Incubation Periods and Poultry-Based Illnesses

It's probably pretty obvious, but Britta hates babysitting.

Babies. She loves babies. They're innocent and little, adorable and sweet-smelling… well, most of the time. She can't stand children, though. They're conniving, sneaky, sticky-fingered and will do anything to get what they want. And don't get her started on teenagers. She was a teenager once; all they do is smoke pot and think about sex. But babies. They're pure; they haven't been tainted by the everyday pressures of high school and cliques. They're relatively easy to care for and when they're not crying, they're extremely cute. So no problem, right?

Oh, no. Wrong. Oh so wrong.

Wednesday night, Britta's older-but-not-oldest brother Anderson and his wife Natalia expressed their dire need for a babysitter at the last minute for a gala they were attending that evening. Britta had tried everything to get out of it, but at the last minute she found herself hurriedly straightening up her apartment and finally staring awkwardly at eleven-year-old Andrew, seven-year-old Justin, and eighteen-month-old Mia. Prepared for their pretty much anything they could throw at her, Britta battled the evening with relative ease. She kept an eye on the eleven and seven year olds; she knew their tricks.

But in the end, it was the secret weapon that took her under. The baby.

Thursday morning, Britta woke up to a message from her sister-in-law, who sounded panicked and nervous on the other end of the line. She explained the current situation with Mia, understanding that the illness had probably come home with one of the older boys, but said, "It's fine though, Britta, right? Because you've probably had this before. I mean, who hasn't?"

Answer? Britta hasn't.

And that's how she ends up with the chicken pox.

Five minutes go by. And then ten.

"I guess Britta's running a little late," Annie sighs uneasily, her fingers jittering on the shiny cover of her Anthropology textbook. "Has anyone tried to contact her? This is cutting into study time and we really need to focus if we want to pass the midterm."

"I sent her three text messages already," Shirley nods. "She usually answers at least one of them…"

"She wasn't in dance this morning," Troy notes. "She never misses dance. Our recital's next week!"

"Skipping class isn't like her," Pierce adds. "She hates this school, but not enough to miss out on it."

"This is the first time one of our group members hasn't come to school," Abed deadpans. "I'm afraid it'll ruin the group dynamic if it lasts too long."

And this is how all ten eyes come to land on Jeff, who is leaning back in his chair, not particularly curious or concerned with Britta's absence. He scratches his wrist and continues checking his phone's messages before noticing the group's stare. "What do you want me to do about it? Go to her apartment and bring her to school like a kindergartener?"

"Well no, but you could try her home phone and see if she answers," Shirley says, a trace of bitterness in her tone as she adds, "She obviously is ignoring her cell phone."

"Guys, what if she's not skipping? What if she's sick?" Jeff asks and this isn't something the group has even contemplated. "Calling her isn't going to solve anything."

"It would've been nice of her to say something though," Annie states. "Some of us have schedules we like to follow and lives that get interrupted when we don't!"

"Oh my God, you're not going to give this up are you?" Jeff questions rhetorically and leans forward, scratching his upper arm and dialing Britta's number agilely. "Where are you? You're late for study group… Well I realized that, but are you coming? Annie's flipping out… What? You have what? … Oh… Okay. Goodbye…"

They're all looking at him expectantly as he scratches the back of his neck nervously and tells them, "She has the chicken pox."

"Cool," Abed notices. "Because you referred to her earlier on in the conversation as a kindergartener and chicken pox is usually a common kindergarten disease."

"Chicken pox?" Shirley shakes her head. "That's awful. It lasts at least a week and it's worse for adults than it is for children. Andre and I both got it when the boys did a few years ago."

Jeff still seems apprehensive. "She wanted me to let you know because… They're really contagious."

"Well I had them in first grade," Troy sighs. "Worst week ever. My Mom made me bathe in oatmeal… I could never look at that Quaker guy the same way ever again."

"I had them too in the seventies," Pierce chuckles ironically. "My girlfriend and I both thought we had genital herpes. What a relief that was!"

Annie pulls a face. "I had them in kindergarten. It was the only time I have ever missed a day of school, let alone a week. I'll never forget that."

"I had them in fifth grade, and just like Phoebe in Friends, my Dad taped oven mitts to my hands to keep me from scratching myself," Abed shakes his head. "It didn't work."

