Title: The Expert's Blind Spot

Disclaimer: Taking my second Scriptwriting class for the semester today.

Author's Note: Sometimes conversations spark interesting one-shots.

"Kate?" She blinks up at him, eyes far away, face pulled tight, lips pursed together. "What's wrong?"

He kneels beside her against the edge of the tub, placing his hand on the knee she's pulled up to her chest, cradling something in her hands. She lets her gaze trail over his face but doesn't speak, and he's quickly becoming seriously concerned. This is a woman who never sits catatonic—who either denies or falls open. There's no middle ground. He'd stopped having to pull information from her like taffy out of a press long ago.

But something isn't right. Something isn't normal here, and it sets his teeth on edge. He smooths his thumb over her exposed thigh; she's wearing a tank top and sleep shorts, nothing else, and he can feel the goose bumps beneath his fingers.

"Kate?" he prompts again, watching as one of her hands twitches around whatever she's holding, a finger spinning her wedding band. Usually, he'd warm at the gesture—a habit she's picked up that sends a surge of pride right through to his bones. But tonight, in its place is concern, fear, worry. Because any time a woman, much less his woman, camps out in the bathroom, curled up against the side of the tub, something's very, very wrong.

"I'm pregnant," she whispers, opening the hands wrapped around her legs to expose an early pregnancy test, the end wound in toilet paper. He can see the "Positive" there on the screen.

His breath whooshes out of his lungs, heart clenched, stomach turning somersaults. But any kind of emotion he'd be feeling remains suppressed, because his wife is curled up on their bathroom floor, eyes hollow and breath shallow—not the excited smile of a woman beginning something wonderful. He honestly doesn't know how he feels about it, but damned if he cares.

"Kate?" he breathes, unable to think of anything but her name. He needs to know what she's feeling before he offers anything else.

She lets her head fall over to his shoulder and he uses his free hand to brush the matted hair from her face. He wonders how long she's been sitting here, staring at the slightly worn edge of their sink cabinet.

"I…" she trails off and licks her cracked lips. God, how long has she been here?

She shivers and it breaks his resolve to simply wait her out. "Come on," he says gently, standing and extending his hands to her.

Her fists clench around the test for a second before she reaches behind her back and lays it on the edge of the tub. Her fingers find his and he helps her from the floor, catching her as she stumbles. More concern floods his brain, because the only other time he's had to support her out of the bathroom was the food poisoning incident of 2013, which he's not supposed to mention, under pain of death. But tonight, she lets him guide her into their bed, lets him pull the blankets up to her chin.

There's a glass of water already on her bedside, like perhaps she'd prepared for bed and then suddenly gotten the resolve to take the test. It would be just like her. The doing it alone part as well, is just like her, so much so that he's so close to not being hurt by it. Close, but no cigar. But he'll worry about his wounded feelings later, when he understands why she's like this, how she's like this, how she's pregnant.

He shucks out of his button down and jeans, tossing them, phone and all, onto the floor in his haste to climb in beside her. He scoots over but then hesitates, unsure of everything about this, because, while he considers himself an expert on Kate Beckett, detective, wife, lover, best friend, he has no strategy for Kate Castle, mother.

But Kate, whoever she is, knows what she wants, and her hand reaches out for him, drawing him in, curling him around her and placing his warm, large palm over her stomach, over a bump he hadn't realized was there. It sends another jolt through him—the idea that he's been missing signs, presumably for quite a while if she's already showing, even a little.

"I noticed it this morning," she whispers, but he hears her as if she were pressed up against him, chest to chest, her lips at his ear. "And the minute I told Lanie, she was on me, and I…we've been careful, so I thought," she sighs. "So I thought she was crazy. But no. Not crazy."

Her fingers squeeze his. "Are you sure?" he whispers back, because something about this needs the quiet, the soft. If he can't jump for joy, he has to be timid. It's one or the other.

"Third positive today," she says, and he feels her knees press upward, curling in on herself even as he holds her.

Is there a good way to ask, "are you happy?" when it comes to this? Meredith had been surprised when Alexis was conceived, but they were young, and they'd just decided to roll with it. But here, with his grown up wife, a serious cop with a dangerous job—oh.

