Author's Note: Dealing with "Kill the Messenger," so expect some familiar dialogue.

Then Came Love

Chapter 29

Castle was starting to think the universe had decided to prove Beckett's point about the fall–and Halloween week in particular–being a bad time for cops. Because from the very day after Halloween, they had two back-to-back cases that barely gave them time to take a breath between the end of one case and the start of another. It wasn't that he minded being busy or the excuse to spend long hours at the precinct with Beckett but he couldn't help but think that she could probably use a break, not least because of her condition. But he didn't say that to her since he wasn't quite so lost to a sense of self-preservation. All he could do was stay by her side and keep her supplied with tea and healthy snacks and hope that his presence helped.

The first case, starting the very day after Halloween, involved Hayley Blue, the young rising star singer Alexis had been following for the last few years, who was found murdered. Alexis was mourning in that way people mourned when some celebrity they had felt as if they knew personally passed away.

The tragedy of Hayley's death at such a young age was only compounded by the killer's identity and his motives. Castle had inwardly flinched but he had told Alexis the truth–as he always tried to do. He wished desperately that rape, any sexual violence, any violence at all for that matter, didn't have to be anything Alexis knew about but no matter how he wished it, it wasn't so. And as he told himself, knowledge was power. Alexis needed to know of these things at her age in order to be made wary, allow her to protect herself. It was the only armor he could give her.

Although after a story like what had happened to Hayley Blue, betrayed, violated, and murdered by someone she'd trusted, a private bodyguard was sounding more attractive by the minute. He sternly pushed aside the temptation. Alexis would never allow it or forgive him.

And in less than six months, he would have another child to worry about. Not for the first time, Castle felt a surge of terror, the fear of any parent when thinking about the possible slings and arrows a cruel world could throw at their child. Hostages to fortune, as Francis Bacon had so correctly phrased it. It was a terrifying thing, being a parent–but as he also knew, paradoxically, it was also a source of joy like none other. Alexis was–had always been–the best part of his life. And soon, he had no doubt, the Sprout too would be another source of joy–already was, really. Not least because this time he would be sharing the joy and the worry of parenting with Beckett. To share the burden and magnify the wonder of it.

Castle smiled, feeling a swell of hope and happiness that was his near-constant companion these days. He was having a baby with Kate Beckett, the thought lingering in his mind with a kind of muted surprise, even now.

And as for Beckett herself, well, she liked him, cared about him. As a friend and as a partner at work and in becoming a parent–he was sure of that–and possibly as more than that–he hoped. It was enough for now, he told himself. It had barely been two months since she'd told him the news about the baby. He could wait, living on hope, could prove himself to Beckett, could make her happy, make her–oh god–love him.

But he did have hope.

And in the meantime, he hardly had time to dwell on it because the next day after solving the Hayley Blue murder, they got called to the murder of a bike messenger who'd been the victim in a hit-and-run. A bike messenger who, at least, initially, appeared to have been carrying a possible terrorist threat. Beckett for once didn't so much as protest by a flicker of her eyelashes before immediately handing the reins over to Esposito, forestalling Montgomery's order to the same effect. Castle knew it had to be going against her every instinct, her very character, but she did it. Her sense of duty to the city was too strong not to realize she herself in her current condition (and the protectiveness it engendered in the other cops) could prove a distraction, to say nothing of a liability.

And for once, it appeared she would be rewarded immediately because the terrorist threat turned out to be a false alarm and that, in turn, allowed Beckett to once more take the lead on the case. (He knew she would view it as a good thing to be allowed back on the case.)

Instead of a terrorist threat, the case turned out to center on another murder from a decade ago, one worked on by then-Detective Montgomery.

A double murder changed the tenor of the case–a triple murder, Castle corrected himself. Killing the bike messenger and Brady Thompson, the confessed killer in that old case, made it probable, if not certain, that Thompson had in fact been innocent of that first decade-old murder.

Castle was realist enough to know that cops did trick or bully suspects into making false confessions, due process notwithstanding. But he also knew Montgomery too well to suspect that any such thing had occurred here. No, Brady Thompson had confessed to a murder he hadn't committed of his own free will. The question was why.

