Nicholas: DONE!! Now, I'm off to write fanfic about Beat.

The water was hot, but not too hot. In fact, it was just cool enough to be warm. I ran the washcloth under the faucet on the wall—the one that wasn't a sink but really wanted to be—and wet it as much as I could without it dissolving in my hands. My grip on things—on reality—was getting looser and looser as I listened to the pained, never-ending shivers from the mattress. Within seconds I was at his side; I knelt down next to him, brushed a few strands of hair from his face and kissed his sweat-slicked forehead. I then replaced that kiss with the wet cloth and smoothed it to his skin.

"How ya doin', kid?"

Arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, holding himself as his body thrashed of it's own accord in a fit of illness. Half-lidded eyes stared up at me. "Where's…where's Ma, Conn?"

"Ma…? Right where we left her…back in Ireland."

"Ireland?"

He was starting to scare me with this now. No way in hell would he be asking me something like this. "Aye…We haven't seen'er in years."

"What'd ya do, Connor?" It was near a flawless impersonation of Dearest Mother.

For a moment, it didn't even occur to me what he'd said. I did not want to hold any of his delusional rants against him. All of his thoughts must have been muddled together in some hazy, over-heated must of his sub conscious and waking mind, so it couldn't be his fault. Then, of course, I figured out what he was doing and I couldn't suppress my enraged twitch. It was all I could do not to smack him. "You little fucker," slipped out before I had the forethought to smother it.

"Jus' kiddin'," he ammended with a smirk. And by smirk I mean a sick, tired smile that tried to be a smirk, tried really hard.

Almost immediately, he sat up, hand over his mouth, torso contracting in dry retches. I grabbed him, I knew the drill by now, and yanked him out of bed over to the toilet in time for the majority of what he threw up to make it into the bowl. "Ten points," I muttered. I tried to keep my attitude light for his sake. The last thing we needed was more malcontent amongst bad health at the moment. I had my arms wrapped loosely around his waist for balance in case his body suddenly decided to make nice with the tile floor. That smell made me nauseous, but still I suffered through. I always do, I always will.

For a moment, the thrashing and disgusting, icky sounds of vomiting ebbed and he had room to chuckle through what I knew must have been painful. "Do I get bonus points when I stop up-chucking parts of my stomach and small intestine?"

"We'll see what I can arrange when the time comes," I teased half-heartedly. Just seconds later, he was back with his face towards the bowl. His back hitched against my chest and I held a bit tighter to him as revolting green liquid projected from his throat. I could hear a quiet whine mixed with that gurgling splash. One thing I knew from experience by now, he was crying at this point.

Curled up by his side, I kept my embrace tight and my face pressed into the crook between his neck and shoulder. He didn't stop shaking, but sometimes it seemed to lessen. He never cooled down—even though it felt like it after a while once I'd started obtaining that uncomfortable heat. It didn't take him long to stop pushing me away out of some stupid attempt to keep me from catching whatever he had. I doubted it was contagious. I think he just got too tired to deal with my stubborn ass so he allowed it.

"Conn…" quiet, strained, unsteady and pathetic.

"Aye?"

"You're really warm…"

What did that matter, I'm always warm when I touch him. This whole sick thing was wearing on my nerves and sanity. "What?"

"…Too warm." He was shivering again, yet he claimed that he was too warm. God damn if this wasn't confusing. "M'startin' ta feel sick again and…" he gagged deep in his throat "…the heat isn't helpin'."

"Again…?" So what if I was whining, I wasn't happy about this. Any of this. It was just too much to try and deal with at one time because I wanted nothing else than to be close to the love of my life. God damn it, Murph, of all times to get sick. I propped myself up and looked him in the eyes. "I think I know what would make you feel better," I stated.

He groaned, deep in his throat, as evidence enough that he was skeptical. Of course, I chose to ignore him and go on with my evil plan anyway. Said plan consisted of holding his shoulders as I leaned down to kiss his face. He moved just in time to avoid mouth to mouth and then snapped angrily at me. "I said no, damn it! And I meant it so stop doing that."

"Ya said ya wouldn't kiss me because ya didn't want me sick. Ya said absolutely nothing about me kissing ye. So there." I pressed my lips against his throat and nuzzled against the hot, clammy flesh. "I swear this'll make ya feel better, Murph."

"Liar. Ye just like molestin' yer brother. Sick fuck."

Now, I didn't argue or agree at all, but I knew he was right. He knew he was right and that was really all that mattered. It didn't change the fact that I was going to touch him and lick him and hold him just the way I'm not supposed to until he gave in and stopped being sick all over everything. With a smirk directed at his sleepy gaze, I lowered my head to his bare chest and as I rested my cheek there, I pulled the blanket down and off of him. "If when I am done, ye don' feel any better at all, I give you permission to kick me out of bed."

"More like I'll vomit on ya." By the way he suddenly gagged, I could tell that this was not far from the truth. The thought crossed my mind that I had better be right.

I listened to his breathing, as I often tend to do at night when he's asleep next to me, and tried to trace the pattern of up and down, up and down in my head. A streak drew cross my mind's eyes traveling northward and back again, slowly increasing in height as I kissed his taut, sore belly, like a line graph. My tongue drew circles around his belly button and then slid down again adding moisture to sweat making him glisten more in the dim light of our home. My fingers hooked neatly in his shorts, my nose pressed gently against his abdomen, I paused to say: "Only with yer consent." I'm not a fucking rapist.

Even before he answered, I started to inch the fabric down. I was certain of his reply, but just to make sure there was no chance he'd push me away, I sought to arouse him past the point of no return. "Fine," he grumbled, and off went the boxers.

Folding them neatly and placing them by his hip on the bed, I let him snicker at my OCD. The rough, bumpy tone of that laugh smoothed down to a paper-thin moan while my fingers massaged his sensitive inner-thighs. I loved hearing what once were pained, revolting gags turn into loving, contented mewls. All that gurgling and retching and gagging gave way to something much more familiar. "Knew ya'd see things my way."