Someone in the reviews kinda made me notice that maybe I made Castle a too weak Witcher, compared to Geralt. May I remind you that Geralt died from a similar wound (a pitchfork in the gut, handled by a teen, that probably did the same damage the three stab wounds did on Castle here) and that he had already risked his life, like he was on the verge of dying, from a simple gash on his thigh in one of the short stories in The Sword Of Destiny, and survived only because his own mother literally drained herself to save him from the blood loss and the infection? Witchers are tough, tougher than the average human being, but damn even they have limits, most of all if they don't have time to drink their potions before a fight.

Also, I wanted to write a Christmas Themed story, but the story I published last Friday took like ages to be written so, nope. Even this year, no Christmas Story from me. Ah, well... Anyway, happy holidays to everyone reading, have fun with your family and if you don't celebrate for whatever reason, have a merry time nevertheless. May his noodly appendage touch your holiday this season, eat and drink with moderation and generally have a good time. And a happy new year of course!

Chapter 14 - Extreme Measures

A night that had started like a nuisance and an insult to all magic users, universal knowledge and more generally free will, had become a full-fledged horrid livid nightmare. Between the discovery of Bracken's dungeon of horrors, the monster banqueting of a poor soul just recently dead, the fight and subsequent emergency surgery performed in dim candlelight in her own bedroom, Beckett thought she had seen enough. But Castle decided it would be a good thing to develop a sudden post-operative infection with spiking fever.

As if she wasn't tired enough, after all that and the cruel work schedule.

After having brewed a small set of febrifuge potions, diluted to the point that the benefits would outweigh the toxicity, to keep his already taxed system from further harm, she finally administered the first dose then crumbled on the other side of the bed, exhausted. She wished she could just fall asleep, but adrenaline was still pumping in her veins and she couldn't just shut her brain off. She'd have to pull another all nighter. She wasn't exactly known for her ability to function when sleep deprived, but even if worn out, drained and emotionally devastated by the events of the last week, she was wide awake and ready to work.

As she checked Castle's vital signs again, she felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Yennefer and all the crap she had to put up with Geralt. The White Wolf had also required her own knowledge in medicine and healing magic, but he mainly relied on Triss and, most of all, on Yennefer to heal wounds that surpassed his potions or his boosted healing abilities. Beckett now realized why both her mentors held quite a grudge on the Witcher. Maybe not a grudge, but they surely heaved a desperate sigh of contempt when they saw Geralt walking, crawling or being hauled in front of them with gaping wounds caused by the Gods knew what monster or unknown blade.

It wasn't like she resented Castle for getting hurt as he helped her finding her mother's murder, but she could have done without the infection and the fever. Because she could deal with wounds, she could repair the damage and stitch him back up. She could use magic on him. She had already treated him a couple of days before - after a scuffle at the Hairy Bear - that wasn't a problem. But infections and fever, on a person that had lost an insane amount of blood and had sustained such an extended trauma to internal organs and major blood vessels could be extremely difficult to treat.

Fever was the natural response of the body to get rid of infections, but it was also dangerous as it could cause epileptic seizures and other nasty issues like organ failures or brain damage. At the moment she didn't have anything at home that could be useful for treating infections, she only had enough for potion that would lower the fever. And even that way, she couldn't lower it too much, or his body wouldn't be able to fight off the infection.

It was a vicious cycle that put the Witcher's life at stake in more ways she could control. After all, if the stitches didn't hold, she could sew him up again, but if the infection was to spread, or the fever couldn't be controlled, Castle was pretty much a dead man ready for the grave.

All she could do was to help him fight it off by himself by keeping the fever high enough to kill the infection but not high enough to kill him. There was no other way. She had tried to contact Triss via megascope, hoping she'd have her own device set up wherever she was, but she either was on the road and the megascope wasn't available, or she wasn't around it when she had called. Multiple times.

She desperately needed her council. She could have tried with Keira, she knew where she was and she was pretty sure she'd find her via megascope in the morning, but Keira Metz wasn't a healer. As skilled as she was, the sorceress had more knowledge of the arcane magic, of elven magic used for transmutation, teleportation and such, not the more practical application of healing. She could have helped, but not to the extent Beckett needed.

Stretching her aching neck, the sorceress dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of cold water, wrung it, then pressed the cold compress on his forehead, throat and the back of the neck. Castle stirred in his sleep at the sudden cool feeling on his overheated, clammy skin, moaned something unintelligible then settled back on the mattress, still as a stone.

At times he would murmur, speak some words in his disturbed sleep. Often she had heard him call for Alexis, his daughter, his mother and a couple of times Meredith, Alexis' mother. From her point of view, it was like he was reliving a memory in which they appeared, a very vivid memory. He woke up once, his glassy eyes fixed on her as she smiled at him, trying to look as reassuring as she could, and wiped the sweat from his brow with her palm. At first he fled from her touch, her hand probably felt icy against his warm skin, but he quickly got used to it and reveled in the sensation, nuzzling his head against her hand to prolong the contact.

