You don't get well. You're not so sick that you have to lay in bed all day, but you still don't feel quite right. You're a bit feverish, and your limbs feel swollen and stiff, but you have no choice but to work. You insist to Brittany that you simply cannot stay home from work, that no matter how exhausted you feel, you've made a commitment to Mr. Edja, and you're not sure how well he would take to an illness that immobilizes you for a long period of time.

She watches you carefully. Each afternoon, she comes to the bar, and she orders one drink so she can keep a bit of an eye on you before she goes to work on the house. You wave her off each time, you promise her that you'll be just fine, that you'll send down for her if you're unwell, and you continue to work, moving slowly as you pour drinks and smile at the patrons. You ache, but you refuse to allow it to show. Not until you leave for the night, and Brittany draws you a bath, insisting you soak to ease the pain in your body. Insisting that she care for you, and cook you simple dinners so you get to rest.

Every night now, she stays. Previously, it had just been a few times a week, but now, now she's insistent upon laying beside you in bed, stroking your damp hair from your face, tending to you when you toss and turn in your sleep. You're certain she no longer sleeps, you're certain she watches you through the night, ready with a cool cloth or a tin pail at your bedside, in case you vomit and can't make it all the way to the toilet. You beg her not to sacrifice her sleep, you swear to her that it's just a summer flu, and you've tended to your sisters with such illnesses, and have tended to yourself as well, but the way she loves you doesn't allow her that rest. And you know, with great certainty, that had she been the one so ill, you would care for her in just the same way.

You develop a rash on your thigh. Though you haven't been intimate with Brittany in some time, not feeling much like doing more than kiss her, she sees it when she helps you change into your nightgown one evening when your body is too sore to do so yourself. When she sees the rash, you watch panic cross her face, but when you question her, she says nothing, just kisses your forehead, and murmurs sweep dreams, pretty lady,before you fall into another night of fitful slumber.

When you wake in the morning, she sits by your bedside, fully dressed in her trousers and shirt, shoes on her feet and cap on her head. You suspect it's later than she should still be on shore, and you sigh heavily, wishing she wouldn't miss days of work for you. You attempt to sit up, and a sharp wave of nausea hits you, making you recoil back, before leaning over the edge of the bed and vomiting into the waiting receptacle. It's a pain like you hadn't known before this illness struck you, and a deep, nagging part inside of you tells you that you're very unwell. The thought terrifies you, and you fight back the tears that spring to your eyes. You have found love, you have found true happiness, and the fear that you've perhaps contracted something that will take that all away makes you shake, both from fevered chills and horror.

"Ya don't look quite well this mornin', pretty lady." Brittany ties your hair back with the ribbon on your night table, and kisses your forehead. "I went on down and made a call to Doc on the mainland, told him he ought t' see ya."

"Okay." You acquiesce, your voice scarcely a whisper, though you'd previously been resistant to this very idea.

"I don't like that mark ya got on your leg, and ya keep on gettin' sicker. I sent Davey 'n the boys out, and I'm gonna take ya on over by the ferry boat. Probably better for the nausea than takin' Davey's dinghy. Pop's next trip is comin' up at quarter-past nine."

"Is it already so late?"

"Just about. We oughta get ya into some clothes, and walk on down there soon."

"Alright." You nod slowly, though you don't try much to move from the bed. "Would you mind helping me dress?"

"Course not." Brittany stands and goes to the bureau, taking out a soft grey dress, and a pair of your sheer nylons. "This alright?"

As she dresses you, your body feels limp beneath her touch, but she caresses you softly, she kisses the goosepimpled skin, and combs your coarse hair. For a moment, you feel fear that she might catch what you have, but then you think, perhaps, that if she were going to, she already would have, sleeping beside you each night.

Before you leave, she washes out your pail, leaving it to dry in the sink, and she takes the afghan from the back of your sofa and drapes it over your shoulders. The mercury on your thermometer reads above eighty-degrees, but you feel chilled, and she knows that. You feel chilled, and when her arms can't warm you, she provides a blanket to do the same.