"Great, so we've all had them, then!" Annie says excitedly. "Let's get back to studying."

Jeff winces. "Um, I haven't had them."

They all titter nervously before Shirley states, "Well, I'm sure you'll be fine, Jeffrey. I mean, how much time do you really spend with Britta, anyway?"

Chuckling nervously, Jeff scratches his chin. "Yeah… true."

If only they knew.

But then again, that was kind of the point of it being secret.

Friday afternoon, Britta is feeling absolutely miserable.

She's dressed haphazardly; a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that are tattered around the ankles and definitely have a hole in the crotch- the size of this hole is indeterminate. Her oversized Greendale sweatshirt is itchy against her skin, but in just her tank top she shivers uncontrollably… but then again, this sweatshirt is doing just that- making her sweat. She's in the process of pulling her hair away from her itchy, blotchy neck when there's a knock at her door. Britta groans and decides whoever this is can stay out there, shaking the bottle of calamine lotion to get the last drop and whining when she realizes she already used it.

And on top of that, there's the damn knocking.

"I'm coming!" She yells, throwing the bottle aside and walking over the threshold to yank open the door. Her eyes widen as she comes face to face with Jeff Winger, his body just as feverous and blotchy as hers.

"Britta, I hate you."

She frowns. "I hate you too! You made me get up!"

He pushes past her and throws a bag of things on the floor beside the couch, collapsing onto it and staring blankly at her. "Chicken pox? Really? I'm sorry, are we five years old?"

Britta closes the door, crosses the room and sits on the opposite side of the couch. "I'm aware. This is not my fault. I don't know how a baby gets chicken pox, but my niece gave it to me. Blame Mia."

"I don't even know Mia. I blame you," Jeff says. "Shirley's giving me the benefit of the doubt, saying, 'Oh, you don't even hang out with Britta that much, so you'll be fine!' No Shirley, you're right. I don't hang out with her that much. Except for at least twice a week when we meet to have sex multiple times, but you don't know about that, do you?"

Britta's bloodshot eyes widen. "You ousted us?"

Jeff looks at her as if she's crazy. "Are you kidding? Of course not! I didn't actually say that to her!"

"Oh… Well that's good." Britta sighs, slumping down into the couch cushions. "I'm itchy."

Jeff smirks. "I know the damn feeling. How long does this shit last?"

"I don't know," Britta says honestly. "About a week in children, but it varies in adults. We've… got some time to heal, unfortunately."

"Oh great. This is just what I was planning for my weekend."

"Listen, this isn't anyone's ideal situation, okay?" Britta snaps irritably. "But if all you're going to do is fucking complain, you can leave."

Jeff stares at her. Then laughs. "Yeah, right."

Friday night, they order a pizza and give the teenage delivery boy a heart attack when they answer the door.

Imagine this situation- two feverous adults dressed sloppily in sweatpants and wrinkled t-shirts, blistery faces slathered in calamine lotion, and hair as carelessly thrown together as the rest of their appearance. This poor teenager accepted his money and tip before literally scrambling out the door and down the hallway. Well screw him. Maybe this hand-to-hand contact would make him sick and he'd be this miserable, too.

Afterwards, they shower- separately, of course- which only irritates their skin even more and when Jeff complains that Britta's couch would make the Lollypop Guild cry, they scramble uncomfortably into her bed. Yes, one would think they would be used to sleeping together by now. However, this is not the case. Britta's a kicker. Always has been and is deemed to always be a kicker. But this is matched by Jeff, who is a blanket-stealer. Always has been, but if Britta has her way, he will not forever be a blanket-stealer.

But it doesn't matter tonight. Britta's not sleeping, therefore is not kicking. Jeff's too hot to worry about blankets, so he heaps them all on Britta.

Just when he finally gets into a position where her 50% hemp, 50% recycled fiber sheets don't irritate his itchy skin, Britta decides she's completely uncomfortable, and begins flopping around. And scratching. Incessantly.

"Britta…"

She ignores him. Or doesn't hear him, which is also entirely possible, seeing as her bedroom overlooked the alleyway where there was most likely a gang fight occurring. She continues scratching.

"Britta, stop. You're going to scar."

She flops over to face him, but doesn't cease her itching. "What?"

