12 WEEKS
195 days to go (Timestamp: July 12, 2013)
She swings a leg over his lap, the strong muscles of her thighs straddling his hips as she rises above him, a magnificent goddess, naked and alluring and devastatingly seductive.
It is still early; hazy morning light is streaming in through the window, bathing her skin in shimmery silver and he runs his hands up her thighs, cradles them around her middle where her waistline is gently thickening. He caresses his thumbs over the soft swell of her stomach and she shivers, circles her hips against his, soft longing pressure, and heat simmers under his skin.
He follows the track of his eyes with his fingertips, up her sides and over the plump curves of her breasts, heavier now as they fall into his hands, the areolas darkened, larger. All the changes are slowly softening and rounding the contours of Kate's body and it's one of the sexiest things he's ever seen. She's so stunningly beautiful; his heart quickens and for a moment he can't believe that he finally holds her in his arms, that this extraordinary woman chose him, loves him.
His breath hitches low in his chest as he takes her in, his caresses sure, familiar as they trip along her sweet skin, determined in their path and she gasps, leans forward to capture his mouth with hers, her tongue meeting his with deep, knowing strokes and he pulls her closer, her body flush against his, soft skin and curves and delicious friction. He's flushed with want, his body climbing to find her, feel her closer, ever closer, needing her so much that it aches. She raises high, joins their bodies and a shudder of pleasure ripples through her muscles. He wraps his arms around her back as she rolls her hips into him, stammers her name into the curve of her neck.
Her piercing scream reverberates through the loft, a sound so penetrating like he's never heard from her before. Cold fear slices through his insides; she was just making breakfast before heading to work but his brain goes into overdrive immediately, swirling with horror scenarios of burn wounds and cut-off limbs and he drops his tooth brush, races out of the bathroom only in his boxer briefs, the foam from the tooth paste still plastered around the corners of his mouth.
"Castle," she whispers, terror lacing her voice, lining her face as he finds her, standing stock-still in the kitchen. His eyes travel down her body. Bright red blood is running down her legs, pools starkly on the light tiles of the floor.
Then she faints.
He's never been as grateful that he spends such an inordinate amount of money having a driver on stand-by as right now, when Garcia expertly weaves through the traffic, rushing them to the nearest emergency room.
He cradles Kate's head on his lap, runs his hands down her cheeks, over her arms in what he hopes are calming touches but a steady stream of tears is quietly, incessantly running down her cheeks. She's got her legs drawn up onto the seat, her legs firmly clamped together and he's sure he's never been as afraid before in his life. Not even when Alexis was missing when she was little, because he could do something then, he could search for her, yell her name, call the police, he could do, but here, now, he is utterly helpless. The only thing to do is wait… and hope.
The lump is heavy in his throat, hot tears are threatening behind his eyelids but he resolutely pushes them down because if he feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest, then how bad must it be for Kate? He's got to keep it together for her, he has to.
He caught her just in time before her head hit the hard ceramic tiles when she passed out, gathering her in his arms as he called her name, his voice tinged with desperation, nudged her cheeks for her to wake up, Kate, please wake up.
She came to soon after, was only out a few seconds in total but it was enough to send tendrils of icy terror through his veins. He lifted her onto the couch, called her doctor first, then the driver. And then he gathered her into his arms and carried her downstairs to the car. She felt so slight in his arms, too quiet as she nudged her face into his neck, let him carry her without protest.
Sweat runs down his forehead. He threw on the first clothes he could find, sweat pants and a hoodie, and he is sweltering in the 100 degree July weather, but he doesn't care, it doesn't matter, nothing does but Kate and the little baby girl they both love and want so desperately.
"We made it to twelve weeks," she whispers tonelessly, staring out the window as houses and trees flash by. "I thought we'd made it." Finally she turns her head, and her eyes are large, the fear in them so stark that he feels punched in the stomach.
"What if I lose her?" She sniffs, sobs forlornly. "I can't lose her, Castle."
"Shhh." He gathers her closer, tries to instill some calm in her he doesn't feel himself. "You won't…" But he doesn't know, does he? He can't make her promises. He doesn't know.
"It'll be okay," he murmurs instead, rests his cheek on top of her head. "It'll all be okay." It's inane, and miserably inadequate, and he hopes with all his might that he's right.
"Let's see what's going on," Dr. McMillan's tone is serious, but she does not seem overly panicked or worried, and the icy fingers around his heart loosen just a tiny bit.