The answer, provided by Brady's wife, was money–or more accurately, love. Castle had obviously never met Brady Thompson but the reason for Brady's actions made Castle feel as if he'd known Brady, felt a swift pang of empathy, a more personal compassion over his death. There, but for the grace of God…

Castle thought about Brady's son, who was just a little younger than Alexis was now. Did the boy know what his father had done for him? Castle doubted it–it would have been too heavy a burden to place on a young kid, especially considering how young the boy had been 10 years ago–but now, he thought the truth would likely have to be told. Brady's son deserved to know that his father had sacrificed his life for him and Brady deserved to be remembered for his own brand of heroism.

Beckett's lips had tightened at Mrs. Thompson's words, were compressed in that way that Castle recognized by now as her suppressing her emotions and he knew she had to be thinking of the Sprout. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out for her, provide some comfort, but he stoically resisted. They weren't alone and Beckett would not appreciate calling attention to her emotional vulnerability.

Once Mrs. Thompson had left, he and Beckett returned to her desk and Beckett updated the murder board with what they'd just found out. That done, she stepped back and perched on the side of her desk with a sigh.

Castle perched beside her, studying her surreptitiously. He wanted to ask what she was thinking but this was Beckett and such direct expressions of concern and curiosity were unlikely to be fruitful.

But then after a long moment–to his surprise and causing a leap of his heart–she asked, "Do you think he ever regretted it? He missed a decade of his son's life, would only have been able to see his son in brief, supervised visits."

Castle inwardly flinched at the mere thought of it but he knew the answer without needing to think. "No, he didn't regret it."

"You sound very sure."

"He was a dad and parents will do anything for their kids." At least, real parents worthy of the title would. Not all people who actually were parents would, as Meredith gave him daily proof. Something in his chest tightened at the thought, the memory of all the times Meredith had put herself and her own wishes over Alexis. And what was worse, how Meredith's selfishness had hurt Alexis. What Meredith had done to him, he could forgive, but it was Meredith's attitude towards Alexis that he really could not forgive, what had in the end made him stop loving Meredith or even liking her much. Meredith's brand of benign but also careless, selfish parenting wasn't a sort of parenting he could ever understand but he knew it happened and probably more frequently than he cared to admit. He made a mental note to give Alexis an extra-hard hug tonight.

"I suppose you're right." Her hand had moved to cover her stomach in the familiar gesture.

He felt a swell of emotion, of love, because he knew to his very soul that Beckett was going to be a good mom, would never leave her child, would love and protect the baby as much as he would. And he loved her for it.

But of course, he couldn't say that. Instead, he offered, "We'll never be in such a situation, you know."

Her lips twitched faintly. "Because you're rich?"

"Well, yes, that too," he agreed. Certainly they would never be so driven to desperate measures because of money. "But I meant because the Sprout will be healthy." He infused as much certainty as he could into his voice.

Her expression eased a little. "Well, you did say your blood work came back normal with no red flags," she conceded.

"Exactly. So the Sprout will be fine."

It occurred to Castle even as he said it that the blood test couldn't guarantee that because not all illnesses were hereditary–Brady's son's condition wasn't by all appearances. But he didn't think it necessary to point that out. Brady's son's condition was a rare one and aside from that specific example, he did believe the baby would be healthy. Maybe it was the cock-eyed optimist in him but he couldn't imagine that any child of his and Beckett's could turn out to be anything less than perfect.

After all, Alexis shared half her genes with Meredith and Alexis had turned out to be as close to perfect as humanly possible. (Don't tell him that genetics didn't work like that. Science had never been his strong suit anyway.)

She glanced at him, her lips curving faintly, but then turned back to the murder board, sobering. "We need to figure out who's behind all this, give the Thompsons some peace. Brady and Caleb Shimansky deserve justice."

"They do and you will."

"Don't you mean 'we'?" She slanted him a small teasing look.

"We," he agreed, thinking it might be one of his favorite words in the English language, at least coming from her. "I am pretty indispensable," he pretended to preen.

