Bret was right.
Bart's fever climbed even higher as the night went on, and when he woke coughing, he was often unaware of his surroundings. Sometimes he just stared at nothing, glassy-eyed, something that was scary for Bret to watch.
"You told me that you would be fine, Bart," Bret said, as he patted the wet towel over his brother's face. "I'm holding you to that."
Bart didn't answer, eyes half-closed, blinking dazedly.
Bret laid the cloth over Bart's forehead and sighed, looking at the clock and seeing that it was two in the morning. He looked back at his brother to see Bart's eyes still open. "Bart?" he said. "Can you hear me?"
Bart didn't answer.
Bret sighed and tiredly rubbed his eyes, jumping slightly when his brother suddenly spoke.
"Where are we?" His voice was quiet and slow.
Bret looked at him again. "We're in a hotel in San Francisco, remember?"
Bart slowly blinked, his eyes staying closed. "What?" he eventually said.
"San Francisco," Bret repeated.
Bart reopened his eyes slightly.
"How do you feel, Bart?" Bret asked, pouring a glass of water and holding it to his brother's lips.
Bart was still reclined sitting up to aid his breathing, which was noisy with congestion. He obediently drank, but didn't seem to have heard the question.
Bret put the glass back on the nightstand and removed the cloth from his brother's forehead to check his fever, finding it still too high.
Bart closed his eyes, and they stayed closed.
The rest of the night passed at a snail's pace, and Bret eventually fell asleep in the chair beside the bed.
When Bart started coughing again, Bret jumped, startled. The first thing he noticed was the bright sun shining through the window.
Bart held the handkerchief over his mouth as he coughed, thoroughly sick of being sick. His chest was aching now thanks to the congestion, and even after the coughing fit ended, his breathing was noisy.
Bret poured a glass of water and helped his brother drink it, before taking the now-dry cloth off Bart's forehead. He found his fever still high, and was dismayed at the fact that he'd fallen asleep. He felt guilty.
Bart's eyes were closed, and he appeared to not notice what was troubling his brother.
"Bart?" Bret said. "Can you hear me?"
"Yeah," Bart said, without opening his eyes.
"Do you know where we are?" Bret asked.
"San Francisco," Bart mumbled.
Bret was glad to hear that, relieved that his brother was lucid. He hoped it meant that his fever was dropping.
"Did you…win again?" Bart asked. He sounded weak and his voice was extremely hoarse, probably from all the harsh coughing.
Bret frowned. "It's only—" He looked at the clock, and inwardly groaned. "Seven in the morning."
"Oh," Bart whispered.
"I wasn't going to play again," Bret said. "We planned to take a train out of here, remember?" He realized that they couldn't leave today after all, not with Bart's worsened condition.
"Oh," Bart said again, still not opening his eyes.
Bret rewet the towel and patted it over his brother's face before placing it back on his forehead. "This might be the dumbest question you'll ever hear, but do you feel any better?"
"No," Bart mumbled.
Bret sighed. He opened his mouth to ask his brother if he wanted to eat, but Bart started coughing again. The coughing fit was long and hard, leaving Bart wincing when it was through.
Bret sighed as he patted the wet cloth over Bart's face again. "Try to go back to sleep, Bart," he said.
Bart gave no answer, but after a minute or two, his body relaxed, showing that he'd taken Bret's advice.
As Bret gently placed the wet towel over his brother's forehead again, he realized that Bart had never opened his eyes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Bart smiled as he laid down his cards: a royal flush, the best hand a poker player can have. "Looks like I win," he gleefully exclaimed, as he raked in the chips on the table. The pile was immense, containing over fifty thousand dollars, a pocket watch, the deed to a saloon, and an IOU for a sheep.
"Oh no you don't!" one of the players exclaimed. He took out his gun and fired pointblank at Bart's chest.
The bullet had no effect, as if the man had missed. Bart looked at him. "What'd you go and do that for? Now you made him angry."
"Who?" asked the other player.
"Me," said another voice.
Bart smiled as he admired the pocket watch, not even looking up as Bret stormed over to the man, took the gun out of his hand, broke it in half as if it was a stick, and threw it. He then lifted the man into the air by his collar with one hand before heading over to the saloon doors and flinging him out, where he sailed through the air and over the roof of the bank across the street.
Bart was counting the money as Bret came back. "Thanks, brother Bret," he said. "I can always count on you." With that, he handed him the IOU for the sheep.
Bart woke up laughing. Hands were shaking him, but he continued to laugh until it turned into coughing.
Bret watched, puzzled. When his brother had suddenly laughed in his sleep, he'd assumed him to be delirious again. "Bart?" he said.
Bart continued to cough, before groaning and then laughing again. "A sheep!" he whispered hoarsely, his voice all but gone. He sneezed, with another groan.
