Orders are orders. Walker knew that even if Bartowski didn't. So why was she so quick to disobey a direct order? Oh, yeah, she was getting broody.

Casey had never figured out why the nesting instinct was so strong in some people, why they would opt for a so-called "normal life," as Walker had called it. Casey's definition of "normal life" went something like this: dead-end job that you hated, massive mortgage, bills out the wazoo, a few nasty, smelly rugrats that turned into ungrateful, money-sucking little bastards as they got older, capped off with a fussy, demanding shrew of a wife who routinely withheld sex as a means of controlling a guy, that is if he even wanted to touch her after she had spent a few years emasculating the poor slob.

Look at Bartowski. Whipped already. And for what in return, exactly? The privilege of an eyeful of Walker, some handholding and the occasional fake embrace and peck on the cheek. What a chump.

The kid was obviously suffering, though. And so too, oddly enough, was Walker. The way they looked at Casey with that pathetic kicked-puppy expression told him everything he needed to know about the situation and definitely more than he wanted to know.

Casey had just about been knocked over the first time Walker pulled that face in front of him with the teary eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down and looking so sad. He'd had to get her back in line with the snappy patriot speech. It had worked this time. God help him and this great nation when that speech didn't work anymore, that's all Casey had to say about the matter.

Could you imagine, Bartowski-Walker spawn running around underfoot, hacking computers and throwing knives and being generally annoying? Ha! The end of civilization, in Casey's estimation. Bartowski insisting on going out for donuts because that was his idea of friendship, sharing small sugary deep-fried pastries while classifying Casey grunts.

It might not be all bad, though. They could detail a new Crown Vic together. It would be the least the Intersect could do after blowing up his baby. Get his own Beastmaster and have the nerd clan over for a barbeque on a Sunday afternoon. Casey's wife would serve cocktails and his kids would line up, all freshly washed and dressed, to give their dad a big hug and a kiss before going off to play with Chuck and Sarah's kids. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that might be –

Hey, hold on, wait!

Casey's brows beetled into a fierce scowl as he reminded himself firmly that he hated this assignment. He hated the Buy More. He hated Bartowski. He hated working with a partner who acted like a loose cannon. And now he hated that there wasn't even enough of his car left to throw onto a scrap heap. But his expression softened a little as he let his imagination wander for just a moment longer to envision a little girl with long curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, a sunny smile, and a big hug and kiss for her daddy.