He was rewarded with a roll of her eyes. (That wasn't weird, was it, to think of a roll of eyes as a reward?) "So, oh Indispensable One," she mocked, "any penetrating insights into the case?"

"Only one. Well, two," he amended after a moment.

She raised her brows at him. "Two, huh? Wow, you're really on your mettle, aren't you?"

"It's like you said, Brady Thompson and Caleb Shimansky deserve no less," he returned. "First, whoever's behind all this is loaded and I mean, richer than me by far."

She pursed her lips in mock disappointment. "Are you saying you can't afford to pay 7 grand in hush money every month for ten years?"

He tilted his head to one side in a show of thought. "You know, I've never actually considered that and I'd have to check with my accountant but I'm pretty sure I can't."

"Well, darn, what use are you then?" she deadpanned.

He bit back a laugh. "Well, if it was really necessary, I might be able to manage it if I made some sacrifices," he affected a sigh. "Gave up something I'm saving up for."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Saving up for, huh?"

He nodded brightly. "Yup. I plan to buy a plot of land on the moon."

She snorted a laugh. "Now, why am I not surprised? Very practical purchase," she quipped.

He only grinned, loving the sight of the smirk tugging on her lips, the mischief in her eyes. "Oh, I can be practical. My second insight into the case is very practical."

"And that is?"

"That we need to reopen that case from 10 years ago and figure out why some billionaire would want a young girl like that dead."

"Wow, that is a penetrating insight. I would never have thought of that," she drawled.

"What can I say, great minds think alike."

"Well, why don't you turn your great mind to solving the first murder from 10 years ago?" she suggested.

"Done," he agreed. "We just need the case file from ten years ago."

Requesting the case file from the archives of the 64th would require Montgomery's sign-off but they succeeded in persuading Montgomery to do so and waded into the old file on the murder of Olivia Debiasse.

It had been a systematic investigation, unsurprisingly knowing Montgomery, but Montgomery wasn't interested in praise or assurance of his own competence but rather, was flagellating himself for the little things he hadn't done, even if at the time, Castle could understand why they hadn't seemed necessary.

The benefit of hindsight and of fresh, skeptical eyes, led them to having Perlmutter go over the original autopsy report and to questioning one of Olivia's closest friends at the time and that friend led them to a lead in the boy she'd gone to a party with the night before she was killed.

He and Beckett tracked Jeff Dilahunt down at the Pierson Club and from the first glimpse, Castle easily categorized him as one of those rich, entitled young men who had no purpose but pleasure and the only thing protecting the world at large from their own form of self-centeredness was their indolence. He'd been to school with enough of them to recognize the type and inwardly frowned. He wouldn't put it past Jeff Dilahunt to commit a murder or at least order a murder to be committed (so as not to dirty Jeff's own hands) but he had a hard time seeing Jeff also go through with a plan to find a patsy and pay him hush money for a decade. That took more energy and more determination, not to say more brains, than he really suspected Jeff had.

Beckett, Castle noted, appeared to be blind to the opulence of the Pierson Club's interior (although he knew she had to be noting every detail in typical cop fashion) and was surveying Jeff Dilahunt with cool scrutiny. He hid a smile. Leave it to Beckett to be so utterly unimpressed by wealth–but then he'd known that about her already.

Jeff appeared unconcerned and indifferent to being questioned by a cop (and her civilian partner) about the murder of a girl he'd known ten years ago, not even the usual curiosity as to why they were doing so.

Yeah, Castle definitely didn't like Jeff Dilahunt as he talked so cavalierly about how he'd gotten to know Olivia. For all the world as if Olivia was just some passing acquaintance who was alive and well, rather than having been murdered the same night he last saw her.

"Were the two of you dating?" Beckett questioned.

"Uh, no, just friends," he shrugged.

Castle couldn't help a small noise of skepticism.

"What, can't a guy and a girl just be friends?" Jeff asked.

They could, but in Castle's experience, the chances of that being true when the girl ended up murdered were almost infinitesimal. "Please," he scoffed.

