9th February
She jerks awake, the sound of her phone echoing through her room. She opens her eyes to find the suffocating darkness of her bedroom in the dead of night, the glint of light slipping in between the blinds provide the only source of light. It's only focus her dresser, a select portion of it she should not be thinking of in the moment as she gropes blindly for her phone, it should have been on the nightstand. And then-
There it is.
She wraps her hand around the squealing device, needing to silence it before it pierces a hole in her skull, its shrill sound like the whir of a drill as it boars its way through.
"Beckett," she answers. Ignores the fact her tongue is dry, sticking to the roof her mouth, heavy even as she says her own name, something she's more than practiced in.
The voice through the phone jolts her, too loud.
But they're not giving her an address, they're asking her a question.
"I-" She stops, doesn't bother trying to continue with the hitch in her throat. She swallows the dry feeling, finds her throat's response is to give a bark of protest, her lungs urging her to expel the air, dislodge something lingering thick in her throat. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She notes the husk in her own voice. But she's just got to wake up some more, drink some water.
"It's fine. I didn't realise you were off sick Detective. I'll call someone else. I hope you feel better." The woman is polite and hangs up the phone as soon as Beckett manages to make a noise, cursing her tongue for being so heavy this morning. The woman thought she was making a noise of acknowledgement, really it had been protest.
She'll be fine after a drink of water. She goes to the kitchen and fills a glass of water, taking a few large gulps, almost draining the glass. She realises as she dials that she's already thirsty, damn. But she can carry a bottle of water with her, she's worked through a sore throat before, she can do it again.
Her lungs protest the intake of breath she takes to ready herself for speech. Okay maybe she's not alright.
She hangs up the phone, it hadn't even connected and her body had given out on her.
She'll call the Captain in a few hours and tell the woman she'll come in later, finish the paperwork and to call if they get a case. But right now, she refills her glass and heads back to bed. A 3AM outing to stand in the blistering cold would do nothing to improve her condition. She'd end up home in bed by lunch time anyway, sent away disgruntled by the Captain or even Ryan and Esposito, they've done it before. She sighs, when she realises, Castle wouldn't allow it at all.
She sets the glass heavily on the nightstand. She'll wake up again with her alarm and see how she is.
Except the shrill of her alarm, the buzz of the radio filling the room, the announcer's voice normally irritating but today it's enough for her to fling her arm across and slap the button to silence the offending squawk.
It seems she's also developed a headache. But she can deal with that too. She can force herself to swallow a few pills to overcome that hurdle.
She rolls onto her side, reaching for the glass of water she'd almost emptied in the remaining hours of the night, waking twice to the sensation of a dry mouth, her tongue once again thick and heavy.
She drains the glass and feels the lukewarm water slide down her oesophagus, coating the parched tube. She sucks in a breath of cool air, letting it soothe her now moist mouth.
Then she feels the gurgle of protest in her stomach, the movement of the water in completely the wrong direction as her diaphragm begs her to cough. She clamps her jaw and runs to the bathroom.
She hunches over the basin and feels like her lungs are trying to work their way out her mouth, like her stomach is about to empty its contents at the next deep contraction, urging her body to cough violently again.
Except nothing obeys her insistent muscles, her stomach doesn't empty and her lungs most certainly don't emerge from her mouth.
When the coughing fit subsides, deep and prolonged, it leaves her heaving, her hands on her forehead, slick with a sheen on sweat.
Then the heaving triggers another bout. It's not nearly as violent, but her stomach is still trying to purge itself. She doesn't even know why. She doesn't even remember the last time she was sick. At least not sick enough to be hunched over first thing in the morning willing her body to vomit so she can stop this convulsing. But she doesn't vomit. She doesn't even have to deal with phlegm.
When the fit subsides she fills the cup she'd set on the basin, carried in her haste. And drinks most of it down. Soothing her parched throat, bracing herself for another bout. When it doesn't come she refills it again and heads back to bed, back to her phone.
"Gates," the woman answers, completely business-like and seemingly alert at barely 6AM. It makes Kate's head spin.
"Morning Sir, its Beckett." She forces herself to continue despite the overwhelming urge to cough again. All she did was greet the woman and inform her who she was speaking too, the husk she can hear in her own voice would certainly have thrown the woman off. She doesn't fight the urge to give a short bark as she finishes though, angling the phone from her ear.
"Something I can help you with?" she asks, a little distracted. Of course she is playing it coy or maybe she's that focused on something else that she's completely missed the husk and the bark and probably the drone as her head plays catch-up with her mouth.
She opens her mouth to respond, the cool air tickling her throat causes her to give a response that is far less than human. She meant to ask about the call she got from dispatch. Whether they needed her to come in.
"Beckett?" she asks her.
