…In Health
(Part 1 of 6)

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words (This Part / Total): 8,945 / 39,496

Rating: M / R

Summary: Same story, parallel point of view.

Disclaimer: V. v. much not mine.

Notes: The flip side of "In Sickness and…"

I'm starting to think that maybe y'all are sick of me, or think I really am completely mental to write as much of this as I do, but this is finally ready for a-postin'. I hope it can live up to the hype ;)

Friday

It is often said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line; however, even if it were possible to drive in a straight line between Holland Park and Borough Market, the anticipation alone would have made it one of the longest distances imaginable. This was the thought Mark Darcy had as he waited for Bedale Street to come into his sights, and when it did he felt free to breathe again.

A weekend, a lovely weekend away with nothing but countryside around him; no distractions of city life, no obligations, nothing but the beautiful woman who'd agreed to be his wife by his side, in his arms, in his bed…

There are the fine details to work out though, he thought nervously as he parked the car along the kerb. His lawyer's brain broke down and analysed every detail of their reunion at Inns of Court, kept reminding him that though her enthusiastic reaction had pointed to an affirmative, she had never actually said 'yes' when he'd proposed. Once she did say 'yes'—he reassured himself that she would—then he would be content with nothing more than holding her in his arms and lavishing her with affection in the privacy of their country suite. There were, after all, quite a few weeks to make up for, especially the two since she'd returned, as his own schedule had prevented him from giving her the attention she so richly deserved.

As expected, she was not waiting on the doorstep as he had asked her to do when he'd called before driving over. It was, however, impossible to be cross with her; he knew her well enough to know she was not likely to change her ways (at least not overnight, or even two weeks). He went to the door and rang her bell; after a few moments the intercom sounded out with her crackling voice. "Yes, Mark," she said frantically, before he'd even had a chance to say his own name. "I'm on my way down. I swear." He grinned.

When she did appear, he took her into his arms and briefly kissed her. "All ready then?" he asked.

She nodded. It struck him then that she looked a little pale and tired, but chalked it up to having had a hard day at work, a wild night out the evening before with her friends, or a combination of both. He hoped her friends had kept their word and hadn't given away the surprise: his intention of proposing again, properly, with the ring to back it up. They knew only because he'd persuaded them to help him pick it out.

He picked up the bags she'd brought down with her—a toiletries case along with a full-sized, wheeled suitcase, prompting him to wonder why she'd pack so much for a weekend mini-break—then slipped his arm around her waist as they walked back to his car.

A continued concern pervaded his thoughts during the drive after seeing her run her fingers across her forehead as if to feel for the source of a headache, wrap an arm about her midsection as if to keep nausea at bay, but that concern was held in check with her words of reassurance.

"I'm fine, Mark. Stop worrying. Just tell me more about where we're going," she said, her expression one of anticipation.

"Well…" he began, "a lovely little place in Wellesbourne, a converted country estate. All the comforts of home and then some: spa, steam room, sauna, salon…"

She smiled, resting back in her seat, and her look was filled with such love he could not help but grin.

After another period of easy silence, he glanced over to her, seeing her drifting between sleep and wakefulness. She really did look exhausted, but he knew they were almost there, and wanted to see her face when they rounded the curve and the manor house came into view. To satisfy his curiosity as well, he asked, "Did you have a rough day at work?"

She sat up a little straighter in her seat, as much as the safety belt would allow. "Oh, all my work troubles can be summed up in two words: Richard Finch. That man could work the Dalai Lama into a raging, boiling urge to kill. Is it too much to ask—"

"Bridget," he interrupted.

"—to have a sane, reasonable boss—"

"Bridget," he said again with greater insistence, "look. We're here."

He glanced to the side and saw her take in the gorgeous stone building, heard the gasp as they approached at what felt like a snail's pace as the size and the grandeur of the place became very clear. Her voice was breathless when she spoke. "Oh, Mark. It's like a dream come true. Or a movie set."

He chuckled, pleased to know that she approved, and he brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a grand staircase leading to the main door. As if on cue a livery-clad youth appeared from nowhere to assist them in bringing their bags inside, and in short order they were checked in and being brought to their room.

"Ohhhh," Bridget sighed upon seeing the room. "It's amazing… the view of that lake is incredible, and—" She giggled. "—look at this bed! It's huge!" The bellhop deposited their bags and beat a hasty retreat as she went over to the bed and hopped to sit upon it, then bounced up and down. "And soft!" Mark fought the urge to go to her and ravish her senseless at that very moment as he watched her hair tickle against her face, her bosoms moving beneath the fabric of her shirt, but could feel the corners of the little ring box (or so he imagined) pressing into his chest from its place in his breast pocket.

"How do you feel about having an early supper?" he asked to distract himself from his thoughts. It was barely five (they had each taken off early from work due to the drive), but knew the sooner they ate, the sooner he could take her for a romantic, twilit stroll, and ask her once more (with slightly more class and dignity) to be his bride.

"Oh, yes, that'd be lovely," she said, ceasing bouncing, looking up at him with cheeks rosy from her efforts, her eyes shining more than they had at any point that day.

Dinner, Darcy, then proposal, then mad, passionate sex; control yourself, he thought.