Beckett chuckled, softly. "Who knew, you're a cuddler…" she whispered. What had started as a practical gesture to ease some of his discomfort turned into a caress, something meant to sooth his troubled mind and hurting body. She pushed the soggy hair away from his face, combing it back with her fingers, ran her hand down his jaw, traced the old scars and skimmed on the newer ones, careful not to cause more pain or irritation.

Contrary to what she had thought, she found herself enjoying that small physical contact. Usually, she tended to push away her patients or at least deal with them in the fastest way possible, but not this time. Unlike most of her clients, prostitutes excluded, Castle had treated her with a gallantry she had never seen. In the past days, while she worked on the variation of the spell that allowed them to enter Bracken's place without being exposed, he had quietly waited. He had let her work without saying much more than "Here, drink something," while handing her a cup of coffee or herbal tea. He had allowed her to experiment on him, without a huff or chuckle at her failures. He was camped on her couch, downstairs, but kept the place he occupied tidy and neat, unlike the majority of men she had allowed to cross the threshold of her home.

He was a sweet man, beneath the tough shell he wore. Layers and layers of witnessing the worst of the world, having dealt with the most vicious monsters - both literal and metaphorical - the Northern Kingdoms and Skellige Isles could offer, of a lifetime of sacrifice and loss, had built a thick wall around his heart. She wondered how could he retain such kindness, in a world that offered none, to those like him.

Respect, sometimes. Fear, often. Disgust, all the time. Kindness? Never.

Yet, he was one of the kindest men she had ever encountered. Even towards those that despised him for his profession. Unless provoked, of course.

"I wish I had your moral strength," she said, running the tip of her fingers on the soft, strangely unmarred skin of his ear shell. He moaned at that touch, and it sounded more a moan of pleasure than of pain. "You like that?" she asked, as she repeated the movement.

He groaned and shifted a little. "Yeah…" he sighed, the first coherent word in hours. He heaved a long, strained breath and fell asleep again.

Smiling, Beckett leaned closer and kissed his forehead, both to assess his temperature and to reassure him, make him feel that there was a friendly presence close by. He seemed to relax a bit more, the taut tendons of his neck lost some of their rigidity.

He was like a wounded animal, unable to relax completely when hurt. The perks of a job like his.

"Wait here, I'm going make some tea for both of us."

She slowly walked downstairs to the kitchen, stretching her aching back. Saving lives was a strenuous job.

In the dimly lit kitchen, she filled the kettle with some water and put it on the stove. She rummaged in the cabinet just over her head and found a mixture of dried herbs she had prepared some time before, exactly what they both needed. Something that had an energizing effect, thanks to the dried ginger and white myrtle in the mix. And they both needed energy.

She walked back upstairs sipping her own tea while carrying a small tray with another mug, a jar of honey, a small bowl and some bread. Despite the ludicrous banquet that they had attended barely six hours before, Beckett knew, from personal experience, wounds like that required great amounts of simple energy, like sugars, in order to heal properly. He couldn't sit up and drink the beverage, or chew the bread, but there were other way to make unconscious people eat. His swallow reflex was still intact, he had swallowed the antipyretic potion with no issue, he wasn't too far gone, and she had learned that soggy bread sweetened with honey was a good way to administer certain potions or liquids and nutrients.

So there she was, in the middle of the night, spoon-feeding him the sweet mixture. He took it like a champ, even trying to chew on the food though he didn't need to. His reaction to the nearly forced feeding made her relax. If he would eat, things weren't as bad as they looked. Fever had gone down, but hadn't broken yet, but he looked a little better.

Enough that she dared to lay down beside him and catch some sleep, when later she realized that she had been dozing off on the chair beside the bed. You can't save lives if you can't keep your eyes open.

She was briskly woken up not an hour later by the sudden movement of the mattress beneath her. Castle was thrashing on the bed, shaking heavily in the throes of a nightmare fueled by fever.

Still groggy with sleep, Becket checked his forehead and the back of his neck. His temperature had spiked. "Oh for fuck's…" she didn't even finish the imprecation as he jolted again, groaning loudly.

She sat up and tried to push him down on the bed and keep him still. If the sutures on his back burst, things might get extremely bad and dangerous. Not to mention, messy.

The fever was so high he was delirious, what seemed to be peaceful dreams had turned into horrible nightmares. "Castle…" she called him, trying to wake him up. "Castle it's just a dream…"

He repeated long sequence of no, louder and louder until he was screaming. It took all her strength to pin him down, but it wasn't enough. He suddenly sat up, like a spring, screaming like a wounded banshee. "Geralt! Stop!"

