Disclaimer: I don't own Jaws or these characters.

Explanation: I was challenged to make my story for Psycho more descriptive, so what I did was I took the same basic plot, converted it to a Jaws story, and wrote it in the most sophisticated style that I could. I decided to publish it because...well, who knows, someone might want to read it.

Was this what pneumonia was like?

Chief Martin Brody was propped up by pillows in the Amity Island bedroom he shared with his wife, droplets of sweat skittering down his pale cheek. The navy blue pajamas that Ellen insist he wear during his illness were clammy and wet.

He thought he'd been growing to like the water, but pneumonia confirmed that he still hated it.

As soon as he and Matt Hooper had paddled their feet into shore following their successful shark hunt, Matt warned him to take a hot shower and bundle up at home to ward off a terrible cold or worse. "The temperature of the ocean this far north is enough to make you sick, Martin, especially if you're thrown into the water against your will when your boat sinks."

"What about you?" Brody had asked him, eyebrows raised.

"I'm used to it. I've been in water off the coast of Iceland. To me, this water is as warm as Hawaii."

Brody had followed Hooper's instructions to a tee, but his thin build and adversity to the cold water was a perfect breeding ground for pneumonia. First came the pesky cough, which Ellen insisted he try to get rid of with cough syrup. Next came the headaches and slight fever, which he'd brushed off as a light heat stroke. Then came the yellow-green phlegm rising up into his throat as his cough grew deeper; the phlegm projected itself onto his sweaty palm before long. Martin Brody was only swept with a slight alarm as he tried to hide it from Ellen. If she knew he was coughing up phlegm, she'd take him straight to a doctor, and Martin Brody hated doctors, almost as much as he hated the water. Their offices had that nauseating smell of disinfectant, and he felt so vulnerable in those backless, thin robes.

But the final straw was the breathing. Waking up just two days ago, his breathing was labored and heavy. His lungs felt as if someone was pressing on them with a weight, and the increasingly deep coughing did nothing to clear them.

That did it. Ellen made him a doctor's appointment. At that point, Martin didn't mind. He knew he was sick.

But there was one caveat; if Martin had to see the doctor, he insisted Ellen come too. Ellen's heath was far from perfect: she hadn't been sleeping or eating in days. She was always in the bathroom, she was taking painkillers every couple of hours like clockwork, and her hand was always clutching her stomach, trying helplessly to ward off nausea. At first, Martin thought it was just nerves; he knew that once she said goodbye to him before the Orca trip, she never thought she'd see him again. Quint's death had done nothing to help; Ellen's nerves were probably still jumping at the fact that she'd so nearly lost the father of her children.

However, Ellen's symptoms could have been something else. It could have been pregnancy. They'd 'fooled around' somewhat much lately, and even though Martin was always careful in using a condom, they could never be too safe. Ellen confirmed it when she had told him that her period was also late.

Deep down, Martin Brody welcomed another child, especially with such a kind and loving mother as his wife. On the surface, though, coming home to a pregnant Ellen after a long day on a beach full of tourists was the last thing he needed.

He'd had nothing to fear. Dr. Wilkins confirmed that Ellen's symptoms were not pregnancy, but nerves, including the missed period. He'd prescribed a simple tranquilizer and told her to get a day's worth of rest.

Martin Brody, though, had pneumonia.

The first day of his condition was easily beat by the fact that his beloved was sleeping beside him. As the hours passed, Ellen improved. She slept quietly next to him, each breath bringing energy back into her body. The boys were playing quietly in their rooms, trying not to disturb their ill parents, but Michael had heated up chicken soup on the stove, and Ellen had consumed most of hers. She'd taken a dose of Pepto-Bismol to eradicate the last of her nausea, and it seemed to have worked.

She'd awoken that morning, showered as usual, and had gone back to her regular routine of cleaning the house and playing with the boys, making sure to keep them as quiet as possible so that their sick father could sleep. She'd had to call Polly and explain that the chief was sick with a chill and needed to take the week off; she'd eliminated the word 'pneumonia' to avoid panic.

Polly hadn't been happy, and neither had Hendricks. Hendricks didn't want Martin Brody's job. Never had wanted it, never would want it, especially in the middle of tourist season.

