Can you write a Kayce Dutton fic where he woke up feeling sick in the middle of the night and didn't want anyone to know how awful he felt; he eventually can't take it anymore and he gets sick but Tate is the one to find him and gets scared because he isn't used to seeing his dad like that.
Even Super Cowboys Get Sick
- Can you write a Kayce Dutton fic where he woke up feeling sick in the middle of the night and didn't want anyone to know how awful he felt; he eventually can't take it anymore and he gets sick but Tate is the one to find him and gets scared because he isn't used to seeing his dad like that.
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My peaceful slumber was interrupted when I didn’t feel the familiar arms of my boyfriend Kayce Dutton around me in the bed. Lifting my head up I glanced around the dimly lit bedroom inside the Dutton ranch main house. The only light being provided in the room was coming from the cracked bathroom door. Tossing the covers aside I jumped up when I heard Kayce coughing in the bathroom. “Kayce, what’s wrong baby?”
“Huh - uh nothin’.” He raised his head up from the toilet clearly not noticing me standing in the doorway finding him in this current situation. Kayce was standing over the toilet in nothing but some boxers with a tired expression across his whole face. He must be getting sick or something because he normally never looks this beat down.
Taking a step towards him I hoisted myself up onto the bathroom countertop, raising a brow at him with such concern. “Do you think you’re getting sick?”
“What, no.” He lied coughing into the toilet again before he could finish his sentence. “Just ate something that’s making me sick.”
“Do you want me to get you some medicine to help that?” I asked him softly.
He quickly shook his head, sending me a hard look and I knew that was the last of this conversation. When Kayce didn’t want me to do something he’d give me that look. “Just go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Okay.” I nodded, jumping off the counter leaving him alone in the bathroom while I climbed back into bed to get some sleep before we had to be up for work in a few hours.
Sleep, however, was a fickle mistress after that. The unease settled deep in my stomach, mimicking the illness Kayce was so determined to deny. I heard the toilet flush again, the water running, and then the creak of the bathroom door. A moment later, the mattress dipped slightly as he slid back in, but he kept a deliberate distance, facing away from me. I knew he was trying to hide how truly awful he felt, probably assuming I was already asleep. It hurt my heart, this constant need he had to appear unbreakable. Years in the SEALs, and then the endless battles here on the ranch, had forged him into a man who saw vulnerability as a weakness, a chink in the armor that could be exploited. But I knew him; I knew the quiet fears and the deep-seated guilt that haunted him. He was a protector, a mediator, a man defined by a fierce sense of justice, yet his own body was often a battlefield of suppressed trauma. And now, he was simply sick, and even that was a battle he intended to fight alone. I lay awake for a long time, listening to his shallow breaths, a slight tremor in his frame, until exhaustion finally pulled me under.
The next morning, the first thing I noticed was the empty space beside me. The sheets were still rumpled where Kayce had been, but he was gone. No note, no sound. Just the quiet hum of the ranch waking up outside our window. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a familiar knot of worry tightening in my chest. He was usually such an early riser, but this felt different. Usually, I’d hear him moving around, setting out his clothes, the soft clink of his belt buckle. This morning, there was only silence.
I quickly dressed, pulling on my usual jeans and a flannel shirt, and headed downstairs. The smell of coffee was already brewing, and the faint clatter of plates came from the kitchen. Tate was probably already down there, devouring his breakfast. He adored his dad, and he’d taken to me with an openness that still warmed my heart. He often told me how happy I made his dad, a sentiment that always brought a lump to my throat. Kayce had been through so much, and finding a semblance of peace, even if fleeting, was something Tate understood on a visceral level.
As I entered the kitchen, the scene was superficially normal. Tate was at the island, a bowl of cereal half-eaten in front of him. Monica was pouring herself coffee. And Kayce was standing by the back door, already in his work clothes, sipping from a mug. He looked the part of the stoic ranch foreman, but my eyes immediately picked up the subtle tells. His skin was a shade paler than usual, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cool morning air. His eyes, usually intensely bright, were a little dull, shadowed.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Tate chirped, grinning at me.
“Morning, buddy,” I replied, forcing a smile, my gaze still fixed on Kayce.
He turned, a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Morning, Y/N.” His voice was rough, a little hoarse, but he tried to mask it with a cough that sounded suspiciously deliberate.
“You okay, Kayce?” Monica asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she looked at him.
He just shrugged. “Yeah. Just a little rough night. Coffee’ll fix it.” He took a long swallow, but I saw the slight wince, the way he swallowed carefully.
I walked over to the coffee maker, pouring myself a cup. “You sure you’re not coming down with something?” I asked, my voice low, just for him.
He met my gaze, and there it was – that hard look, the one that said ‘drop it.’ “I’m fine, Y/N. Just work. Lot to do today.” He turned, opened the door, and stepped out without another word, leaving the faint scent of horse and damp earth behind him.
