For Bingblot, who said that they wanted to see Castle's point of view in Naughty or Nice?… Happy Christmas.

This is rather an experiment. I've never tried to write the second side of one of these short M-fluffs before, so I'm sorry if it seems repetitious.

Chapter 1: Choosing a gift

"You want to do what?"

When Lanie rings Castle mid-afternoon, his first thought is not that Christmas has come early, but that Lanie has been ingesting embalming fluid.

"Kate needs some fun. So I'm taking her out to a Christmas-themed bar. Stop flapping, Castle. We all know you want to provide her with some fun." Castle gibbers.

"You are insane. You're going to try – you'll never succeed – to dress Beckett up for Christmas, take her to a Christmas-themed bar – how? – and lie to her that I won't show up? Do you have a death wish? She'll kill you. Then she'll shoot me, for being an accessory."

Lanie's lubricious grin is actually audible in her tone. "Not if you do it right."

"Lanie!" This is such a bad idea. This is such a bad idea he has no idea why he's even considering it. In fact, he isn't. Even if he's been dreaming about kissing Beckett for years. He doesn't need Lanie to set him up. He can arrange his own dates with Beckett. He can. He just hasn't, because he thought she needed time.

"For Chrissake, Castle. You two spread enough sexual tension around to turn the whole of Manhattan into a strip joint – and it's not all coming from you. Here's your chance."

Castle is not at all convinced by Lanie's plan. But Lanie knows Beckett better than anyone, and if she, Lanie, thinks that Beckett might finally be receptive… But he is not doing this Lanie's way. Absolutely not.

Castle's devious mind concocts a plan without pausing for breath. Beckett hates fuss, muss, dressing up and Christmas. So…She's going to hate this. He'll provide an escape route, and she'll jump at it. Lanie's never going to be able to force Beckett into a costume, no matter how hard she tries. But Beckett would sell her soul to the devil to get out the bar and the situation Lanie's planning to set up.

He has another thought. He'll arrange a sleigh. Well, it might be just a little hard to find a sleigh on short notice, and in among his extensive collection of guys he knows, even he does not know Santa. Still, if he can't find a sleigh he can certainly find a horse-drawn carriage, and stock it with warm blankets into which the pair of them can snuggle romantically. Arm round shoulders, blankets covering them, and he's sure that he can at least steal a peck on the cheek.

"Okay. But you get to pay my medical bills."

"Sure. I won't need to, though." She sniggers. "You'll thank me for it."

Castle is entirely unconvinced of that too. He still thinks that this is a dreadful idea, likely to produce pain and suffering rather than comfort and joy. But he knows that Beckett will hate Lanie's plan far, far more, and he can always save her the embarrassment and unhappiness of being stuck in a Christmas-themed bar.

Lanie is still talking. "I'll get her there in costume" – you are on something, Lanie, which is undoubtedly illegal – "and let you know we're there. After that, it's all up to you." He swears that he could hear a dirty laugh as she rings off. It occurs to him that Lanie hasn't told him what sort of a costume Beckett will – or, much more likely, won't – wear. He cannot imagine Beckett in a Christmas costume. Lots of other forms of dress, or preferably undress, but not a Christmas costume.

He makes a couple of calls to sort out preliminary arrangements, deals with the slight problem that he has no idea what time he will want the carriage by the simple means of hiring it to wait at the bar for the whole night if necessary, (money may not buy happiness but it sure does help), and is perfectly satisfied that everything is in order.

He's ready when his phone chimes with a text from Lanie. Okay, we're here. Kate's not impressed. Well, that should make rescuing her pretty easy. He looks out the window and regards the falling snow with enthusiasm. He likes snow, and this will all be much nicer with pretty white snow rather than the rather dirty Manhattan semi-slush. He bounces off to the bar, not forgetting his nice warm coat. It's cold.

The bar is packed solid with Christmas costumes of all shapes and sizes. He can spot Lanie – those flashing lights are really not required to draw attention to her assets: all you have to do is note the direction of every male eye: every single one of the many men around her is paying them considerable attention. There's Ryan – oh God, how can the man wear a tie with a Santa suit? No appreciation of the art of costumery at all. None. The tie is quite good, though. He likes the flashing Rudolph-nose. Very much in the Christmas spirit. He looks around some more – he hasn't spotted Esposito yet – oh. Oh boy. He snorts. He's severely tempted to take several photos and distribute them around the Twelfth, if only he wasn't nearly as scared of Esposito in a temper as he is of Beckett. But Esposito as an elf? How the hell did Lanie achieve that? It takes him quite a few moments to control himself.

