Kate shuffles out of the bathroom, bracing herself on the doorway as she turns down the hallway to head back into the living room. Her throat is sore now after that much severe coughing, her back is tense and aching with an incredible dull pain after that much convulsing and gaging, her head is splitting open at the sides.
But she feels Rick trail right behind her as she slowly drags her feet over the carpet into the living room, going all the blinding speed on a frail old woman. She puts a hand out to brace herself along the wall just before she reaches the threshold of the living room and puts the other hand to her head. "God, I don't remember feeling this terrible when I was in recovery."
Rick sighs to himself, watching her slowly drag her feet across the floor. "Far be it from me to point out the obvious, Beckett," he says in a light tone, "but there is a fully grown healthy adult male standing right behind you."
Kate rolls her eyes, her sore, weakened throat the only thing stopping her from scoffing loudly. "I'm not incontinent, Castle." She says, lifting a hand up in the air behind her as she shuffles slowly into the living room. "It's just the flu, okay?"
"All I'm saying is that you could at least take my hand so you don't fall? Your balance looks-"
"What are you, a boy scout trying to get a merit badge for helping a little old lady cross the street?" She snides, the terrible feeling of her body infecting her attitude, looking over her shoulder to him, her dark complexion making it look like she's furious with him.
"Okay, nobody does that anymore."
"Right." She says turning back away from him to continue to shuffle her way to the couch. He feels a part of his control, and one of the last tendons of patience snap when he sees her shake her head to herself, almost certain that there's an eye roll in there behind that wall of frizzy hair. He bites down on his bottom lip, grapples with the air in anger directly behind her, and silently seethes. "I appreciate the help, Castle, but I'm perfectl-whoa!"
Kate exclaims as she's lifted off her feet all of the sudden, being taken up in his arms with absolute ease by the man behind her. Her heart fluttering uncomfortably at the surprise of the action, she comes to a stop in his arms, her arm draping over his shoulders out of instinct, but her eyes are firing daggers at him.
"Put me down," she demands.
"I'm sorry," he says as he slowly starts to carry her over to the couch, raising an innocent brow, "but you're being a bit obnoxious."
"And you're being childish!" She snaps back, squirming only once in his grasp.
"I'm being childish? I'm trying to help you." He says with a gentle smile. "If you would at least make an effort to be more agreeable, it might make things easier. Now I know being agreeable isn't exactly one of your strong suits, but-"
"Castle, put me down or I'm going to barf on you." She stops him, moving the hand that isn't around his shoulders to point a finger in his face.
But he just smiles and casually shrugs his shoulders. "I've been barfed on before."
"I swear, this will be so much worse than Alexis spitting up on you when she was little."
"It wasn't Alexis, it was Gina." He says with a smile, still holding her in his arms. "Turns out she gets motion sickness when dangled three thousand feet above the ground in a hot air balloon."
"Castle, if you don't put me do-ah- stop it!" She says, whacking him limply in the chest as he pokes his fingers into the side of her ribcage. "You know I'm ticklish right there." She scolds.
Rick grins devilishly. "Where?" He pokes her lightly again, feeling her squirm.
A small belt of laughter escapes her throat as she twists away from his fingers and into his chest. "I'm serious, put me down."
Rick feels his smile start to get heavy and gives her a nod, but makes no motion to let her go just yet. "I thought you'd miss being in this situation." He says, his smile getting heavier and heavier with every breath as she finally seems to meet his gaze.
And it isn't until she takes a moment to look into his eyes and that finally has a chance to take it in. She's being held in his arms, for the first time in over a year. He hasn't held her like this since the incident with the bomb, and even then, it was only because their life-celebrating sex turned into intense, passionate roughhousing and he ended up ending her carefully planned twists and turns by just sheer brute force, hoisting her up in his arms and throwing them down onto her bed.
But he's never just held her like this.
Her arm that's draped over his shoulders wants to hold him closer now, her hand once demanding he set her down is now flat against his firm chest, trying to find the part in his shirt to catch just a feel of bare skin. "Believe me," she says in an airy voice, her breath getting harder the more she looks into those big blue eyes of his, "there's a lot more I miss about you than just your arms."
With that, his soft smirk fades into the same hard expression she's been struggling to chisel away at for over a month and he looks away, slowly setting her back down to the floor just inches away from the couch. Suddenly feeling a chill run through her, Kate grasps at the sides of her robe and wraps her arms around herself as she moves to sit down in one side of the sofa closest to the kitchen.
"Just um..." he says, taking a few steps back from the couch, "try to be a bit more agreeable? I have to start on the soup." He says, motioning toward the kitchen.
Kate gives him a forced smile, feeling a giant chasm form between them when he turns away from her. She lifts her feet up off the floor and curls them into the seam of the cushions, wrapping her arms around herself as she leans back. It's only a moment to herself, just feeling pitiful and lonely, even as she sees him come back from the kitchen with a warm cup of tea in his hand. He hands it to her with a blank expression that she silently thanks him with a smile.
