A/N: So, not quite before the New Year. XD Just goes to show you that you should never take anything I say seriously. You can trust this, though: there is some actual plot coming. Le gasp! Plot! You didn't think it was possible, did you? Well, YOU THOUGHT WRONG. I've had this baby planned out ever since the third chapter. All the way to Cumberland. MWHAHAHA. And then, when this fic ends, canon kicks in until, you guessed it: Into the Light! I guarantee, if I haven't already predicted the entire plot of the sequel, then something is wrong with the makers of the sequel. For reals, yo. They didn't even know where to start before Clarissa Gavin came along. This chapter is dedicated to the good people at CIEE in the hopes that karma will kick in and they will give me the scholarship.

Albert lay in bed and grinned. It was light outside, and he wasn't up yet. He didn't have to get up. It was finally winter break.

He closed his eyes and exhaled contentedly. Now that the semester at Cumberland was over, he could laze around for as long as he wanted to. Still, he was getting restless. He rolled over and squinted at his clock. Ten thirty. He should probably check on Robert. He sat up and stretched, yawning loudly. He put on his slippers and grabbed his robe, which was hanging on the doorknob, as he stepped out.

The house was quiet aside from the rumbling of the heating vents. Albert meandered downstairs and into the kitchen. He expected to see Robert poke his head out from behind a corner at any moment (the boy had a way of sneaking up on him), but he didn't. Albert coaxed the old coffee maker to life and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs.

"Robert," he called. "I'm making breakfast; would you like any eggs?"

The only response was from the coffee machine, which gurgled.

Albert scratched the back of his head. Maybe Robert was in his room. He set down the eggs and went back upstairs.

He cracked open the door to Robert's room. By the light from the window, Albert saw a tuft of black hair poking out from beneath the covers. He chuckled. The holiday party at Cumberland had kept them out quite late. The boy was probably exhausted.

Albert sat on Robert's bed and ruffled the exposed black hair. A confused moan came from the lump under the blankets. "Good morning, sleepyhead. I'm making eggs. Do you want me to wait for you, so they don't get cold?"

It took a moment for the lump to respond. "N-no."

"No? I thought you liked eggs."

"I'm not very hungry today."

That was odd. Robert was usually ravenous in the morning. The boy's voice was a little raspy, as well. Albert tugged on a corner of the blankets and was surprised to find it cool and slightly damp. Despite that, he could easily feel the heat emanating from Robert's feverish body. He pulled back the covers just a bit more and saw his flushed, sweaty face.

Albert smiled sadly. "No wonder you're not hungry."

Robert sat up, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the light. He looked up at Albert worriedly. "I'm fine, Mr. Sartre. I'll get up in a minute."

Albert raised one eyebrow. "Get up? No, no, no, there'll be none of that. You'll stay right here."

Robert bit his lip nervously. "It's alright, Mr. Sartre-"

"No, Robert. It's not alright. You look miserable. Tell me, how long have you not been feeling well?"

"...Yesterday. And the day before that, I guess, but only a little." He cleared his throat and coughed.

Albert raised his arm and gently placed the back of his hand on Robert's forehead. Robert closed his eyes and sighed. Albert could tell how grateful he was for the cold hand on his burning forehead.

"Well, you have quite the fever," Albert said, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

Robert sniffed quietly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sartre."

"What do you have to be sorry for, my son? You're just sick."

"You don't like that I'm sick."

"Of course not, Robert, but that's not your fault. I don't want you to feel ill, but everyone catches a cold now and then. I just wish you'd told me sooner. Will you let me know the next time you're getting sick, so I can help?"

"Yes, Mr. Sartre."

Albert stood up. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Just wait."

"Mhmm." Robert nestled back under the covers, drawing them up to his chin. As he left, Albert heard him barely contain a sneeze.

In the kitchen, his coffee was almost finished brewing, but he knew it could wait. He found a tall plastic cup for Robert. He tucked the eggs back in the refrigerator and snatched a half empty carton of apple juice from behind the milk. He put ice in Robert's cup, poured juice until it was two-thirds full and watered it down just a bit. He returned the juice and opened the cabinet above the sink. He stuck his hand into the furthest reaches of the cabinet. There had to be something for Robert. He didn't remember buying any medicine for the approach of winter, but he had to have bought some when he was preparing to adopt Robert, at least.

His fingers grasped a dusty box and he pulled back triumphantly. The label proclaimed his prize to be orange flavored children's strength Tylenol. There were just a few more things. He took a long ice pack from the freezer. From the downstairs bathroom, he grabbed a thermometer, a box of tissues, and a hand towel for the ice pack. Holding the glass of juice firmly in one hand and balancing everything else in the crook of his other arm, he hurried back upstairs.

Albert set everything he had on Robert's bedside table. He dragged the chair from Robert's desk closer to the bed so he could sit down. Robert sat up against the headboard. Albert picked up the thermometer and Robert obediently opened his mouth, lifting his tongue. He closed his lips tightly around the end of the thermometer. When it beeped, Albert took it and read it silently.

"What does it say, Mr. Sartre?"

"Only one hundred and one. It's not as bad as I thought."

"Oh."

"You're still definitely sick, though."

"I know," Robert said, and he looked away sadly.

"Don't worry, Robert," Albert replied, smiling kindly. "You'll feel better in no time."

Robert nodded slightly, but it made his head hurt, and he winced. Suddenly, he sneezed, and the sudden jerk of his head made him dizzy. Albert tore the plastic wrap off the box of tissues and handed it to Robert, who blew his nose gratefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Sartre."

"You're welcome."

Albert read the instructions on the side of the box of medicine. He opened the box, taking out a bottle of opaque orange liquid. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle, which served as the measuring cup, and peered at the faint numbers printed on it. He measured a dose and held the medicine, along with the glass of juice, out to Robert. Robert drank the medicine and washed it down with a large gulp of juice. Meanwhile, Albert had wrapped the ice pack tightly in the towel. He had Robert lie down, and he placed the cool bundle on his son's forehead.

"There. Is that better?"

Robert just smiled.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

For once, Albert was sure his son meant it. He stood up. "Then I'll let you sleep. I'll be right across the hall if you need me. I'll check in every once in a while, too. Okay?"

"Okay."

Albert began to leave.

"Um, wait!"

He turned around. Robert's face was flushed anyway, but Albert could have sworn he was blushing. "You're... a good father, Mr. Sartre."

Albert's throat tightened. "Thank you, Robert. That means a lot to me."

It was almost two o 'clock before he remembered his coffee.

I am about to suffocate from all this fluff. Seriously. I feel like I'm drowning in the big foam block pit from the gymnastics lessons I took when I was five. But it's okay. Because I loved that block pit. :D

LOOK FORWARD TO THE NEXT EPISODE WITH A CERTAIN SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT.