Cats Don't Get Morning Sickness

This is an offshoot from Felis Felix. Reading that story first is essential, as this story will be entirely incomprehensible otherwise. Please suspend your disbelief from here on in.

Thanks are due to DrDit92, for correcting medical parts. Blame may be attributed to ACertainZest, whose conversation sparked this thought.

A brief warning: this fic takes a rather sardonic look at pregnancy. If you are likely to be upset by that, please stop here. I appreciate that some may find the treatment of the subject difficult.

Chapter 1

Cats do not suffer from morning sickness, so it is said. No-one, of course, could actually prove this, since cats are also unable to talk.

So it is said.

Well, it is said by everyone except Kate Beckett, also known as Kate Castle, also known as Onyx the pure black Siamese cat, also known as – though she really does not like this one and threatens to kill Castle every time he uses it, which, of course, only confirms the epithet – the Black Death. Only when she's in full panther form, naturally, though it is still entirely unreasonable. Her panther form (also pure ebony night) has never killed anyone. Except Castle, of course, but that was only temporary in order to turn him into a shapeshifter too.

They've been married almost a year now. Alexis is at university, and had moved out as soon as she could, citing her need for independence. (Beckett also suspects it's to ensure Castle can't vet her boyfriends, but she doesn't mention that.) Martha had moved out rather earlier, when her acting school took off, claiming that you two lovebirds should enjoy your privacy. It had also coincided with a rather embarrassing incident when she had arrived home from a repertory tour a day or two early.

For two years before Alexis left they'd managed, not without a few scares, to preserve the secret of Beckett's Onyx alter-ego, by ensuring that Onyx remains seen in the loft. Castle's proudest moment was the holographic projection in his office that made it look as if Onyx was asleep on his desk (or chair, or floor, or bookshelf) while Beckett was placidly eating her dinner with the family. Fortunately, courtesy of the random hours of murders and the ability to be merely dating (apparently) for a good long while, they'd got away with it, and then they'd had a year to enjoy themselves without fear.

Beckett's apartment, however, had become their main playground until the loft had been vacated. Gradually, it had changed from its previous austerity to softer comfort. The furnishings had altered to accommodate their peculiar, triple lives. There had been an extra couch, and both were wide, soft and long. There were a surprisingly large number of scattered bean bags or large cushions distributed about the floor. There were few ornaments, and those that there had been were carefully placed around the edges of the room, out of reach of lashing tails.

If any visitor had entered the bedroom, the wide bed with piles of plump pillows would have been no surprise at all, nor would the tasteful linens have been. The scratched, eight foot high wooden post, on the other hand, would certainly have raised eyebrows, and not a few salacious speculations. Though one or two of those speculations might have been entirely accurate, the truth – that it was a panther-height scratching post – was far stranger than that.

Once the loft was empty, they combined their furniture to convert the loft into the same arrangement, and that's where they live now, though Castle kept the Hamptons house for them for summers, or random weekends, and Beckett has retained a deal with her dad to use the cabin when they feel the call of the wild.

They each use whichever form they happen to feel like. Castle prefers to be a panther, when not a man. He can become a large domestic cat: just as Beckett can, also pure black, but much bigger and heavier; but it doesn't seem very masculine, somehow. As a panther, however, he has all the advantages of large, lazy felinity, but he can also keep his head in human-Beckett's lap, where she can pet him and fondle his ears, which he adores. His adoration tends to lead them in only one direction: towards the bedroom.

Beckett, conversely, tends only to become a panther when she's feeling frisky – or when they're going to go out and prowl the New York night to terrorise a few incipient criminals, or take a romantic stroll under the moon in the depths of Central Park. On some nights, for amusement and exercise, they chase squirrels, whose population has been remarkably reduced over the last three years, loping through the park and chasing each other playfully. She prefers to be Onyx, who can be cuddled and snuggled and petted, and who can perch on Castle's chest, lap or shoulder, or curl between his forepaws, and purr.