"Are you two together?"

Castle tried not to visibly jerk. What the hell did his and Beckett's relationship have to do with anything? At least, after answering so many of the subtle and not so subtle inquiries into his and Beckett's relationship status from all her fellow cops after news of the pregnancy had come out he was basically inured to any sensitivity to the question or rather, the answer. Well, mostly inured. "No," he answered, ignoring the little twinge in his chest.

Only to find his 'no' overlapping with Beckett's "not now."

Now, Castle did jerk a little, he couldn't quite help it, as he glanced sharply at Beckett. Had she just said what he thought she had?

Beckett wasn't looking at him, appeared to be utterly unconscious of the significance of her answer, but by now, he knew her enough to recognize when she was utilizing her poker face, even if he couldn't tell what she was thinking or feeling at the moment. But she'd still said it. Not 'no' but 'not now.' As in, it was still possible. As in, maybe in the future they would be. Oh god, really?

Eager words, questions, bubbled up in his mind, clogged his throat–if she'd meant it (did she ever say things she didn't mean?), was she serious, if she really wanted to date him and have kids with him (yes, more than one) and marry him and everything he'd ever wanted…

Whoa, slow down, Rick! He yanked his runaway thoughts–fantasies–to a screeching halt before they could get the better of him. He could not say or even hint at anything like that now because if he knew Beckett at all, she would react by running so fast and so far that she would be a tiny speck on the horizon before he could say her name. Her first name, that was.

He hurriedly cudgeled his brain into some semblance of order. He couldn't think about this now anyway, let alone talk to her about this. They were in the middle of a case, weren't even alone, and pushing Beckett was never a good idea to begin with.

But she'd thought about it, a relationship, and hadn't said no.

He forcibly tucked the precious knowledge away in his mind and heart and tried very hard to once again focus on the murder of Olivia Debiasse.

"Tell us about the party you took her to," Beckett asked coolly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

For pretty much the first time, Jeff looked a little discomfited by Beckett's briskness but he answered after only a moment, "It was no big deal. I happened to mention that a school friend was having a family reunion here at the Pierson Club and he'd asked me to stop by. Olivia wanted to come so I took her."

Huh, what? This statement distracted even Castle from his own personal preoccupation. "Who would want to go to someone else's family reunion?" From his experience, most people were more likely to look for excuses to avoid their own family reunions, let alone seek to attend a stranger's family reunion.

"I suppose that all depends on the family. In this case, it was the Wellesleys."

Castle blinked again, straightening a little and sensing Beckett's sharpened focus. The Wellesleys–well, that changed things. The Wellesleys were certainly rich enough to afford the hush money payments. And more than that, the Wellesley patriarch and his son's political aspirations gave them another motive too.

"I tell you what, next time I'm invited, I'll take you," Jeff quipped and Castle threw him a narrow-eyed look.

Beckett, of course, ignored the inappropriate comment as if it hadn't happened and focused on pinning Jeff down on his alibi–a fairly predictable one for the entitled rich party animal Castle had pegged him as. Beckett kept her composure and didn't react to the nature of the alibi and only moved on to the possible identity of the mystery man wearing a blue blazer and orange-striped tie, only for Jeff to not-helpfully explain that the suspect pool consisted of all the males in the Wellesley family who'd attended the family reunion.

Well, that was not exactly the more specific lead Castle had been hoping for but he supposed it was too much to ask that a murder that had been a mistake on Captain Montgomery's part ten years ago would be easy to solve now.

At least, he supposed, the Pierson Club had a picture of that night's Wellesley family reunion on display, along with a whole host of other pictures of other formal events that had taken place within the Club's sacrosanct walls.

And Beckett had not denied the possibility of a relationship with him at some point. Castle sternly schooled his expression into sobriety as they rehashed what they'd learned about the case so far on the way back to the precinct. Beckett was her usual no-nonsense self but something in the way she carefully avoided meeting his eyes told him she was very aware of what she'd blurted out and knew that he was thinking about it.