"Hope you brought something to dress up a little in for dinner, not that you don't look lovely as you are," he said. "The dining room is quite stately, and there's nothing like rising to the occasion."

She grinned. "I think I have just the dress. Give me a few minutes to change and freshen up my makeup." She hopped up, opened her bag and pulled out a lovely cotton frock and a pair of matching white pumps, then took them and the toiletries case to the bathroom with her. "I'll be just a few minutes," she said with a grin, then closed the door behind herself.

He watched the door for signs that it might open again for forgotten stockings or a hairbrush left behind, and when it didn't, his fingers slipped into this breast pocket to draw out the small box nestled there. He opened it on its hinge to gaze at the lovely ring, the ring her friends guaranteed him she'd love.

She will love it, he reassured himself, and she will accept it.

He snapped it shut and put it back into his pocket, still smiling, then strode to look out the window, over the estate's grounds, and the peace of the setting set his passions at ease. It was true that he wanted her very badly at present, but that's not all he wanted from her; to simply have her there, have the comfort of her embrace, was more than enough; to know that she had accepted him back, after his moronically insensitive behaviour, made him happier than he could have dreamed.

It may have set his passions at ease, but it had not killed them altogether, as her reappearance at the bathroom door served to remind him. She looked absolutely stunning—the dress was flattering in the extreme, and the shoes served to accentuate the shapeliness of her calves—and a broad grin overtook his features.

"Do I look all right?" she asked.

"Better than all right," he said, coming near to her and giving her a quick kiss; no time for lingering kisses lest he lose himself completely. He extended his elbow. "Shall we?"

………

He had thought dinner absolutely delicious, but it hadn't escaped his notice that she'd picked through it almost tentatively. When he asked she'd told him it was quite good, and he had no choice but to believe her as she had ultimately finished it.

Their server came by to sweep up their empty plates, and offered to bring by the dessert tray. He demurred to Bridget, who agreed with a smile, and he thought nothing more of it.

That is, until she suddenly stood, excused herself abruptly, and dashed for the exit, towards where the ladies' was.

After a beat or two, he stood, advised the server that they would be passing on dessert after all, then followed to where she had undoubtedly gone. He suppressed the swelling panic he felt—was she ill? Delayed carsickness? Food poisoning? A heretofore unknown food allergy?—and paced outside the ladies' loo until the door opened and she emerged.

He looked her up and down, and was surprised at how wan she looked, even more tired and pale than before. He embraced her around the waist and pulled her close, but not so close she could feel the box. "Bridget," he asked quietly. "Are you feeling all right?"

Pulling away from him, she affirmed that she was, nonchalantly and absently pushing her hair from her face with her fingers, blaming the rapidity with which she'd eaten (a blatant falsehood), or the wine she'd drunk. He had no choice but to take her at her word.

He raised his hand to push her hair out of her eyes again, and was alarmed at the heat of her skin. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. "You feel a bit warm."

She explained it away (her annoyance at his continued questions becoming clear) by having just dashed to the loo to throw up, and though it seemed flimsy at best, he accepted her explanation.

When she asked if they could just go back to their suite, thereby skipping dessert, the pleading nature of her gaze brought to his attention that her eyes were red-rimmed. He asked if she'd been crying.

She refuted this wholeheartedly, saying she was the happiest woman in England, rising to kiss him to prove it no lie.

After confirming his status as happiest man, he continued, "The only reason I asked was because of your eyes. They look a bit red."

"Probably from the puking."

It occurred to him them that a bit of fresh air might do her a world of good as well as serving to provide him his opportunity to pop the question again, so he asked her if she'd rather take a walk than go back to the room, and she accepted, taking his arm once more.

The sun touched the leaves of the trees with beautiful golden highlights, the breeze rustling Bridget's skirt as he led her down the path bound for a gorgeous little patio lined with statuary. With every step the statues became more and more distinct, and he felt his heart race a little bit faster; when he got her there he would turn her so that her face was bathed in warm sunlight, take her hands in his, and ask her once more to spend her life with him with words he'd been rehearsing in his head for almost two weeks running.

At last they reached the patio; her hands were in his, her eyes bright and shining, her face upturned to him. He began to speak.

"Bridget, I wanted to affirm that my intentions the day you returned from Thailand were true, that I didn't ask anything I didn't want to and have every intention of following through." He released her hand to reach into his pocket.

As he did, she leaned forward into him heavily as if she'd just avoided a fall, her free hand narrowly missing the jewellery box there and landing squarely on his chest. She chuckled. "Sorry, the road's a bit choppy."

He furrowed his brows. "Choppy?"

"Paving stones keep jumping around. Very rude of them," she said, laughing again, tilting back. "Make them stop, Mark; they'll listen to you. You're good at bossy. Oof." She listed forward and he caught her.

Absolute panic gripped him fresh. "Bridget, what's wrong with you?"

"Fwah! Nothing wrong with me. Whole world is moving around more than expected though."

He took her roughly around the waist and started walking her very quickly back to their room, all the while frantically trying to remember if he'd seen any medical facilities during the drive, because this was surely too acute to be the effects of intoxication.