He presses a kiss to her cheek as he leans over her to get a glimpse of her face. Her eyes are open, staring at their wedding portrait on her bedside table. "We've never really talked about this," he says softly.

She nods against his cheek. "I just assumed," she sighs. "Assumed you weren't desperate for another one and I," she huffs, stuck on the words.

She's right. He's never been desperate for another child, content instead to live life with his beautiful wife, solving crimes and having sex, laughing and loving each other. It's been more than enough, but he's not opposed to the idea of more children, especially not if they're hers as well—if they have a mother and a father, a family, a real life. Alexis is his pride and joy and purpose, but he still wishes he'd found Kate earlier, made better choices, been a better father, given her a mother too.

"I don't," she pauses again and he pulls her closer to his chest, to give her strength, to take some from her—bolster himself against the sinking feeling in his own body. They've created a life, and he already loves the bump beneath her fingers, but if she doesn't—he can't complete the thought.

"My mother wanted grandchildren," she says, and boy, does that throw him.

"She did?"

Kate nods and he sees the barest hint of a smile. "She took great joy in freaking me out with talk of babies and pregnancy when I was a teenager."

He can imagine the blush that would have spread over his wife's younger cheeks. He loves that blush, makes it his mission to get it at least once daily, much to her chagrin. "I bet you loved that," he murmurs and the smile widens.

"So much," she laughs. "But now…" The smile falls away and that look returns in her eyes, and it chills him, even from his obstructed view. "I love being a detective."

It seems like he's going to need to pull out all of his concentration to follow her through this one. "I know," he tells her and then hesitates for a moment, sucking in a breath. She squeezes his hand to get him to talk and he braces himself. "A baby won't make you stop forever. Just for a little while, but then you'll be back to kicking ass."

She doesn't reply, and for a long moment, he worries that he's ruined something he didn't even know about. The pull of her brow, the hold she has on her lip—it's like she's trying not to cry, but he doesn't know how to fix it.

Her hand moves then, bringing his up and over her chest to settle between her breasts, on the scar that sometimes haunts both of their dreams. "A baby won't, but a bullet could," she says, and he can't remember a time when her voice has sounded this broken.

Something twists in his gut, and then he's turning her, pulling her into him, holding her tight. Because he could deal with it if Kate didn't want the baby. He'd find a way, and it would hurt, and he might resent her for it, but he'd find a way. It's not his body, and no matter what, she has to come first—without her, there's no baby at all.

But this, her crying quietly into his neck, he can't deal with, he has no idea. All he can do is hug her, because he doesn't have the solution. The only solution is—the only way is something he can't suggest.

"You're a great dad," she says into his skin, and he has to strain to hear it. "Such a great dad."

"You'll be an amazing mother," he replies, because he knows she will—has seen her calm down children and laugh with his daughter, has watched her with Ryan's son Reily, has seen her light up when the little boy smiles.

"Not if I'm dead," she breathes and he feels his chest clench. Oh, Kate. "Not if I leave them alone with you. I just…" she pauses and he feels her lips against his neck for a moment, gathering strength. "When Ryan was in that accident last year, I sat there and I watched Jenny and the baby and I," she swallows, tears finding the corners of her eyes. "I told myself I couldn't let that be you, and our baby."

Has she always felt this way? Been denying herself the opportunity for a full family, with their own children, because her mortality stands in the way?

"No one's invincible, Kate," he murmurs, even as his hands clutch at her, because the very idea that his amazing wife, who has survived a bullet, and a stabbing, and more brushes with death than he cares to count, is merely mortal—it pierces him.

"But I can't," she sighs and he feels her fingers twisting his undershirt against his back, wrapping themselves up against the world. "I can't do what my mom did."

He forces himself to stay still, to stay impassive, because he's never heard her blame her mother. He'd assumed—he was a writer after all—that somewhere in her mind, a twisty place to be sure, there was some measure of blame and hurt. There always was. But he'd never heard her say it, didn't know she even knew it was there.

"Kate," he says tentatively, and she shakes her head against his neck.

"I know it isn't fair, Castle," she cuts in. "And I know it's not her fault."