As her skin gives her another shiver, clutching the hot cup of tea to her chest, pressing her nose to the sleeve of his flannel she's wearing, she sees his broad, muscular, toned figure and defined jaw start away from her. On a tightening chest, knowing that all that pathetic schoolgirl swooning Beth and Barbra have done over him was for a good reason, she calls out to him again. "Rick?"
He stops just at the entrance of the kitchen, a soft lift in his brow.
Kate hesitates before speaking. "In my bedroom, there's a..." she trails off, not wanting the chasm she feels between them to get any larger. She starts to move to get up off the couch.
But he stops her with a simple life of his hand. "No, what is it?"
She settles back, holding the cup to her. "There's a blanket in my room, it's..." she trails off again when she sees him give her a knowing smirk and starts to move down the hall way. "Castle, it's the-"
"The blue one, right?" He asks, turning around with a shrug of his arms.
While she sits in the corner of the couch, watching his incredibly attractive figure stroll down the hallway, a tight clench snakes around her heart. God, he fishes for one compliment and now she can't get her mind off of him. As she sees him in the shadows at the end of the hallway, finally finding the door on the right that leads into her bedroom, she curls into herself.
He knows exactly which blanket is her favorite, which one would bring her the most comfort, is probably going to drape it over her when he comes back just the way he knows she likes it. He probably knows why it's her favorite, probably remembers the story of her nanna sewing a quilt for each one of her grandkids and how Sofie got the brown and plaid red one, and she got the blue and white one. He knows all of those little things about her, more little things than she's let anyone else in on. There's no one on Earth that knows her like he does.
But she wouldn't know what blanket is his favorite.
After a minute, her mind starting to spiral and her heart going with it, Rick comes strolling down the hallway just as casually as he went with her blue quilt folded neatly over his arm. He unfolds it just a few steps away from the couch, splaying it out in front of him and draping it over her. Just as she predicted, he reaches over her and starts to snuggly wrap the quilt around her legs that are curled up on the couch, and she's too paralyzed by her emotions to respond. She just looks into his blue eyes as he adjusts the quilt over her, placing the top end at her hands that still clutch the cup of tea to her chest.
"Get some rest, okay?" He asks, finally looking up to meet her gaze. She has a different, almost emotional wide gaze in her eyes now. He half expected an impatient eye roll when he tucked her in, but she didn't fight up at all. He clears his throat to himself and stands up. "Keeping in this agreeable vein," he says with a slight smirk and a soft, joking tone, "you'll let me know if you need anything?"
All she can do is force a smile, unable to look away from his eyes, searching him for things she should know about. She loves this man more than anyone else in her life, she'd never let anyone get this close to her. She should know about him. Now, all she does is watch as he turns away from her and head into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a small wastebasket, a grocery bag open inside, and sets it on the floor next to her just in case.
It's a few hours later now.
Rick had spent most of the time preparing the chicken soup for her after eating a couple of the cinnamon rolls he'd prepared for himself and put the rest in the fridge as leftovers. After a few hours of slowly and carefully chopping vegetables, carefully crushing garlic so's to not wake her up, picking just the right amount of spices and grinding up just the right amount of herbs by hand, and slowly pealing and picking the boiled chicken to just the right size chunks, it's all on the stove on a slow simmer. It will still be a while before it's ready, but it's all there.
The time is just nearing around half past noon when he catches sight of the stirring coming from the couch. He watches from the island while he cuts up one of the last remnants of the carrot from the soup, popping a small piece in his mouth, waiting to see if she'll wake up this time.
He's had to keep himself busy. Cutting up this leftover carrot into pieces is just busy work at this point, an excuse not to go over and see her. He knows himself. He's weak. he goes over there and he'll see her beautiful face, remember how soft her skin is, reach over to brush some hair out of her face with his finger, and before he even realizes it, all the work he's done and effort he's made will mean nothing and he'll be right back on his knees begging for forgiveness just to feel her with him again.
But as he watches out of the corner of his eye, still turned down toward the counter, she continues to stir, and his heart squeezes when the blue quilt he'd tucked around her gets flung up in the air and she sits up off the couch. He can't seem to pull his eyes away from her unkempt hair as she places a hand over her face and seems to groan. She doesn't look over to him as she slowly stands up, dropping her tangled robe from her shoulders, leaving her in just his shirt and faded pink pajama bottoms. As she puts her hands on the back of her waist and starts to lean back to stretch her muscles out, he forces himself to turn away from her.
Seeing her do that was always the quickest way for his arms to find their way around her.
He turns to the fridge and reaches inside, finding the healthiest orange juice they had, finding a glass from the cupboard next to the fridge just as he hears her bare feet hit the linoleum. He turns as he's pouring her a glass of orange juice.
"That smells really good, Castle." She says in a groggy voice, pulling out the stool on the other side of the island.