They made it back to the room without further incident, though it seemed as if Bridget had forgotten how to walk while wearing pumps, her ankles constantly twisting beneath her. Once safely inside, he helped her out of her clothes, got her to sit on the bed; almost simultaneously she went completely limp. He guided her to lie back on the pillows as he felt her forehead again; she was definitely raging with a fever. He placed his fingers against her throat, felt the pulse there, steady and strong, thank God. He went to the bathroom, got a hand towel, and ran it under icy water. After wringing it out, he brought it back to daub at her face.

As cool rivulets of water from the damp cloth ran along the hollows of her throat, she came to, blinking as if her lids were very heavy. "Oh Daddy, make them stop," she said in a pitiful voice.

He fought to keep his voice calm. "Stop what, darling?"

"Punching my stomach. My head. It hurts." She turned her head to the side, and he returned the cool cloth to her forehead and her throat. "Twisting my legs so I can't walk…" Her eyes fell closed again.

"Oh, love…" Though worried for her health, and planning even now on how to get some fever reducer into her to help bring her temperature down, he wasn't sure if he was angrier at her for not mentioning she wasn't feeling well, or angrier at himself taking her protestations about her health at face value.

He went to the loo, digging into her bag for some ibuprofen (grateful for once for her over-packing) and getting a glass of water so that he might get the pills down her throat when next she returned to consciousness, judging from the way she started calling for her mother and father again. He hastened back to her side. When he approached the bed again he sat beside her and moved the cloth around on her face.

"Darling, I need you to try to take these pills. They'll stop—" He swallowed hard. "—They'll stop punching you if you do."

Feebly she raised herself on her elbows as much as she could, nodding. He put the pill between her lips then raised the water glass. She took a few good swallows, then fell back to the bed, smacking her lips a few times as if she were parched. Her breathing went shallow again, indicating a lapse back into unconsciousness, and he ran his fingers roughly back through his hair. What was he to do? He had no idea where the nearest hospital was—or was he overreacting? Was this just a typical fever?

As he pondered this question her body began to rock, like she was coughing, and it took him a moment to realise that the wet, gurgling sounds were much more than a cough. He leapt and grabbed the bedside trash can then quickly turned her on her side. She woke at the movement, then vomited clear liquid into the small trash bin, the remnants of the ibuprofen easily discernible against the dark, empty container.

She furrowed her brows as if she were in great pain. "They didn't like the pills, I guess," she said, her voice more child-like than ever. "Ohh," she added, clutching her stomach again. He wasted no time scooping her up into his arms and bringing her to the toilet, just in time for another round of vomiting.

He held her close, sitting her on one knee as he knelt on the other, reaching for a dry towel to help clean her up. "Better?" he asked tenderly.

"No."

With that she leaned forward and threw up again into the toilet.

He sat there with her on his knee for a few more minutes after determining the purging had come to an end, then gingerly got to his feet and helped her back to bed.

"Oh, I'm tired of fighting them, Daddy. Want to sleep now. Freezing cold." He helped her to lie back down and though her skin was warm to the touch, her teeth were chattering and she was shivering. He pulled the covers up over her, rose up to wet the cloth anew, then folded it in fours length-wise and laid it across her forehead. He watched as she fought off sleep, smiling slightly. "I love you," she said, and though it touched him deeply, he wasn't certain to whom exactly she was directing her love.

He didn't step away until he was certain she was actually sleeping—not unconscious, not preparing to vomit again—and when he did he began to pace. He hadn't felt so helpless in a very long time. Dare he risk putting her in the car in the state she was in and taking her… where exactly? If only he'd taken the time to become more acquainted with the greater Stratford area—

He froze in mid-pace as the answer hit him right between the eyes. Yes, yes of course, he thought, pulling out his mobile, searching through his list of contacts for one he hadn't made in far too long, a friend of his practising out here…

"Do my ears deceive me? Mark 'Bloody Big Shot Fancy Pants Human Rights Barrister' Darcy?" came the teasing voice through the earpiece. For a moment Mark was absolutely astounded that his friend had somehow psychically divined who he was until he remembered: caller identification.

"Yes, it's me, and I know it's been far too long, but I need a favour."

"Sorry, no longer offering my services as Hugh Carri, Pimp to the Rich and Famous," he continued in the same playful vein.

"I'm serious. I'm out in your neck of the woods and facing a medical dilemma that I'm not sure how to handle."

"Call 999, for God's sake, not me," he said, sounding genuinely panicked.

"I don't think it's anything that requires paramedics. It's my—" He hesitated. Without the ring securely on her finger he was not able to bring himself to call her his fiancée. "—girlfriend. She's fallen suddenly ill and I'm not sure what to do."

Hugh was all business, passing up an opportunity to ask about said girlfriend: "What are the symptoms?"

"Fever, headache, stomach ache, and something about being unable to walk," he said, remembering her fever-induced ramblings. "Tried to give her something to bring down her temperature but she was unable to keep it down."

"Sounds fairly run of the mill. Anything else I should know?"

"No, except—" He paused to consider his next words. "I know this doesn't sound all that serious, and I would not be nearly so concerned but she… well, she just got out of a Thai prison."