You struggle to walk the gangplank of the ferry, your knees throbbing that same dull ache, and she guides you, finding you a seat just in the front. You're glad for that, certain it would be too difficult for you to walk further. When the soot begins to rise from the tall smokestack, and the boat charges across the bay, you lean into her side, finding it difficult to keep your head up. You're grateful for the late morning quiet on the boat, and more than anything, you're grateful that Brittany fears other people so much less than you do.

Upon docking, she helps you back down, tipping her hat to her father, and gets you into a hired car. You're not quite sure how she's managed to arrange all of this, but you feel too ill to ask any sort of questions. You simply let her care for it all, you simply trust that she will handle it in a way you currently cannot, and when you arrive in front of a brick building on the Main Street of town, you know that you'd managed your trust appropriately.

"Doc Davis'll take real good care'f ya. He was an army doc like your pop, in the first war, and he's always taken right good care'f me. I called him up early and told him about the rash ya got and how sick ya have been, and he thinks he can help."

"I hope so." You nod listlessly, as Brittany opens the heavy wooden door. "This sickness is starting to scare me."

"We're gonna get ya all taken care of, I promise."

She ushers you inside, and you sit down, carefully writing down your name on the log the receptionist presents you, though your hand shakes as you do. You worry a bit, about how much money this might cost, and if you even have enough in your purse. Perhaps he'll let you give him the rest later, when you're well enough to take the ferry back over on your own. Or perhaps Brittany has something she can lend you until you're home, and can think clearly enough to organize yourself.

"Miss Lopez." The doctor calls, and your heart drops into your stomach, settling as a pit of anxiety below your naval. "You can come on back now."

"You'll be just fine." Brittany nods, though you wish she could squeeze your hand, you wish she could kiss your head, you wish she could hold you close as the doctor examines you. But you know she can't, you know she has to stay out here, and you stand on your trembling legs, walking slowly back behind the closed door.

As you settle on the examination table, it strikes you that you've never seen any doctor other than your father before. Never in your life have you had much more than a stomach sickness or a headache. Even your mother has been tended to by him, except when the midwife has come to deliver her babies, and the thought of a strange man touching you is unsettling. But Brittany trusts him. Brittany says he can help you, and you ball your hands into fists as he presses the stethoscope against your chest and then carefully examines your elbows and knees.

"Can you tell me a little about your illness? I heard a bit on the telephone this morning, but it would be helpful to hear you tell it."

"A little over two weeks ago, I developed a headache, and then I was so achey and lethargic that I had to go to bed. I have been checking my own temperature and have had a consistent fever."

"And your joints? You have quite a bit of swelling that I can see."

"The joints of my knees are the most painful, almost arthritic, I would imagine. It helps me to soak in the bathtub in the evenings."

"May I see the rash that you have?"

"I—" You take a deep breath, heat creeping up the back of your neck as you consider having to take off your nylons. "It looks as if it might be just a bug bite."

"I understand that." Dr. Davis nods. "But I see a few cases like yours each summer, and typically they include a circular rash. I have found that benzylpenicilin has successful results, but I do need to confirm that you're suffering from what I believe you may be."

"May I…may I have a moment of privacy before that?"

"Yes, of course, and I will have my nurse come in if that will make you more comfortable."

"Thank you, it would." Santana nods.

It takes you much longer than it normally would to remove your nylons, but you manage it, neatly folding them in your lap, and sliding your shoes back onto your feet. When Dr. Davis and the nurse come back in, you are so painfully embarrassed that you're certain they can see it on your face. You understand it's just your thigh, that he's not seeing you or touching you in any intimate way, but still, your mother always placed a heavy value on modesty. So you look away as he examines you, and the nurse nods her reassurances to you, which you're grateful for.

"My suspicions were correct, you have the typical erythema migrans that presents in other people I've seen with symptoms like yours, and I have no reason to assume that the same treatment I've given in the past will not work for you."

"What is…is it a contagious pathogen? And is it a poor prognosis?" You feel your heart begin to race harder, and your head get lighter.

"You speak like a doctor, Miss Lopez."

