Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Beckett gets up so often in the night now that his brain barely registers the slight shift in the mattress when she leaves, or the one when she returns from the bathroom. Maybe it was a break in the pattern that made Castle come fully awake, his body sensing that some time has gone by and she still hasn't come back to bed. She's not in the bathroom; he can see that the door is open and that there's no light on. She might have gone upstairs to the nursery, which she has been checking with borderline obsessiveness since the guys from the furniture store set up everything there a few days ago. He's uneasy enough that he thinks that he should check.
He doesn't have to go that far. She's in an armchair in the living room, with a reading light on, and surrounded by books. She has those cute little frowny marks that pop up between her eyebrows when she's really concentrating, and she's so engrossed in the volume that she has in her hand that she doesn't hear him come in. He tilts his head to get a better view of the cover. Идио́т. Huh.
"Beckett?" No response. He tries again, a little louder. "Beckett?"
She looks up. "Oh, hi, Castle. What are you doing out of bed?"
"Well, I couldn't sleep without you and you-know-who next to me."
"You Know Who? Is that my name now? Good grief."
"Sorry we woke you."
"Whatcha reading? Looks like it's something Russian."
"Oh." She puts a finger in the book to mark her place, and holds it up to him. "The Idiot. Dostoyevsky. I suddenly realized that I'd never read it. I mean, it's a masterpiece and I've never even looked at it. I feel like an illiterate and I'm about to be a parent. Seriously, I have so much reading to catch up on. I wasted all that time, what was I thinking?"
He grabs a cushion and sits down on the floor next to her chair. "If it's any comfort, that makes me an illiterate, too. I've never read The Idiot, even in English, and you're doing it in Russian?"
"Of course," she says, with a shrug.
Duh, he thinks, naturally she's reading it in Russian. "Um. These other books?" He starts picking them up: The Stranger, by Albert Camus, Mann's The Magic Mountain, Toni Morrison's Beloved. "Oh, here's one that definitely gets my vote," he says, laughing as he waves Kafka's The Castle over his head. He's sifting through some more—History, by Elsa Morante, Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart—when something catches his eye. He pounces on it. "Aha! You can't tell me that you've never read this, though I'm flattered that you consider it a masterwork, worthy of sharing floor space with these others. Storm Fall, the last in my acclaimed Derrick Storm series. You're going have to explain this one, Beckett."
"Want to come sit in this chair, and I can sit in your lap?" The frown lines are gone, and she's smiling widely. "I'll tell you all about it."
"You bet," he says, getting to his feet. He makes a quarter turn, sits down in the space she has vacated, and draws her onto his lap. "Are you comfy?"
"Very. You're sure we're not too heavy?"
"Hey, Mom! Are you calling me heavy? Do you think I'm fat? Because, you know, it's really cramped in here now and I can't get much exercise. I'm getting out soon, right? You promised."
"I'm sure. So, feed my ego some more, please, and tell me why Storm Fall is on your personal banishing-illiteracy list."
She nuzzles his neck. "Because it reminds me of when and how we met. And it makes we think, wow, if I'd only known."
"Me, too. But surely have it committed to memory by now."
"Don't push it, buster." she says, swatting him on the chest. "Just be glad that you're even in the same bookcase with the TMs."
"Transcendental meditationists?"
"I don't think meditationist is a word. I was referring to Toni Morrison and Thomas Mann."
"I am glad. And honored to be in their company. But seriously, you think you have to read all these before the baby is born? You think I'm reasonably literate, don't you? And a good parent?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I haven't read most of these, and I could probably haul out a list of the World's Great Books and check off half the entries as ones I've never even opened." He turns her face up to his and kisses her.
"Thanks for the reassurance, Castle, but you understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
"I do. Everything's going to be fine. Wait here a minute. I have a book we really should read together." She gets up from his lap and does a few stretches while he's off getting whatever it is he's getting.
He's back in a moment, hiding the book behind him as he makes his way to the armchair. "Close your eyes, Beckett, and get in my lap again."
"Okay." She's back, and she feels his arm move in front of her. "Now what?"
"Now open your eyes."
She does, and her head jerks back when she sees what he's holding. "Peter Rabbit?"
"Unquestionably one of the world's best books, and I'm sure that you've read it." He looks a question at her and she nods. "So have I. You know, Beatrix Potter was one of the writers who wanted her books to be small like this, about four by six inches, so that little kids could hold them easily. I think we should read it aloud right now, even though the baby can't see the pictures. What do you say? You want to start?"
She can feel him settling in, as if a child were on his knees, ready for a story. "No, you go first," she says shyly.