"Oh." Mark did not like how the timbre of Hugh's voice had changed from serious to sepulchral. "How long ago?"

"About two weeks. She was in for ten days."

"Ohhh." There it was again, that ominous tone. "Listen, where are you staying?"

"Why?"

"Give me a few minutes to make a quick stop, and I'll come on by."

After a moment's hesitation Mark gave him the hotel name and room number.

"Thanks. I have a feeling I might know what's wrong. Kind of a specialty of mine. Sooner I test, the sooner we can get treatment started."

Something about the way he said this alarmed him. He had thought—rather, hoped—this would turn out to be something relatively minor, but the reaction his friend was having made him extremely worried.

Immediately after disconnecting with Hugh, Mark lifted Bridget's suitcase to rest on the bureau and unzipped it, intent on finding her something to sleep in. It did not take long to realise that she had not actually brought pyjamas, which brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. Of course she'd had the same expectations of the weekend as he had, underscored by the one piece of intimate wear she had packed: a lovely black silk and lace camisole set he had never seen before. He rubbed the silk between his thumb and forefinger, feeling wistful, yet he knew what carried a greater importance. Her health.

Next, he went to the house phone and picked it up, ringing the concierge.

"Yes, hello," said Mark in a very quiet tone. "This is going to sound like a very odd request, but I need a pair of pyjamas…"

After a brief explanation, the concierge advised they might have something they could provide. The pyjamas—flannel, grey and most definitely cut for a man—arrived in short order, and Mark was very grateful. It only remained that she should wake, for getting her dressed in them whilst she was still out like a light was less preferable than having her participation in the process.

He glanced over to Bridget, saw her sleeping, saw the sheen of fevered sweat on her brow, and sighed. He crouched down beside the bed, and began repeating her name, gently shaking her shoulder.

………

He'd managed to rouse her and get her dressed in the pyjamas, and reined in his worry and aggravation but still questioned (more impatiently than he'd intended) why she hadn't told him she was sick and needed to cancel. At her insistence that she was well prior to their departure, by the plaintive expression on her face, he realised she was not lying. As they talked he also learned that she had no memory of the encounter on the patio, the walk back to the room, or the serial vomiting, which appeared to unsettle her as much as it did him. When she burst into tears (likely at the unavoidable realisation that she really was sick), he felt almost overwhelmed with his own emotions as he embraced her tightly. When he did speak again it was barely above a whisper for some minutes.

He urged her to drink some more water then tucked her back in under the bedcovers; within minutes she'd drifted back to sleep. He sat for many moments just watching her. He guessed that maybe more of the fever reducer had gotten into her system than he thought, for while she still felt warm, she was at least grounded in reality, and for that he was thankful.

He considered the situation logically. Either he would come down with the sickness himself, or whatever it was she had wasn't communicable by contact (casual or otherwise). With a sinking feeling in his gut, he suspected it was the latter.

Mark heard a quiet rapping on the door sooner than he expected, and rose to find his old friend standing there with his medic's bag. Wordlessly he invited Hugh in, closing the door. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your coming tonight," Mark said in a very quiet voice as Hugh set down his bag.

He grinned in that easy way he'd always had. "I had an ulterior motive besides the Hippocratic oath. I wanted to see this new girlfriend for myself, one worthy of taking on a mini-break out in the country when you can't even find the time to ring up an old friend."

Mark laughed guiltily, and gave Hugh a sheepish look. The girlfriend query had come at last. "That she is. And it isn't the first one we've had…" He drifted off, preferring not to think of the end result of the previous mini-break.

Hugh raised his brows. "Impressive, Captain." He then cast his eyes towards the bed. "Adorable," he said, glancing at Mark again.

Mark decided to let the use of the long-standing nickname slide by; keeping his voice low, Mark replied, "Happen to think Bridget's one of the most beautiful women I've ever known, but I'll grant you she's not looking her best at present."

Hugh punched him lightly and chuckled. "I'll grant you that possibility. Bridget, eh?"

Mark nodded. "So what is it that you think she might have?"

It was a little spooky how quickly Hugh could slip into a professional demeanour. "There are a couple of possibilities here. Right off the bat, I'd say leptospirosis. Matches the symptoms I've heard you describe so far. Only transmittable via contaminated food or water, and while pretty unpleasant, it's easily treatable."

Mark felt slightly relieved in that he might not be getting sick himself but still pressed on: "Or…?"

Hugh seemed reluctant to answer. "Dengue fever's also got a lot of those symptoms and a few more that don't easily present. Was she around a lot of mosquitoes?"

Mark blinked. "Um, I don't know. Wasn't the sort of thing I thought to ask."

"What were the conditions like in the prison?"

Mark closed his eyes, recalling the stench in the air, the dank atmosphere, the dirt everywhere, as if he were actually still standing in the receiving cell. "Not exactly sanitary," he admitted. "In her words, 'the toilet facilities are well below par.'"

Hugh smiled. "I can't wait to be introduced to this girlfriend of yours." Something then caught his attention and his eyes returned to where Bridget was resting. "Looks like the patient is awake," he said drolly.