In bed, however, they're always human. Only when literally in bed, though. Out of bed… they might be human, or they might not, although they're always both in the same form. Anything else would be, well, squicky. She'd confessed to a few qualms about cat-form sex, but, to her surprise and considerable relief, the feline adaptations are exceedingly pleasurable. (Castle had assured her that if it did hurt they could both change back straight away. Beckett is rather less convinced that they'd have managed the necessary simultaneous switch.)

In short, their strange, triple-natured lives are blissfully happy. Usually. Today, Beckett is not feeling happy in the slightest. She is shockingly tired, her stomach is more than a touch unsettled, and she aches in places where a well-made bra should prevent aching, which has replaced her normal cramp. Not being naïve or stupid, she has a fairly good idea what has happened, and indeed when. She thinks back to a bare few weeks ago.

They'd gone out to dinner, and had a fair amount of wine: enough for them to be giggly and happy and definitely frisky. Instead of coming home, however, they'd slipped into domestic cat form, and sneaked through the Central Park gates, then made sure they were out of view of the roads and switched to full panther. Then they'd spent some quality time chasing each other through the park, playfully, as big cats do, and then it had all become serious in a hurry when, also as big cats do, it had turned into a mating game.

So far, so good, no problem. Beckett's pill works just as well for feline form as for female. They'd tested that pretty exhaustively. If only she'd remembered that food poisoning limits its effectiveness.

If only she'd remembered that eating the squirrels they caught was a bad plan. But… they'd had a lovely long run through the Park, and that had worked off dinner, and then their – er – amorous activities had left them both a bit peckish, and the squirrel had, well, just been there, and she'd swiped at it automatically with one large, clawed paw and, well, once it was dead she might as well eat it. What was really unfair is that Castle had eaten part of it too – he'd had to fight for it – and hadn't had the slightest hint of a tummy upset.

She, on the other hand, had had a disturbed stomach for a week. So disturbed, she'd been entirely uninterested in anything at all.

So it is bitterly unfair that she is pretty sure she is pregnant. She's looking at the test packet, not with any enthusiasm at all, and supposes she'd better get on with it before Castle invades the bathroom by breaking down the locked door. He, naturally, is totally over-the-top happy. It's okay for him, he's not the one who's going to feel constantly nauseous, stretch to the size of a whale and, instead of stride confidently, be forced to waddle like a duck for no more than ten minutes at a time before she needs to find yet another restroom. And they hadn't planned this. They were going to wait a while longer. She isn't ready for a baby.

All those are worries enough, but they aren't her main worry.

She has absolutely no intention of subscribing to the ridiculous guilt tripping about never drinking coffee, since – she is not stupid and she is perfectly capable of researching properly peer-reviewed studies – there is no proof whatsoever that a single cup of caffeinated coffee per day will cause any damage at all. There is also no proof that half a glass of wine once a week will cause damage, though she supposes she'd better check with the ob-gyn first, but anyway even the thought of a glass disturbs her already unhappy stomach. So she might just survive the next nine months, minus a week or two, without being arrested for mass murder at the Twelfth on account of having no coffee.

Astonishingly, she thinks acidly, as she waits for the test result, the reduction in coffee is not her main concern either.

She will have to put up with Ryan and Esposito turning from perfectly normal colleagues into flapping, clucking, over-protective mother hens. This will be appalling. They'll try to stop her doing things – such as interviewing big hairy ugly suspects, or visiting crime scenes, or going to the morgue, or basically just about anything that she needs to do in order to do her job properly. Though their mother-henly clucking will fade into insignificance compared with Gates's likely reaction to the news. She can't even not tell her. That would be unprofessional and – much more importantly – would invalidate her healthcare plan, seeing as being freaking pregnant is a material circumstance. She growls. Gates will need to be talked to at some length to stop her putting her on significantly restricted duties, but she's sure if she tries hard enough eventually she'll cave.

Even that is not her main concern.

Her main concern is exactly what sort of a baby she is going to have.

Before she can pursue that point, the result comes up. It's positive.

Aw, shit. It's not that she didn't want to have a baby eventually, because she did… just not quite now.

"Beckett, what's the result?" Castle calls from outside the door. She opens it up and hands him the stick. "That's wonderful. We're going to have a baby!"