Could not stop thinking about it. He caught his lips twitching and forcibly straightened his lips out. He could not grin like a loon when talking about the murder of a young girl.

"Too bad that Jeff Dilahunt turned out to have such a rock-solid alibi." He affected a sigh. "Such a tragedy."

She huffed the beginnings of a laugh. "A tragedy that he has an alibi? Wow, you really didn't like him."

No surprise that Beckett had noticed. "It's something I read somewhere. 'A tragedy is a good theory defeated by a fact.'"

Her lips twitched. "Yeah, well, I do see a lot of tragedies in my line of work."

He had to grin at the deliberate double meaning. "So true."

"So, do you want to spin any more potential tragedies about why Olivia was interested in going to the Wellesley family reunion?"

"Challenge accepted," he declared and did, in fact, spend the time until they reached the precinct doing just that, starting with the theory that Olivia was a spy (of course), although possibly of the corporate nature since the Wellesley family did have its finger in a lot of corporate pies, or maybe some kind of freelance undercover reporter looking to sniff out a political scandal.

They called Olivia's waitress friend back into the precinct later that evening to ask her to look over the somewhat enlarged copy of the reunion picture from the Pierson Club, although she wasn't initially very helpful until she remembered the man who'd argued with Olivia spilling his wine.

He and Beckett swung around as one to peer at the photos but then for a split second, Beckett's lashes fluttered as she swayed slightly, and he grabbed her arm, a stab of alarm going through him. "Beckett!"

She grasped his arm with her other hand, blinking a little, before focusing on him. "I'm… fine, Castle," she managed.

He didn't respond to this characteristic Beckett declaration since she would insist she was fine even if she had a railroad spike sticking out of her–he inwardly flinched at the mental image, his imagination combined with his penchant for dramatic language getting the better of him.

She straightened up and released his hand and after a moment, he forced himself to release his grip on her too. "I just moved too fast, got a little lightheaded, but it's nothing. I'm okay."

He bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that feeling lightheaded was hardly nothing because he knew coddling her or seeming to coddle her wasn't going to go over well. He loved her for her strength, he reminded himself, but he kind of hated it too, at least when it meant she didn't like to accept help. But at least–at least–she'd grasped his arm when she'd needed to.

"The spilled wine," was all he said because he did know Beckett and he knew she would hate his fussing over her, trying to encourage her to sit down or lie down or generally acting on any of his protective instincts. Frustrating woman that she was.

"Right," she agreed.

He turned back to look at the pictures and she followed, moving more cautiously this time, he noted, as she bent to examine the photos. But then–his heart leaped–her hand came up to grip his arm. She wasn't saying it–she wouldn't–but she was, at least, reaching out for some added support. Reaching out to him, touching him, using him as a hand-rail to help her balance. He would take it.

He blamed his distraction for the fact that Beckett identified the man with a distinctly stained shirt and tie before he did. Not that it mattered.

Anyway, he would have deliberately lost the unspoken race just to see the smirk of triumph curving her lips as she straightened up. "Now, which Wellesley scion is he?" she mused aloud.

"That won't be hard to figure out." He tried not to feel a little sense of loss as her hand dropped from his arm as she returned to sit at her desk.

As he'd predicted, it took them less than five minutes to identify the man with the stained shirt–oh, that would make a rather nice title for a story, his brain inserted irrelevantly, sounded like a Sherlock Holmes story–as Trent Wellesley.

Talking to Trent Wellesley the next day led them to his uncle, Winston Wellesley, who kept coming up as a potential person of interest, not to say suspect, as it started to look as if Winston had killed his own daughter. Castle inwardly shuddered at the mere suspicion of it, the stark contrast striking him–Brady Thompson who'd confessed to a murder he hadn't committed to save his son and Winston, who appeared to have been willing to have his own secret daughter killed to prevent a scandal. Castle would never get over marveling at the extremes of what people were capable of, how varied they were in their capacity for good or for evil.