Mark watched as Hugh examined the love of his life, taking her temperature, listening to her breathing and heartbeat through the stethoscope, looking into her eyes; he asked delicate questions about Thailand and prison, and pressed her for other details she might have for him about how she felt.

It wasn't until he issued his likely diagnosis—'leptospirosis'—Mark felt moved to breathe again. His seeing Bridget's shaken reaction at the thought of having blood drawn stirred him to action, reassuring her that it was a necessary evil despite her hatred of needles. The blood was drawn without incident, thank goodness.

Mark was just mentally processing a question from Hugh about whether or not she could be pregnant when Bridget literally turned green, and not due to the subject matter. He leapt to his feet and whisked her off to the loo once more, arriving just in time to avoid making a mess on the floor. He found the idea of Bridget apologising to Hugh for racing off to puke somewhat comical.

Hugh then announced he'd have results in the morning and would return, but not before using the old nickname once more. Mark grimaced. He didn't need Bridget pestering him for that old story.

She of course did, and he was thankful to see her smiling, but he demurred actually explaining it, instead switching the topic of conversation to her illness, and to letting her know that if she needed anything, she needed only to ask.

Not that this kept her from reminding him that she'd get the story from him eventually.

Finally convinced he'd done all he could do that evening, he stripped himself of his own clothes save his boxers and got into bed, hoping for at least a little good sleep. She still felt very warm to him, but with the way she clung to the arm he'd slipped around her waist, he figured she must have still felt chilled. It wasn't until he heard her softly snoring that he allowed himself to be overtaken by sleep.

………

Saturday

It's nice to have goals, he thought wearily, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes in the dark of their room. The past few hours had been a nightmare, literally and figuratively: after she had an hallucinatory dream in which he'd starred as Daniel Cleaver, after talking her down from the tree she'd climbed too far up into, Mark helped her into and up out of her cool bath then tucked her back under the covers. After all of this, he found it impossible to get back to sleep. Rather than toss and turn and risk waking her, he opted to rise, dress in his robe, and take a seat in one of the two chairs near the window, his mobile resting on the table before him.

He'd lost count of how many times he had his hand on the mobile, poised to dial Hugh again just to hear some reassurance that what was happening was normal, but then he worried that Hugh would tell him it wasn't. Mark wasn't sure he was up to hearing that.

Never mind that it's the middle of the night, he thought; he didn't want to disturb a friend who had already gone out of his way to help. Mark just didn't like feeling so out of control. To counter that, he decided to start making a record of her illness—her temperature readings, her bouts with nausea and vomiting, even her treatment (whatever that was to be)—with the thought that maybe if there was a pattern, he would see it, or at the very least, Hugh would see it, recognise it. He diligently jotted every little detail down, from when he'd first noticed her touching her forehead as if in pain, to the number of times she'd thrown up.

He sighed, setting the pen and the little notebook from his jacket breast pocket down. He looked at his mobile, and as he did, a terrifying new thought entered his head: what if Hugh's reassurances were exaggerated? What if his opinion of her having the lesser of the two evils was not as certain as he'd led Mark to believe? The reaction he'd had at saying the name "dengue fever" and his obvious reluctance to reveal any details did not sit well with Mark.

He took his mobile in hand, but instead of calling Hugh, he brought up a search engine on his mobile web browser and searched for "dengue fever." He soon saw why Hugh had been mum on the subject; he fought the urge to jump up, throw back the covers, strip her of the flannels and search every square inch for bruises. Her eyes had been red and rheumy but he wondered if that qualified as "petechial haemorrhaging." He honestly couldn't say if she'd been to the toilet more often than usual because he had barely seen her all week, but surely he would have noticed (or she would have said something) if she'd begun to spontaneously bleed…

He switched the browser off in a huff and threw the phone into the cushion of the facing chair. What had he hoped to accomplish by looking that up? It was no wonder Hugh hadn't wanted to give him details; he was now more worked up than ever. Running his hand over his face, he glanced over to the bed, saw the steady rise and fall of the duvet.

Darling Bridget, he thought, taking a few calming breaths. At least you're resting. Maybe Hugh will have been wrong and you'll wake up with nothing more than a case of the sniffles.

He didn't really think it was true, but he had to console himself somehow as he watched the sky begin to lighten over the lake.

At the sound of his mobile hitting the floor with its vibrations, he startled awake to find the room fully bathed in sunlight. Bridget was still fast asleep. Mark got to his feet and grabbed the phone to find a text message from Hugh: Am in car park.

There was no time to shower or shave, but there was time to hastily dress before he heard the light rapping on the door. He went to answer it to find Hugh, as expected. He looked slightly puzzled. "Did I wake you?" he said quietly; looking his friend up and down, he added with a little smirk, "Rather, did you sleep?"

Mark glanced to his watch, saw that it was close to seven-thirty. Hugh's jesting actually lifted his spirits, because surely he would not kid around if he had bad news to deliver. "Not well, and not for long," he replied, trying for an equally glib tone.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't apologise. You're the one doing us the favour." He stepped back to allow Hugh in. "So don't keep me in suspense. Do you have the test results?"

Hugh nodded, then grinned. "It's as I suspected. Leptospirosis."

