So apparently I have a reputation as the pregnancy fic author cause a nonnie on Tumblr requested a Kastle pregnancy. It was supposed to be maybe 2K at most, but it sort of got away from me, cause it's currently at 6K and I don't think I've even hit the climax. So I broke it up into pieces, and this little thing was born.

Title is from Scar Tissue by Red Hot Chili Peppers, because I've had them on repeat and I can't stop humming most of their stuff.

Please enjoy, or let yourself fall further into this pit that is Kastle. I'm already down here, waiting . . .

David likes to think he's a good man with a rotten streak of luck. It's not that he ever wanted to be in the position that life had thrown him. He just sort of ended up there because, again, life was a sick bastard.

But sometimes, as he rationalizes, good men have to do slightly less golden things. Such as this, sitting at his desk and flipping through street cameras. It wasn't really great behavior, as the government would certainly like to hear of this, but in his mind, it was necessary.

Someone had to make sure Page was okay. Frank was still too caught up in his own head to do it himself, love lorn as he was, and so the responsibility fell to David.

Not that Frank knew about this. If he knew, David had a feeling he wouldn't be walking straight for a few days.

But really, someone had to make sure she was alright. Gun or not, Karen needed someone to keep an eye out. She didn't have many acquaintances. A lawyer bloke showed up occasionally, but not enough to satisfy David. Karen needed someone to make sure she didn't vanish into New York's buzz without a trace.

So every few days David taps into the security camera aimed to her windowsill, and makes sure the white roses Frank had left were still being so meticulously cared for. Healthy plants were a sign of a healthy mind, after all.

Eight months this goes on, Frank seemingly keeping his distance from Page's apartment but in regular contact with David. The roses bloom repeatedly. Until one week they don't.

Their petals wilt and warp and leaves begin to lose their luster, and Karen makes no attempt to keep them afloat outside of occasionally dumping a half empty glass on them.

He catches sight of her, once. Her eyes are rimmed red and hair frizzy and clothes casual, so outside of the skirts and blouses he'd attributed to her. Something's wrong.

But he says nothing, because Frank would have his head on a platter if he knew he'd been watching the tall blonde reporter behind his back. It's not as if she's any danger, either, just seemingly copious amounts of stress and a dash of depression.

That doesn't mean David doesn't drop hints, though. Dinners with Frank are a bimonthly affair, and he makes sure to bring up at least two articles of hers before Frank shuts him down with that glare.

But one day he's lucky enough to catch Page moving about in her apartment, something clutched in her hand, her movements tired but fueled.

She wrenches open the window, reaches for the roses, and jabs a white stick in the soil. Her eyes shoot a pointed glare directly at the camera before she disappears back inside, slamming the window and tugging the curtains shut.

David wastes no time in zooming in on the planter, and then promptly chokes on his tea.

Shit.

Here's the thing about Frank:

He's loyal to a fault. His hands are rough and caring, and regardless of how much the air between them seems to shift, he's always there for her. Not in your typical nine to five way, but he gives what he can, and it's good enough for a lonely Karen Page.

The more she gets to know him outside of his crusades, the more she realizes he's actually a huge dork. He's the sort of guy who gets excited over different coffee brews and will never pass up older comedies when he's surfing channels. And he's actually a huge sucker for animals, which may not come as that big of a surprise, but there was a time in mid April when he carried an orphaned squirrel kit in his pocket.

Frank's a dork. She loves that.

Not that he knows it. Or maybe he does and simply doesn't mention it. She tries not to think too hard about it. Being more than a little in love with him is complicated enough.

It's complicated because she's sure she was never supposed to feel for him this way. She wasn't supposed to stare at his lips and ass and get lost in his eyes and want to rub her fingers along the calluses on his hands. She wasn't supposed to find understanding and trust in him. To find a man who knew what it was like to have hit fuck up after fuck up and yet to somehow still be here today. How to push through every single thing that had come in the way to try to find happiness.

Sure, Karen thought joy was futile. Everything comes and goes. But that didn't mean little sparks didn't crop up all over the place, sometimes more around Frank than others.

Karen takes a sip of coffee and glowers. Sparks.

She thinks bitterly.

She may love him, but she was also going to fucking kill him. Serve the bastard right for not even sticking around the next morning.

The morning after they slept together, that is. Where Karen had a rough day losing a lead and headed home with every intention of getting drunk off her ass, and then Frank showed up, and they sort of got drunk together.

But then the vodka was screwing with her head, and his lips looked especially red that night, and Karen couldn't really help the muttered kiss me before they were actually kissing, Frank's lips hot and wet and his breath as sour as hers. And that kiss turned into two three four more before Karen lost her blouse and Frank lost his jeans and the rest was sort of history.

Except she woke up to a fresh pot of coffee and a distinct lack of a certain ex-vigilante.

Now she was living in the two-months-after period, the one where Frank didn't ever show his face, and if he ever did she wasn't sure whether to kiss him or shoot him.

"Shoot him, probably," Trish shrugs over her latte. "I know I would if Jess ever pulled a stunt like that,"

Karen raises an eyebrow, taking a long sip of her straight black coffee. "She's your sister,"

"Same difference," Trish grins, eyes sparkling. "Either way, I can tell you he doesn't regret it. Don't need to know him to tell you that,"

"Yes, that's exactly why he left her all alone after the night of her dreams," Jessica sets down an Americano on the table, grabbing a chair from nearby. Her voice is dry as she fishes a flask from her pocket. "I'm not big on the whole romance thing, but I'm pretty sure that means it's over, blondie,"

Karen fakes a glare. "Thanks, Jess,"

"It's what I'm here for," she shoots her a sideways grin.