"I grew up with my father, who is a family doctor and general surgeon currently serving our country overseas." You rush out, gathering the pleats of your dress in your hand.

"I ask you to thank him for his service. I was too old to go back overseas for this war. But I served my time in the last." Dr. Davis shakes his head, and you think he may be remembering things, the way Arthur often seems to. "I have not seen any evidence that your condition is contagious, and with a long course of benzylpenicillin and quite a bit of rest, I suspect you will find yourself in recovery. I can't promise it will heal you completely, but it will certainly help."

"Is that all?"

"It is. I suggest you keep up soaking your joints as well, as you said it was helpful, but I will just write you this prescription, and the pharmacist at Whelan's should be able to fill it for you this morning."

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Davis." You breathe a bit easier, though you're still fearful that perhaps the course of antibiotics won't work. "Thank you so much."

"You are quite welcome, Miss Lopez. Your friend Brittany and the Captain have been quite generous with me for some time, and have only once used my services, so it is my pleasure to help a friend of hers."

Slowly, after the doctor leaves you, you put your nylons back on, and you smooth your dress, knees wobbling as you do. Brittany waits for you outside the door, taking congenially with Dr. Davis when you emerge. When you reach into your purse, she shakes her head to you, indicating that it is taken care of. You're not certain if that comes as a result of her arrangement with the physician, or if she has paid for it herself, but either way, you feel a swell of gratitude in your chest. She treats you with such tender care, she loves you so wholly, and if your joins were not already riddled with this ailment, you believe they would feel weak simply from that.

Brittany folds your blanket and tucks it under her arm as you walk to the pharmacy together. The trapped heat between the buildings makes it hard for you to breathe, and every few feet, you have to take a break. The very idea of how slowed down you've become frustrates you, but you pray, fingering the cross around your neck, that Dr. Davis is right. You pray that you'll be well before the summer is out. You pray that you'll be able to kiss Brittany again like you used to do, to feel her fingers trace your body with passion instead of concern. You pray that you'll be able to walk down the beach with ease, to see the home she's building and can now only show you with her words. You pray, more than anything, that you'll heal, and that this isn't some sort of divine punishment for your own actions.

While you wait for your medication, Brittany buys you lunch at the pharmacy counter. You take slow sips of your Coca Cola and pick at your baked ham sandwich, but you can't bring yourself to eat even most of it. When you know you can't even attempt it anymore, Brittany wraps it in wax paper for you, and tells you that maybe you'd like to finish it for dinner. You just nod, though you're certain you won't, and you feel awful that she spent her money to buy you something you can't eat.

Once the pharmacist hands you the amber bottle of pills, Brittany has managed to find a car to take you back to the port. She talks to her father for a few moments after you're settled in your seat, and before you know it, you're back home. As much as you'd like to crawl into your bed and sleep through the day, following Dr. Davis' orders to rest, you know that you have to open the bar.

"Are ya sure you're gonna be alright t'work?" Brittany asks you, brow furrowing deeply with concern.

"I will be. I know you want to go down to the house today too, if I stay here, so will you."

"I'd put off workin' on it as long as ya need me to, ya know."

"I do." You nod, leaning into her kiss on your forehead. "But I'll be alright. Maybe tonight I'll feel up to walking down the beach."

"Okay." She nods, though she knows as well as you do that she won't. Knows that it'll take time. Knows that as much as you want to, you just physically can't.

It takes nearly three weeks for you to feel any sort of change. But it comes. Your fever goes down, and though your knees still shake, you find it easier to walk. You know that Brittany watches you carefully, and you know, when you wake on Sunday morning to her still sleeping soundly beside you that she's confident in your recovery. So you slip from the bed, and slide your slippers on your feet before you go into the kitchen and begin making breakfast. It feels like it has been so long since you could do that, and to stand at the stove, watching the whites of the eggs bubble and the thick white bread toast in the oven feels like a miracle.