Damn. He was dreaming of the Rivian pogroms, when his brother had been killed. From what she knew, that day had been brutal, the murderous crowd had been thirsty for the blood of innocent non-humans and both brothers couldn't allow that. Castle had been lucky enough to be rescued, while his brother had perished, along with her old teacher, and friend, Yennefer.

And if he was reliving those traumatic memories, distorted into something terrifying by pain and high fever, no wonder he was so distraught.

He fought hard against her as she tried to make him lie again on the bed, but even with the superhuman strength, he was too weak and in the end, Beckett managed to make him stay put enough to check his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused, so he wasn't awake or conscious of what was going on around him. It wasn't a hallucination.

She bracketed his face with her hands and gently turned his head towards her. "Castle, listen to me…" she tried to breach the wall the delirious illusion had created in his mind. "Castle, you're safe. You're not in Rivia. You're here with me, with Kate."

He tried to get away from her, grunting with the effort. He looked exhausted, but in his frenzied state, he didn't register it. And apparently he didn't understand her words. She wasn't sure he could hear her, at all.

"Damn you stubborn Witcher…" she groaned. "Castle, wake the fuck up!" she yelled.

Things had evolved into a screaming contest, with Castle calling for his dead brother in a fever-induced nightmare and her trying to wake him up from his delirium. He would hurt himself if she didn't act fast enough.

Neither screaming or slapping worked. He had stopped thrashing against her, but he intermittently jerked, trying to move away from her and an unseen peril, projected in his mind. "Castle…" she tried again, wiping the copious sweat from his face with her hands. "You need to wake up, it's only a bad dream, you're not in danger!" Her voice was stern but calm, soft. She knew delirious patients reacted badly when violently torn from their dreams or visions, and he didn't need that added stress, in his current weakened state.

Nothing worked. He was too far gone in his terrifying fantasy, to be woken by any normal means.

"Well…" she said to herself. "Desperate times call for desperate measures…"

She leaned closer and kissed him. Hard. A breath-stealing, heated kiss, usually reserved for young, legitimate couples in the throes of passion and that would be considered scandalous for an unmarried pair. She meant to stir a completely opposite physical sensation in Castle, in order to distract him from his nightmare. In his dream, he was in pain, grieving his lost brother, definitely not aroused.

It worked better than expected. Within two seconds, he was wide awake and eagerly responding. She felt his arms wrap around her torso, holding her close to him, pulling on her until she was straddling him. And what started out as an extreme measure to wake him from a nightmare, became a full blown makeout session.

She tried to keep it professional, as professional as kissing an unconscious patient like a lover she hadn't seen in years may be, but the moment she felt his tongue gently touching her lips, she melted like a pack of snow under the warm spring sun.

And by all Eternal Fire's shrines, he kissed like a god.

Breathless, Beckett had to pull back. Panting heavily, she looked down at him. He was pale and sweaty, his eyes, though now focused, were still glazed with high fever, but he was conscious, focused, alert. And, from what she could feel beneath the thick duvet, aroused.

She swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. "Better now?"

Castle, still disoriented from having woken up in such a traumatic way, squinted his eyes and looked up at her. "What happened?" he asked, voice hoarse and raspy, as if he had swallowed gravel.

"You had a nightmare. You were screaming your lungs out and thrashing on the bed like a maniac. I feared you were going to tear the sutures, but I couldn't wake you up," she explained, briefly.

Castle drew a ragged breath and sagged back on the bed. She felt him relax, before he went rigid again. "Gods… the pogroms… Geralt and Yennefer." He turned his head, facing away from her, but she had already seen the tears in his eyes. "I saw them die. Again… like the first time."

"It was a memory," she said, softly. "Stress, pain and weakness tend to bring up bad memories while dreaming, the fever made it look like it was real." She quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and felt him shudder at her touch. "I'm glad you're awake now."

He sniffled, tried to raise his head but apparently it made him dizzy. "Oh…" he groaned. "My head feels like a fallen boulder. It was so real… I had nightmares about that day, but they never felt so authentic…"

The fleeting moment of lucidity brought up by the sudden way he had been woken up was quickly disappearing. His voice was more slurred, his eyes were getting glazed again. She needed to check on him quickly, to retrieve some coherent answers, before fever took over again and he became nearly comatose. Between the infection, the fever, the nightmare and the scare, she was sure he was exhausted just as her. He didn't look like he even recalled being kissed awake.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

He lazily wriggled beneath her as if to make a quick mental check of his body, and she blushed, feeling his hard on pressed against her groin. God, if that's how it feels beneath the cover, I wonder what's it like without…

"My back hurts, my stomach hurts, my head hurts and…" she saw a shadow of confusion veil his eyes. "And…" he trailed off, embarrassed, but she knew all too well what he meant.