What he hasn't found is a Beckett. He can't yet see anyone – except himself, he had considered dressing up and really regrets that he can't, but he's intending to take Beckett for a sleigh ride and he doesn't feel that dressing up will really help the romantic mood he'd like to create – in ordinary dress. He pushes rather deeper into the crowded bar.

Ah. That must be Beckett. All he can see is red – must be that jacket she sometimes wears – but he knows it's Beckett because of the pitch-black storm-cloud over the bar stool she's sitting on and the isolation zone around her. She sure isn't happy. He eases a little closer, and cases the space around her. Hmm. Every barfly in here is leering her way. From this angle, although leering at Beckett is an instinctive reaction that is probably built into the Y-chromosome, (and some X-chromosomes too, he expects) he can't see anything that would trigger the brain-fried looks that she's receiving.

Lanie brushes up to him. "You got here. Good. Ryan's just leaving. That boy is so whipped. I've had a good offer to go somewhere else. Javi is occupied. Tell Kate I'll see her when I've got some results, or tomorrow." And she's gone. Castle stares after her. That was a tactical retreat if ever he's seen one. Still, he'd better venture into the blast zone.

He gets close enough to see what Beckett's wearing. Oh fuck. That is not her red jacket. He stands and gapes. How did Lanie manage this? Oh oh oh. Legs. Legs legs legs. Legs. He becomes aware, with some embarrassment, that he is drooling. Those legs. Beckett in a Santa dress. Where did Lanie find it? No wonder everyone is brain-dead. It's so short he bets she can't bend over, and cut low at the top, though there's a flirty little cape around her shoulders. Legs, his overheated brain screams. He forcibly closes his mouth and tries to recover some game. Eventually, just in time, it arrives. Its arrival stops him hauling her up against him, kissing hell out her, and then dragging her out the bar to the nearest available wall. So not cool.

"Well, now," he husks in her ear. She jumps, and then looks absolutely horrified, and then produces a glare that would destroy missiles. He improves the shining Christmas hour. Beckett in a sexy Santa dress is definitely Christmas coming early. "If I'd known that Santa looked like this I'd have behaved a lot better. I never imagined that Santa came in a female variety." He makes it perfectly obvious that he's appreciating her figure. Mostly her legs. Her legs are gorgeous. Her legs should be worshipped. Her legs deserve his full attention for a considerable period. "This is so much better than a fat, bearded, old man." Oh yes. He certainly wouldn't be thinking the thoughts that he is thinking about a man. His thoughts are very, very naughty – and would be very, very nice. "Mmmm."

"I shouldn't think Santa will visit you, Castle. Santa only visits good children." Classic Beckett snark. Well, he's good. Not a child – but still, Beckett makes it pretty clear that she regards him as one, so he'll just use that against her.

"You're always telling me that I'm a child. A – what was it? Oh yes – nine-year old on a sugar rush. So I'm sure Santa will visit. And I've been very good, all year. I'm very, very good. When Santa arrives in my bedroom late at night, she won't be leaving coal. Or leaving disappointed." He can't help licking his lips. He's perfectly certain he wouldn't disappoint Beckett. And seeing her like this, he is perfectly desperate for her to arrive in his bedroom, any time. Now. He sees a little spark flicker in her eyes: a Christmas candle flame of desire.

"She won't be disappointed because she won't be there at all. Santa doesn't exist. And even if Santa did exist he's male. Old and fat." No Christmas spirit at all there, Beckett. And her glass is empty – whiskey? She really will sell her soul to get out of this.

"Clearly that's not true. Santa's right here, and she doesn't look old, fat or male to me." He notes the still-live spark in her eye, and presses in a little. She doesn't seem to notice, and she hasn't shot him yet. "Want another?" When she nods, he acquires two. Christmas is a time for sharing, after all.

