AN: Here's the second chapter, as promised. Hope you like it!


Thursday 1930:

Home at last, yet she shouldn't be. And it's almost disturbing, the way artificial light mixes with the fading daylight, filling cracks and dissipating over surfaces in its last moments of potency. So accustomed to Gibbs' work hours, Kate is now recoiling from freedom. Now this, this is fundamentally wrong. At the thought of him, though, the sensation from earlier in the day returns, claiming her chest cavity and lodging itself between tissue and bone. The heaviness is literally making her sick. But not as sick as he is. Kate doesn't overthink it this time. Dumping two fully-loaded grocery bags on the kitchen table and grabbing her car keys, she leaves daylight to run its course, unrivaled, in the emptiness of her apartment.

Thursday 2000:

Impulsivity is one thing, doubt is another, and she has transitioned from the former to the latter. What is she even doing here? Standing in front of his door, fist frozen in time, like in a very bad action movie, which relies on slow motion for further dramatic effect. This indecision angers her, but the knock on the door that follows hardly offers any consolation. Fleeing is still an option and she is about to turn around and leave, when Gibbs opens the door, visibly surprised.

"Kate, what are you doing here?"

Uh, how do you explain something you yourself have no grasp of? So, when she speaks, her confidence comes as a shock to both of them.

"Checking up on you, Gibbs, what do you think?"

He doesn't say anything at first, but then his eyes crinkle at the edges, propelling a smile to his lips.

"Come in, Kate," his voice rumbles and she walks in, more concerned than not now that she's heard him speak. Not only does he sound like crap – though she has to admit, the low tone is pretty sexy – but his hair is a mess, too. It's as if he's been –

Shit. "Did I wake you up, Gibbs?" she asks, but it's more like an exclamation 'cause she is sure he was sleeping.

His smile grows wider at her obvious discomfort. "You could say that," he deadpans, walking back to the living room, where the couch has been turned into a blanket-y fortress.

Kate is not sure if he meant for her to follow him, but she does it anyway because he is acting weird. Okay, weirder. And it hardly has to do with his sickness. Right?

"Gibbs? How are you feeling?" There, if he doesn't snap at her now –

"I've been better," he murmurs, long limbs extending to a lying position from his current sitting one in a swift motion. Like always, a scarcity of detail.

She wants to press harder, yet settles for silence, smoothing down the creases of her skirt. Kate feels like an intruder, who has taken over the armchair opposite his couch. In her work clothes, she is no match for his casual slacks and loose t-shirt.

"Okay…Have you seen a doctor?"

"Nope."

He is amused. She is obviously uncomfortable and he is not making it any easier, but in his defense, this headache is killing him and TV is out of the question. Sleeping around all the day is not like Gibbs. So watching her get irritated is not a callous act; it's only for the purposes of entertainment.

Just as she is about to yell at him – so what if he is her boss, she can't let him trifle with his health – he puts her urge at bay, for the moment.

"I called Ducky. He told me to take the day off, get some rest. Drink lots of liquids –"

"Good," she breathes, ruling it futile to ask for more information. Yes, he probably should have seen a doctor. But the very fact that he is lying down, instead of sanding his boat, hot coffee in hand, or you know, alcohol, shows that at least, he is following Ducky's orders. To some extent.

She is discernibly more relaxed now, no trace of a frown on her face, feet stretched out.

With one arm under his head for support, he is the one to be looking up at her, this time around. A flashback to their first meeting on Air Force One, where the roles had been reversed. The silence is comforting because they've discovered a whole new level of communication through tiny motions, the raise of an eyebrow, followed by a smile, reciprocated; it all makes sense.

Until a violent cough breaks this moment of calmness. Shaken by the intensity of it, Gibbs comes to a sitting position, but he is still struggling to catch his breath. It's like a domino chain; with each consecutive cough, the feeling of drowning intensifies, his eyes blowing wide open from the mere physical strain.

Fuck. Kate doesn't know what to do. It's on instinct that she sits next to him, on instinct that she traces soothing circles down his back, fingers pulling away when she touches – on accident – the exposed sliver of skin beneath the hem of his shirt. By then, he is flushed, yet finally able to breathe. She is the same color as him, but for a different reason, and while she tries to cover it with a remark, he beats her to that.

"Well, that was a good workout," he says, voice breaking at the end. Still, he musters up a smile after seeing her worried expression.

"Gibbs –"

Kate is about to give him a lecture. It's okay not to be okay, Gibbs. Asking for help is what people do. Instead, trembling fingers brush against his forehead, registering what she was already certain of.

"You're hot."

There you have it, the punch line, and it's one of those moments when everyone else is laughing and you are the only one not getting it. Kate is stunned to see his smile grow wider, to see it evolve into a hearty laughter. What did she –

Oh. "Funny, Gibbs. What I meant was, you have a fever. Have you taken any medicine? Do you have a thermometer? I'm going to call Ducky, okay? I – you'll be fine."

So immature, Gibbs. Because he is still grinning even after she bombarded him with all these questions. She can feel her blood rushing; undoubtedly coloring her cheeks crimson, with red tint creeping down the sides of her neck, too.

"Thank you, Agent Todd," he murmurs, ignoring her correction. His fingers reach to entrap her wrist in a loose hold, but she tugs her hand free.

"Gibbs, I'm serious. Lie down, okay? I'll be back."