She swallowed another lump at his interrupted confession and tried to slid off him so she wouldn't press on the wounds on his back, but his arms held her where she was. Not that she minded. "It's the fever," she tried to downplay their predicament. "Totally normal."

"Maybe…" he whispered, his hazy glowing eyes bearing deep in hers. "But that doesn't change the fact that you kissed me." He leaned up and brushed his lips on hers again, slower this time, a more tender kiss, not hot, rushed and desperate.

That felt so good. Better, that felt great. He touched her with a consideration that moved her, with his arms wrapped as tight as his worn out condition, his fingers lazily drawing patterns on the strip of skin left uncovered by her shirt.

Where did that come from? Yes, Castle had flirted with her, on and off, just as she did with him. Wicked smiles and naughty looks here and there, but nothing explicit. Yes, it could have been the fever talking, but…

She was just as aroused. And she wanted him. Bad.

Not now though. He was too weak, it would be too dangerous, not to mention unethical, since he was, after all, incapacitated. Or would it?

Prying his hold on her open, she rolled off him and stood up. "Castle… hold your horse for a moment, this isn't right… you're too weak, we can't…"

He managed to grasp her wrist and pull her close once again, a loopy smile brightening his battered, but apparently happy, face. "I'm stronger than you think…"

"Castle, I spent two hours sewing up your guts, I think I'm the one to judge how strong you are, at the moment," she rebuked, sarcastic.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the damage done to the diaphragm and the area just below his lungs made it a colossal effort. The air caught midway, he was shook by a sudden fit of cough that had him gasp and splutter some blood that stained his lips and chin with dark red blots. "Fuck…" he muttered, writhing in pain. "That hurts…"

Beckett, who was expecting an event of the sorts, pulled a kerchief from a pocket and wiped the stains away. "Told you…" She took what remained of his now cold herbal tea from the nightstand and offered it to him. "Drink, small sips. It'll help."

With her help, he did. Slowly, he emptied the mug. "What is it?" he asked, as she set the cup down again.

"It's a mix of rough, dried ingredients for healing potions and normal tea. There's a little bit of ginger root too, for the taste. Helps boost the immune system and gives energy when sleep deprived, or hurt, like you. It makes no miracles, but it tastes nice and gives some solace when someone needs it."

"Nice…" he commented, but added nothing more. He was slipping into unconsciousness quickly. It was time for another dose of febrifuge.

"Here," she offered him an uncorked vial. "This will keep the fever down to a tolerable level." He drank it all and smirked in disgust. "I know, it tastes bad. But it helps. Try to catch some sleep, Castle, Melitele knows you need it."

"I hadn't pitched you for a person of faith…" he slurred as she tucked him in.

Beckett smiled. "I'm not. But I caught the habit of mentioning the faith of the person I'm treating, and most of my clients are deeply attached to the old religion. It seems to help them." The potion was already working. While his skin was still pale, clammy and warmer than normal, his pulse was back down to a more normal rhythm.

"I'm an atheist, Kate…"

"I figured as much, but allow me to cure you the way I know it works best. Now," she sat beside him on the bed and ran a cloth imbued with cold water on his face again. "You need rest, and possibly a dreamless sleep. You want me to use a spell to shove away nightmares?"

He awkwardly shrugged his shoulders. "Just stay with me, I'll feel better with you close to me."

Poor guy, she thought. He looked like a scared little boy, so clearly sick and hurting. Weird as it may feel, the knowledge that the great Richard Castle, nicknamed the White Dragon for the ferocity he displayed in combat against monsters and foes knew fear and pain, made her want him more. On a less physical side though.

It was so wrong on so many levels though.

"Alright, I'll stay close. Just give me a moment so I can change. I'll be right there."

He sighed, drowsily, then closed his eyes. "Counting on it."

He fell asleep like a rock, nearly as soon as he settled down. His breathing, though still strained, became even and the slight wheezing sound she could still hear with each intake of air had diminished. He still sounded a little like a seventy year old heavy smoker with permanently damaged lungs, but it was a little better.

As soon as she was sure he was he was fast asleep, Beckett ditched the shirt, boots, socks and trousers then pulled an old, yellowed and definitely oversized shirt from her wardrobe to wear in bed and climbed beneath the duvet. She checked once again for his vital signs, felt his forehead and the back of his neck for his temperature and found everything normal, all things considered. The potion had worked fine enough.

"Are you going to be alright?" she asked, more to herself than to him.

He opened one eye to a slit, just enough that she could that he fared better than she had thought. "I'll manage." He wrapped his fingers around her own and fell unconscious again.

It was more than enough for her to know that he would really manage. Soon, she followed him into a state that, considering how tired she was, could have only be defined as comatose.