A/N: Just a small warning, it's rated T for now. That may change, but not yet. However, thar be language ahead, and possible adult themes in the future. "Viewer discretion is advised."

Seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy strode alongside his older brother, Frank, as they walked back to their hotel room. They'd just left a meal with their latest client, celebrating yet another job well done, another life saved, another criminal behind bars. Their undercover work brought a lot of heartache, but tonight's mood was light-hearted. For once, a case had been completely clean and virtually free of any trouble. Joe was grateful for this, and he was absolutely positive Frank was, too.

Not that Frank had said much since they'd left their client, Ms. Whedon's, place. In fact, despite Joe's excited chattering and rambling, he was eerily nonresponsive. The only tell Joe had that his brother was even still conscious was that he was still walking at the same pace.

"Earth to Frank?" Joe teased, waving a hand in front of the eighteen-year-old's face. He jumped, torn from his weird trance. "What, were you having dirty thoughts about a certain red-haired part-time investigator again?"

Frank groaned in response. "Shut up, Joe," he croaked, shooting the blond one of his "not amused" glares. "Can we just get back to the room? I'm beat." Something about his tone tipped the younger one off. He sounded . . . off, somehow. Joe took a second to really examine his brother under the glow of the streetlights.

The studious brunet was shockingly pale, forehead gleaming with sweat underneath the lowlight, and his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. In short, he looked terrible. Joe sighed, wishing he'd seen it earlier. "Alright, how long have you been feeling sick?"

Frank squinted and rubbed his forehead, "Not long actually. It came on really fast," he faltered as his knees buckled and his legs gave out. Joe quickly caught him and draped the teenager's arm around his shoulders, supporting him from under his shoulder blades.

"Shit," Joe muttered under his breath. "We need to get you back to the room. Come on, just keep walking." He cursed again as he struggled to carry his brother's weight. "Work with me, please."

Frank was downright incoherent now, most likely due to the rising fever radiating from his unusually dry skin. Joe tried his hardest to ignore the panic growing in his stomach, the gnawing pit that told him something was seriously wrong with Frank, and it wasn't just a little bug either. He put all his focus into guiding Frank the last couple of blocks to the hotel.

They didn't make it that far.

Before he really knew what was happening, Frank leaned forward and vomited all over Joe's pants and shoes. His eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped to the ground. Luckily, Joe caught him before his head smacked against the concrete.

He gently laid Frank down on his back and felt for a pulse. Letting out a sigh of relief when he found one, he pulled out his agency-issued cell phone and dialed the three-digit emergency number he knew too well.