Authors Note - Thank you to all who are reading / have reviewed and to FTVW for the prompt for this one. Just to give you some idea of the method behind the madness, for each of these the prompt word goes into google followed by the word quote, I chose my favourite quote out of the one that comes up and that inspires the story. Halfway through this one I nearly abandoned it because I couldn't see any love in it, but Serena rescued it in the end!

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU **

Love

Love is staying up all night with a sick child - David Frost

The disruption was niggling, but persistent. An endless prod in the side and whimper in my ear. So persistent, so niggling that even though my head was spinning and the thought of opening my eyes made me want to vomit I knew I had to, if only to shut up the cause of the assault to my senses. I forced my eyes open and then winced as both they and my head were immediately battered by the bright lights of my bedroom which apparently I'd forgotten to turn off when I'd arrived home a few hours before.

I dragged myself up to sitting position, made myself focus, looking around for the source of the soft sobbing that was echoing in my ears and drilling at my brain. It didn't take long for me to find it, tugging, as it was, on the satin skirt of the cocktail dress that I seemed to have fallen asleep in.

And sweet Jesus, never have I sobered up so fast.

Her little face was red and swollen, her neck likewise, and she was shivering violently although when I reached out to touch her forehead I realised she was burning up.

I pulled her to me, at which she started to cry harder. She looked up me with the big wide eyes and then croaked out three words that even in my semi drunk state broke my heart.

"I'm sorry mom."

I knew why she was apologising, deep in the recesses of my pounding head, but some how, I had to do it, had to ask. Had to make it that little bit worse for myself.

"What are you sorry for sweetie?"

"I'm sorry I woke you." She could barely speak she was in so much pain, "I'm sorry mom. I know I'm not 'sposed to."

Yeah. That's the kind of mother I am. The kind of mother who puts the fear of god into her 6 year old daughter to an extent where she's scared to wake her when she was sick. The kind of mother who has a 6 year old daughter who knows not to disturb me when I come in drunk after a night out.

With the guilt threatening to consume me, I picked her up in a way I haven't done since she was a child. Well baby. Once she could walk I stopped carrying her because - well - drinking like I did, it was better not to. But right at that moment she needed me, so I carried her to the kitchen, sitting her on the counter and stepping back to look at her, taking in once again the swelling around her face, the shaking, and realising for the first time that her pyjamas were soaked through.

I yanked open the cupboard where we kept medical supplies, and located a thermometer which I popped into her mouth before going into the den to retrieve a medical encyclopaedia which I kept for emergencies like this. I had a pretty good idea what was wrong but I wanted to make sure. I took the book back to the kitchen, not wanting to leave Olivia alone for too long, and then compared the pictures in the book to the way she looked, getting an instantaneous match.

"You've got mumps." I turned my attention back to the book, trying to read the section on treatment, but the words blurred, as bile rose up my throat. Reading and alcohol clearly didn't go together. I passed the book to Olivia, "What do we need to do sweetie?"

She took it from me, scanning the page, looking for words she knew. Eventually she found one.

"Ice." she said, as she took the thermometer from her mouth and handed it to me. I glanced at it, just about managing to read the scale, and feeling my heart sink. 103 Fahrenheit. With a fever like that, no wonder her dress was wet.

I moved over to the freezer, taking out a tray of ice. It wasn't hard to find since there didn't seem to be much else in there. I looked over at my daughter, "Is tomorrow shopping day?"

She was still peering at the book, but nodded in response to my question. "Yeah." she whispered, "Thursday is shopping day."

It sometimes feels like my daughter runs our house, aided and abetted by Rosa, our lady who does. Our lady who does pretty much everything actually. Its not my fault, I mean I work, but it did make me feel bad sometimes.

I wrapped the ice in a tea towel and handed it to Olivia who looked at me questioningly. Although she was sick I couldn't help feeling a little bit irritated by her response. Her teachers tell me she's a bright kid, did it really have to be that complicated? I took it from her and held it first to one side of her face, and then the other. "You see?"

