Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"I don't want to do it," Castle says sullenly, hunched in an office chair.

"God, Rick, you sound like a five-year-old. 'I don't wahhh-nna.' Well, tough, because you have to. You have no choice." Gina stabs the document on her desk with a red-lacquered talon. "It's in your contract."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"What isn't in your contract, but which I'm going to emphasize right now, is that I expect you to be a model of warmth and charm at your signings and on your interviews. No looking bored or zoning out. I know that you excel at feigning interest, and you'd better make a hell of a show of it."

"Yeah, well you're the expert at faking it, Gina, as I vividly recall. And tell me one time, one time, when I've failed to give my all to fans or to interviewers."

Silence. The two are having a glare-off in the publisher's office. It goes on and on. There is no clear winner.

Finally Castle says, "You have my word. I will be on my best behavior. And then no more tours until the next book. That's it. I mean it. And you can consult my contract. There is no stipulation—even if you tried writing one in invisible ink, and believe me, I checked to see if you did—that I have to do another until next year." He stands up. "No need to see me out."

"Fine. Have a good trip. My assistant emailed your tickets, itinerary, schedules, and contact information for each city and each venue. If you need anything else, just call her."

"Right."

He decides to walk home, to detoxify after his exposure to the venomous Gina. He really, really doesn't want to go on this book tour. On the other hand, it's probably better to go now and not when Kate is about to deliver, or right after the baby arrives, when she'll need him around a lot more. And in a year, when he takes his next tour, the baby will be more than six months old. Sleeping through the night. Sitting up. Eating applesauce and avocado and yogurt. Eating better than he does, come to think of it.

A few blocks later, Castle stops and inhales deeply: the nose knows. There's a pizza place within sniffshot. Nope, not going. Well, maybe. He'll just peek in. He pushes the door open; yes! Avocado pizza. Very healthy. Really doesn't even count as a snack. His kid will be eating avocado this time next year, so this is kind of a pre-bonding experience. He buys a slice and eats it happily as he continues his walk to Broome Street, but the closer he gets, the gloomier he feels. He doesn't want to go on tour. FaceTime is all very well, but it doesn't keep you warm at night or have sex in the shower with you or laugh at your jokes. Or even roll its eyes at them.

"Evening, Mr. C.," the doorman says.

"Hi, Marco. Everything okay with you?"

"Everything's good. Your wife got home about twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah? Thanks." Wow, that cheered him right up. He thought she'd be at work for at least another hour.

When he opens the front door he smells, could it be? Pizza. He feels slightly guilty, but only briefly. "Beckett?" He finds her at the counter, making a salad, and kisses her hello on the collarbone, where a little flour from the dough is clinging. "You made dinner already?"

"Yup. I got home early. I was starving and I had a yen for pizza. It's in the oven."

"Not the only thing in the oven, Beckett," he says giving her a hug around the waist.

"What else is in the oven, Dad? You see something in there besides pizza? Mom's not the only one who's starving around here."

"Should I be expecting these witticisms on a regular basis from now until the end of August, Castle?"

"I'll try to think of at least one a day. Keeps me on my toes."

"Why does Dad need to be on his toes? I thought he was really tall already. Sometimes I don't get you guys."

"I can hardly wait, Castle. But in the meantime, would you set the table, please? We'll be eating in a couple of minutes."

Later, when they're sitting happily with nothing but crumbs left on their plates, Beckett ruffles his hair. "I love that you put out wine glasses, Castle, even if we were drinking grape juice."

"It's all part of maintaining our high standards, Beckett. I refuse to use Flintstones' glasses except at breakfast."

"So, you ready for your trip tomorrow? The bump and I are going to miss you."

"Plus One, Mom."

"I did everything I could to get out of it."

"I'm sure you did. But I'll be fine, we'll be fine, and you'll be back in two weeks. You won't recognize me because I'll be huge."

"You won't be huge. Besides, I'll keep track. We'll FaceTime every day."

And for the next thirteen nights, before Beckett turns off the light and goes to sleep, she rubs her stomach and says, "It's just you and me, kid."

But on the fourteenth she rubs her stomach, says, "Dad will be home tomorrow," and turns off the light.

"Night, Mom. I missed Dad. But it's been fun having this big bed all to ourselves."

TBC

A/N 10,000 words down, 40,000 to go. You are phenomenal cheerleaders. Thank you!