Kate presses a hand to her chest, fighting the shudders, forcing them into her control. She win's after a second. Takes a deep breath. "I'll be right by lunch. Just need to sleep it off a little, let some meds set in." The excuse sounds weak to her own ears.
"I don't want you setting foot in my precinct all day, Beckett. I don't need everyone infected with whatever it is you've got."
Kate sighs. She isn't going to win the argument, but she's sure she'll be fine by lunch. Maybe she'll just turn up, the Captain wouldn't exactly refuse her entry or send her home.
"Yes, Sir." She spoke as soon as she swallowed, succeeding in beating the coughing fit.
"First thing tomorrow, Detective."
She doesn't make it in after lunch. She forces herself to eat a piece of toast, take a shower and slide into the baggiest clothing she can find. The proceeds to curl up in front of daytime television shows she hasn't seen in years, but can still follow. Some of the drama hasn't evolved.
She hasn't gotten any better. It hasn't really gotten any worse though.
She's basically asleep when her door is unlocked. She freezes, stops still, facing the back of the couch she's just debating how long she should wait before turning around to face him. Maybe she should just feign sleep and let him slip back out.
No such luck.
"Hey," his voice is soft, like he's just noticed the giant lump of her on the couch. "I rang the guys to see why you weren't answering and seems you had very good reason." Is he really teasing her? She's not even going to bother defending herself.
"I got hit by a bus," she says slowly, avoiding triggering the bark in her throat, cursing the husk in her voice. At least she hasn't launched into the coughing fit yet.
"It sure does look that way," he offers softly and she can hear him coming toward her, already there apparently when he touches her shoulder and leans over. "Need anything? I brought some supplies." He holds the plastic bags up so she can see.
"I should be taking another dose, but it's too warm in here." She'd been planning to go without for another fifteen minutes, the naps she's been having have been short so its not like she'd have been too far overdue.
"I'll get that, in the meantime tell me what you'd like me to do with all this stuff?" He sets the bags in the space her body has created curling onto its side.
"Thanks Castle," she says softly, flicking her eyes to the first time since he arrived, giving him a tight smile when she finds him beside her, much too close to be deemed safe from infection. Too late now.
She flicks her eyes over the bags, a box of tissues, a packet of cough drops as big as she's ever seen, boxes of pills and syrups to supply her for a month, all for varying types of colds and flues. How he brought them all without raising the suspicion of the pharmacist is beyond her.
She shifts the first bag, mainly full of necessities to the other bag. There is a hot water bottle in a fuzzy cover, few bottles of something she can't see in the bottom, nestled beneath Band-Aids and a packet of jelly beans.
"Band-Aids? Really Castle," she says, loud enough that she hopes he'll hear but not too loud to trigger a coughing fit.
"Hey, Espo never told me how sick you were," he says softly, back beside her already, apparently he'd spied her empty glass at the foot of the couch too. "You should sit up to take this," he offers, raising his eyebrows at her still hunched form, still surrounded in the effects of his pit stop on the way over here.
She takes the glass he's offering and sits slowly while he moves the plastic bags to the floor beside her.
She swallows the pills he's given her without question, clearly he'd taken more time to rummage through her medicine cabinet than she had.
"Thanks Castle," she says after she takes an extra gulp of water.
"You don't need to thank me Kate." She watches him swallow and flick his eyes down the length of her body. She suspects the 'It's what I'm here for,' will remain unsaid.
"Yes I do. You don't have to come and supply me with tissues and medicine and hot water bottles. So thank you." She's amazed she hasn't been interrupted by a coughing fit, but her voice is low when she's talking to him barely a whisper.
She watches him roll his eyes a little, unwilling to accept thanks, but that doesn't matter now. She's at least stopped the verbal protests. She realises she set her hand on his knee, atop the crouch he's folded into on the floor beside her.
"Sit with me?" she asks softly, sliding her arm up the elbow she'd had her behind, along the forearm hanging limp in front of him until she curls his fingers through her own.
He doesn't understand what she's asking. Doesn't want to prod her to repeat it, afraid he's misheard and will make a fool of himself. But then she's sliding her fingers around his wrist, giving a gentle tug. So he stands, keeps her fingers with him. He nods as he stands, letting her shift. He moves to step to the other end of the couch, slip beneath the thick blankets and curl her legs around him, or drape them across his lap, or whatever she prefers.
She stops him because she's moving the other way now, twisting her body to toss a few pillows to the side, hunching herself forward then guiding his hand back around behind her. When he sits in the seat, already draping his hand over her stomach to guide her back against his side so she can sleep at his shoulder, she stops him with her laughter.
"Not what I meant Castle," she prods.
He stops moving, confused.
Then what did she mean. "Huh?" he asks stupidly. That was not the question he had formed in his mind, on his tongue.