"Thanks mom." She nodded, smiling weakly at me, and I felt guilty for being so irritable, it wasn't her fault that she was sick, anymore than it was that I was in the horrific place between drunkenness and hangover. She pointed at the book, "Its says I should have Tylenol." See, like I said, bright kid. How many 6 year olds do you know who could have read that? I opened the medical supplies cupboard again and found a bottle of Tylenol Junior. Which was empty. Bloody Rosa. I was muttering about her competence under my breath when Olivia started to cry again.

"Mom, its not Rosa's fault." That's my girl. Good hearted, always ready to carry the can for anyone, although usually me. I went to tell her that it didn't matter but it turned out she wasn't finished, "I took it earlier. While you were out. I felt sick."

My eyes narrowed, wondering whether to believe her. After all, Rosa wasn't known for her sloppiness but at the same time I think I'd rather have a sloppy employee than a self medicating 6 year old. I looked at her questioningly, "You took it yourself? Where was Amy?"

"She was watching TV. I didn't want to bother her."

I was tempted to break into a rant about the babysitter, but if I was honest, that was my daughter all over. She wasn't good at asking for help. Still, if that was anyone's fault, it was mine.

I glanced at my watch, "When did you have it?"

Olivia bit her lip, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall. "I think the big hand was on the 9. Or maybe it was the little hand." She started to cry again which I put down to her being sick, because to be honest crying wasn't her style She was too much of a little tough nut for that. "I can't remember."

Realising I wouldn't therefore be able to medicate her - even if I had had medicine she could take - I decided the best bet was a cold bath, the ice packs and bed, so sent her off to the bathroom, promising to catch her up. Once she was gone, I reached into the medicine cupboard again and took out a couple of aspirin for myself, washing them down with a measure of scotch from a bottle on the side.

Again, I know. I am a lousy mother. But its just such a huge responsibility having a sick child, and I panicked. Plus I was feeling so unbelievably sick, so I thought the drink might help quell that so I could get on with looking after my daughter. I knocked the drink back and made my way into the bathroom where my little girl was sat, shivering in a cold bath, and crying like she was never going to stop.

"Don't cry." I said, awkwardly. I know it sounds crazy but I've never been very good at saying the right thing to Olivia. I want to be a good mom, but it doesn't come easy to me; I don't know why. Maybe it's the drink, or how she was conceived, I don't know. The truth of the matter is that I find it hard enough to deal with my own needs, my own emotions, without trying to do the same for her.

Olivia looked at me, tears trickling down her cheeks, "I feel so bad mom."

I smiled at her in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, "You'll be ok. You just need to get some sleep."

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

I froze at her words, struggling to know how to respond. I'd never let Olivia sleep in my bed, not even when she woke with night terrors, for one reason and one reason only. I have night terrors of my own. Have done ever since the rape, the night she was conceived. I'd never wanted her to be exposed the way I toss and turn and scream in my sleep, in part because I knew it would scare her but also because I knew that one day she would find out the truth about where she came from, and I didn't want her to think back and remember the nightmares and realise how much it still effects me.

That said, how could I say no to her when she was sick and scared? Slowly, I nodded, wondering if I could pop a couple sleep meds and wipe out the nightmares that way. But there were no guarantees, and plus if I put myself out, who would take care of Olivia if she got worse?

I sighed, "Ok honey."

My words must have comforted her because her tears dried up and by the time we got back to my bedroom she was calm again. I helped her get settled on one side of the bed, before sitting beside her, and wiping her legs and arms with a facecloth I'd brought from the bathroom. I leant over, kissed her forehead, testing her temperature with my lips, "You're cooling down. I think you're going to be ok. You just get some sleep ok?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

I shook my head, knowing I couldn't, not if I were going to avoid waking her with a nightmare. Feeling like I did, it wasn't an attractive prospect, but I didn't think I had much choice, not if I was going to be anything close to resembling a decent mother to her. "I'm going to sit up with you, make sure you're ok."

And that was precisely what I did.