Dr. McMillan starts prodding three fingers against Kate's stomach, her pushes creating valleys in Kate's skin. Baby can feel that, Castle inanely thinks, he is sure he read somewhere that baby will squirm now if you push on the abdomen and please don't hurt her.
"Are you in pain or did you experience any cramps or contractions?" The doctor asks.
"No," Kate answers quietly, shaking her head, her fingers clenched tightly around one of Castle's hands. He nudges a finger down her cheek until she turns her head, looks at him. Her eyes find his, tears still gathered at its corners and his heart feels shattered at the forlorn glimmer in her eyes. He trails his fingers up and down her cheek, over and over, trying to calm her as much as he can.
Dr. McMillan pulls up her chair, sits by Kate's legs and helps her into the stirrups before continuing her exam. "Describe the bleeding."
"It just started… gushing," Kate recalls, her words still a toneless string, "I only felt the warmth, at first."
"There was a lot of it," Castle adds, "bright red. And then Kate fainted."
"That was likely the shock," Dr. McMillan provides, dips her head under the sheet again. "No clotting or lumps of any kind?"
"No," Kate answers quietly, but then some of her defiant spark, her natural urgency seems to return. "Please, Dr. McMillan, what's going on? Is the baby okay?"
The fast thrum of the heartbeat reverberates loudly in the examination room and relief rushes over him, leaving his eyes watery, his hands shaky. He squeezes Kate's hand, tugs it up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles, then presses her hand against his cheek, squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, taking in the noise of their baby's heartbeat, fast and loud and alive.
"Heartbeat is perfect, 160 bpm," Dr. McMillan analyzes and he opens his eyes again, his gaze riveted to the screen and the new images, can make out the shape of her head and rump, and then a leg and even the foot as baby kicks, actually kicks around in there! He grins, flutters of excitement replacing the icy tendrils of fear that had frozen him.
"Length about two point two inches, right on target. Baby moves, swallows fluid, I'm seeing reflexes develop…" She trails off, turns around to face them. "Everything looks good, growth is what we would hope, baby is healthy."
Kate keens beside him and he turns toward her, sees her eyes pinched shut, tears still running down her cheek, her chest wrecked with wretched sobs from deep within her and his stomach clenches. He gathers her in his arms, tugs her head into the crook of his neck.
"Kate, it's okay Baby," he murmurs against her ear, running his hands up and down her back. "She's fine, Kate. Healthy. She's fine." Slowly the sobbing calms under his caresses, until she nods against his neck, and pulls away, faces her doctor.
"What happened?" Her voice is roughened from crying, but strong again, brave.
Dr. McMillan points to the ultrasound image frozen on the screen, runs her finger along one of the sides of the outline.
"You have what is called 'placenta previa,' a condition where the placenta implants unusually low in the uterus, close to or covering your cervix. In your case," she points her finger to a grizzly grey area, "it is here. As your uterus expands, this causes extra strain, and a blood vessel burst, leading to your bleeding."
"What does that mean?" He is confused, if baby is fine then how bad could this be?
"In about eighty percent of cases where we find it this early, the placenta eventually migrates to where it needs to be as the pregnancy progresses and your uterus expands, and it's no longer a problem."
"What if it doesn't?"
"If it persists until the end of your pregnancy, it can cause profuse bleeding especially during delivery. We'd have to watch you very closely, and you'd have to have a c-section."
Kate grips her fingers around his thigh, her nails digging into his skin as she sucks in a deep breath.
"But I'm okay for now and we just… wait?"
"Well, bleeding is always cause for some concern. Even though baby is fine now, we want to make sure to be cautious. I'd like to avoid any additional strain or pressure on your cervix for a while, so I'm putting you on modified bed rest for four weeks." The doctor looks sternly at both of them as she lists the requirements, and from the corner of his eyes he sees Kate's eyes widen, her teeth digging into her lower lip at the restrictions placed on her daily life.
"That means no working, no driving, no household chores. You may sit up, take a shower, walk around a few steps at home, but generally, I want you to split your day between your bed, and your couch. Avoid stairs as much as possible, and no sexual intercourse or orgasms of any kind."
When Kate is safely wrapped up in bed, he walks into the kitchen, intending to get a glass of water but his eyes fall to the bloodstain instead, still stark and red on the floor and suddenly his knees go weak, a sob tearing from deep within his chest and he sinks to the ground, his back against the kitchen cabinets. He drops his head onto his knees, can't stop weeping, the sobs hiccupping harshly out of his chest.