Mark sighed heavily, leaning back to steady himself on the corner of the bureau, feeling even more relieved and grateful. If he weren't so bone tired he'd have jumped up and down with joy; he hoped a broad smile could convey his joy. "Thank goodness."

Hugh raised a hand and patted Mark's shoulder in a comforting manner. "Been researching online, haven't you?" he said with a smirk.

Mark chuckled; how well his friend knew him. "So, what's the next step?"

"Treatment."

"Obviously."

"Straightforward though unpleasant. Antibiotics and amino acid supplements to replace what she's losing by vomiting."

Mark considered this; it didn't seem so bad. "All right. What's the schedule?"

"A shot of doxycycline twice a day and one glutamine tablet every four hours—four a day—for seven days."

As he processed this information, Mark felt himself go pale on Bridget's behalf. He knew how she felt about needles. "Is there an alternative to a shot?"

"I'm afraid not," he said. "With the vomiting an oral treatment is not really viable."

"But you mentioned tablets."

"Those aren't oral, either," he said grimly.

Mark understood immediately, and he sighed. "This is going to be a tough sell," Mark admitted.

"If left untreated, we're talking jaundice, liver and kidney damage, meningitis, internal bleeding, all crescendoing in hospitalisation, permanent organ damage and inevitable death."

Mark pulled his mouth into a taut line. "I see."

"I thought you might."

"So. The shot. Do I have to aim for a blood vessel?"

"No. This is much easier. It only needs to be injected into a muscle. A big muscle is best. Like, er…" Hugh's eyes darted to the bed again. "…the gluteus maximus."

Despite the impending treatment horror, he felt himself chuckling involuntarily, imagining Bridget's reaction to having to take repeated shots in the arse. "All right."

Hugh then described precisely how to sterilise the injection site and administer the shot, demonstrating with an invisible hypodermic. He also advised to alternate injection sites. "Allows the antibiotic time to properly dissipate," Hugh explained.

"Okay," said Mark, looking to the peacefully sleeping form on the bed before turning back to Hugh. "Shall we break the news to Bridget?"

"Before that happens, one other thing you need to know," Hugh said. "The glutamine—the suppositories—have an added little complication."

Mark was almost afraid to ask.

Hugh continued, "Now, the tablets have a dual purpose: to help fight the infection and to help the body tolerate the high dose of antibiotics. Without them the doxycycline would wreak absolute havoc on her body. That's why the last three glutamine tablets are on Saturday, since the antibiotics will still be coursing through her system for a day after the last shot."

"Understood."

"However," he said solemnly, "due to the nature of the contents of the tablet, as soon as the medicine begins to enter her system, there will be a rather unpleasant burning feeling, and the body will try to… eject the pill. Therefore, you'll need to hold it into place for up to five minutes to ensure it completely dissolves. Otherwise, total misery as opposed to merely unpleasant."

"Are you saying…?" Mark began, drifting off, sure that his face had slipped into a mask of dread.

Hugh nodded. "Precisely. And she should stay lying down for a little while afterwards, not like she'll be getting up wanting to do a jig immediately following." After a pause he added, "Sorry, mate. I know it sounds rather ghastly, but she'll be completely well soon enough if you stay on course."

"In a week's time," Mark said. Despite it all, the thought of her being well overrode any apprehension he might have felt in having to administer the treatment.

It was then that Mark heard his name called out in a raspy whisper.

They went over to the bed, Hugh picking up his bag on the way. Mark smiled tenderly, then went over to the bed, took a seat and held her hand as Hugh delivered the diagnosis. By the expression on her face he knew she was hardly receptive to it being the good news that it was. He hardly blamed her; it wasn't as if he'd told her what it hadn't been. If Mark had anything to say about it, she would never know. He would instruct Hugh later not to say a word.

He sat quietly and listened to Hugh explain what the treatment was, advising that shots were required; he would write down her schedule into his notebook at the earliest opportunity.

Just then, before he'd described the other half of the treatment, Hugh hastily announced he had to leave, claiming an appointment; Mark realised that awful duty would be left to him. Wouldn't be surprised if there were no appointment, Mark ungenerously thought.

He hadn't gotten that chance to get a word out on the subject when she became visibly ill again, clamping a hand to a mouth, and reflexively he reached for the bucket that hotel staff had been so kind to bring them during the night. It tore him up inside to watch her in such obvious distress, and he used the time it took him to clean out the bucket afterwards and rinse a new facecloth with cool water to calm himself so that he might be a pillar of strength for her.

He would have to be, to do what he was about to do.

He padded at her face with the cool cloth then took her in his arms upon returning to the bed, holding her close as her body racked with tremors, swallowing hard to quell his own emotions. At the point her breathing sounded relatively back to normal, he pulled away, brushing the pads of his fingers along her cheek. "We should get started so you can get well."

She nodded, but instantly also appeared to look afraid. He knew it was due to the needles, and her comments confirmed as such: "Surely modern medicine has come up with some alternative to… medieval torture."