He slides over a small glass of orange juice to her. "Feeling any better?"
Without a thought, she's grabbing the orange juice and taking a small sip to get some sort of taste in her mouth. "A little," she starts, sucking on her teeth, "my headache feels better."
"Good," he says in a light tone, putting the top back on the orange juice and putting it back.
But when she moves to take another drink, the glass stops short of her lips. "Did... I didn't know we had orange juice."
"You didn't," he says, coming back from the fridge and going back to cutting up the carrot on the counter of the island.
"You went to the store? I didn't hear you leave."
"I had them delivered." He says with a soft look, popping another piece of carrot in his mouth.
"I didn't know they delivered groceries."
"Well, they don't, normally." He shrugs. "But they made an exception for the town celebrity." He says, looking at her with a smug wave in his brow. "It's nice to actually be somebody."
She fights her smile and takes another sip of her juice. When she cradles her glass in her lap, watching him busy himself with clearing the counter of leftover scraps from the soup that smells so appealing right now, all of her feelings come right back and the words are tumbling from her lips before she can stop them. "Why wouldn't you talk to me?"
Rick feels himself freeze with the leaves from the celery stalks in his hand, already bent over the corner of the island toward the trash can. "I'm sorry?"
Her eyes are looking at him with the same wide, emotional gaze, looking so desperate. "About us, about our future, or... or about you." She says, waving her hand at him. "How come you never just talked to me?"
The leaves fall into the trashcan and he brushes his hands off in too casual of a motion. "You really want to get into this now?"
She nods to herself, looking down to the glass. "I figure," she starts, feeling sly in her answer, "you'd feel too guilty to lie to your ex right to her face when she has the flu."
He has to stop, taking a moment to drink her in. Her hair is still unruly and unkempt, her eyes are still tired and circled, but still that beautiful hazel he remembers, his shirt is loose and baggy on her slender frame, she's hunched over and looking at him with a soft, almost expectant smile. All he can do is shrug, shake his head in a small, non-dismissive motion, and look down to the counter, trying to busy himself with cleaning up again.
"With how long it took me to finally get my chance, are you really surprised?" He asks in a low tone, not looking over to her from focusing on the counter.
She feels her brow furrow, "What?" She asks, sounding surprised at what he said.
He looks back up to her with a lidded gaze. "It took four years to get my chance with you, Beckett." He says matter-of-factly, pausing to look her in the eye before letting out a hard sigh and looking away again. "I wasn't about to screw it up by doing anything that might scare you away."
Her breath is pained, feeling like her own throat is trying to choke her.
When he looks back up to her with the same lidded gaze, she feels her heart shutter. "Turns out I lose either way, so..." he says, trailing off and going back to clearing the counter of vegetable scraps and dishes.
"Rick..." she says shakingly, not earning his eyes back, "you know you could have talked to me, right?"
"Could I?" He asks right back, not giving himself a chance to take what she said at heart, making him feel any more pitiful than he does when he thinks about this.
"Yes." She says pointedly.
"Like when I told you I loved you?" He almost accuses, letting his hands fall down to his sides.
She drains her lungs of air in a long, hard sigh and stares him down, lifting her brow. "That was different." She fights back.
"At the end of the day, Beckett, it's not." He says, shaking his head and probably unbeknownst to him, letting her see just a little of what's under that emotional armor by the slight glimmer in his eye and the soft and vulnerable arch in his brow. "We got together, you got what you wanted, and just like everyone else, you moved on when something better came."
She bites back her answer, about to ask him what if she was wrong. She swallows it and just continues to hold his gaze, afraid to lose it. He probably didn't mean to say it, but she caught it, and now that she heard it, she doesn't want to forget it. "Is that why you wouldn't talk to me?" She asks in a soft voice, trying to sound as caring as she can. "Because of what happened in your past?"
He blinks hard a few times and looks away, taking up an empty bag of celery, "Doesn't really make a difference anymore." He mutters as he flings the empty bag in the trash.
And it's there that she can see what he's been hiding. He didn't smirk, throw out some clever quip. He's not even attempting to mask his hurt. She just wishes to God that she knew what's hurting him, because she knows now that it's not just her. As he continues to clear the kitchen silently, she can't help but feel her heart tug her closer to him. He's accused her of hiding in her work, and she knows it's true. She knows exactly where she hides, why she hides, and what she hides from, and what made a relationship with him so terrifying before they were together was he did too.
But as she watches him clear the kitchen of trash and utensils, she knows what Meredith was talking about, because it's not just her leaving him for a job that caused this. There's more. While she sits on the stool, watching him silently, she feels her love and care for him swell.
If it's not the hurt from her leaving he's hiding from... what is he hiding from?
A/N: Ran a lot longer than I thought it would. Wanted to get the next few scenes in that would lead into the next plot thread, but couldn't manage it with the length. Not sure if you guys would mind or not. Let me know. /:]