"What happened to your Christmas costume?" More snark. She's tugging at the edge of the skirt, trying to lengthen it. He doesn't like that. He likes the legs. (legs legs legs) He tries putting a hand on her knee. The electric shock runs right up his arm and blazes through his brain. She hasn't noticed that either, but her eyes are beginning to darken.

"Wouldn't you like to see my contribution to Christmas costumes, Beckett? Or you could come and see my Christmas tree. Having a big one is so important, don't you agree?" He smirks. He can keep this up all night. He's hoping to keep other things up all night, too, because he has the distinct impression that Beckett is a lot more interested in him than she's ever previously admitted. If not, she'd have broken his fingers by now. He sneaks them a little higher up, and gets away with it.

"Size is irrelevant. It's how you decorate it that counts." Game on.

"You could help me… decorate. It's so much more fun with two. Makes… placing the decorations… so much nicer." Come on, Beckett. Help me decorate. My bedroom could do with some decoration. "I'm sure I've been good all year. But maybe Santa needs a little more evidence." He'll provide plenty of evidence of how good he can be.

"Bit late, Castle. This close to Christmas, it's all decided."

"I don't think so. I think Santa takes account of your behaviour right up till the last minute." He slips his other arm round her shoulders, under this astonishingly strokable cape. Velvet. Red velvet. It just begs to be petted. He draws a little Christmas pattern on the soft skin of her shoulders. She wriggles. He's fairly sure that his smile is now openly predatory. "Her opinion could be changed. Couldn't it? I'm sure Santa keeps an open mind." This Santa could also usefully have open lips, preferably pressed against his. She's produced that patented look of scepticism complete with raised eyebrow, which is absolutely not the right look. He tugs her up – how convenient that she was trying to pull his hand off her leg (legs legs legs, his hindbrain squawks) and realises that she's even taller than usual. He'd only have to lean forward an inch… this is a very unhelpful thought. He's in public.

"Where's Lanie? Where are Ryan and Esposito?" Nothing like changing the subject, Beckett.

"Well… Lanie went off with someone and said she'd see you tomorrow, or whenever she had some lab results. Ryan went home, and Esposito's chatting up another cop in the corner over there." He is certain that Beckett is planning unsolvable murder on all three of them. Time to move this along. She's downed that whiskey in short order, and it's time to rescue her. He scowls over her head at the barflies and leering masses, who take another step backwards. Beckett's not the only one who can do intimidation.

He tugs, hopefully. She wasn't expecting that, clearly. Because now she's all pressed against him and that is doing nothing for his control and suavity. "Come on, Beckett. Let's get out of here. C'mon. I've got a surprise for us." They'd better get out of here. He can't cope with those legs (legs legs legs!) for much longer.

It's still snowing. Mmmmm. But Beckett is not going to last long in that piece of beautiful but scanty wrapping. It doesn't cover anything like enough for her to be warm. Where's the carriage? It should be right here. She's shivering already.

"You're cold," he says, helpfully, and tucks her as closely in as he can manage.

"Yeah, genius. This outfit is not warm."

"No. It wasn't designed for warmth, was it?" It was designed to be taken off. Slowly, to ensure that the wearer stays warm. Not to say hot.

"It wasn't my idea, either," Beckett shivers again. "When I get hold of Lanie…" Castle is glad he isn't Lanie. For more reasons than the obvious. Thank heavens, there's the carriage.

"There we are. Santa needs a sleigh," he says happily – and annoyingly. She scrambles in – ooh, the view – and buries herself in as many blankets as she can manage without quite disappearing. He understands why, but he definitely regrets the loss of the legs (legs legs legs) into fluffy woolly fabric. He bounces up beside her and rearranges the coverings until he's tucked in beside her without a single blanket between them.

"I couldn't get a sleigh, so this was the next best thing. So here you are."

Uh-oh. She's just worked out that this isn't a coincidence. He loves how intelligent she is – but not when it's likely to lead to his demise.

"Castle," she says ominously, "how did you manage to arrange this in the few moments you were in the bar without actually touching your phone?" There is a short silence, Castle thinking that discretion is very much the better part of valour. "Castle? Lanie told you, didn't she? That… That…" You're using very naughty language in your head, Beckett. "When I get my hands on Lanie I will" – And those thoughts aren't polite, either. Anyway. The carriage has moved off, Beckett's incredible legs (legs legs legs) are pressed against him, and no-one can see what his free hand is doing. Time to see if he can't bring Santa-Beckett some Christmas cheer. He drops into a more seductive voice.