He nods into the crown of her head, resting there with nothing to say. She's never needed him to straighten her out. Sometimes he wishes she would let him; Lord knows they'd get through things more quickly. But when she does it on her own, she always comes back, with that watery smile and the kisses that blow him over.

"It wouldn't be your fault either," he says after a few quiet minutes, when he just can't take the silence anymore.

"Because choosing to go out and put myself in danger doesn't count toward being culpable?"

He hears the edge of desperation in her voice and it meshes with the disbelief that she's still so coherent. He half expected her to cry herself to sleep in his arms. "It's your job, Kate," he says, his voice rough.

"The baby won't see it that way."

"The baby will love you," he argues, pulling her closer. "Like I love you."

She breathes slowly against his neck, the muscles of her back tensing in thought. "You," she breaks off, takes a deep breath. "You can always fall in love again, Rick," she whispers, and he's pretty sure he's not breathing anymore. "The baby can't have another mother."

He pulls back, needs to see her face, needs to show her that she's wrong. He can't replace her, like another wife could just step in and be for him what she has been—be the absolute, overwhelming, be-all-and-end-all love of his life.

"I can't just get another you," he offers hoarsely. "I can't believe you even," he falls silent as her fingers cover his lips, an eyebrow arched over eyes rimmed with red and smudgy mascara.

"I know that, Castle," she murmurs, and her lips quirk in an almost smile. At the way his brows lift at the name, the tone, the look in her eyes? "But," she closes her eyes for a moment. "If something happens, I want you to be happy again."

He kisses her fingers and she opens her eyes again. "I want that too, for you," he whispers.

She smiles, and though it's broken, it's there. "I know."

He nods into the hand she's wrapped around his cheek, pulling him in for a soft kiss. It's wet, with her tears, and his, apparently. When had he started crying? He decides he doesn't care as they shift so he's hovering over her, kissing her and stroking his free hand down her side to rest against the tiny swell.

"You're not dying," he tells her as they break apart. He watches her blink, considering him. "And yes, your job is dangerous, but hell, having a baby is terrifying, even if you weren't a cop and I wasn't a millionaire."

She gives him a cracked laugh and he smiles, moving his hand to rest over her bump. It fits completely under his palm and he can't help but fall more in love with her, fall in love with it—their child, the baby, his, and hers.

"Can you be happy?" he whispers, no longer afraid to ask. Afraid of the answers, yes, but not of the question.

Her palm comes to rest on top of his and she finds his eyes with hers, staring at him. "I," she leaves her mouth open, no sound coming out, and his heart plummets. "I am happy," she sighs and his eyes swing back to hers.

She leans up and kisses him, her free hand kneading the nape of his neck to calm him down. She's so good at playing tug-of-war with his emotions, so when she falls back to the pillows, he stays silent, waiting.

"I…you know I like kids," she says softly, waiting for his nod. "I just can't imagine—I was nineteen, you know?"

"I know," he nods, leaning down to kiss her forehead, to offer the only comfort he can.

"And it took me 'till past you to fix that—to heal from it enough to be," she trails off and gestures between them.

He smiles. "I know."

She squeezes his hand. "And you'd never leave our kid alone," she adds, her voice rough with it.

"Never," he promises, though, looking at the woman beneath him, he can understand why Jim Beckett did what he did. Losing Kate would utterly crush him, beyond repair, beyond hope. But he'd do what he had to for their child, for Alexis, for the people around him who needed him standing. They'd be his only reason to try. Because without her…God, this is morbid.

"I just can't imagine how horrible it would be for you, or them," she says, her voice almost too low to hear.

"But can you imagine how wonderful it will be for us?" he asks, nudging her nose with his, wanting to pull them out of all of the death and despair, because there's a life beneath their hands. "How amazing it would be to hold this baby? To watch him or her grow up, talk, walk, ride motorcycles, drive me into an early grave, jeopardize your job when they shoplift?"

She laughs quietly and her fingers trace patterns on his hand. "I know."

"So?" he prompts.

She sighs and her eyes flutter shut as he smooths his thumb over her stomach. "I'm not saying I don't want the baby," she says, her voice firm while still holding the edge of panic he knows she can't yet shake. "I…this is our child. I'm not going to—just no."