She laughs lightly at him, dropping his hand on her stomach like its no big deal. But then her fingers are under his knee, prodding the shift of his leg while she leans forward again. He doesn't fight it. But he also doesn't miss the way his hand has slid along her stomach, slid around to the side, climbing increasingly higher as he stays stock still with her movements. When he feels his thumb hit her back, following the curl of her ribs, he clings to her small frame, allowing her to shift his body around her own, bring his legs up beside hers.
Only when she's curling up on his chest, after pushing him back against the arm of the couch, does he fully understand. He wraps an arm right around her and slides his fingers across her forehead, shifting her hair so he can see her face. She's basically asleep already. Though he knows he roused her when he came in, she won't ever admit it, but she needs the sleep. Her body is begging her to let it recover.
The best he can offer is to lie with her and let her get an hours rest.
She jerks away, her body begging for air as it simultaneously goes into the spasms that seem to come with these full body coughs, clenching in her gut.
Then there is a hand at her back, soothing noises in her ear as he leans forward with her, sits up, jolted by her sudden movements.
But then his hand is in front of her, offering the full glass of water. She drinks deeply then pushes it back into his hand.
"Better?" he murmurs, as he slides his hands over her shoulders, prompting her to relax and lean back into his chest, she isn't quite ready yet so she shakes her head, presses her hand to her chest, attempting to suffocate another bout. After the second set of these she hasn't bothered to return to the bathroom to await the vomit. She just has to wait them out.
Once she's done again she turns sideways and finds he's offering the water again. She takes a gulp and leans over him to set it on the floor herself. She feels the rise and fall of his chest stop, his breath hold as she leans over him then settles her head on his chest.
Only once she's slid her arms around him does he take another breath.
"This counts as a gift doesn't it?" she asks quietly after a few minutes.
"Not this," he murmurs as he continues to traces her shoulder blades and spine with the tips of his fingers.
She rises up on her chin to meet his eyes, her head heavy with the sleep and the headache and the drugs.
"More those." He flicks his chin at the bags.
She lets herself chuckle.
"Thank you," she mutters as she gives his waist a squeeze. She sets her forehead on his sternum, as his hands trail up her spine.
"You don't need to thank me, Kate," he chastises softly.
She slides her own fingertips over his skin, pressing into muscles surrounding his spine, taking full advantage of the fact he's still propped up against the arm of her couch, an expanse of his back free to her touch.
"I do." She doesn't say anything more, hopes he realises she wants to thank him not for today but for the last few days. She hadn't even come home and mulled over those candy hearts, just collapsed in bed and fell asleep. She ignored the fact she'd played with the fur on the bear's paw as she settled into bed, reading a few pages before she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore.
He slides his hands up her back, guiding her higher up his body, she slides her head along his chest and nestles into his neck as he pulls the blanket around them again.
"You should get some more sleep," he mutters against her forehead.
"In a minute," the husk of her voice doing nothing to conceal the fact she's about to nod off again.
Then he's craned his neck and forced her to meet his eyes. "You need to sleep." It's as much an order as it is an insistence.
She opens her mouth to protest but stops short when he kisses her cheek, keeps his nose pressed to her skin.
"Stop fighting it and let it happen," he mutters into her skin. Now she's pretty sure it's not just sleep he's discussing. Maybe she's too tired, too hopped up on medicine, too hazy from the headache.
She twists her head, kisses his chin before dropping back into the groove of his neck, wedging herself back under his cheek.
"Okay," she says softly.
She feels him exhale against her cheek before he lifts his head again, sliding his fingers over her temple, shifting the hair she's grown so used to ignoring it doesn't even bother her anymore.
Then she feels him exhale at her chin, his nose touch hers. She lifts her head to meet him half way, well… Not quite half-way, but half-way since she worked out what was going on.
Its feather light and so barely there that it shouldn't count, just a brush of his lips over her own. It's a habit that hasn't even become habit yet. But it counts, her every nerve ending is on fire it counts for so much. The exhale of breath against her skin means it counts to him too. Of course it counts to him, it never hasn't.
She lets him kiss her cheek before she buries her face in his neck, eyes still closed. She breathes in the scent of him, aftershave and all, and she doesn't want to have to move.
So she doesn't. Not until his stomach groaned and she forced him to go home to his daughter. He'd piled her with toast and made her take more pills, refilled the glass more times than she could count. It was time for him to leave.
She'd walked him to the door, still shrouded in the blanket he'd hastily wrapped around her after she'd stood. She'd only obliged when she'd caught a whiff of him within its fabric.
She'd assured him she'd see him tomorrow, call him with a case.
He'd shaken his head and stepped forward to kiss her forehead.
Then he'd been gone, leaving her standing slightly awkwardly in the doorway to her own apartment, not knowing what to do now he was gone. But he'd come back. She'd just have to wait until tomorrow.