But he couldn't deny that he was a little relieved when it turned out that neither Winston nor his brother, Blake, the Senate candidate, had actually killed Olivia, who turned out to be Blake's daughter. Although the truth was little better than what they'd been suspecting. A grandmother ordering her own granddaughter to be killed, even if it was possible to argue–as he was sure the Wellesley lawyers would if the NYPD tried to charge her–that Lenanne Wellesley hadn't outright ordered the murder, just had something of a 'will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest' moment.

He knew the tragedy of it–in the more common sense of the word–was bothering Beckett too. He could read it in her set expression as they drove back to the precinct, the boys and Captain Montgomery following with Frank Davis in custody.

"Is she going to be charged?" he asked quietly. He personally thought Mrs. Wellesley should be; the intent to harm Olivia had been there and Mrs. Wellesley's callous attitude to Olivia's life made it worse.

She grimaced. "It's not up to me but I doubt it. She's barely compos mentis to stand trial as it is, which is basically where this whole thing started, and anyway, with the Wellesleys' money and influence, it would take a miracle for the DA to pursue charges."

He sighed. "Yeah, that's what I figured but I was kind of hoping to be wrong."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be wrong again about something before too long," she needled mildly but he couldn't help but appreciate her trying to lift his mood–and succeeding.

"Mean," he pretended to huff.

"It's like I said, you're too easy a target," she returned and shot him a small smirk.

He stuck his tongue out at her–like the grown man that he was–and was rewarded with her small laugh.

"At least, Blake Wellesley turned out to be not such a bad guy. I might actually vote for him," he mused after a moment. He, at least, had been innocent of any injury to Olivia and his remembering to ask after Brady, the man who'd actually been imprisoned for Olivia's murder and then being willing to try to make up for the past wrong by ensuring that Brady's son would still be taken care of, was a point in his favor.

"Yeah," she agreed. "There is that. It also makes not charging Mrs. Wellesley a little easier because the scandal of it would end up hurting him a lot more than it would her right now and he doesn't deserve that. And I don't think Olivia would have wanted that, for her death to destroy her innocent father."

Trust Beckett to think of that, justice for the victim and for the living. How could he not love this woman? But instead he drawled teasingly, "Why, Detective, are you finding the silver lining now? I really have influenced you, haven't I?"

"Shut up, Castle, I was only thinking about what Olivia would have wanted."

"Sure you were, Beckett," he smirked at her but left the tease at that, partly because they were almost at the precinct and partly because he didn't want to annoy her too much.

Back at the precinct, Beckett was able to tell Captain Montgomery that closing the three cases had put them over the mandated case closure number and Montgomery proved what made him such a good cop by caring more about being able to give closure to Olivia's aunt than the bureaucracy.

Castle glanced over at Beckett's desk to see that Caleb Shimansky's sister had arrived. "And you get to give the bike messenger's sister some closure too," he noted soberly. "Although I don't suppose knowing why helps much."

"It does. In time," she told him quietly and then returned to her desk, leaving him to stare after her, her words echoing in his mind, the compassion in her voice.

And he thought, not for the first time, that he really did tend to forget that Beckett lived with this, the reality of her mom's unsolved case, every day. And he could only marvel at her all over again, not just her strength but her… generosity to do what she did, to work so hard to give other people the answers, the measure of peace, which she had never had.

Knowing why would help in time–except that was the problem. It had been more than ten years now and she still didn't know why. The thought made his whole chest hurt. It was just not right, not fair, that Kate Beckett, who devoted her entire life to giving other people closure, should go without it herself. And yes, he knew that life wasn't fair–and god knows, no one deserved to go through what Beckett had–but the thought of it still flayed at him.

He just wanted to help her.

His mind went back to what he'd found out about her mom's case earlier in the spring, the connections to other murders. It was a lead, a link; surely they could find something that connected all the victims… His mystery writer's brain had again started to work, theorizing, plotting–maybe they could, if they worked together…

He yanked his train of thought to a halt. He was doing it again, wasn't he, thinking about her mom's case, thinking about looking into her mom's case, again, when it had been the reason she'd kicked him out–and in its way, what had brought them to this point now.