"Okay." He turns to the beginning. " 'Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were—'," he gives her a little nudge.
She picks up the thread. " 'Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter'."
They take turns for the next few minutes until, together, they say, "The End."
"Thanks, Mom and Dad. I loved that book, but I want to see the pictures. Are you going to save it for me?"
"How about we go back to bed, Beckett? You're looking sleepy. Must be that perfect bedtime story we read."
She gets up and holds out her hand to help him from the chair. A few minutes later, when they're under the covers, she murmurs, "Castle?"
"Yeah?"
"You know what?"
"What?"
"That was better than Dostoyevsky. Night."
"Night." He falls asleep a happy man.
Two days later, he's not such a happy man. The weather is blistering hot with energy-leaching humidity. It feels as if they're living in a terrarium, and Beckett is bristly. Not that he blames her. She's uncomfortable, she's had a few Braxton-Hicks contractions, and worse, he had made the mistake of saying jokingly over lunch, "Maybe I'll call the next book Prickly Heat." He had apologized, narrowly escaped the death glare, made her some lemonade, and retreated to his office to write. Anything but Prickly Heat. In late afternoon, when he thought that she was napping, he heard the sound of something falling hard on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!"
He should probably go in there.
Another crash, followed by an even louder, "Fuck!"
He's going in there. Beckett is standing, radiating rage, as she looks at the floor.
"Are you okay? I thought I heard something break."
"No, I am not fucking okay," she says. "I am so unbelievably clumsy lately and it's making me crazy. I dropped the bowl and it cracked and then when I tried to pick it up, which I couldn't because my stomach is in the way, I dropped it again."
He puts his arm around her shoulder, as gently as possible. "Here, let me help you. I'll get it." He picks up the bowl, which is indeed cracked. "No harm done. That's easily replaced."
She's still glowering. "I could drop ever goddamn piece of china we own before the baby gets here."
"Is this my fault? I didn't do anything."
Castle gives her a squeeze and laughs. "Every goddamn piece? Not a chance. Speaking of which, we should both try to stop swearing before the baby arrives. Metaphorically wash our mouths out with soap."
"Mom? Dad? I guess you don't know that I can hear you?"
Oh, no. Wrong choice, he realizes too late. Wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say. Her eyes are burning into him. He's going to have a hole bigger than an exit wound from a cannonball.
"Are you fucking kidding me, Castle?" She slaps her hand on the countertop. "I will swear as fucking often as I want until then, especially as fucking itself is a little tricky for me at the moment, and not entirely the way I'd like it, need I remind you."
She's breathing a little heavily as he puts his hands up in surrender. "You're right. You're absolutely right. Let's have some fun with this, get it all out of our systems. Lay it on me, Beckett. You swear better than anyone I've ever met, which is saying a lot." He grins at her. "C'mon. Leggo."
Her glare is fading; the corner of her mouth begins to twitch. "Okay, you son of a bitch." She starts to laugh, and he follows.
"Son of a bitch? That the best you've got, Beckett?"
"Nah, just a warm-up pitch. Hang on." She unleashes curses worthy of the toughest, most salt-encrusted sailor, and looks happier with each successive one. When she finishes she's beaming, and thrusts her arms in the air. "Ta da!"
Castle is stamping and clapping. "I bow to you," he says, bending at the waist. "I salute you, I hail you, Katherine, Empress of the Blue Streak."
"Thank you," she says. "Do I get a crown?"
"First thing in the morning."
"All that swearing gave me a little appetite, I must say. Is it dinner time?"
He checks the clock. "Six, want me to make something?"
"It's hot, do you have stuff for chicken salad?"
"I do, and I can have it ready in ten minutes. You can supervise or just keep me company."
"My supervisory role consists of me asking you to include raisins and almonds and grapes and a little curry, please. That's all. And I'll set the table."
They enjoy dinner, but the weather has taken it out of both of them, and they go to bed at an almost unheard of ten-thirty. Beckett, in fact, is there even earlier, watching the Yankees-Indians game on DVR because she'd been snoozing when it was on live earlier in the day. A few minutes after he has turned out the light and is already half asleep, she gets up to go to the bathroom.
"CASTLE!"
The sound would have raised the dead; it certainly raised him. He throws off the sheet and runs to Beckett, who is standing at the sink but pointing at the floor. "My water just broke."
"Whoa! What was that? I don't know about Mom, but my water just went whoosh."
He puts his hand over hers. "I'm calling the doctor right now."
"Okay. Good. No. Wait."
"Wait? We can't wait, Beckett, your water broke."
"No, I mean okay, call, but I have to shave my legs."
"What!"