You feel her come into the kitchen behind you. She doesn't say a word, but you know she's there. She's not quiet on her feet, and she pads across the kitchen to you, pressing her front into your back. Her fingers trace the hem of your nightgown, and trail upwards, until her hand rests softly on your unencumbered breast. Desire surges through you, and it's the first time since you fell ill that a tingling sensation runs from your breast down your spine, settling low in your belly. It's silly, you know that. Her touch wasn't meant to elicit such a reaction, but it does, and you put the hand that doesn't hold the spatula over hers, reveling in the way she cups you so tenderly.

"Ya look well this morning." She breathes into your ear, lips folding in a featherlight kiss on the shell.

"I feel well. I wanted to make you breakfast. I've missed this."

"I've missed ya feeling well. I've missed seeing the color in your cheeks like this, and feelin' ya smile."

"You took such good care of me." You whisper, wishing you had more words to explain how that made you feel. "It's because of you that I'm feeling well again."

"Naw, Dr. Davis did everything, I was just here, makin' sure ya didn't have to be alone."

"You did so much more than that. Sometimes I—" You shake your head, turning the eggs in the pan.

"What?"

"It's not anything very important. I was just thinking of the heroes in all the books I've read, and it's not like this."

"I'm not sure what ya might be sayin'."

"In the books, there is always some sort of grand gesture. The hero saves her life, or whisks her away from her family, or slays a dragon. But with you, you're a hero every day in a small way, and it all adds up to something so much greater than one act of grandeur."

"I just love ya with my whole soul, so I want to make sure ya always have everything ya need and want."

"You have done that from the first moment I met you. It's been nearly a year, hasn't it?"

"T'morrow." Brittany murmurs, and Santana feels her skin prickle with heat against her back.

"Tomorrow?"

"The first time I ever got to kiss ya was a year ago t'morrow. I sure was certain ya might run off into the night, but then ya kept on hangin' around with me, and now, ya let me build ya a house, and we'll live there together as if I could marry ya at the old church at Ocean Beach. I sure wish I could let ya wear that ring I got, ya know. But I s'ppose then everyone'd start askin' ya questions and folks might not all take kindly to such a thing."

"I've never known a girl to love another girl until I loved you myself, and then saw the other ladies doing such a thing when you took me to Cherry Grove. It's your brother's ring though, Brittany. You should keep that."

"I'd like to give it to ya much more than I'd like to keep it. I thought about maybe gettin' a chain for ya so you could wear it in secret."

"Brittany." You lean back into her, closing your eyes. She's every bit of good you've ever known to exist in the world, and just being in her embrace makes you feel as if you're absorbing some of that good in yourself. "I would wear anything you gave to me. I'll be so glad when my bracelet doesn't feel so heavy on my wrist anymore."

"It always makes me real glad to see it on ya."

You eat breakfast across from one another, and she smiles at you over and over again, until you feel as if perhaps you can't take another smile. There's much to do, things you haven't felt capable of managing for a long time, but today, you think you'd rather have for her. Today, you want the quiet of your mind that being close beside her brings.

"Brittany. I'd like to walk the beach with you today."

"Ya think ya finally feel up to it?" A smile spreads across her face from ear to ear. "I've got a lot to show ya since last time ya saw the house."

"I'm still not certain how you've managed to get so much done while looking after me."

"Wait til ya see! I'm gettin' closer. Ya think the heat of the day is too much? I could go down and pull up my traps, and cook up some crabs on the beach for ya at sundown."

"That sounds like a really beautiful night, Brittany. And I do think it might be better for me to avoid the heat and the sun. I seem to move and breathe a little easier when I'm shaded and beneath the fan."

"I could fan ya tonight, if ya need me to."

"I think I'll be alright. I might even need a sweater with me."

"Then that's all ya need to pack, I'll take care'a the rest."

Though you spend most of the morning together, listening to the the radio, reading a book out loud to her, talking about your future together, around noon, she has to go down to the dock and handle some things. It may be her day off, but sometimes things can't be helped, and you spend the time sweeping the floors of your apartment, cleaning the things you haven't had the strength to clean, putting fresh sheets on your bed and tucking the others away for laundry day.