He pulls back so she can see his eyes, can see his love for her, free of guilt, or blame, or assumption. "Okay," he whispers. "Then let's sleep, and worry tomorrow."

Her hand clenches on top of his and she leans up to find his lips again, coaxing him down onto her, their hands trapped between them. "I don't know how to stop," she admits as he pulls away and settles to her side, coaxing her into rolling over so he can spoon up behind her.

She's never said, but when she's hurting, when she's frightened, when she's worried, she huddles against him like this, gripping at his hand on her stomach, tucking her head into the pillow, hooking a leg over his to draw one between her own. He nuzzles her hair out of his way so he can find the back of her neck, pressing his lips to the top vertebra there.

"We'll figure it out," he promises. Whether that means she'll leave every day and all of them will wonder if she's coming back, or whether it means she'll find another job, move to a different department, be promoted, he's unsure. But they've stopped a bomb, and outted a conspiracy, survived a freezer and battled a tiger—and those are just the ones that stand out—they can do this together.

She sniffles and he holds her tighter, rubbing circles against her stomach where her flimsy little tank top has ridden up. "I have to stop," she says.

He closes his eyes and presses his lips to her throat. "No, Kate," he tells her ear, feeling her shallow breaths against his hand. "No, you have to be you, and you have to be happy."

"The baby…"

"Will be happy if you're happy. And if that means that I have to tell her that mommy's fighting dragons, then I will. You know how I love to make up stories about you."

She laughs. "You heard that?"

"I heard everything," he smiles against her skin.

"Nosy," she sighs, and he can feel her relaxing. He hopes its from his words, but it could just as easily be exhaustion. "You would be…you wouldn't mind?"

He takes a deep breath, full of her perfume and deodorant, and the hint of sweat she's built up fighting crime all day. Would he mind if she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy or girl? Would he mind if she was there for the midnight feedings and nightmares and potty training? Would he mind standing in the doorway to the nursery, watching his wife nurse their child, sing their child to sleep, lazy, exhausted voice roughing through the words as she beams down at their son or daughter? Would he mind raising a family with her?

"No," he says firmly.

Would he mind burying her? Yes. Would he mind sleeping in this bed without her, waking their child from a nightmare without having mommy there to see? Hell yes. Would he mind missing her forever? The way he's clutching at her is his answer. But would he mind having a piece of her left behind—a living, breathing piece of evidence of their love and her life, who could grow up to be as amazing as she is? No. No, he wouldn't mind that one bit.

"I want you to be a detective, if that's what you want," he clarifies, so she knows. Because while they're so good at what's between the lines, sometimes he feels the need to say what usually goes unsaid. And with a tiny life beating beneath their fingers, deep in her womb, he feels the need to explain, to calm, to assure her of everything he can.

"I don't know what I want," she says and he rests his chin on her shoulder.

"That's okay. We've got nine months to figure it out."

"I probably have to tell Gates, don't I?" she sighs, wrinkling her nose.

He laughs, can't help it. "You like Gates," he reminds her. And she does. It's just that stubborn streak of hers rears its head whenever the woman will have a mandate to throw down—doesn't matter that they've been social friends since the Captain's third year, and they're now in her fifth.

"She'll take me off active duty," Kate continues, and he can't tell whether it's petulance or resignation lacing her tone.

"Just until the baby comes," he says gently, waiting until she nods. Perhaps just the petulance. He knows she won't endanger their child. Endangering herself is one thing, but he has a feeling that Kate Beckett-Castle is going to be one hell of a mama grizzly when she gets around to it. "Speaking of," he adds, feeling a smile on his face. "How long do you think that will be?"

He catches the side of her smile as her toes slide up his calf. "Missed it last month, so we're probably six, eight weeks along?"

"Around our anniversary then?" he chuckles, sliding his hand up to brush against her navel, inching higher until she stops him with a little laugh.

"Yeah." He loves the slight blush on her cheeks. "Has to be. We were, uh, overzealous that weekend."

He hums and tugs her earlobe between his teeth, just to hear her tiny squeak of surprise. She brings a hand around to rub his cheek and he catches a finger, presses a kiss to it. "And that little point-one percent was enough, you think?"

