He's driving her crazy. Stark-raving mad, bat-shit, crazy.

It's three days before Christmas and she should be happy, filled with holiday spirit and thrilled that they are spending their first real Christmas together. She's not. She's about ready to shoot him and she's pretty sure it would be justifiable. The man has led her on a wild goose chase all damn day. Nobody would convict her. He's on a mission to find the "perfect" tree and she's thoroughly convinced that it does not exist. It couldn't. Not when they've spent the last eight hours cooped up in her cruiser – because you can't strap a tree to the roof of a Ferrari or Benz - driving from one corner of Long Island to the other, looking for "the one."

They've been to six different lots. Trudged through miles of slushy ground and eaten lunch at a truck stop somewhere in Suffolk County because he couldn't just order a tree or browse the selections of the fine vendors in the city. Oh no. Her maddening boyfriend is a 'choose and cut' kind of guy.

His fingers tap on the dash as she presses a little too hard on the accelerator and aims the Crown Vic towards the last on his list of tree farms.

"Jeez," he says. "Slow down, we've got all day."

No. Actually they don't. The sun is low in the sky, the windows are fogged up, the heat in the car is suffocating and dry, and every time she rolls down a window to let in a little fresh air he complains that he can't feel his face.

She presses harder on the pedal in response to his whining. She grinds her teeth and refrains from replying vocally. It wouldn't be pretty.

The miles fly by, an endless stretch of white and grey, a sprinkling of emerald where evergreens remain standing. The tap, tap, tap of his fingers and the sideways glances he's giving her, are slowly turning her blood to a bubbling pool of molten lava. When she comes to a straight stretch of freeway, she looks over to him, raises a brow and lets her eye flit back and forth between his thrumming fingers and his oblivious face.

He gets the hint and stops with the tapping. She breathes a sigh of relief.

It doesn't last long.

"You didn't have to come," he says. She's looking at the road but she knows he's sporting an impressive pout.

The tree farm is half a mile ahead according to a weathered sign on the side of the road. She speeds up, throws the car into the parking lot and finally turns to face him. Her knuckles grip tightly on the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel, her nails – she's let them grow out, having been off work for two weeks – dig painfully into her palms.

"I didn't have to come?" she repeats, incredulous.

He had practically begged her to come. She'd shown some skepticism in the wisdom of leaving town for a tree when there were a hundred and one perfectly fine places selling trees within the borders of Manhattan. He had won her over with a boyish smile and the promise that it would be quick. They'd be back in time for lunch, he had said. She can still taste the gas station hot dog, metallic and mysterious in its ingredients. The wrapper had said, 'all beef'. She wonders exactly what part of the cow had gone into the greasy and limp tube of meat. She wonders how a bun that had sat in a steamer for god knows how long managed to be so very dry. She wonders what kind of a hot dog vendor doesn't also provide mustard or ketchup.

"I…" he gulps. "It's just, you seemed like you wanted to?"

And she had. Yesterday, before today happened.

"I did. Before I realized that buying a tree with you would be akin to searching for a wedding dress, rather than a quick trip to buy a hunk of wood that will be brown and sitting on the curb within a week."

His face relaxes, the pained and slightly confused expression lifted by what she's said.

"You've been searching for a wedding dress?"

Shit. He wasn't supposed to know about that. In the evening, while he writes, she sits cocooned among a half dozen pillows on their bed, browsing the internet. She has found herself repeatedly drawn back to websites full of sparkling diamonds and shiny platinum. It's bad enough that she knows what kind of ring she wants when he hasn't shown any indication of asking, it's worse that she just let it slip that dresses are on her mind. The sites selling wedding dresses are even worse than the jewelers. V-neck or halter? Empire or drop waist? There are a hundred different options and none of them quite call to her. And yet… she is powerless to stop clicking 'next.'

"That's not the point, Castle."

"I think you'd look great in a scoop-neck," he continues, completely ignoring her comment. "It'd show off your collarbones. You know how I love your collarbones."

His eyebrows waggle and he leers in her direction, bringing up memories of last night. She huffs. She's mad at him, damn it.

Damn him, too. He's right. She hadn't even considered a scoop-neck. She loved all the 'V's but could never find the perfect one, something about them not feeling quite right. But a scoop would be low enough to be sexy, and high enough to cover the scar. She doesn't want him to have a reminder of their worst day while she's walking down the aisle. She's slightly worried that he even knows these things; both the construction of a dress and the apparent direct link to her subconscious.