When she returns late in the afternoon, she's has a bucket full of soft shell crabs, and she's whistling. While you hate to watch her cook the crabs alive, you do so enjoy eating them the way she taught you, and you enjoy the way you leave all cares about your appearance behind as you devour them with your hands. Brittany has a picnic basket as well, and you button your sweater over your oldest dress before you lock the door behind you, and let her usher you down the beach.

Though you can smell the ocean air through your window, you realize in just a few weeks, how deeply you'd missed the feeling of the sand between your toes, of the spray off the shore, of the way Brittany slips her hand into yours as soon as you're far enough away from where many people in town seek out solace past the dune. She smiles at you when she takes your hand, and you squeeze it in return. It's an I love you, it's a thank you, it's a what did I ever do in the time before I knew a love so deep.

You're stunned when you arrive at the site of the house. For a moment, you convince yourself that you're in the wrong place. Where the skeleton stood on the fateful day you fell ill, the home has begun to take shape. Heavy boards enclose the space, and are dotted with spaces cut for windows and doors. It's starting to look like a home, your home, and the sight of it takes your breath away.

"I built ya some stairs up the back. I know ya aren't too fond of the ladder. And soon as I got all the rest done, I'm gonna start on the porch and the stairs right on down to the beach."

"Can I see inside?" You shake your head in disbelief. At the house, at her.

"Yeah! Come on up!" She drops her bucket and basket in the sand, and places her hand on the small of your back. I'll give ya the whole tour."

"I wish there was something I could do to help, you've done so much work." You marvel as you hold the rudimentary banister to climb the wooden steps up the back.

"Ya give me the inspiration for it. But maybe when I finish the walls, ya can come sit with me while I paint 'em?"

"I would really love to help you paint them, if that's alright."

"That does sound like great fun! I'd love to have ya for it! But perhaps first I should show ya what ya might be gettin' into."

She walks you through the first floor of the house first, stepping through the spaces in the boards that will become the doorways. In each room, she beams brighter, showing you where the kitchen will be, the living space where you'll choose a sofa and a table for your radio, the little nook she's built in the corner, a library,for all your books, she promises, the space where she'll run plumbing, and be sure there's room enough for a bathtub.

You look out through the gaping hole in the wall to the ocean from the living area, and she grins, telling you she'll put grand doors that open to the porch. Then she walks you up the second set of stairs, inside in the back of the house, telling you to watch your step for loose nails. The upstairs is wide open. All that is there is one big room, with the widest window you've ever seen, and the open sky above you. Beneath the window space, there's a pile of pillows and quilts, some you recognize from Brittany's bed. Beside you, you see her skin flush, even in the low evening light, and you lean into her side, kissing her shoulder.

"What is all of this for?"

"I thought…maybe if ya wanted, we could sleep up here beneath the stars tonight. We don't have to, but I brought lots over to keep ya warm, and I figured maybe it could be a kind'f practice from when I'm all finished and we get to move on in. But I wanted ya to be comfortable, not just sleepin' on the bare wood."

"I'd sleep anywhere with you." You tell her in such an earnest way that you feel perhaps like you've morphed into one of the protagonists of your novels. But maybe that's what love does, you're not quite certain. "And this sounds especially appealing."

"Then I'm real glad I packed the lamp."

You go back down to the beach, and Brittany lights a fire in the sand made of cleared brush. You sit back with your shoeless toes curling into the cool evening sand, and you watch as firelight dances over Brittany. She looks surreal in the flickering red, even more beautiful than she does at any other time, and you catch her smiling at you as she turns the charring crabs over with a stick.

You burn your fingers and your mouth, eating the crabs straight out of the fire, but you don't mind it a bit. You love the sweetness of the meat, you love with sweetness of Brittany's glances, proud that you've finally gotten the hang of eating them.

When you're full, you lay your head in her lap, closing your eyes and listening to the rush of the ocean. Her fingers comb through your hair, and you relax further beneath her touch. Your limbs feel tired, and you know you're still not completely well, but laying here like this, breathing in the salt air, being touched by Brittany, you feel a further healing set in. Just a little while longer and you'll be living right on this spot, just a little while longer, you'll feel fully at peace, tucked away from the rest of the world with with.

