Author's Note: I actually wrote this in Tennessee. Hopefully it'll be worth the unusually long wait. Cheers. Oh, and just because… I HIT ONE HUNDRED REVIEWS! I'm shocked, but undeniably ecstatic! Thank you all so much! I never expected this story to blow up as much as it did. I'm beyond words. Much love from me.

Chapter Twenty-One: U is for UNFLAPPABLE

Unflappable: marked by extreme calm and composure

Illness is a terrible situation. In every retrospect. It didn't take long for me to decide this. I finally understand why the people in Africa are always featured on infomercials in the United States. You know, those commercials that are almost as sad and depressing as the ones for sheltered animals who have been beaten, abused and neglected? The ones that make you want to donate but you never actually do because buying stamps is such a hassle? Yes. Those ones. Damn Sarah McLachlan and her abandoned puppy ads. I really should learn to change the channel. But come on, be honest- it is really difficult to tear your view away from the television screen when it's showing a tiny kitten learning to walk with only three legs. It's sad. And disgusting. And suddenly my way of distracting myself has gone full circle, and I'm back to kneeling pitifully on the bathroom tile while heaving violently.

Which brings me back to my original point-diseased children in Africa. And how I'm just like them. Diseased. Okay. So I'm exaggerating. But still; I'm ill. And illness? It sucks. A lot.

I've only been sick a few times in my life, and after a brief description of my ailment to my mother, she surmised today's infection is no different than those I'd experienced as a child. A simple but reeling twenty-four hour flu, a bug that had already ravaged my immune system for several hours, but will still stay only long enough to come and go with the sun. One day isn't much, but I was already furious a few hours in. Being sick is a waste of time, life and daylight. I hate cancelling plans, and I was forced to postponing my entire day. I'll be behind on everything. Undoubtedly.

My disgust with the abolished plans was apparently enough to make me physically sick again, and so I threw up. For the umpteenth time.

"Oh!" I hear Isabella cry from the frame of the door. The sound that follows I presume to be a tray clattering onto the counter that surrounds the bathroom sink. "Shh," Isabella comforts me, "It's all right, baby…"

I moan childishly, sniffing obnoxiously as I wipe my hot forehead on my bare arm. The skin there is just as warm and moist, only succeeding in smearing more sweat across my face, now undeniably glistening uncomfortably in the light of the bathroom. So I moan.

Isabella only rubs my back, running her nails across my shoulder blades rhythmically. According to my mother, should I adorn too much clothing, I'll quickly overheat. So for now I'm shirtless. Which I'm grateful for now, seeing that any shirt would be drenched by now and Isabella's fingers are cool.

I lift my head wearily, lazily blinking my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger then, feeling the thudding beat of the heart that resides within me. I'm not surprised; my head is pounding. I shake my head in effort to rid my mind of an image of my head pulsing at my temples, but stop abruptly as soon as I realize how badly it hurts.

Isabella seems to notice, and she stands quickly, fiddling with something on the tray on the countertop. While she's busy, I take the time to fall back onto the floor, holding my aching head in my hands. It's when I pull my hands away that I realize I've been crying. Well, not so much crying. More like tearing. But still, I'm quickly embarrassed, so I wipe my blood-shot eyes and pale cheeks furiously. Not that I have reason to be embarrassed any longer. Considering the events of the morning and the fact that I've been slumping over the toilet all day, there's not really much dignity left to salvage. But Isabella doesn't seem to mind. Which surprises me.

I've never been especially good with people when they're sick. You'd think I would be as patient as I usually am, with excellent bedside manner. But that's never really been the case. I never know exactly what they need or what they're feeling or where it hurts and why, so I get frustrated. I've never been a huge fan of the unknown, and disease doesn't get much more unknown than that. If it wasn't, wouldn't there be a cure for cancer? For diabetes, for simple influenza, for all the diseases? Would they even exist anymore? The earth would be cleared of all illness if us humans knew anything at all. But that's besides the point.

While I think-rather painfully, mind you-Isabella fills a glass of water at the sink before crouching down to my level. By this time I've used my foot to propel myself backwards, so I'm leaning against the edge of the bathtub. Isabella smiles at me with concern. She hands me a paper towel to wipe my mouth, and I feel my face flush.

Isabella is balancing her weight on the balls of her feet, her toes pinched white with the pressure. Her elbows rest on her knees, causing her forearms to be propped up against the angle. She holds the familiar glass of water in her right hand. Her left hand is clenched. I raise my eyebrow with curiosity, but I'm sure it's hard to tell, so I ask aloud.

"What's that?" I ask quietly, my voice low and husky with the rasp of a sore throat. The acidic feel is still fresh and raw. I motion my hand towards hers, an attempt to point failed by my aggravating lack of energy.

Isabella giggles a little bit, and I can feel my own lips curling up slowly as well. She clears her throat and glances at the floor for a moment before she releases her grip. Two small pills appear in her grasp, sinking into the wrinkled skin that occurred with her cupped hand, her palm facing the ceiling.

"Aspirin," I manage. She nods in confirmation, grabbing my hand and transferring the medicine onto my fingers. I swallow them quickly, knowing all too well that anticipation is always the worst part. I figured I'd spare myself the worry. And further suffering. Yeah. That, too.

I sigh and lean further into the bathtub. I allow my head to fall back and I close my eyes. Both my knees had been previously bent, but my slight relaxation allows my left leg to slip and straighten. My right leg remains upright.