Brody took another labored breath and sat up straighter in bed. He could hear the soft footfall of his wife as she approached the bedroom door in trepidation. Probably wondering if he was awake or not, and if he'd like some more fluids or not.

"Martin?" Ellen asked gently, prying open the door. A glass of water was in one hand, a plastic orange bottle of pills in another. "Time for your medicine. How do you feel?"

Martin sighed pitifully, and nearly choked on some phlegm resting in his throat. "Better now that I'm in bed," he admitted in resignation.

"See? You really are sick. Pneumonia isn't a laughing matter." Ellen pushed open the door just enough, and sat on the side of his bed, setting the glass of water on the nightstand and fiddling with the safety cap on the bottle of pills.

"Never said it was," Martin muttered.

"No, but you can't go about your regular business after being diagnosed with pneumonia. You need to get to bed, you know that." Ellen handed him a large white pill and the glass of water. Martin unceremoniously popped it into his mouth, put the glass to his chapped lips, and swallowed.

"How are the boys?" he asked, setting the water back on the nightstand.

Ellen shrugged. "They miss their father."

"But Michael was in the hospital last week."

"He'll be okay," Ellen assured him, reaching for his feverish, pulsing hand. "I've been talking to him. I tell him it's okay to be upset, but death is a fact of life. Everyone needs to die, and sometimes, these deaths happen right in front of us. They're unfair, but we cope and move on." She paused for a breath. "He and Sean asked to go to the beach today. I said no because I needed to be here with you, but they did play cards on the dock together. I watched them."

Martin nodded and smiled. "I think they'll be fine. They have a great mother."

Ellen smiled and reached across the bed, caressing his cheek. "You were disappointed when the doctor said I wasn't pregnant, weren't you?" she whispered.

"Only for a moment," he admitted hoarsely. He blinked up at her, smiling so that his cheeks were large and full, touching her fingers as she slid her hand down the side of her husband's face. "It's a busy time for me at the office. I don't need it to be busy at home, too."

"Mmmm." Ellen leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his temple and his forehead. "Oh, sweetheart, you're still burning up," she cried softly, her hand reaching carelessly over to the nightstand for the thermometer.

"You're busy enough with two, aren't you, honey?"

"It's not that I can't handle one more, but with the two we already have in such delicate condition after seeing someone killed right in front of them, I think a third would be a bad idea, at least now." Ellen wiped the end of the thermometer with a tissue and slid it under her husband's tongue. "There we go. Don't talk."

Both of them heard a steady creak of the door, and turned around. Little Sean was standing at the doorway to his parents' bedroom in a white cotton t-shirt and navy blue shorts, his tiny hands clutching at the doorknob. "Mommy?" he wept quietly.

"What is it, sweetheart? I'm with Daddy."

Sean toddled into the room and boosted himself up onto his parents' bed, wrapping his arms around his mother. "Mommy."

"Sean, honey, I just put you down for a nap," Ellen soothed her son, brushing a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. "Daddy has pneumonia, remember? I'm taking his temperature."

"Daddy has ammonia?"

"Pneumonia. He's running a fever, and he can't breathe very well." With one arm she held onto her son, and with another she reached for the thermometer from under her husband's tongue. "And he's still running a fever." Martin began coughing a low, deep cough; Ellen heard the phlegm rattle his throat and expel from his lungs.

Setting the thermometer back onto the nightstand, Ellen picked up the bottle of Tylenol that was partially hidden by all other paraphernalia cluttering the small wooden table, and popped the cap open to reveal two small capsules. She handed them to her husband, along with the glass of water. "Here, sweetheart. Sean, I want you back in bed for you nap."

"I want to nap with you and Daddy," the toddler replied as his mother placed the Tylenol bottle back on the end table.

"You can't, honey. Daddy needs to rest by himself. But how about Mommy takes a nap with you?"

Sean, arms still around his mother's waist, nodded slowly.

"All right, then. Let's get you to your room."

Ellen held out her arms, and Sean climbed into them gently. "Get some sleep," she whispered over to her husband. "I'm going to take a nap with Sean. I'll be back in while."

"All right, honey. Sleep tight."

Martin Brody turned in bed onto his side to see his wife, holding their tiny son in their arms, quietly walk toward his bedroom to put the toddler down for a nap. Ellen was so beautiful.

Afternoon sleep came quickly and easily.