He groans, facing her and grabbing her arm to end her movements. "Stop scratching. You're going to scar."

Britta whines. "I'm so itchy though!"

"Really? Because I was feeling peachy keen," Jeff frowns. "Go put lotion on."

"You don't understand," Britta whispers. "It feels so good."

"Great. And next time you're sleeping with a guy and he asks about the hundreds of pox scars on your body, you have fun trying to explain that you're not a leper."

Britta smirks, settling into the pillow but not closing her eyes. "Oh please. No need to explain; you'll know where the scars came from."

Jeff's thoughts immediately come to a halt. This shouldn't bother him as much as it does, but for some reason, the fact that she believes he's still the next one she's going to sleep with freaks him out. It doesn't freak him out because their sexual escapades are becoming more and more frequent, which they are. It doesn't freak him out that they're becoming almost domestic, almost routine. What freaks him out is that what she said is true. They are both the other's next sex partner. And that doesn't freak him out… which freaks him out. Confusing, yeah, but that's the way it is.

He somehow falls into a fitful sleep, filled with fluid dreams and subconscious itching. Britta, however, does not. And when the morning finally arrives, she watches the sunrise and tries to come to terms with her feelings for Jeff Winger.

As usual, she doesn't get very far.

"Are you sure this works?" Jeff asks, skeptical of the article she'd read online as he eyes the bathtub warily.

Britta nods, her head resting against the wall of the shower and her eyes blissfully closed. "I read it on WebMD. They're always right. It's working with the itching already; plus if it doesn't really do anything, at least it's a good exfoliate."

Jeff eyes her again, still disbelieving. "I'm not getting in that."

She shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Britta completely ignored the awkwardness of her naked exposure when she got in the bathtub a few moments earlier, figuring there simply was no awkwardness, seeing as it's nothing he hadn't seen before. But still Jeff feels uncomfortable. Maybe it's from their conversation the previous night… or maybe it's because Britta is submersed up to the neck in her homemade oatmeal-and-water bath. It looks disgusting… but she isn't scratching anymore. In fact, for the first time in three days she looks almost comfortable. Too comfortable.

"You didn't sleep at all last night. If I leave you here, are you going to drown?" Jeff asks and Britta laughs.

"No. I'm not that comfortable." She confesses. "This is not ideal and it's a really odd feeling."

Jeff sits on the floor and leans against the wall. "What should we do for dinner?"

Britta cracks an eye open. "You're staying tonight too?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, I mean, if you want me to. If I've overstayed my welcome, just say so. I'll go."

"No, I mean," She looks away, down at the bubbling water and oats she's resting in. "You don't have to go… I mean, the chicken pox sufferers should stay together, right?"

"Yeah," He nods, keeping this as casual as possible. "To uh… To commiserate together."

"Right," Britta agrees and only then feels completely exposed. This, of course, is stupid, seeing as just as early as the previous weekend she was having sex with him in his car. But whatever.

He seems to note the sudden change in tone too, for he nearly jumps up and heads for the kitchen. "I'll see what you've got in this little shack. Did you buy anything but tofu and veggies this time around?"

Britta bites her lip, and then says, "Take-out menus are by the phone."

After their second run-in with a frightened delivery boy- this time from the trendy Thai restaurant down the street, which asks way too much for the pad pak, if you ask them- Jeff and Britta are watching Saturday Night Live, which Miley Cyrus is hosting and not doing a very good job. It's nearing one in the morning, and Jeff's surprised Britta hasn't passed out yet. During the last musical performance- who listens to The Strokes anymore, seriously? - Britta yawns obnoxiously and decides, "This show is not funny anymore."

"Normally I disagree with your overly-feministic and pessimistic view on the world, but I have to say, you are uncharacteristically right here," Jeff says. "This girl is famous for having a double persona, and yet thousands of people are being put in mental hospitals each year for the same thing."

Britta chuckles. "And yet, so many little girls look up to her. And how does she repay them? By smoking out of a bong. Classy."

"Britta, you cannot give people lessons on class," Jeff tells her and though normally she would have put up a fight, she's too sick and too exhausted to even bother to pretend to care.

"Whatever," She offers him instead and snuggles further under the blanket they somehow ended up sharing. "I think the bath helped with the pox. Look, some are actually going away."