I sighed, leaning against the counter. Monica gave me a knowing look. “He’s always like that when he’s not feeling well. He hates appearing weak.”
“I know,” I murmured, my heart aching for the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and wouldn’t let anyone help him lighten the load.
The day stretched into an exercise in quiet worry. I was out on the ranch, helping Lloyd with some fence repairs, but my eyes kept scanning the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of Kayce. He was usually everywhere, overseeing, riding hard, his energy seemingly boundless. Today, he was harder to spot. When I did see him, he was riding slower, his posture a little slouched. Once, I saw him dismount near a stand of trees, bend over, and then stand up quickly, wiping his mouth. He looked around furtively, as if checking to see if anyone had noticed. He didn’t see me. The image burned into my mind. He was clearly getting worse.
Later, around lunchtime, he came into the bunkhouse, grabbed a plate of food, but barely touched it. He sat away from everyone, picking at his beans, pushing them around the plate. He looked pale, almost green. Rip, ever observant, shot him a look, but didn’t comment. No one dared. This was Kayce, and his walls were high. I wanted to march over there, grab his hand, and drag him to bed. But I knew that would only make him retreat further. He needed to choose to accept help, and that choice seemed miles away.
“Are we going to ride the north pasture this afternoon, Dad?” Tate asked, coming over from the main house, his energy a stark contrast to Kayce’s subdued demeanor.
Kayce startled, looking up. “Uh, yeah, buddy. Maybe later. Got some things to check first.” His voice was strained. He coughed again, a deep, wet sound that racked his thin frame.
Tate’s bright smile faltered. “You sound like grandpa when he’s got the crud.” He looked at me, his eyes wide with concern. “Dad’s okay, right, Y/N?”
I knelt down, putting my arm around Tate. “He’s just got a little bug, honey. Even cowboys get sick sometimes.” I shot Kayce a pointed look, hoping he’d see the worry in his son’s eyes. He just averted his gaze, taking another slow Sip of water.
The afternoon passed in a blur of escalating concern. I saw Kayce lean against a fence post, head bowed, for a solid five minutes. I saw him wobble slightly as he dismounted his horse. The fierce protector, the unyielding mediator, was slowly unraveling. My heart pounded with a mix of dread and frustration. He was going to push himself until he dropped.
By dinner, he was barely functioning. He stumbled slightly on the steps leading up to the main house. He managed a few bites of Monica’s stew, but his hand trembled, and he kept excusing himself to go to the bathroom. Each time he returned, he looked worse. His eyes were sunken, his face drawn and clammy.
“I’m gonna head to bed,” he muttered, pushing away his half-full plate. “Long day.” He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
“You sure you’re alright, Kayce?” John Dutton asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic softness.
Kayce just nodded, already halfway out of the dining room. “Yeah, just tired.”
He was gone before anyone could protest. I watched him go, my stomach churning. This wasn't just "tired." This was a man at the end of his rope, and he was still trying to keep up the façade.
“He’s getting worse,” I said softly to Monica beside me.
She just nodded. “He’ll let it get real bad before he admits it.”
I knew it was true. His independence, his refusal to be seen as anything less than fully capable, was both his strength and his greatest flaw. It stemmed from years of carrying unbearable burdens – the weight of his past, the expectations of his family, the constant threat to their way of life. Admitting weakness wasn't just about a cold; it was about exposing a raw nerve.
Later that evening, after Tate was in bed, I sat in the living room, ostensibly reading, but my mind was in overdrive. I kept listening, trying to hear some sound from our bedroom, a cough, anything. Silence. Too much silence. I debated going to check on him, but held back, knowing he’d probably just pretend to be asleep.
Around midnight, a noise shattered the quiet. It wasn't a cough, or a groan. It was a strangled, guttural sound, followed by a sickening retching. It came from the hallway, not our bedroom.
My blood ran cold. He hadn’t even made it to the bathroom.
I jumped up, my heart hammering against my ribs, and ran towards the sound. As I rounded the corner, a chilling sight met my eyes. Kayce was on his hands and knees, leaning against the wall, violently ill onto the hardwood floor. He was shivering uncontrollably, his lean frame wracked with tremors. He looked utterly broken, defeated. And then, I heard a small, terrified gasp.
Tate.
He was standing at the end of the hall, a glass of water in his hand, his eyes wide and glistening with tears. He must have woken up for a drink, and then heard his dad. Seeing his strong, unshakable father in such a state, so vulnerable and sick, was clearly something his young mind couldn’t process.
“Dad?” Tate whispered, his voice trembling, on the verge of a full-blown sob. He dropped the glass, and it shattered with a loud clatter, the water spreading across the floor. “Dad, what’s wrong?!” His face crumpled, and he started to cry, real, gut-wrenching sobs.
