the-Colossus and he didn't want it spoiled by recognition. Colm hadn't recognised him – or was one hell of an actor – and that was just fine.

The choirmaster recalled them to their music. The carols continued – Good King Wenceslas, God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, The Holly and The Ivy – and the traditional hymns, sung with full heart and lungs.

"Okay," Ben said. "We'll do the full cantata, and then we'll finish off with the solos.

Colm grinned. "Not much in the way of bass solos. All for those pretty-pretty tenor voices."

The Christmas cantata took much more work. Time and again they were stopped and restarted; until everyone was sick of it.

"Enough," Ben pronounced. "We'll come back to it next time. Let's finish off with the solos. The Saviour of the World is Born first."

The tenor was good, somewhat to Castle's surprise, but confined to the first verse, after which the rest of the choir joined in.

"Lovely," Ben complimented. The tenor, in the way of all tenors of Castle's acquaintance, preened; and sneaked peeks for adoring glances from the soprano and alto sections, which were not much in evidence, unlike his disappointment. "Now, last one – Once in Royal David's City." He gave the signal.

Castle's mouth fell open. The female voice that opened the hymn was breathtakingly beautiful: not a true soprano but a beautiful, velvety mezzo that coated the church with sound; filling every space with the meaning of the season. He was so struck by the voice that he almost missed the entrance of the rest of the choir, and it took a nudge from Colm to recall him to reality.

"Liked the solo, did you?" Colm grinned.

"Gorgeous," Castle admitted with total sincerity.

"Whyn't you come for a drink?"

"Uh, okay."

"Meet the singer. Don't look like you're married, an' I guess you ain't got a girlfriend right now either, 'cause she'd have come along with you."

"Only if she liked singing. But no, I don't have anyone right now." He had a sudden, wistful thought of Beckett, but that was a pipe dream. "Yeah, I'll come for a drink."

"Okay, let's go. She'll catch us up. It's my turn to get the beers in" –

"I'll buy."

"You c'n get the second round. That way you'll know what we like."

"Sounds good," Castle acquiesced, and they sauntered off, perfectly in harmony.

Beckett had only just made choir on time, though (she thought) at least she hadn't been delayed by Castle propounding ridiculous theories and generally getting in the way. She hadn't seen him since mid-afternoon, which she told herself was a good thing. She took her place, and noticed vaguely, through the thicket of tenors, that there appeared to be a new person, mostly hidden by O'Leary's bulk. She didn't think any more of it, though she did notice the baritone input, and enjoyed it. It was a good voice, if a little uncertain on the choral pieces.

She poured her heart into her solo verse, and even Ben's face lit with appreciation. He held her back afterwards, and though his praise was measured and moderate it was sincere; meaning far more than the words. They discussed ways to make it even better, which occupied several minutes, until Beckett's phone buzzed.

"Sorry, I gotta take this," she said, already halfway to swiping before she realised that it wasn't the precinct but O'Leary. "Yes?"

"Where are you? I got your beer in already an' it's gettin' warm."

"There shortly," Beckett said, and cut the call.

"You'll be at the next rehearsal?"

"Sure. Wouldn't miss it."

"Night," Ben called after her as she swung briskly out of the door.

O'Leary settled himself down with his new pal, and behind a bland face and limpidly innocent eyes considered the chances of Beckett killing him three femto-seconds after she walked into the bar. He had, being a devoted fan of Derrick Storm – and an even more interested reader of Nikki Heat – recognised Richard Castle the moment he'd entered the church, but the man hadn't given a surname and hadn't evinced any knowledge of O'Leary. Therefore, Beckett had never mentioned him – and therefore, he could truthfully claim first acquaintance.

It still wouldn't stop Beckett killing him, of course – or trying, in which she wouldn't be successful. But O'Leary had sat through a lot of beers where Beckett had unwittingly mentioned Castle three sentences out of every four, and he thought that she just needed some encouragement.

And tonight, serendipitously, encouragement had walked into their choir. Now, wasn't that just a heaven-sent sign? Anyways, he liked the man. No arrogance, no references to his theatre past, no attempts to play the star or show off. Just singing, with winces for his occasional mistakes, and a clear determination to do better. Nice guy. O'Leary crossed his sausage-sized fingers under the table, and then raised his hands to wave at Beckett, who had just come into the bar.

"Here's our soloist now," he said.

Castle turned his head – and choked on his beer.

Beckett walked up, stared at O'Leary's new pal, and choked without any beer at all. "What the hell?!"

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. All logged in reviews are answered, all guest reviews are greatly appreciated.

Unusually, I'm starting to post this just a little in advance of finishing, but I don't think that'll change the usual schedule: Tue/Thu/Sun, around 2pm EST/7pm GMT. Probably 10 chapters, for those who like to know these things.

Colm O'Leary is my own, and is a major character in my original novels, Death in Focus (1) and Death in Camera (2), both on Amazon under SR Garrae. I recommend them as Christmas presents, for yourself or for others. The third in the series is in progress.

Note that FF is currently messing with the alert system, and PM alerts are not getting through, though the actual message does arrive. As far as I can tell, review alerts happen normally.