I sit quietly for a minute, attempting to regulate my ragged breathing. Inhale, exhale. I repeat the mantra through my mind; slowly, silently. Apparently I don't listen to myself very well because, after a moment, my breath catches and I began to cough. And not the petty kind of cough one performs when they scoff or have a tickle in their throat. Not even the kind of cough that occurs when you choke and start coughing wildly because you're certain this is end of you and there's no way you're kicking the bucket until it's full to its rim with water. No; I mean like coughing. Whooping, hacking, practically-spewing-blood-out-the-mouth coughing. Coughing like someone just tried to strangle you so you're frantically gasping for air. Like when you're drowning or when you get punched in the chest and it feels like someone is attempting to rip out your lungs with their bare hands. The kind of coughing that hurts so badly and leaves you breathless. And in only the worst way.

Isabella's brow ruffles and she hands me another paper towel. When my coughing fit subsides, I move my teeth away from the tissue in hand and crumple it instantly, but not quickly enough. Isabella and I both notice the newly pink tinted hue on the tissue. I turn my face away, but I still hear Isabella's sigh. I can almost feel her longing to help me bleeding through the silence.

I see her stand out of the corner of my eye, reaching back towards the counter. She moves quietly and out of my sight, so I close my eyes tight once more.

They don't stay closed much longer, however; I blink my eyelids pointedly when I'm startled alert. I open my eyes and glance to my left to see Isabella, gently dabbing my burning cheek with a wet washcloth. I offer her a small smile, which she returns honestly.

"Do you need anything?" Isabella asks. Her voice is low and gentle, her breath feeling cool against my face. Her eyes are full of worry.

"No," I respond shortly and just as quietly, knowing this time it's better not to shake my head around just a little too harshly.

Isabella nods sadly. "Okay," she mumbles in acceptance. "Okay."

Isabella rubs the washcloth from my left cheek to my right, moving the moist fabric tauntingly over my forehead. Her hand rest when she is holding my chin against her palm. She makes a light humming sound, leaning her forehead close to my neck. Her breath hitches against my skin.

"You're burning up," she informs me with clear concern, leaving a trail of kisses down my jaw line. She traces my ear with her finger, sliding it gracefully from the mildly rounded tip to the lobe. I groan in desire and my knowing that nothing could possibly happen right now, for obvious reasons.

Isabella seems to notice, giggling gently. She places a fleeting kiss to the hair clinging to my forehead before tucking my bangs behind the ear opposite her.

"You gonna call the fire department?" I coo jokingly, a grin splitting across my face.

Isabella cocks an eyebrow, but laughs through her words as she asks, "Are you delirious, baby?"

I chuckle, "No."

"Good," Isabella states, "Glad to see your sense of humor is still intact."

"Always," I assure her with a tilt of the head.

Isabella throws her head back with a silent laugh and a rumbling chest. She suddenly crawls onto my lap, straddling my thighs between her knees, holding me still by my hips. She leans into my face, placing a lingering kiss to my forehead and nose, understandably avoiding my lips. Either way, I'm content with any variant of my girlfriend's touch.

Isabella hums as she pulls herself further into me, lifting her chin over my shoulder. I bury my face in her dark hair, leaning into her neck. I take a deep breath, and I can feel her body move with mine.

"You're trembling," Isabella informs me suddenly.

"Am I?"

"Mmm-hmm," Isabella confirms, nodding her head against my skin.

"Sorry," I mumble. Isabella pulls away from me, holding herself an arm-length's away with her grip on my shaking shoulders.

"Don't apologize," she giggles. She stands and heads for the door, turning on her heel abruptly. "I'm going to get you some ginger ale. Will you be okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," I reply, "Yeah, I'll be fine."

Isabella nods, shouting, "I'll be right back!" over her shoulder as she enters the attached bedroom.

I make a small noise in the back of my throat and slide further down the side of the bathtub, which unfortunately causes a twitch in my already aching stomach, so I shoot forward and cringe. I try to stay quiet so Isabella won't fret, so I whimper, but do not cry out.

Isabella.

She never ceases to amaze me. I've been endlessly worthless all day, and probably will be all evening as well. And still she's been close to me all afternoon, cuddling against my side and rubbing my back comfortingly. Dedicating her time to revamping my broken schedule and massaging my sore shoulders.

Isabella has been calm all day, maintaining a stoic expression while her usual compassionate composure still remains.

When she returns, she hands me a half-filled glass of ginger ale, just as she had previously states, and advises me to take only small sips at a time when I feel I need them.

She proceeds to lean into my shoulder, trailing her fingers down the center of my chest. She breathes steadily against me, and it doesn't take long for my own tired heartbeat to fall in time with hers.

"Isabella?" I whisper, lifting a hand to stroke the top of my girlfriend's head, weaving long fingers deep into the ebony hair that resides there.

"Hmm?" Isabella hums, gently lifting her face to mine. "What's wrong, hon?"

"Thank you," I say simply. I lean my head back and close my eyes, but not before I see Isabella smile. She snuggles back into me, exhaling contentedly before responding sincerely:

"You're welcome, Phineas."

Author's Note: Can anyone tell I felt sick on the way there? Haha, as you may have guessed, this was originally written in my point of view until a few paragraphs in. Then I decided, "You know what? This can be a new chapter." And it fit in with the prompt, so here it went. I only have five chapters left! A lot of you have been mentioning chapters becoming less fluffy, which I've noticed myself and I dislike it as well. After next chapter, which is rather serious, the last four will be cute and frothy. I'm looking forward to getting those written. Anyway, this chapter was just my way of distracting myself in the car, so it wasn't originally meant for this story. This will be the only chapter written in first person point of view and present tense, so if you didn't particularly like the format, you won't have to worry about seeing it again. I hope Phineas' sense of appreciation for Isabella comes through as well I had hoped. As always, reviews are appreciated, although not expected. I will update inconsistently, but the story will be finished within the month, I'm certain. Look out for new chapters.

Coming Up Next: V is for VENAL