Kate clicks her tongue. "Don't know. But honestly, we were in bed so much that I probably just didn't take the pill," she admits a little guiltily.

After that weekend? He would forgive her tax evasion. "Happens," he smiles into her neck.

Her hand drifts back down to her stomach and he watches her close her eyes. "Yeah."

"It's going to be okay," he promises. "We're going to have a perfect little baby, and you and I are going to grow old keeping up with it."

"You more than me," she offers after a pause, as he watches her gather her optimism.

"Are you calling me old?"

"If the shoe fits."

"Hey, I'm virile. I've got proof," he grins, laying his hand on top of hers. "And just who kept you in bed that weekend?"

"My other husband," she says immediately, in a game they've been playing for so long that it should stop being funny. "Sorry you had to find out like this."

"You could have at least bought me dinner."

"I'm cheap," she laughs, rolling over suddenly so she can see his face.

He sees the laughter fall away and reaches up to stroke the line at the corner of her eye, soothing away the tension there. "I love you," he says quietly.

She smiles. "I love you too."

His lips find hers and for a few minutes, all there is in the world is her mouth under his and her hands in his hair. Nothing else matters but the woman wrapped around him in their bed, little puffs of air hitting his cheek as she breathes into their kisses.

She pulls back after a languid last kiss and brings both hands to his cheeks. "I'll try," she says, her voice full of steel and conviction and love—for him, for the baby, for the life they share together.

He smiles. "That's all I ask," he says, his own nerves easing at the smile on her face, still a little puffy, still a little tear-stained.

"I am happy," she continues. "I am."

"Me too," he murmurs. "Very happy."

She runs the pad of her thumb beneath his eye to wipe away the trace of a tear. "Sorry I didn't plan it out or…make dinner or something."

He shakes his head and presses his lips to her nose. If they ever do it again, she can make the big announcement. Hell, if they do this again, he wants to realize it before she does—he's supposed to be on top of everything Kate Beckett, after all.

"I'm happy with this, with you, with the little dysfunctional kid in here," he brings his hand down to her belly again, unable to stay away now that he knows what's in there. "This little guy or girl who's going to be so smart, and savvy, and scare the ultimate crap out of his or her teachers."

"Only if you tell her about your plot lines," Kate snorts.

"Right, like you couldn't accidentally let slip about the triple homicide you just worked."

"Your laser tag guns are scarier than mine," she retorts, poking him in the chest.

He laughs and after a moment, she cracks too, leaning her forehead against his as they shake with giggles, giddy, terrified—pulling in so many directions that it almost hurts.

"We'll be good parents," he defends, once he finds the breath to do so.

She smiles and then catches his eye, with a different sense of insecurity, one that warms him to his toes. "You'll teach me, right?"

He nods and smooths a hand through her hair, messy from their rolling and her earlier anxiety. "You're gonna be great."

She sighs and he withholds one as that guarded look falls back across her eyes. "If I'm here," she whispers. "Sorry," she tacks on quickly. "Sorry."

He shakes his head and tucks her chin until she meets his gaze. "I'll be here," he says softly, hoping that if nothing else, he can give her strength. "To hold your hand, and let you yell at me, and get the baby when you need to sleep. And you'll be here too, Kate. Don't go into this expecting the worst."

She nods slowly. "It won't be easy," she says, and he can't tell if she means the pregnancy, or childbirth, or their life, but it hardly matters.

"We'll make it work," he tells her. "We will," he asserts when she pulls her lip between her teeth. Slowly, he trails his hand back to her scar, letting his palm rest between her breasts. "I haven't gotten you to believe in magic, but I believe in this, in us, okay? And I believe this is going to work, with the picket fence, and the soccer games, and everything about being that disgustingly happy family everyone hates."

She laughs, a watery sound escaping her lips. She searches his eyes for a long moment, fingers coming to twine with his on her chest, her breath deeper, her heart beat erratic but strong.

And finally, he sees the smile he's waited for, the one that lights up her face and crinkles the corners of her eyes as she wets her lips and opens her perfect mouth, "And our kid will believe in Santa Claus."