"Castle. I am not going into the delivery room with all those people two inches away from my hoo-ha without having perfectly shaved legs."
"Fine. I'll go call."
When he gets back to the bathroom, he's holding his cell out to her. "It's Doctor Fisher. Lotte. She has to ask you a couple of questions. Im going to get dressed and get your bag in case we have to go to the hospital, okay?"
"Fine. And I'm almost done with my legs."
Castle dresses as quickly and calmly—not very—as he can. He has just put on his shoes when Beckett calls him and he lopes back to the bathroom.
"Lotte says we should go to the hospital," she says, passing the phone back to him. "She'll meet us there. I'm just going to get dressed."
Perched on the edge of the bed while his wife changes, Castle shakes his head. "You're so calm. I can't believe it."
"Cop, Castle, cop. I'm a cop. Trained to be calm. You got my bag?"
He hoists it in his hand. "Yup."
"Then let's roll."
They walk to the door, hand in hand. "Next time we come in here, there will be three of us," Castle says in wonderment, as if he hadn't had nine months to get used to the idea.
"That's me, right, Dad? I'm finally going to see you and Mom and everyone and where we live? Yippee!"
They take the elevator to the garage. Castle puts the bag on the back seat, and waits for Beckett to buckle up before he starts the engine. Except it doesn't start. And it doesn't start. And it doesn't start again.
He feels the grip of a bodybuilder around his forearm. "Castle." Her voice has a small quaver. "I'm not so calm right now."
"Don't worry. I've had the car service on standby twenty-four seven since we got home from the Hamptons. I'm calling them right now."
Four minutes later, the car is there and they're on their way. Because it's a late-summer Sunday night, traffic is light and the trip is quick. While they're en route, Castle calls Alexis and his mother and Beckett, her father.
"I told Dad not to come right away, but he insisted."
"Same with Mother. Alexis didn't pick up but I left her a voicemail. And a text."
The car drops them at the hospital, and both of them thank the driver. "I've been paying for this for ten days," Castle says. "Worth every penny."
Because they registered in advance, there's no paperwork, and after a physical exam Beckett is admitted. Shortly after, her contractions have begun. She's walking as much as she can, or standing and hanging on to the bed rail. Castle ducks out to see the soon-to-be grandparents, and give them a status report. When he's back, he takes his seat again next to her bed. "I called Lanie and the boys, just to let them know we're here and I told them I wouldn't call back until the baby is here. Lanie made a few threats, but I held her off."
"Just as well, Castle. I might be threatening you in a while, so it's good you got your practice in." She winces. "Holy mother of God!"
"I think you may be working up to that threat, Beckett. I can take it. Here, take my hand. Break it if you need to."
Beckett doesn't break it, but she squeezes the hell out of it. She's sucking on ice chips now while Caskett keeps one eye on the monitor.
"Everything's going really well, Kate," one of numerous nurses advises.
"Easy for you to say. Shit." A contraction takes over her entire body, and when it subsides she turns her head to get a good look at her husband.
"You hanging in there, Castle? You look a little pale to me."
"I'm fine, Beckett."
"You're a liar. And where the hell is Alexis? If you keel over in here I want her to back me up."
"She's on her way." This is more equivocation than a lie, it's just that she's on her way from the Hamptons, where she had been at a party though fortunately not drinking. But since the baby is arriving both earlier and more quickly than expected, she might not get to the hospital in time for the delivery. "I'm not missing this, I promise you."
"You're not going to swoon at the blood?"
"No. I've been looking at that birthing video to inure myself. Besides, that's not the hard part. The hard part is seeing you in pain."
Beckett smiles damply. "That's very sweet Castle. More ice, please."
Five minutes later, she's not finding him sweet at all. "I swear to God I'm going to kill you. If I could get up from here I would."
"I know. I would give you the gun and everything. You're working so hard, you're doing a fantastic job."
"Why does everyone keep saying Mom is working so hard? This is no picnic for me, you know. And all this yelling! Mom! You're hurting my ears."
A full-bore contraction makes Beckett double up. "Castle!"
"Not much longer. Can I get you something?"
"Yeah. You got me into this, you can damn well get me out."
"I don't get it. I thought I was the one who had to get out."
Doctor Fisher and Castle are coaching her, and Castle keeps wiping her face with a cool cloth.
"Kate," the doctor says from between Beckett's legs. "You're almost there, crowning now. All you need are a few more big pushes."
"Hey! I think there's a light at the end of this tunnel."
Castle is excited, Beckett is panting, and a few mighty pushes later, they're parents.
"Wow! I'm outta here! Hi, Mom, hi, Dad!"