A/N: I'm not sure where this came from, maybe a photo I saw on Pinterest of some baby shoes, anyway, it just did. Ours is not to reason why, I guess. Hope you enjoy.

Back with the next chapter of 'Not Ready To Make Nice' soon.

This is dedicated to Chantal, whose birthday was July 1st. Sorry it's a little late. Happy Birthday! x

"Walking, I am listening to a deeper way.

Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me.

Be still, they say. Watch and listen.

You are the result of the love of thousands."

- Linda Hogan
Native American Writer

First Steps

Her baby's shoes sit side-by-side beneath the child-size, white wicker chair that fits perfectly in the corner of the room: little blue crawlers with soon-to-be scuffed toes and a sturdy rubber sole that makes her think of an all-terrain vehicle. Shoes bought too early…far too early, but purchased with daddy's usual exuberance for the cute and the new and maybe a little tech thrown in there too, even though they're only first shoes for an infant.

So she felt she couldn't say no, tell him to take them back to the store, along with all the other bags of pale blue cuteness, until their son was more than a handful of hours old. They have items in their refrigerator that are older than her son, she thinks, with wonder. Perishable items!

One minute he wasn't here and then he was, birthed in the warm, amniotic pool of their huge tub, a cheerful doula on hand to give advice though none was needed. He wanted to be here, she could feel it – his quiet urgency to meet them both, to see their faces and feel the love he knew was right here waiting for him on the outside, to close the missing link in their little family, to mend the jagged tear ripped open by her mother's death.

Yes, one minute he wasn't here and the next he was - the pre and the post. From a nagging feeling at the back of her mind nine months ago of something missed or forgotten, to a shadow on a screen, then a flutter and finally a bump; a bump that grew and grew until thoughts of her child took over her brain as much as his physical presence slowly took over her body.

Life before becoming a mom and then life after. Detective Kate Beckett to Mrs. Richard Castle to Milo's mom in a matter of a year.

Her head swims with it all - the changes she's making, the joy she never expected and the love she hoped to feel that is so much stronger than she ever imagined it could be. People say…well, they say a lot of things. She shakes her head. But a love like this is…it's so big and wonderful and at the same time terrifying and painful almost, for all the endless possibilities it presents for loss.

Kate Beckett knows about loss. She knows about loss and pain and a heart so broken that you don't ever want to risk it or feel anything close to hope or happiness ever again. Until she met her husband that is, her savior, her best friend, and proof that there is always a possibility for joy no matter how broken your toys or your heart.

Light slices a laser-like swathe across the nursery floor, a clinically bright slash of white that suspends dust particles in its seeming solidity, particles that slowly turn, glittering in the bright illumination with a physical essence that says they might tinkle too given half a chance, a listening ear, a fraction more of your attention.

Kate sways back and forth in the rocker, her newborn resting against her shoulder, both freshly bathed, her head heavy with exhaustion, cheek resting next to the baby's chubby little arm, though sleep eludes her as she floats, buoyed up on a postpartum high of endorphins. His warm body sinks into hers, a perfect weight, molded to her shoulder as if he means to merge with her once more. And as she drifts back and forth on this rhythmical wooden tide, she becomes aware that the smell is the thing. She suddenly gets that now - her heart softened by hormones and a rush of new mother love - why people sniff newborns, their scent as sweet and nourishing as fresh baked bread.

She's not a baby person, never has been, but this baby, her baby…their baby…Milo…

She whispers his name against his wispy soft hair, a downy layer of the lightest brown that rings his head and casts it like a halo in the light beyond, trying the moniker on for size. It suits him - her little warrior. She snuggles close to her sleeping child and she whispers - secrets and promises, hopes and dreams - and then she kisses the soft shell of his tiny little ear, turning her head in time to catch him smile in his slumber, a gentle upward twitch of his lips, and her heart breaks wide open once more.

No, she's not a baby person, but she'll make an exception for this baby and anymore she's lucky enough to be granted. But for now, first steps…

The nursery door swings silently inward and daylight spills across the bedroom floor from the hall beyond.

"Everything okay in here?" asks her husband, tentatively hovering in the doorway, as if witnessing a private scene he fears intruding upon.