Only slowly does he become aware of the presence by his side, the soft fingers trailing through his hair, caressing his shoulders. He blinks open his eyes, turns his head slightly to find his mother sitting next to him on the hard tile floor.
"They're okay, Mother, they're both fine," he sniffles out the words, tries to pull himself together but the sobbing overtakes him once more, the anxiety he suppressed all day gushing out of him in waves of tears and body-wrecking shudders.
"Let it out my boy, let it all out," Martha murmurs soothingly beside him, her arm slung around his back as she holds him through his weeping.
He calms down slowly, the sobs calming to quiet breathing, only the occasional hiccup of his chest gasping for oxygen. His mother silently hands him a tissue and he cleans his face.
"I was so scared," he admits solemnly. It's been a very long time since he cried in his mother's arms, but he can't find it in him to care. There is no embarrassment, only her calm presence and the soothing knowledge that when he truly needs it, she's always there.
"I know." She squeezes his hand between both of hers and they sit in silence for a while.
"Remember George Dukakis?" She finally asks and he turns his head to her.
"Husband number two? Sure." He actually rather liked that one, come to think of it. At least as much as he remembers. He was still a little kid, then.
"For a long while I thought he'd be the last one, too. I really loved him."
"What happened?"
"I wanted you to have a sibling, and he really loved kids, so eventually I got pregnant. I lost the baby. And a second one." She tells it quietly, matter-of-fact and the lack of embellishment is the clearest indication of the pain she still holds inside.
"I can't believe I never knew." There's no accusation in his voice, only somber surprise. He should've known. He remembers his mother happy with George, smiling widely, laughing, dancing in the kitchen. There's always a story.
"You were so little. There was no reason to burden you with this. But we were young and stupid, and we couldn't handle it. The pain, the sense of guilt, the recriminations… Eventually he left, but I don't know who drove whom away."
He leans back against the kitchen cabinet, stunned by this facet of his mother's life, stark and harsh against her flamboyant, live-life-to-the-fullest attitude.
She turns toward him, cradles her palm against his cheek. "It's okay to be scared, Richard. But she needs you to be there," she urges, her voice serious.
"She'll need you, no matter what she says," his mother adds with a wink, and they grin at each other for a moment. But he nods, understands. He'll be there. There's nowhere in the world he'd rather be than by her side.
"You and Kate, you have something very special. Don't let a moment of that pass you by."
He crawls onto the bed, faces her. Kate is curled on her side, her Amelia Peabody doll squished in her arms as she sleeps. Sleeping beauty. He smiles to himself. Scooting closer he reaches out, trails his fingers over her face, down her smooth cheek and the sensitive skin of her neck. She scrunches up her nose, nudges her face further into the pillow, murmuring incomprehensible sounds.
He should let her sleep, he doesn't want to wake her but he can't stop touching her, needs the comfort of feeling her silky skin, the strong muscles underneath, the reassurance of her presence, healthy and alive beside him. He caresses his hand down her arm, over her hip and thigh, then back up to her abdomen, cradling his palm over the small swell of her belly. His heart hammers against his ribcage but he takes a few deep breaths, trying to grasp, to remind himself that they are okay, both Kate and baby are fine. They're fine.
Kate squirms under his touch, then grabs her fingers into his shirt, tugs herself closer until her face is smashed against his chest, her body pressed tightly to the length of his.
"Love you," she slurs into his chest, and then her body slackens, fast asleep once more. He wraps his arms tightly around her, throws a leg over her hips, gathering her into him, cradling her as close as possible; wishes he could tuck her inside of him because it's never close enough.
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From crown to rump, your baby is just over 2 inches long, about the size of a lime, and is now almost fully formed. She looks unquestionably human now – her eyes have moved from the side to the front of her head, her ears are right where they should be, and tiny tooth buds are beginning to appear under her gums.
The most dramatic development this week: reflexes. Your baby's fingers will soon begin to open and close, her toes will curl, her eye muscles will clench, and her mouth will make sucking movements. She's already busy kicking and stretching, and her tiny movements are so effortless they look like water ballet. You won't feel your baby's acrobatics for another month or two, nor will you notice the hiccupping that may be happening now that the diaphragm is forming.
( Babycenter dot com, and American Pregnancy Association newsletters)
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