This idea popped into my brain at 3am. And when I say popped into my brain I mean LITERALLY popped into my brain.

Beginning to think this thing's got a kind of it's own...

Not particularly as sexy as the last two, so if you're only here for that, wait for the next chapter.

It was a dark, stormy night in Chicago, the following Tuesday of our two favorite surgeons' previous discussion. It was pissing down with rain, everything smelled like sulfur, and lightning lit up the sky, the sound of thunder shaking the foundations of the largest buildings.

The sun wasn't out.

The birds from chapter one probably fucking drowned.

80% of the patients in the hospital were there due to various strains of influenza and were using up every last clean emesis basin, thermometer, and set of sheets County had.

And just GUESS who one of those patients happened to be...

Dr. Robert Romano sat back in his room, hooked up to an IV, flaming mad. Granted, it was one of the best rooms the damned cesspool had to offer, mostly because if he were given anything less SOMEONE would have hell to pay.

Okay. So he'd come down with the flu. Big deal.

So he'd also been spending a little more time than what was healthy at that damn hospital within his first 8 hours of infection. A double shift with plenty of patients to keep him busy in surgery, to be fair. And after all that, honest to god, he was about to pick up and leave as soon as he started feeling more on the crappy side. He really was.

But, as luck would fuck him, he was at the front desk on the surgical floor, signing off on some things, about to grab a stack of unfinished paperwork to take care of as he'd probably be indisposed for at least a few day. And he would've gotten away with it too, if that meddling charge nurse Shirley hadn't noticed his slight swaying, his clinging to the desk to keep his balance, and made a "polite suggestion" to get checked out.

He tried. He really tried. But with a temp a little over 102 and swollen lymph nodes, Romano soon found himself with what was at least an all expense paid overnight stay in Fuck City; population around 450 and swelling like an infected blister.

Tired, miserable, and bored out of his skull, Robert toyed with the cotton sheet covering him with his fingers, wishing to God, Allah, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, WHATEVER that he was home, on his couch, watching old M*A*S*H reruns and sipping tea in his comfortable sweatpants and a T-shirt instead of this crumby looking patient gown that was open in the back, leaving his almost bare ass hanging out whenever he got up for the bathroom.

He shut his eyes, praying that he'd fall asleep within seconds, despite that it was only 8:15, or that he'd open them again and find himself somewhere, ANYWHERE else apart from the cold white room around him.

He was so desperate, he'd even rather be in Mexico right now.

Suddenly, something spooked him out of his reverie. His eyes flew open to observe the offending force, as his temper started to flare back up. It soon turned to slight shock and surprise as his red rimmed, tired eyes focused on the disturbance.

Peter Fucking Benton.

'Oh my god, he's everywhere.'

"Dr. Benton! My, my, do you seem to have a proclivity to sneak up on people. And quite creepily, might I add!" He snarked at the other surgeon, who was taking in his rough appearance. His eyes wandered still down to his lips, then up to his dark eyes, before speaking.

"I've only got that proclivity on special occasions. Like when the mighty Romano has succumbed to something as ridiculous as the flu." He explained, grinning slightly. Robert just glared at him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He murmured lowly, his gaze falling down to his hands. 'Great. Fantastic. I'm sick as a dog, stuck at Cook FUCKING County, and I've got Peter staring me down like he's a diabetic and I'm a hot fudge sundae'

The last week or so, working around each other...was interesting to say the least.

Nothing came close to that morning in the locker room shower. Intense eye contact over bleeding patients in the OR. Maybe some hot and heavy stuff in the elevator. A swift kiss in an empty lounge. Hell, Peter'd even grabbed his ass while he was scrubbing in for a bowel resection as he was walking by for some soap.

But nothing met last week. Hell, Romano wasn't sure if anything they ever did again could meet last week.

The weird bald man's thoughts were rudely interrupted by a warm hand on his forehead. Resisting Peter's meddling, he tried to back away, but Benton wasn't having any of it.

