(If she hadn't let him drive her home, he wouldn't have showed up when she didn't call)
She's miserable. She doesn't even pretend to sleep in her bed. She sleeps on the bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the cold tile because she has to throw up every half an hour. She doesn't want to be far from the toilet, and the chill of the floor feels good on her feverish skin.
For twelve hours, she vomits up everything in her system. After a while there's no liquid left, so she just dry heaves. She's soaked to the bone from sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead. She doesn't remember any taste except the acrid taste of stomach acid, and every muscle in her body aches from the exertion.
Finally, it stops. She knows she needs to drink something, but she's terrified she'll have to puke again. Instead, she stumbles into her bed, lies carefully on her back, and immediately falls asleep.
When she wakes up, she's dying of thirst. She manages to make it to the kitchen. Her hands shake as she fills a glass of water and then gulps it down. She fills it again, carries it with her back to bed. Then she goes back to sleep.
She follows that pattern for what seems like weeks, but it's really only about a day. Finally, she wakes up to find that she isn't shaking. She lays in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and waiting for her stomach to lurch. It doesn't. She stretches, winces at the soreness of her muscles, especially her abs. Her right hand hits something cold, and she looks over to see her phone. She picks it up, checks to see if she's missed anything.
17 calls, 3 voicemails, and 6 text messages? Really?
The majority of her missed calls are from Castle, though there's two from Lanie and one from her father. Each of them left a voicemail. All the texts are from Castle. How are you feeling? Do you want me to call the doctor? Kate, pick up your phone. It's his voicemail that makes her smile. This isn't funny, Kate. Call me back within two hours or I'm coming over.
As soon as she hangs up the phone, there's a knock on her door.
She doesn't move at first. It could be anybody. A neighbor. The landlord.
Castle.
A moment of silence passes, and then there's another knock. Only this time, it's more like a bang. Multiple bangs.
"Beckett!" Castle's voice hollers through the door.
Kate freezes. It's him. He came. She glances down at her body.
God, she looks awful.
She paws at her hair, trying to pull it back with a rubber band that was around her wrist. She winces as her muscles stretch uncomfortably, not used to the movement. Her stomach, however, seems relatively stable. Thank God.
"Kate!" Castle shouts. "Open the door or I'm kicking it down."
Right, she thinks. You'll kick my stainless steel door down.
"Or I'll get your landlord," he continues in a quieter voice, as though he can read her mind. She can't help but smile.
She pulls on a sweatshirt, yanks the hood up over her head because she's positive her ponytail looks disgusting. By the time she gets to her front door, she's shaky but still feeling okay. She goes to work on the deadbolts, which takes some concentration. Finally, she gets them all undone, and swings the door open.
Castle is not amused. Although she's never been on the receiving end of one of these looks, she has no doubt that Alexis has seen more than her fair share. The expression on his face can only be described as pure, affectionate worry, maybe mixed with a healthy dose of exasperation. Kate tries her best to look bored.
"What the hell," she says, but instead of sounding annoyed she just sounds pathetic. Her voice is raspy, and a feeble cough punctuates her greeting.
He narrows his eyes. "Yeah. Exactly. What. The. Hell."
"I'm an adult," she tries, but she's sure that the sudden weakness in her legs that makes her lean heavily against her doorframe has belied her argument.
"Then act like one," he shoots back. She opens her mouth to argue, but he lifts a hand. "Honestly, Kate. It's not even endearing anymore when you reach this level of stubbornness. You're sick. Let me take care of you."
She glowers at him in reply.
He huffs at her, apparently annoyed. "I knew I couldn't trust you. I knew you'd lie."
She has to think about what he means for a moment, and then the memory comes floating back. He'd driven her home from the precinct when she got sick. She'd been relatively stable then, so it wasn't hard to convince him that she just needed a good night's sleep and a day off. She'd promised she would call in the morning.
Clearly she hadn't, but in her defense, she'd been puking out her intestines for an entire ten hours by then.
"What time is it?" she wonders out loud.
"Five PM," he says matter-of-factly. "It has been twenty-four-hours since I dropped you off and I have heard nothing. No call, no text, no postcard, no carrier pigeon." She smiles, but he's still talking. "I mean really, when one of New York's finest gives you her word, sworn on her badge, you would think you could trust her, but noooo, I guess that is too much to ask, even when—"
"Castle."
"—someone has volunteered to hold her hair while she pukes. You could've been dead! Dead in your own pool of vomit, and how would your father feel? And the boys? Ryan would've been—"
"Castle."
"—traumatized, you know the poor guy is barely surviving all the wedding planning and—"
"Castle!"
The effort it takes to shout brings on a fit of coughing and a small moment of vertigo. Castle blinks at her. "You don't have to yell."
She feels the sudden need to sit down, so she turns away from him and stumbles into the living room. She curls up on her couch, waiting for him to follow, but he doesn't. She peeks at the front door to see it still ajar, but he hasn't moved from his spot in the hall.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Can I come in?"
"Since when do you ask for an invitation?"
He must realize the truth in her words, because he shrugs and steps inside. She buries her head in her arms and concentrates on her breathing. She doesn't feel sick, per se, certainly not nauseous like she felt only a little while ago. Now she's just unbearably tired, and she thinks that a nap is in order, guest or not.
She's just drifted off when she feels a hand on her back. She lifts her head, squinting, only to see his face mere inches from hers. He's crouched next to her couch. His expression has creased into distinct worry now, and she feels her heart do a somersault.
"I'm fine," she croaks.
"Clearly," he says. He brushes a piece of hair away from her forehead, then presses the back of his hand to her head. "You're still hot."
"Aren't I always?" she shoots back feebly, trying not to nuzzle into his hand. Her inhibitions are lowered by the fever, obviously. Or maybe it just feels good to have some TLC after twenty-four-hours of horror.
He chuckles. "You made a joke in your feverish state. That's a good sign."
"Is it?" she murmurs. She drops her head back onto her arms.
"You should sleep."
"Mm."
"I'm not leaving, you know."
"Uh huh."
He sighs, though it sounds more affectionate than annoyed. She closed her eyes a while ago, but she knows him well enough that she could paint a picture of his expression perfectly. If she had any ounce of artistic ability, that is.
"Kate," he murmurs. And then she feels herself being lifted up. She opens her eyes, going stiff in surprise, worried that he's about to carry her to her bed (she does not need to be carried in any state, ever, thank you very much). What she sees, however, is that he's lifted the front half of her body up high enough that he can slide onto the couch. He lowers her into his lap, her face resting on his thigh so that she's staring at his knee. One of his hands goes to her back, rubbing wide circles, while his other caresses her hair just past her temple.
"Hm," she hums. She meant to warn him to behave, but even a joke about it seems out of place because she's never felt safer. His hands are magic, she thinks as she falls asleep.