"Lucky you," Jeff smirks. "I, however, am going to look like a leopard for the rest of my life."

"Not a leopard," Britta yawns. "Just someone with awful acne."

"So much better," He rolls his eyes as she closes hers. "When chicken pox broke out in my first grade class, my Mom let me stay home the entire week, even though I didn't have them, just so I wouldn't be exposed to those who did. I spent a week avoiding the virus and what do I get? This fun little weekend thirty years later where I get to experience everything I was avoiding."

Silence.

"Britta?" Jeff questions and when he glances down, she's fast asleep. He shakes his head, smiling slightly at her hunched over frame, the blanket pulled around her shoulders, and her head resting ever-so-slightly on his upper arm. Jeff turns the television off, scooping her into his arms and carrying her to her bedroom, making sure she's tucked in comfortably before he settles in beside her. As a last minute effort, he plants a kiss on her forehead.

What can he say? He's a man of weakness.

Catching up on sleep seems to come much easier to them the second night, and they wake up Sunday morning around nine-thirty, ten o'clock. Britta feels significantly better; her fever's broken and redness of each individual spot is fading away, though not completely gone. Jeff's disease is still pretty prominent, but he's no longer feverous and the need to scratch isn't quite as unbearable as it had been over the past few days. Annie and Shirley decided today would be a good day for them to visit with feel-better chicken soup and brownies, goods they were bringing around noon, which gave Jeff ample time to leave.

Of course, they got distracted and the rest is history.

Around ten thirty, by the time they finally get dressed- in real clothes this time, not sweatpants and ratty t-shirts- and make themselves presentable, Britta's feeling ambitious. "Let's make pancakes."

Jeff shoots her his best 'Are you insane?' look. "Seriously? Can you even cook?"

"Yes, thank you very much. I've been cooking for myself since I was eighteen," Britta resents his comment, pulling out her griddle and plugging it in a wall outlet to begin the preheating process. "Can you?"

"You kidding? How else did you think I survived?" His question is rhetorical and Britta's not sure if he's talking about in his life now or in his childhood. She gets her answer. "My Mom couldn't make toast without burning it; she certainly couldn't make me actual meals. I figured it out."

Britta's not sure what to say; they never talk about their lives pre-Greendale. Instead, she mixes some Bisquick, eggs, and milk in a bowl and stirs. "Well… Are you a plain pancake person or do you like mix-ins?"

He smirks. "How do we not know this about each other? Have we never eaten pancakes?"

Britta shrugs. "Guess not. I, for the record, am quite partial to blueberries or chocolate chips."

"What a coincidence," Jeff grins. "So am I."

That's all it takes. They look at each other for a split second more before becoming entangled in a kiss so powerful and so full of longing one would be shocked to learn they had actually spent the entire weekend together, seeing as they were acting as though they were long-lost lovers and it had been weeks since they had last seen one another. He backs her into the counter, which she easily hops onto and they continue to ravish each other, lips pressed together furiously and tongues smashing and combating for dominance.

This is how the rest of the morning goes. They make pancakes, they eat pancakes, and they make out some more. He tastes of blueberries, she tastes of chocolate, but the two come together in the sugary maple goodness of the syrup. Never has Jeff Winger suffered from an illness that he enjoyed so much as this one, he decides. If this is what chicken pox was like, Jeff would like to have chicken pox for the rest of his life.

Wait, what? Did he just say- er, think- that?

The kissing stops when there's a knock on the door and only then do Britta and Jeff remember that Shirley and Annie were due to stop by. Panic-ridden expressions are adorning their faces as they race about, trying to group all of Jeff's strewn-about things together and as away from sight as they possibly can, before the door unlocks and twists open, with Britta cursing the day she ever gave Annie Edison an emergency key.

The scenario is this- Shirley is holding a plate full of chocolaty, freshly-baked brownies and Annie carrying a crock-pot of chicken soup, now both standing in Britta's living room completely and utterly shocked. Jeff and Britta are holding a collection of the former's things, but they're also obviously disheveled; hair mussed, faces sticky and having the remnants of kissing, and it doesn't help that Britta's wearing one of Jeff's shirts. They exchange a glance and Annie and Shirley do the same.

And that's how the rest of the study group finds out about Jeff and Britta.

Damn chicken pox!