He stilled, everything inside him seeming to go cold, at the thought of how much more he had to lose now. Oh, he had too much faith in Beckett's integrity to believe she would deny him access to the baby completely but he also knew Beckett too well not to know how effectively she could cut him off too, keep a chasm of distance between herself and him on any personal level. No more teasing, no more talking to him about anything that wasn't necessary, no more friendship. Just business, even if the 'business' between them was the baby.

To say nothing of the fact that she would almost certainly kick him out of the precinct for good and he didn't think he could bear that either. Not because of the Nikki Heat books although he didn't think–no, he knew–he couldn't write them without her but because he liked working with her, liked coming into the precinct. And he wanted, no, needed, to be her partner in the precinct, to work beside her, be able to help her, keep an eye on her, not to say, outright take care of her. Just to know she was safe and well.

He wanted to help her, wanted to make her happy. More than anything else in the world, with the single exception of Alexis's health and happiness, he wanted Kate Beckett to be happy. Wanted to be the one to make her happy.

Part of that was wanting to do what he could about her mom's case but he couldn't do that again, he reminded himself. What had she accused him of months ago, that he had looked into her past for him and not for her? It was true and he had promised he wouldn't do it again.

Could certainly not go behind her back but also could not risk their relationship, whatever it was that was forming between them over the last weeks, this… partnership, for lack of a better word, that had her holding onto his arm for support, that had her talking to him a little more about her worries. That had her saying 'not now' to being in a real relationship with him rather than a flat 'no.'

One of the uniforms hurried past him, almost knocking against his shoulder, bringing Castle to a belated realization that he was standing stock still in the middle of the bullpen, getting in people's way, and he forced his feet to move, carry him into the break room. Where he could still see Beckett.

(That wasn't creepy, was it? Anyway, he did have some legitimate reason to watch her since she had had that moment of feeling lightheaded yesterday. She'd been fine, her usual self, today–thankfully–and he had made a point of doing some research and been a little reassured to find out that a little lightheadedness wasn't all that uncommon during pregnancy but still…)

The bike messenger's sister had started to cry, wiping tears off her face, and Beckett handed her a tissue before leaning forward and placing a hand on the other woman's arm for a moment as she spoke with the quiet sincerity and empathy she always brought to her conversations with victims' family members.

His heart clenched at the sight. She really was amazing.

And she was having his baby. Whatever else, he could not risk losing her.

She hadn't wanted to look into her mom's case before and he had no reason to think she'd changed her mind about that. And she did, of course, have other preoccupations right now, as did he.

He would follow her lead, do whatever he could to help her, be there for her–and for the baby. And he could only hope that it would be enough.

The bike messenger's sister nodded and wiped her tears again, even managing a wan almost-smile as she stood up and shook Beckett's hand. They exchanged a few last words and then the sister left and Beckett turned–and Castle hurriedly made himself look busy with the espresso machine.

"Oh, Castle, you're still here."

He glanced up in a parody of mild surprise. "Hey Beckett, yeah, I thought I should clean the coffee machine filter since I know how much use this machine gets," he answered glibly.

She gave him a small smile. "And here I thought you were my personal barista, not the barista for all of Homicide."

"Have to earn my keep somehow," he quipped. "Anyway, I wanted to say, nice job on this case."

"Right back at you, Castle."

He pretended to preen. "I told you I'm indispensable."

"How about being indispensable when it comes to paperwork too?"

"On second thought, I should be getting home. Alexis, you know."

This exchange–and the familiarity of his long-standing avoidance of doing paperwork–had her smirking at him. "Excuses, excuses."

"No, it's called having priorities," he riposted, his heart lifting as she laughed aloud at that.

"Yeah, yeah, go away, Castle."

"Til tomorrow, Beckett."

Her smile softened. "Tomorrow," she agreed more quietly and his susceptible heart danced in his chest because she looked, and sounded, happy at the thought of seeing him again tomorrow, every day pretty much.

And for that, to keep her smiling at him like this, he would do anything. Including doing nothing about her mom's case, no matter how it might grate at him.

~To be continued…~

A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to all readers and reviewers.