His fingers begin to tap again in the stretched out silence. Any thoughts of forgiving him are thrown out the window with the thump of skin on plastic.

"Let's just go get the damn tree."

"Fine," he says.

"Fine," she agrees, slamming the door before trudging up behind him.

The farm is almost deserted. The sun is setting and a man dressed in a thick coat sits huddled over a fire that burns in an old fifty gallon drum.

"Lot closes in half an hour," he calls, not getting up. "Come and get me when you find one and I'll cut it down and wrap it up."

"You mind if we chop it ourselves?" Castle asks.

She rolls her eyes behind his back. The romance of chopping their own tree lost its luster three or four farms ago.

The man points to a rack by the first row of trees. "Knock yourself out."

Castle perks up and runs ahead; Kate takes a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh and hurries to catch up with him. God, she hopes there's a tree that meets his criteria in this lot. Their chances can only diminish as the days until Christmas tick along.

"How 'bout this one?" she asks, as they wander down a row of Douglas firs.

"Eh…" She takes a deep breath and wills herself not to smack him upside the head. It's tall, at least ten feet, it's bushy, and it's green. What more does he want? "We'll know it when we see it," he says.

"Is this one of those 'magic' things, Rick?"

"I thought you had warmed to the idea of magic?"

She had. She has. But she had had plans for tonight, a little magic of her own. Between a short, red number that she'd picked up at Victoria's Secret, and a good bottle of Pinot, she wouldn't have needed an "alakazam" to enchant him.

The sun has set, the air is frigid; she just wants an aspirin and an open fire. Perhaps a second bottle of wine to sooth her nerves.

"At this point I'd just like to be warm," she says.

"Touché, Detective."

His face says it all. Hurt and resignation swims in his eyes, his jaw is set in a determined line. He turns toward the tree, carrying the axe.

She feels awful. He has unknowingly spoiled the surprise, her plans of wining and dining him, of wowing him with sexy underwear. His unbridled enthusiasm had gotten in the way, but he's not to blame; he couldn't have known. She however, has tainted his wide-eyed enthusiasm because she woke up with a headache and the car's stale heater had only made it worse. Instead of letting him know, she'd plastered on a happy face and hoped for the best. She's been taking it out on him all day with her lack of patience and inability to share in his fervor.

She tilts her head up, closing her eyes and willing the universe to give her the answers, to help her get their day back on track. When they had woken this morning, she'd been so looking forward to sharing in this tradition with him.

Something cold lands on her cheek, and then again, a prick of sensation on her eyelid. One and then another until she smiles. She opens her eyes slowly, watches as the tiny little specks flutter down to earth.

It's snowing. It lands on his shoulders and dusts his hair with white flecks that disappear almost as soon as they materialize. He's raising the axe, his shoulders flexing and his strong arms bulking up as he prepares to make the first swing. It's not exactly a sign, but it's magical none the less.

"Rick, wait…" she says, gently touching his shoulder.

His arm lowers, the axe dangling uselessly at his side. He turns to her, his face weary, a forced smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He recoils a little, and she doesn't blame him. After all, it's not often she apologizes with words. She's more of a shower than a teller.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, softer this time. "Let's go find our tree."

He smiles and takes her hand, his eyes twinkling and his cheeks rosy from the cold.

"And there's my girl."

She rolls her eyes for the girl comment but snuggles into his side anyway. She kind of likes being his girl. In the past, the phrase would have set off alarms and sent her running; with him, it feels right.

It doesn't take them long to find a tree once they are back in synch. They wander for a bit, weaving between the rows and fingering needles as they pass trees both magnificent and spindly; none of them quite right. They turn out of a row and find themselves in an open field.

The area has been reduced to nothing but stumps and turned-over soil. Boot tracks and drag marks are all over the expanse. And there, amongst the ruins of what must have once held the oldest and largest firs, sits a poor excuse for a Christmas tree.

It is tall, she will give it that; at least ten feet. But its branches droop and it's a bit… thin in spots. On one side the branches protrude further than the other, giving the tree an asymmetrical line that does nothing to add to its attractiveness. Still…

"She's beautiful," he says.