"I'd much rather you used your hands for delivering presents," he growls, and slips his hand on to her knee, stretching his fingers a little northward and drawing interesting little squiggles upwards as far as he can readily reach. Her breathing changes. "Santa's supposed to bring joy and happiness. Like this." He turns her round and kisses her far too briefly. (If he kisses her properly he might never stop.) Now to see what she really wants. If she doesn't shoot him, or maim him, or object at all, he'll know he's allowed to carry on.

None of the above happen. Instead, she wriggles enticingly, leans in and kisses him in a very naughty manner indeed. Isn't Santa supposed to be nice, not naughty? Though Castle likes this naughty, sexy Santa very much. Her hand is on his knee. Well, thereabouts, anyway. His hand rises slightly, towards the hem of that very, very short skirt. Her legs feel very, very nice under his fingers. His hand rises a lot further. She likes that, from the way she's kissing him now. She's definitely not objecting. He really likes this Santa. She deserves that he should be very good. Very, very good. He kisses her a lot harder, and touches her in a way that should stay firmly out of public view. The carriage reaches her block just before she starts something in return that he couldn't stop. His hand was not the only one which was wandering.

Santa should get presents, he decides slightly hazily, in the elevator. Lots and lots of presents. He crowds against Beckett as she opens the door, rigidly upright. Bit like he is, really. He barely waits for the door to shut before he's dragged her up into him and tasted those full lips and that sensual mouth properly. He's dreamed about the way she tastes. Right now she tastes of rye whiskey and Christmas and heaven. His busy mind starts down a rather different path, though one that he's been contemplating for a while now, designed to ensure that he gets to kiss Beckett a lot more. A lot more. All the time, in fact. It's only fair to give her a present that, on current evidence, she'll really, really like.

"I've always thought it was rather unfair," he says insinuatingly, "that Santa only got a small glass of juice." He kisses her again, deeply, because he really cannot resist her in the slightest and she's so into this too. It really is Christmas come all at once. "She deserves so much more." She curves into him and slides her hands up round his neck and she can do that for the rest of his life. Beckett plastered against him is just plain perfect. Well, not quite perfect. She still has clothes on. So does he. But from the sexy, husky tone she's using now, that won't last.

"Maybe you should prove that you're a good boy." Is that a challenge, Beckett? Really?

"I'm very, very good. But I'm not a boy." Now to teach Beckett that he's no child. She squirms when he nibbles her ear. "I'm very definitely all man," he purrs. He presses her close and rolls against her. Not too much. He wants this to last. Santa-Beckett deserves presents, and presents are always best when they've been… anticipated… for a while. He slides the cape off, and strokes over her skin. She feels so good under his hands. He takes a good look at the dress. Well. Half a dress. It's just about decent at both top and bottom. Wow. (legs legs legs) His hindbrain hasn't stopped screaming about her legs since he got a good look in the bar. But he's had a chance to play with her legs. Other areas deserve attention.

"Santa definitely never looked like that when I was growing up. I would never have done this to the Santa in the mall." He runs his tongue over her neckline, looks up and sees her eyes huge and dark and hot, all for him. Best. Santa. Ever. He smiles, slowly.

"I like this Santa much better. Santa works so hard" – he dips his fingers under the neckline and slips them down to play with the curves and the edge of lace and then the hard points – "that she deserves a break. A gift of her own. Something she'll really enjoy." He knows she's already enjoying this. She's panting slightly and pushing into his naughty hands and curving against him and her mouth is a little open and her lips glistening and this is the sexiest Santa imaginable and she's all his.

And then she kisses him deep and dirty and there's only one place this is going now because she's just palmed his ass and rocked into him and she's exactly where he wants her.

"Have you been good, Castle?" she whispers filthily into his ear, and licks the shell. "Only good boys get a present from Santa."

Hope that Santa (or local equivalent) has been good to you all, and that the holiday season brings peace and happiness.

Chapter 2 tomorrow, as usual.