"You're falling asleep." She murmurs, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"Am I?" You open your eyes slowly, taking in her face.

"I feel ya goin' limp. I don't mind it at all, but I think maybe ya would be more comfortable if we went upstairs and I made up our pillow bed."

"Mmkay." You smile, shuffling into a sitting position. "That sounds nice."

She guides you back up the two flights of stairs, and you're a bit winded when you reach the top. Taking a breath, you help her lay out the bed of pillows, and spread a comforter over them. When it looks almost as if it's a real bed, you watch her as she undoes her trousers and strips down to simply her undershirt and knickers. She sits down atop the pillows, and watches you as you carefully unbutton your dress and slide off your shoes, leaving you in just a slip and your own knickers.

The lamp glows a low ethereal light, and you sink down beside her, squeezing her hand before you lay back. Above you is the vastness of the starry night, and when she turns out the lamp, you can still see her face in the reflection of the moon. She kneels above you, leaning down gently to kiss your lips. You deepen the kiss, missing such intimacy with her, and you feel her hands brush your stomach through your slip, you feel the silk slide up just a little as she kisses you more passionately.

"I've stopped feeling quite so tired."

"Ya think?"

"I know." You graze your fingers over the back of her neck, holding her close to you.

"Is it all right if I love ya now?" She asks, voice cracking a bit as she does.

"If you'd like to." You shy a bit, certain that she must feel beneath her fingertips how ravaged you've been by weeks of illness.

"I'll be real gentle, I promise not to hurt ya."

"I know, more than anything else, that you never would."

She begins with another kiss to your mouth. Gently, you trap her bottom lip between your teeth, and you close her eyes, relishing the passionate motion that you'd gone so long without. She brushes her thumb over the apples of your cheeks, and she kisses your chin, smiling against sallow skin, before she lifts your slip completely over your head.

It's different in the starlight. It's different after so many weeks without, but she doesn't touch you hungrily. She's careful, she's reverent, and you watch her brush each of your lips with such tenderness, watching your nipples peak as desire fills you. She kisses them too, tongue poking out to lave attention on them. You're not certain it's normal, the rush of desire you feel when she does this to you, but you can't help yourself, you can't help but push the back of her neck to draw her closer.

Though Brittany prefers best to kiss you between your thighs, having developed an affinity for it when you'd first discovered that way to make love to one another, she doesn't do that this morning. Instead, she hovers over you, holding the side of your face with one hand and pleasuring you between your thighs with her other. There's such a level of intimacy to this position she has you in, to the way she watches you for any sign of pain, the way she looks at your face with complete adoration. When you feel your insides coil and snap, she touches you gently, until your body stops clenching, and then she ghosts her fingers up your side, strumming your ribs with them, and brushing them over your lips.

"Ya really are the most beautiful girl in the world." She murmurs, looking so deep into your eyes that you shiver. "I'd love to stare at ya just like this all night, but I'm afraid ya might get cold, 'specially when you're just gettin' better."

"Perhaps. Though I'm certain I couldn't move to dress right now, no matter how hard I tried."

"Let me dress ya then, and wrap ya up in the blankets and my arms."

Though it's a warm night, and you know you shouldn't feel the chills, you do, and you're grateful at the way she dresses you back in your slip so gently, grateful how she tucks the blankets around you. Once she's settled back beside you, you lay your head on her chest, and you look up at the stars again, listening to her heartbeat.

"I think I'd like having no roof above us here."

"What'll we do when it rains then? I don't think ya would much like gettin' all your things soaked."

"That's certainly the truth. But being intimate with you beneath the stars was beautiful."

"The most." She whispers, ghosting kisses along your hairline. "Do ya feel sore at all?"

"My knees are, a bit, but they're alright."

"I'll rub 'em for ya, help ya fall asleep?"

"I would really appreciate that, Brittany. Thank you."

"Thank ya too Santana, for gettin' sweet on me, and fallin' in love with me, and bein' my best girl every day."