He looked down into her big blue eyes, his frustration at odds with his love for her. He tried to think of which terms to explain it in. Unfortunately they were too close to the forefront of his own thoughts: "This is not… Star Trek." Grasping her shoulders, he continued. "If not for the vomiting you could take an oral dosage. But look how successful we were in keeping an ibuprofen down. Hugh would not have me give you a shot unless he thought it absolutely vital."

As expected, another attempt at compromise was quick to her lips. "Couldn't we wait until the vomiting stops, and then I could take pills? It can't possibly last much longer, right?"

He looked away, his mind racing. How could he get through to her without completely terrifying her? The conclusion he rapidly came to was that he could not. He looked back to her, and in the most serious tone he'd taken all day, he explained to her all of those reasons Hugh had given to him why waiting for treatment was quite simply not an option.

Bridget looked shell-shocked; he saw her eyes grow moist with tears. "Oh."

Tenderly he added, "So I think you can handle a needle prick twice a day for a week, can't you?"

She blinked, sniffed, and nodded.

He stroked her face again. "That's my girl."

It was then he began to go through the details of dispensing the treatment as he fetched the little white bag Hugh had left behind with the medicine in it, even as he mentally cursed the man for abandoning him before doing so himself. The shots she was already aware of; the fact that they were best done in the arse she was not, and the momentary look of horror on her face had not gone unnoticed. She prompted him for information on the other treatment, the glutamine; he feared his tone had unconsciously gone a little too morbid in describing what it was, and especially as he advised her it was also not an oral treatment. He silently indicated it was not an injection, leaving her to draw her own conclusions about the method of delivery. From the way her face went pale, he suspected she guessed correctly.

He breathed in, hoping to steady himself as he let her know the fine details of the glutamine treatment, that the tablet had to be held in place. It was obvious at first she thought he was kidding, but at his unchanged expression, his unblinking eyes, she looked quite like a child who'd been separated from her parents at a busy shopping centre: wide-eyed, helpless, scared, even desperate.

With the hypo and alcohol pad at his immediate side, Mark took her hand in both of his. He would leave the close embrace and tender caresses for after the fact; for now, he had a job to do. "Bridget, I can't tell you how ecstatic I am that it's not something more serious, and when you're well, I swear, I will make it up to you. But for now, you have to have your antibiotic shot."

After her reluctant acceptance and his reiteration of the schedule—twice a day for the shot, one pill four times a day—he leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "Believe me, I'm hardly going to enjoy myself doing either of these tasks."

"I know," she said sulkily, sighed, then added, "but if anyone's going to stick me with a needle or shove a pill where the sun doesn't shine, I suppose I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

He was surprised to find himself chuckling; he loved how she could make him laugh in almost any situation. "It must be love. Now come on, stubborn girl."

She sighed again. She divested herself of the pyjama bottoms then rolled to lie on her stomach; though the top was very long and obscured all but the very lowest curve of her rear, it was difficult to regard her and not think how he'd have to mar the lovely skin there with injections fourteen times altogether. "Let's get this over with," she said.

Gently he traced his fingers over her backside, reasoning that the highest part of the curve would be optimal as it was where the muscle was thickest. He took his hand away then grabbed the wrapped alcohol pad, tore it open, then swabbed the spot he'd chosen. He heard her catch her breath.

He hoped it didn't mean she was going to be sick again, so he asked her how she was feeling.

She replied, "Nervous."

He laughed lightly as he unsheathed the hypo then held it upright to depress the plunger a little to clear the needle of air, trying not to think too hard about his next step. "I meant are you on the verge of vomiting again."

She advised she was not. No time like the present, he thought. He told her to hold still, then he poised the point just above her skin, then pierced the skin and pressed the plunger the rest of the way in.

He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in, and he pulled the hypo out, pressing the alcohol pad to the injection spot once more. "There," he said, reassuring himself as much as he was reassuring her; "Not so bad, was it."

As she turned her head to look at him, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze, and smiled to her, conveying how proud he was that she hadn't so much as cried out with the needle's pierce. She smiled wearily in return. He'd seen enough ER to know the proper disposal of medical waste, recalled seeing a red sharps container in the white bag, and so recapped the syringe and put both it and the alcohol pad in the container.

As he contemplated his next duty, he realised he wanted—needed—to hold her in his arms probably as much as she wanted to be held, so he sat back against the pillows and pulled her up onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her as he stretched his legs in front of him.

"What about… the other thing?" she asked, looking up to him with furrowed brows.

He hardly wanted to admit he needed to brace himself mentally before this next onerous task, so in the lightest tone he could manage he said, "I'm resting before the big fight."

She offered a sarcastic, "Ha, ha."

He closed his eyes, dropping his head back, and offered a half-truth: "I'd like to hold you in my arms for a few moments while you're not post-retch, trembling and gasping for air. It's deeply unnerving."

He felt her warm breath through the light fabric of his shirt as she rested her cheek against him. Quietly she said, "I'm sorry I'm so much bother."

He briefly tightened his embrace, then placed a kiss on the top of her head, stroking her hair tenderly as he stilled the emotion in his throat. He could not have her know how deeply all of this was affecting him. At last he said, "Darling, you are not a bother. The illness is a bloody inconvenience, to be sure, but it wasn't anything within your control. And were our positions reversed, I know you'd do the same for me."