Bret frowned and took the wet towel off his brother's forehead to check his fever, which had remained high all day. With shock, he found that it was much lower, and suddenly noticed that Bart was covered with sweat. "Your fever broke," he said.
Bart was still chuckling as he remembered his dream. Suddenly, his brother's words cut through. "Huh?" he said, opening his eyes.
Bret was smiling too. "Your fever is a lot lower."
Bart blinked and shifted a little, realizing that he was drenched. "Oooh," he moaned. "I need a bath."
"You also need to tell me why you woke up laughing about sheep," said Bret, with a puzzled frown.
Bart laughed again, but it turned into more coughing.
Bret sobered. His brother's fever may have fallen, but he was still very sick. "I'll get some hot water brought up."
Bart nodded, with another sneeze.
Less then ten minutes later, the tub in their private bathing room was filled, and Bret pulled back the covers and helped his brother sit up.
Bart was surprised when the room spun around him for a few seconds, though he knew that he should've expected it.
Bret noticed, and held his arm tightly. "Take it easy," he said. "You've been lying down since we got here."
"I know," Bart said, blinking.
Bret helped him stand up, aware that the high fever had weakened his brother, which was obvious by how slowly Bart walked.
Once they got into the bathing room and Bart saw the tub of hot water, he wanted nothing more than to get in and soak away his assorted pains. When they reached the tub, Bart said, "I can get in myself."
"You sure?" Bret asked.
Bart nodded, which was a mistake with his aching head.
"All right," Bret said, hesitantly. "If you miss, call me." He was only half-joking.
Bart smiled.
Bret went back into the other room and started to tidy it up, locating clean sheets and pulling the sweaty ones off his brother's bed before going back over to the door. "You make it in all right?" he called.
"Yup," Bart called back, very hoarsely.
Bret was relieved, and changed the sheets before going back to the door. He was about to ask if he could come in, before remembering his brother's lack of a voice and not wanting him to yell another answer, so he opened the door and went inside.
Bart had his eyes closed as he reclined in the tub.
Bret grabbed a chair and brought it over. His brother's nightshirt was on the floor, so he kicked it away before putting the chair down and sitting. "Don't fall asleep in there."
"Mmm," Bart mumbled.
"Am I correct in assuming that you had a dream about sheep, of all things?" Bret asked, picking up the bar of soap and tossing it up and down.
Bart opened his eyes with a smile and looked up at him. "In a way."
Bret listened as Bart told him the dream. He smiled and shook his head. "So you got fifty thousand dollars, a watch, a saloon...and all I got was a sheep?"
Bart shot him a wounded expression. "Of course not, brother Bret…you got an IOU for a sheep!"
Bret made a face and tossed the soap into the water, making it splash.
Bart started laughing again, but it quickly turned into harsh coughing.
Bret frowned. "Stop laughing before you hurt yourself."
Bart winced. "Too late," he hoarsely said, in between coughs. After the coughing died down, he was quiet for a minute, before asking, "Are we still leaving today?"
"I don't know," said Bret. "You're in no shape."
It was another minute before Bart replied again, nearly falling asleep in the wonderfully hot water. "What about the sore loser?" he asked.
Bret thought for a minute. He had no intention of playing that man again; having a feeling that violence would result if he beat him a second time. Plus, with Bart being sick, there was no way that Bret would risk losing the money that they needed to pay for shelter with. "Maybe you're right, we should leave," he said.
Bart nodded. "Just throw my clothes in here."
Bret nodded back and stood. He left the room and came back with his brother's suit and laid it over the chair. "Call me if you need a hand," he said.
"Mmm hmm," Bart said, half-dozing off again.
"Bart."
"Mmm."
"Wake up."
With effort, Bart tiredly opened his eyes. He could barely keep them open.
Bret sighed. His brother needed rest. He wondered if they should stay where they were for one more night, before he remembered the sore loser again. No, it was safer for them if they left. Looking at Bart again, he saw that he'd closed his eyes once more. "Wake up."
Bart opened his eyes and looked up at him, before going into a coughing fit.
Bret fetched some towels out of a cabinet and placed them on the chair. "After you're dressed, I'll go buy the tickets."
"Okay," Bart said.
Bret went back into their room and repacked their things, before hearing the bellboy in the hall and asking him to bring up a pot of tea.
By the time Bart shuffled back into the room, dressed except for his jacket, with his wet hair sticking up, the tea had arrived and Bret was pouring it.
"You missed breakfast and lunch," said Bret.
Bart frowned as he reclined on his bed again, having not realized what time it was.
Bret handed him a cup and a plate with buttered toast on it. "Here. I'll be back in ten minutes."
"Thanks," Bart said.
Bret nodded and left. The train station wasn't far, and he bought the tickets and went right back to the hotel. It actually took only eight minutes, and when he headed back inside and up to their room, he opened the door quietly, in case Bart was asleep.
What Bret saw inside the room—or rather, what he didn't see—shocked him.
Bart was gone.
TBC