Kayce lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, glassy. He tried to speak, but another wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned further into the wall, too weak to even push himself up. He was pale white, clammy, and utterly, terribly sick.
“Oh, God, Kayce!” I rushed forward, not caring about the mess, or his pride, or anything but getting him help. I knelt beside him, putting a hand on his feverish forehead. He was burning up. “Tate, honey, it’s okay! Go get Monica! Quickly!”
Tate, startled by my urgency, hesitated for a second, then turned and bolted down the hallway towards Monica and John’s room, his cries echoing in the sudden silence.
“Kayce, look at me,” I said, gently pulling him away from the wall, trying to support his head. He was practically unresponsive, his eyes fluttering. “You’re burning up. We need to get you to bed.”
He groaned, a weak, pathetic sound, and tried to push me away, a flicker of that stubborn resistance, even in his extreme state. But he was too weak. His muscles gave out, and he would have slumped to the floor if I hadn’t caught him. Just then, Monica and John appeared, Tate clinging to Monica’s leg, still sobbing. John’s face hardened when he saw Kayce.
“Dammit, Kayce!” he muttered, rushing over. Between John and me, we managed to half-carry, half-drag Kayce back to our room and onto the bed. He was barely conscious, mumbling incoherently.
Monica, ever practical, had already sent Tate back to his room with the promise that his dad would be okay, and was now gathering towels and a bucket. John helped me strip Kayce down to his boxers, covering him with a light sheet. His skin was scarily hot to the touch.
“He’s got a fever,” I stated, grabbing a thermometer. It read 104 degrees. My heart dropped. This was serious.
For the next few hours, the night was a blur of cool cloths, sips of water forced past Kayce’s dry lips, and monitoring his fever. Monica stood by, offering quiet advice, while John paced, his worry palpable beneath his gruff exterior. Kayce drifted in and out, occasionally muttering something indistinguishable, or trying to push away my hand when I tried to give him fever reducers. But he was too weak to resist successfully.
Around dawn, his fever finally broke, and he fell into a deep, restorative sleep, his breathing evening out. Exhausted, Monica and John left, and I slumped into a chair beside the bed, watching him, my own body screaming for rest. A little while later, a soft knock came at the door. I looked up to see Tate, his face puffy from crying, peeking in.
“Is Dad okay?” he whispered, his eyes fixed on Kayce.
I walked over, wrapping my arm around his small shoulders. “He’s sleeping now, honey. The fever is gone. He’s going to be okay.”
Tate walked over to the bed, cautiously. He reached out a small hand and gently touched Kayce’s forehead. “He’s not hot anymore.” A small smile touched his lips, relief washing over his face. He looked at me, his eyes full of gratitude. “You made him better.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “He’s got a strong body, Tate. And we just helped him a little.” I knew the deep fear he’d felt, seeing his dad, his superhero, so utterly helpless. It was a jarring image for a child. “Even super strong cowboys get sick sometimes, buddy. But they always get better.”
He nodded, still watching his dad. “He looked so… tiny.”
I chuckled softly. “No, honey. Just sleepy.”
As Tate watched Kayce for a few more minutes, I thought about the man lying so vulnerably in the bed. He hated this, every single moment of losing control, of being dependent. His SEAL training had ingrained a fierce self-sufficiency, a refusal to show weakness, but his empathy was also what made him so good, so human. He was a man of deep internal conflicts, constantly battling the stoicism ingrained in him and the compassion that was his true nature.
When Kayce finally stirred hours later, he blinked at the sunlight streaming through the window, then his eyes found mine. Confusion, then a flicker of shame, crossed his face. He remembered. The hallway. Tate.
“Hey,” I whispered, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.
His throat was raw. “What… happened?”
“You got really sick, Kayce,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Fever of 104. You collapsed in the hall.”
He closed his eyes, a grimace on his face. “Tate…”
“He found you,” I confirmed. “He was scared, Kayce. Really scared. He’s never seen you like that.”
He opened his eyes again, and I saw the guilt there. His functional conscience, always at war with his need for suppression, was clearly winning this round. “Damn it.”
“It’s okay,” I said, resting my hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away this time. “You couldn’t help it. And he knows you’re okay now. He helped me make sure you were comfortable.”
He looked at me, truly looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a profound vulnerability in his eyes that wasn't hidden behind a wall of stoicism. He was Kayce, the protector, the mediator, the man who struggled with his own trauma, but in this moment, he was just sick, and allowing himself to be cared for. It was a small victory, but a significant one.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice barely audible.
I squeezed his arm gently. “Always. Now, can I get my cowboy some actual medicine, and maybe some water?”
He gave a weak nod. “Yeah. I… I guess so.”
The admission, quiet and reluctant, was a testament to how truly exhausted he was. And to me, it was everything. He was sick, yes, but he was also here, and for the first time in a long time, letting me truly in.