Kate holds out her free hand, beckoning him closer, the other easily cupping her child's tiny body in her palm, all five fingers splayed wide. "We've been waiting for you, daddy," she whispers, smiling as her baby squirms to the sound of her voice, lips puckering hungrily.

Castle crouches at her feet, folding his large body neatly, settling himself on the floor to worship at the foot of his wife and child, movements hushed and careful, reverent even.

He strokes his hand over Kate's where it lies atop their baby's back, her platinum wedding band glinting even in this low light. "How's he doing?" he asks quietly, caressing the curve of Milo's cheek with the tip of his finger, a matching, slightly chunkier ring adoring his own left hand.

"Dozing soundly so far. Seems good at that. Just like his dad," grins Kate, the grin quickly morphing into a yawn that has her wincing a little, as she balances the baby in one hand, the other raised to capture her waning yawn.

"Sore?" asks Castle, wincing in empathy with her.

"Just a little," she admits, before shrugging it off. There's a quiet pause before she speaks again, a thoughtful silence that is preloaded with something big. "I'll take this over a bullet any day," she says, letting her eyes slip down to stare at her son once more, drawn to him like a magnet, like she'll never get enough of watching him, awake or asleep.

Castle frowns and shakes his head. "Don't even joke, Kate," he scolds, lightly but seriously.

Kate pats his hand where it rests on her jersey-covered knee, loose silk pajamas the only thing she intends to wear for the foreseeable future. "Don't worry. Not going anywhere. Got you and this little one to think about now," she consoles him, watching as he soaks up the scene, both of them preserving memories like fragrant, Sicilian lemons.

The baby squirms, fully coming to, blinking blue eyes peering into the quiet gloom of the muted bedroom light. "Hey, little guy," coos Castle, leaning in close to smile at his son. "Welcome to the world, my man," he says, watching the baby look around in confusion.

"I think maybe he's ready for a feed," says Kate, observing a little pink tongue suddenly come poking out between rosebud lips, breath snuffled in eager little pants through tiny, perfect nostrils.

Milo squeaks, suddenly restless and impatient, and she gives Castle a slightly nervous look, before, together, they carefully maneuver the baby down into the crook of Kate's arm, a nursing pillow curved round the swell of her bump to help with balance.

"You all set?" he asks, hovering for a second until she gets her shirt undone, working one-handed like the pro he knows she's going to be at this, as she is with everything he's ever seen her set her mind to since they first met.

He knows this about her and yet she surprises him still. That includes giving birth today. She squatted and rocked, chanted and moaned like there was no way this was her first rodeo. And then, once in the tub, warm water to soothe the contractions, a few long pushes through gritted teeth, cheeks beautifully pink and glowing, that vein he adores pulsating in the middle of her forehead, their baby made his graceful, watery entrance to the world. He knows he's never loved her as much as he did in that moment, but it's a love that's here to stay, to be built upon, just like they're building a family, a life, fulfilling their dreams together.

"I…I think we're good," she murmurs, so absorbed in her baby and their joint effort to feed properly for the first time that she misses her husband heading for the door.

Her head turns in a rush towards the noise of Castle departing, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor out in the hallway. "Don't go," she calls after him, apologizing to Milo when he startles and then whimpers at the sudden movement and the sharper sound of her raised voice.

"You need something?" asks Castle, poking his head back around the door.

Kate smiles, looks down at her baby boy as he successfully latches on and begins to suckle. "Yeah…you. Come sit with us while our son has his dinner, daddy," she asks him with a smile, patting the small space beside her.

Castle's face, when she looks back up, is as happy as she's ever seen it. A big, bold, smile, cobalt eyes shining, the edges crinkled with the memory of a thousand smiles that came before and a thousand more before that. This man who simply needs to be needed, loved and wanted by the one woman who finally took the time and the care to figure that out.

And she wants him here, beside her, for every first step, for every far off and near ground, for the long, unknown road ahead and the well-worn path of their daily lives together.

For every first step until the very last, she wants him...

Milo: from the Latin, meaning 'soldier' or 'beloved'. Milo is also the modern Greek word for apple.