Snow has accumulated in the barer patches, a light dusting hiding its flaws. The moonlight lends an eerie and colorful sparkle as the ice reflects its glow. It's not perfect, not by any means, but she feels for this tree. Ridiculous as that might sound. No doubt she was once full and beautiful, a majestic fir with a lumpy rear-end. This single flaw had let her be passed over time and time again until she had begun to wilt under her own weight. Still, she stands; grand and regal amongst the ruins of other trees that have probably begun to turn brown in their temporary homes. He's right, she is beautiful.

God. When did she begin referring to trees as 'she'? Oh, right… She's in love with Rick Castle.

"She?" she questions with a grin and a raised brow.

"Well, look at her ass," he laughs, "no way that kind of butt belongs on a man."

She lets her eyes slowly travel down his body and toward his rear. Ignorance must really be bliss.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately, Rick?" She grabs a handful of his meaty cheeks and digs her fingers into his flesh, lining up their hips and speaking into his ear. He's right; most men she has known have had little to no ass whatsoever. She has appreciated his rounder than average rear-end for years; since well before she permitted herself to enjoy a piece of it. "Not that I'm complaining, but you're packing quite a load of junk in your own trunk, Mr. Castle."

He huffs and pulls her tighter into his embrace. "Nothing about this ass is junk, Ms. Beckett," he says, flexing his muscles, effectively pushing his hips further into hers. She feels how the close quarters are already affecting him, up against her belly.

"Time and a place," she scolds with a grin.

They simply cannot start something in the middle of a field, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter. There's adventurous, and then there's just plain crazy.

Instead, she removes her hands and slides them up his body. She rests her palms on his jaw, allows her fingers to rest below his ears, the soft pads of her fingers grazing along the rough stubble.

She's glad that he didn't bother to shave in his eagerness to go tree shopping; she's told him about her love for the facial hair, even tried to cajole him into keeping it by calling him ruggedly handsome. But he refuses. She thinks it has something to do with his past, about proving something to her and to the world about the man Richard Castle has become.

He says it's so he doesn't hurt her when he's engaging in one of his most favorite pastimes. And she can't very well argue with that, can she? The man is a master; with his tongue and his talented mouth, below the belt.

She lets her thumbs run over the prickly whiskers on his jawline. He leans in, almost imperceptibly, and she thinks he's going to kiss her.

"Feels like a good time to me," he murmurs against her face.

His breath comes out in hot puffs against the chilled skin on her cheeks, their noses bumping and nudging at each other. Twin smiles, lip to lip, not quite kissing, but not exactly platonic, line up and press to each other. They sway. Standing in the moonlight, in a barren field, and shivering with both the warmth of each other's touches and the bitter cold of the night, they sway to a melody that speaks of endurance and acceptance, openness and love.

Reluctantly, she's the first to break the spell.

She pulls his bottom lip into her mouth, suckles for a moment, until he lets out a groan. It's then that she releases his mouth. Perhaps this night can be salvaged after all. Her headache has gone now, replaced by the happy buzz of endorphins and the comfort that his embrace provides. It's late, but she has nowhere to be tomorrow. She's off until the New Year, the threat of "use it, or lose it", for the first time in her career, actually carrying weight. She took all her vacation time and if she wants to sleep in until noon, then she will.

She lays one last peck on his lips and he moves to drag her back in with his mouth. She pulls away and playfully slaps him on the chest.

"Go cut down our tree, lumberjack."

He pouts.

"I'd prefer to continue this," he says, darting forward and snagging her lips with his own. His tongue trails a seductive path along her lips and she savors it for a few moments more before tugging herself away.

"I'll make it worth your while…"

That perks him right up, and successfully removes him from her mouth.

"Dear God, I am hoping you are talking sexy payback and not monetary. I'm a wealthy man you know; I have no need for your gratuities."

"Oh, I won't be the one leaving a tip by the time we're done, Castle."

She runs a nail up his chest, smirking as he tracks her meandering path with his eyes. "But I think you'll be feeling very grateful once I'm finished with you."

He stands still, staring at her in wonder, looking a little slack-jawed and a lot turned on. She removes her finger and smiles lazily at him.

"The tree, Rick. Cut it down."

He doesn't need to be told again, it's the fastest she's seen him move all day.

Thanks to everyone on Twitter for the push to write this. It was just the diversion I needed to get back into the swing of things writing-wise.

To Deb and Avi for giving it a once over and not hating it. Muah!