"What, self medication and sarcasm?" Trish scoffs, swatting the flask away from where Jessica's liberally adding it to her take away cup. Karen shoots a glance over to the counter, where a barista is glaring at them. She smothers a smile.

"No, being a pain in your ass."

Karen rolls her eyes, still smiling despite herself. Meeting the two at the station the night of Matt's death hadn't been planned, but they'd quickly come to be good friends. Not as close as Matt and Foggy, but enough that she was comfortable having some female friends.

The smell of Jessica's flask hits her like a slap to the face, and Karen stifles a groan as her stomach turns. Abruptly, she kicks back her chair and darts as quickly and elegantly as possible to the ladies room.

After she's done hurling her stomach's contents into the toilet bowl, Trish having appeared to hold her hair back, and Jessica standing far back against the bathroom wall, Karen leans tiredly against the stall. "Not again," she mutters, and Trish shoots her a sympathetic look.

Of course, that's when Jessica starts laughing, and Karen might have just pulled her gun if it wasn't back in her purse at the table.

"You do realize this is the beginning of a really shitty romcom, right?" Jessica scoffs, shaking her head. Karen glowers.

"How so?"

"You're knocked up, Trish and I are your questionable moral support, and baby daddy's somewhere out there playing hipster,"

The fact that Jessica Jones is the one to call her out as pregnant is something that Karen can't quite wrap her head around.

The fact that she's correct is even more difficult.

But the red lines glare up at her from the test Trish buys her, and the other blonde pulls her into a hug, while Jessica mutters something about needing more to drink for this.

"Shit," is the first word out of her mouth, followed by "Frank's gonna be so pissed,"

"Well," Trish sighs. They made it back to her apartment after, though Karen can't quite remember much of it. "He might piss his pants, yes,"

Karen drags her fingers through her hair, scraping her nails far enough to reach her scalp. "I can't do this, Trish," she whispers. "I just . . . I can't. Frank can't. Not after his kids . . ."

Trish takes the test from her just as Jessica reappears with a cup of tea. "Here, Barbie,"

She passes it gently, and Karen smiles up at her despite her red nose. "Thanks,"

"You're not allowed to have vodka, so, next best thing, right?" Jess offers, and Karen knows she trying. Comfort hasn't ever really been the PI's forte, but she still knows she cares.

"I suppose," she laughs, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

The three of them sit in silence, Karen tiredly rubbing her finger over her brow. Of course, after everything, this would just be the icing on the cake. Ever since leaving Fagan Corners, it felt like her life had just been one giant downward spiral to this point.

After all, who else could say they'd been framed for murder, pissed off a mafia boss, actually committed murder, got hired as a journalist, fallen in love with a known murderer, and then promptly watched the relationship fall apart before discovering herself pregnant.

"To think that's just scratching the surface," Jessica shakes her head, taking a sip of what Karen believes is chamomile tea.

In case there was any doubt today was weird.

And that's when she realizes she's just blurted out her thoughts, and wide-eyed, looks up at Trish.

The radio host's mouth is slightly open, but she shakes her head. "I don't want to know."

Jess leans back further against the door post. "You've put up with me. Nothing can really compare to that,"

Karen's eyebrows raise. "Not even murder?"

"Beat you to it first," Trish sighs. "But barring that . . . how are you feeling?"

Like I have half a mind to jump off a building. "Fine,"

"I call bullshit," Jessica cocks her head, looking intently at the reporter. There's something vaguely disconcerting about the PI being clad in a simple gray top and jeans with a mug of tea in her hands, giving her life advice. Not for the first time, Karen wonders when the hell she fell down this rabbit hole.

"'I'm fine' is like the universal signal for 'I'm dead inside but carry on as normal,'" Trish lays a hand on Karen's knee. "I've been with that one long enough to tell."

Karen thinks she might have just seen Jessica stick her tongue out, but she figures the day is strange enough as it is without looking too closely at things.

"My stomach's calmed, if that's what you mean," she watches the test in Trish's fingers, as if daring the little lines to disappear. "But other than that, I think my head's like a carousel."

"I think that's to be expected," she offers, smiling gently. "What are you feeling, so far? Because I'm here no matter what you want to do, telling Castle or not, keeping it or, well, not."

Karen blows a breath out, knitting her finger tips together around the cooling mug of tea. "I don't know,"

The days tick by.

Decaffeinated tea begins to crowd her coffee grounds to the back of the cupboard, and it's a Wednesday, three weeks later, when she finally knows her answer. Somehow, she knows, there wasn't ever a choice for her, not really.

"I'm doing this," she says bluntly, as soon as Trish's voice hums in her ear.

From the other end, there's a sharp intake of breath, followed by an "okay."

"What do we need to do?"

I'm tentatively putting the chapter count at 3, but it's open to change, so just a heads up.

I had fun writing this, mess as it is. Feel free to drop your thoughts below. Might even inspire me to update sooner ;)

Feel free to chat / scream with me about these two on Tumblr — WhenTheSkyeQuakes