"We're going to have a kitten," she says.

Castle's jaw drops. "What?"

"Or a cub," she says even more emphatically.

"What?"

Beckett sighs miserably. "Remember when we talked about this? You know, when we agreed to wait a couple of years?"

"Ye-es," Castle says cautiously.

"We were going to find an obstetrician who was very, very discreet. Because, Castle, we have absolutely no idea whether they will be delivering a baby, a kitten or a panther cub!" Her voice rises.

"Ah," he says. "Um. Yeah. That might be a tad tricky."

"You think?" she screeches.

"But Beckett, you told me that when you were human your DNA was totally human, and when you were Onyx you were totally feline. So surely the baby will be the same?"

"Or kitten," Beckett says crossly. "And how should I know? No-one's ever done this before! It's all your fault."

"My fault? How's it my fault? It takes two. You certainly haven't been complaining."

"If you hadn't chased me round Central Park after dinner four weeks ago" –

"Oh no, you don't. You suggested it. You said C'mon, Castle, I wanna play, and you did filthy dirty suggestive things till we both shifted." He pauses. "Oh. It was that food poisoning, wasn't it? That had nothing to do with me. You were the one who murdered the squirrel and ate it."

"You grabbed half of it off me!"

"You swatted me, with your claws half out!"

"You shouldn't have stolen my squirrel. Anyway, how come you didn't get food poisoning too?"

"Good luck?" Castle says, which was a serious mistake. He finds this out when Beckett punches him very ungently, and then bursts into tears. She hates being tearful. How can the freaking hormones have kicked in already?

Castle cuddles her in to his abused shoulder, and pets. "C'mon, love. Okay, it's maybe not quite ideal, but we've coped with pretty much everything else, so we can manage this. We'll be fine." He sweeps her up in his arms, and deposits them both on one of the large couches. She snuggles into him, insensibly reassured by his wide frame and strong arms around her – even if she is still cross with him for getting them into this mess – and turns into Onyx, who can be cuddled and cossetted and petted.

Two seconds later she shifts back to Beckett, wide eyed and terrified.

"What if shifting hurts the baby? I can't hurt the baby!"

Castle doesn't think before he speaks. This is not unusual and generally not at all helpful. Now is no exception. "Well, since you've shifted once or twice a day for the last four weeks it's a bit late to worry now," he rumbles. That is so far from reassuring as to be appalling. She cries harder. "I don't think it can, sweetheart. It's as much part of you as anything, and I'm sure it's all fine. We'll find a very discreet obstetrician right away," he says. "I'm sure we don't need to tell them anything, um, tricky, right now."

Beckett would argue, but her stomach chooses that moment to tell her it's about to invert. She dashes for the bathroom, and is unpleasantly and violently sick. She sits shakily on the bathroom floor, from where Castle collects her in a moment and takes her back to the couch, where he pets her soothingly. It's about the first useful thing he's done since they got home.

"I don't want to have to stay Beckett all the time," she wails.

Wisely, Castle doesn't say a word. She'd be very sorry if he were dead, or gravely injured, but it would all be a bit too late if he keeps making stupid statements.

"I don't wanna have morning sickness." She can hear Castle thinking it's not morning, but since he still keeps his fat mouth firmly shut she can ignore it. "I don't wanna be exhausted like I am now." She starts to freaking cry again, and hates it even more. Clearly God is not female. If He had been, men would suffer – that is emphatically not an accidental choice of verb – pregnancy and all the associated troubles. Which would serve them damn well right.

It's not fair. She – she thinks again, even more bitterly – can't be hormonal already. She only just saw the damn sign on the damn stick. It's like Pavlov's freaking dogs, which is totally not on because she's a cat and cats do not do what some dumb psychologist tells them to do.

Another horrible thought hits her mind and exits her mouth without pausing. "What if I have a litter?" she whimpers. "I'm not ready for one baby yet. What'll we do with four, or six?"

"Hire two nannies," Castle says smoothly, "and do a TV deal that'll pay their college fees."

Beckett manages a very soggy snigger, and then dashes for the bathroom again. Castle follows her, but stays outside till invited in.