"I would be a catastrophe giving you a shot," replied her muffled voice.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes," she said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes more; he could hear her breathing in deeply then exhaling. He was so thankful for even this moment, considering what could have been: his being oblivious to her feelings for him, instead thinking she'd completely given up on him and gone for Daniel instead; her being in a desolate, filthy prison on the other side of the world for the next ten years, subject to leptospirosis and worse…

Following that particular line of thought, he said softly, "If you must apologise for something, apologise for the appalling conditions in the Thai prison, as that is likely where you were infected."

"Okay," she said. "I'm sorry they kept me in such a shithole."

He abruptly laughed, immediately loving her more than he ever thought possible.

She then lifted her face to look at him again, a very serious, verge-of-tears expression on her face. "I'm sorry for chucking you, I'm sorry for Thailand and Fucking Jed—and I'm especially sorry for Daniel, for you thinking—"

He lifted a finger to her lips. "Shhh. Don't rile yourself," he said before dropping down to place a quick kiss on her lips, pushing thoughts of anything more right out of his head by looking directly at the white sack of medicine. "Well. Let's get this over with."

He slipped out from beneath her as she laid once more on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow like she'd done earlier. He considered it was not the optimal position for what he had to do. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, hating the tone of his own voice as he told her—nay, commanded her—to lie over his lap for the treatment. He expected resistance, after all, and was fully prepared to pull her into place, hold her down or worse. He would not allow her to refuse the treatment.

To his surprise, even though she was clearly unhappy about it, she did as he asked. "This is so… humiliating," she muttered. "I feel like I'm four."

As he pushed the pyjama top up, he ran his hand over the small of her back and smiled; he could not help but think how caring for her had rather been like caring for a sick child, but he still admired the decidedly not-four view. Softly he assured her, "It's only me, love," then leaned down to place a tender kiss on her bottom, opposite where he'd just injected her, to comfort and soothe her. Her skin felt very warm against his lips. "Just relax."

He felt her muscles go considerably more slack; he murmured his approval as he reached into the bag for the bubble pack of pills. He popped one out and held it in his hand, hoping to bring it up to his body temperature, hoping it might be easier on her if it were, then explained why he was doing so, reiterating the detail about having to hold it in place, which he immediately regretted at hearing her pathetic reply: "You needn't remind me."

He inhaled and exhaled deeply. He was as ready as he'd ever be. "I've got my eye on the clock," he said. "Just stay relaxed." He placed his hands on her bottom, then moved the tablet closer.

Unexpectedly she asked, "Mark? Is it big?"

He stopped, then explained, "Not any bigger than a normal tablet. Do you want to see it?"

Quickly she said, "No." She pushed air out between her teeth. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready."

To her credit, she only made a hushed gasp as he slid it into place; that is, until the moment when the medicine must have begun dissolving into her system, when she cried out softly and her muscles went very tense. He could only think how terribly small and vulnerable she looked and he stroked the small of her back with his free hand, whispered tender words of encouragement to her. He realised that caring for her—that her allowing him to care for her—in such an intimate manner meant a level of trust greater than any relationship he'd ever had, which struck him as especially poignant considering he'd expected such a fight from her about this.

He felt her body began to relax again, heard her breathing became more even, just as he shifted her to lie on the bed so that he could stand. He pulled the duvet over her, telling her to stay lying down while he washed up in the loo. He saw her nod an assent into the pillow.

He went directly for the sink. The flow of the hot water over his hands, the lather of the soap as he scrubbed them clean, didn't help to wash away how badly he felt to have to give her the required treatment, that he'd have to do it so many more times. Even still, it was better than her being in a hospital for who knows how long with an intravenous drip and a platelet transfusions (he'd only skimmed the treatment for dengue fever on his mobile browser; it was enough to skim). He turned off the water, patted his clean pink hands dry with a soft cotton towel, before glancing up to look at himself in the mirror. He saw with some alarm what Hugh had been talking about, what had prompted the wordless, surprised reaction from Bridget herself at his own appearance: he looked wretched, ragged, in desperate need of rest and a shave.

He blinked, brought the damp towel to his face, then set it down. Maybe now that her first dose was working its way through her system, they could get a good bit of sleep in.

Sleep, he thought. An excellent idea.

He left the bathroom and headed immediately for the phone to request a wakeup call until just before the next treatment at noon.

He slipped in beside her and held her close to him, his feelings of remorse swelling again. "I'm sorry," he whispered close to her ear.

She turned to look at him, her voice tremulous as she spoke. "That was horrible, but I hardly blame you."

"I know, but I'm sorry all the same. Especially since we'll have to do it again in four hours."

He felt her shudder with the thought, and he tightened his embrace in response.

"Who did you call?" she asked.

"The front desk. Asking them to ring us at eleven forty-five. Because I was thinking we should try to sleep," he said, fighting a yawn. "You know, take advantage of the no-vomiting stretch."

She could only murmur a "Mmm" before quickly (and very much to his relief) falling off to sleep. Shortly afterwards, he was sleeping too.

Notes:

The address of The Globe is 8 Bedale Street. (Google is your friend.)