"Stay still, you little shit." He said, though concern covered his face. Romano held the other's wrist with his right hand, gripping it firmly. His eyes met Benton's, annoyed.

"Call me little one more time and so help me you'll be demoted to desk clerk, Dr. Benton." He warned, frowning slightly. The hand moved from his forehead to his sideburn, gently playing with the hair there with his fingertips.

"You feel warm. They been giving you enough ibuprofen?" Peter fret, still stroking the man's hair.

"The hell do you care?" Romano bit back, sick of being fussed over. "Don't you have better things to do than loitering around, questioning my health?"

Peter ignored him, reaching over to snag his chart, skimming through it.

"Pretty high temp." Peter noted, brow furrowed. "When's the last time someone's come to check on you?"

"4 hours ago. There's roughly a billion other patients in this hospital just like me, you know." Robert stated, fixing Peter with a glare.

"You have anything to eat?" He fussed, yet again, putting the chart down to look at him.

"Fuck off, Mom." Robert growled, staring at the worried man grumpily.

Peter reaches into his bag that he carried with him, sifting through paperwork and God knows what else, withdrawing a small bottle, pills rattling noisily within. He tossed it to Romano haphazardly, who just barely caught it before it could have hit his stupid face.

"Take two of these. They'll reduce your fever a bit, keeping your pea sized little brain from cooking." Benton said half joking, but mostly demanding him.

"You're not the boss of me." Romano spat at Peter, tossing the bottle back at him, leaving it to tap his chest, making a loud crack against the floor, pills rattling as it rolled away from the two. Robert just stared at it, a little too proud of his defiance for his own good.

"Now if you're as smart as you like to think you are, you're gonna pick up that bottle, walk right out that door and leave me the hell alone. I don't want your pity or your stupid Tylenol, so you can just get the hell—."

Romano's protests were cut short by Peter's lips colliding with his own, his tongue forcing its way into his mouth. He cradled the back of his bald head as Romano pulled on the fabric of his button-down shirt, his snide comment reduced to nothing more than a whimper against the taller man's lips.

Benton pulled away after a few moments, looking him in the eyes.

"Take. The damn. Pills. You little brat." He said sternly, voice getting so low it even surprised Romano, his hand still holding his head.

Peter moved away from the other man, to retrieve the discarded bottle, twisted it open, poured out a couple of pills, and distributed them into Romano's hand, watching him intently. He didn't hesitate to swallow them both.

He looked up at Peter, defeated. Weariness evident in his soft brown eyes.

Peter set his bag down on the floor by the bed. Turning his attention back to Romano, he planted a kiss on the top of his bald head, right where the soft light from his bedside lamp reflected off it. He then toed off his shoes, leaving them forgotten on the floor.

"Scoot over." He commanded to the man in the bed, earning a scared look from him.

"Someone's bound to come in, Peter. They'll talk till their lips fall off." He said, warningly. The other man unbuttoned his shirt, leaving his undershirt on. He lifted the sheet up to crawl in with Robert.

"Well, like you said, there's roughly a billion other people in this hellhole with the same thing as you. I'm sure whoever's on won't be in any hurry." He wrapped his arm around the shorter man, drawing him towards his chest. He gave up the fight, resting his head on Peter, listening to his slow, steady heartbeat, feeling a hell of a lot more tired all of a sudden.

"This'd be an administrative nightmare for me you know. HR up my ass, not to mention the rumor mill..." Peter hushed him, pushing his hands through the opening in his gown, running his palm across the smooth skin on his back. He sighed, feeling like he could melt into his touch.

"I'll never hear the end of it. It'll go great with my sexual harassment allegations..." Romano continued, his words barely coherent as he was drifting off, his mouth muffled against the man's chest. Peter just gave his head another soft kiss, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades.

"Thank you." He finally whispered, letting sleep get ahold of him.