"And how long do I have to put up with this crap?" she whines. She is sure that Castle is thinking wrong end for crap, but since he doesn't say it she ignores it. Again. She gets the feeling she'll be ignoring a lot of unspoken commentary, if she's to stay sane.

"You're tired, sweetheart," Castle says gently. "C'mon. Bedtime. Stay as Beckett tonight. Who do you want me to be?"

"You. Human you."

"'Kay. While you're getting yourself ready for bed – how about I run you a bath?"

"Oh, please. A lovely hot bath. Bubbles?"

"Lots of bubbles. I'll go do that now."

Simply for the suggestion of a hot bubble bath, she's almost prepared to forgive him for getting her knocked up.

Then she has yet another horrible thought. "How long am I going to be pregnant for? I'm sure cats aren't pregnant for nine months? How are we going to explain that?" Though it's going to be a damn sight easier than explaining either a litter or why the obstetrician is holding a just-expelled kitten. Oh God. Eurgh. She really doesn't want to think about giving birth. Especially if it involves claws. She winces reflexively.

"I'll look. While you're in the bath, I'll get my laptop and we can look up obstetricians and gestation periods." There is a swishing noise as Castle, presumably, tests the temperature. He'd better not try babying her. Though a bit of babying right now when she's tired and wants to be cosseted and can't even turn into Onyx and be cuddled and petted in her favourite form for being cuddled and petted – would be pretty good. She droops through to the bathroom and brushes her teeth, without throwing up again, though it's a bit of a close run thing.

"I don't like being pregnant," she wails. Castle, again wisely, says absolutely nothing, and inducts her into the bath. She slides down into the warmth and the bubbles. "I want a drink. Scratch that, I need a drink. I wanted a baby but not yet! This wasn't the plan!"

Castle returns with his laptop. "Let's see now. Domestic cats" –

"I am not domesticated."

"It's a technical term. Stop quibbling. Anyway, cats – oh. 64-67 days."

"That's only nine weeks. If that's what happens I'm practically halfway through and I haven't had any vitamins or folic acid or anything and I've been drinking eight cups of coffee a day and wine when we felt like it and everything and what if I've hurt the baby already?"

"You won't have hurt the baby. Most people don't know for the first few weeks and do all the wrong things, and most babies are just fine. And I guess if you were halfway through, you'd look like it. And you don't. Not even a hint of a bump. Let's see about panthers. Hmm… twelve to fourteen weeks. Two to four in a litter," he says happily. "We'd have a ready made family."

"We've got a family." She sinks under the bubbles and wails again. "You're not to tell anyone. I can't stand the thought of being fussed at by anyone but you, and I can't take much of you doing it either."

Castle nods. This is the only safe response.

"I've found a list of very discreet ob-gyn practices. I'll call one first thing and get them to squeeze us in. Um…"

"Yeah?" she says, tired now.

"We should be just about able to have a scan, but you might need to wait a few days. It says you can have an early scan from six weeks, and that would tell us if it's one baby or more. Maybe just wait to shift till after the scan."

"'Kay." She pauses. "See the baby already? Really?" That sounds better. See her baby?

"Yep."

"Okay." She heaves herself out of the bath, and Castle wraps her protectively in a towel. She's so upended by the whole affair that she doesn't argue. Instead, Castle argues, when she drops the towel.

"You'll be cold," he says.

"I wanna see," she grumps. She twists and turns and stares – glares – at the mirror. There is not a hint of a bump. Good. She likes her figure like this, with a waist.

"You're going to be just as gorgeous," Castle points out. Beckett does not think so. Whale sized is not a good look. Nor is a waddling shuffle. (A whuffle? That sounds like a small dog, sleeping. Or Castle snoring. A shaffle? Whatever it is, she doesn't want to be doing it.)

Beckett slides into bed, half convinced that the universe hates her. When she wakes up, and the first thing she has to do is throw up, she's sure of it.

Thank you to readers and reviewers.

Six chapters, on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday pattern.

This is part of an occasional series under the overall title of "It's Cool for Cats" where any Felis Felix universe stories will be posted.