To her surprise, he listens. Following orders is not something he does, but all jokes aside, he is feeling like hell, and it's starting to show. He's been trying to tone down the symptoms, maybe fool her even into thinking he is fine. But she's good, and she knows. And now, he knows it, too – he really doesn't want her to worry.

Thursday 2100:

So this is what Gibbs' kitchen looks like. Kate is surprised to find everything in perfect order: no dirty dishes clogging the sink, nor any dust-devouring objects on the table, for that matter. The cleanliness of a house not lived in, of a man, married to the job, with the basement – his illicit lover –

Enough. Ducky is not picking up and she is fidgety; not only that, she is also making up metaphors and it doesn't get worse than that.

"Hello?"

"Ducky!" she exclaims, a sense of finally evident in her voice.

"Caitlin, is that you? What is going on?"

"I'm with Gibbs right now, Duck. He is not feeling well –"

"Oh, yes, Jethro is sick. I'm surprised he let you call me. You see, he was very unwilling to admit feeling unwell this morning. I told him, 'Jethro, you should take the day off,' yet stubborn as he is, he told me to mind my own business, so I thought –"

"Ducky," Kate's impatient tone breaks his speech.

"I'm sorry, Caitlin. How bad is it?"

"He has a fever, I'm pretty sure, and his cough is getting worse. Could you come over maybe?"

"I'm afraid not. But I'll tell you what to do –"


Following Ducky's advice, Kate goes to the nearest CVS pharmacy. After searching through his medicine cabinet, all in vain, and finding him asleep on the couch, she had decided that was the best option. The woman at the counter eyes her suspiciously when she makes her order, taken aback by Kate's urgency in asking for Ibuprofen and a very specific type of cough pills, whose name she has to read off of a note. Thankfully, she is in and out in no time, taking a moment to calm down before going back to his house.

Thursday 2130:

When Gibbs wakes up, it's not because he's had enough rest. On the contrary, he still feels terrible, partly because he is now painfully aware of the throb of his own heartbeat (Ducky would say it is natural – after all, blood pressure increases with an increase in body temperature.) Shifting from side to side, he can't find a comfortable position; his eyelids are heavy with sleep, yet he is unable to let go. Perhaps he should give up altogether. Propping himself on his elbows for support, he looks around the room, illuminated by the dim hallway light. It takes him a moment to register that something doesn't feel right, or at least, it's not like it used to be.

And then he knows, brain finally catching up to instinct. Kate is not there. She must have left after he fell asleep because the last thing he remembers is –

He doesn't remember much, only that she was there. Right? She was checking up on him? Maybe. But it could have been just a dream.

Sitting up, he takes a sip of tea, the warm liquid soothing to his throat. With the mug in his hands, for a moment he's not even cold anymore. The feeling doesn't last long, and he wraps a blanket tightly around his shoulders. Wait – how did his mug end up on the nightstand beside the couch? He is pretty sure he left it in the basement. Unless –

It wasn't a dream. She had been there. He is not going insane. A hint of a smile runs across his face, before the realization fully settles in. She had been there and now she's gone.

He is not hurt. No. Not even disappointed. Okay, maybe a little hurt. More so, he is angry at himself for feeling like she owes him an explanation, when she doesn't.


Without knocking this time, Kate walks into the house, paper bag in hand. Tiptoeing as not to wake him, she makes her way to the living room. It's difficult to read shapes and forms in the darkness but she recognizes the figure sitting on the couch. Broad shoulders, upright posture even in sickness. She hesitates before calling out his name, because she doesn't want to startle him.

"Gibbs," her voice is a lone call, a whisper, in the silence of the room. She turns on a light before walking up to the couch and sitting beside him.

No answer.

"Are you okay, Gibbs?" His expression is indiscernible. She has to persist, hold her gaze for a while, until he finally meets her eye. Even then, it is impossible to read him.

"Feeling any better?" Another whisper, accompanied by fingertips running down his arm, yet her touch is featherlike, insignificant, and he can't feel it under the protection of fabric.

"What are you doing here, Kate?"

He keeps a straight face, though she can feel he is holding something back. When she doesn't answer – because honestly, she is taken aback by the question - he murmurs, "You should go, Kate."

She doesn't understand. It is yet another order that is not to be challenged. His voice is distant and if she didn't know any better, she would think he was –

Fuck it. She can't understand him.

"Fine, I'll go. Just – take this, okay? Ducky said it would help. I'm – feel better, Gibbs."

Handing him the paper bag, she brushes a hand over his shoulder. She doesn't meet his gaze because keeping a steady tone while she just wants to curl up and cry is strenuous in and of itself. Yes, she wants to cry because he is a bastard. Fuckin ungrateful one, too. Then why isn't she getting up to leave?

He takes the bag from her hands, taking out the Ibuprofen and another pack. He's an idiot.

"Kate –"

No answer. She doesn't even look at him, lost in her own thought.

"Kate –"

Feeling his probing gaze on her, she turns to face Gibbs, ready to snap at him. Were someone to paint her this very instant, they wouldn't miss the pursed lips, the expectant eyebrow raise, no.

"Thank you, Katie."

Agent Todd. Kate. Katie.

She is really trying, trying to retain the linearity of the curve. But an undisputed smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Was that hard, Gibbs?"

And now it's a full on grin, reciprocated. A headshake and the warm touch of her hands, enclosing his.

"—so you going to take these pills, or not?"