To Bret's relief, his brother's fever didn't rise much, but Bart constantly woke up coughing all through the night. As a result, neither brother got much sleep. There was nothing that Bret could do but give Bart a glass of water when he wanted it.

At the moment, it was seven in the morning, and Bart was asleep between coughing fits. Bret was up, staring out the window. There was no point in trying to sleep anymore; he knew that Bart would probably be waking again soon and would—hopefully—be hungry.

As if on cue, Bart suddenly started coughing again.

Bret turned around and headed back over to the bed, picking up the half-full glass and bottle of aspirin, waiting until his brother was able to take them.

Bart's throat was even more sore than it had been the night before, and the coughing hurt it even worse. He groaned and wrapped his hand around it, swallowing painfully.

"Here, Bart," said Bret, handing him the glass and pills.

Bart took them, wincing from the pain that swallowing caused. He lowered his hand to the mattress, eyes closed, not having the energy to put the empty glass back on the nightstand.

Bret took it from him, before feeling his forehead. The fever hadn't worsened, to his relief. "How do you feel?"

"Where's your gun?" Bart asked, his voice sounding hoarse and scratchy.

Bret didn't expect that for an answer, and looked around. "Hanging on a chair."

"Is it loaded?" Bart asked.

"Yes," Bret answered.

"Then shoot me," said Bart.

Bret almost laughed, but stopped himself; it really was no laughing matter. "I wish there was something I could do," he said. "Is there anything you need? Anything you want?"

"Something hot," Bart said, wrapping his hand around his throat again.

Bret nodded. He'd already thought of that…but he was going to get his brother tea, not coffee. "Some food too?"

Bart sighed, and it set him off coughing again.

Bret frowned; his brother's cough sounded worse…he could hear the congestion. "I think I should fetch you a doctor."

Bart shook his aching head. "For what?" he asked, eyes still closed. "Why pay him to tell us what we already know?" He opened his eyes slightly, looking at his brother. "I've got aspirin, there's nothing else he can give me."

That was true. Bret nodded, with a sigh. He stood and grabbed his hat. "I'll go order breakfast."

"All right," Bart said, eyes closed again.

Bart headed down the stairs and found early risers already in the dining room. The poker games weren't supposed to start until afternoon, so Bret had plenty of time to decide on whether or not he was going to play.

The desk clerk smiled when he approached. "Good morning, Mr. Maverick," he said. "How's your brother?"

Bret sighed. "Miserable. Does the town doctor keep shop nearby? You know, just in case."

The clerk nodded. "On this street." He frowned. "You don't think he has influenza, does he?"

"No, just a cold," Bret quickly lied. Influenza was exactly what he assumed Bart had, but if he let anyone know that, the whole town would panic and probably throw them out. "What's on the breakfast menu for today?" he asked, changing the subject.

The clerk took out a menu from behind the counter and handed it to him.

Bret looked it over. He doubted that Bart was hungry, and didn't want to get him something that he didn't want to eat… "Besides coffee, I'll need a whole pot of tea, I think," he said. "Eggs and ham will work for me; a double helping, please. As for my brother…" There was porridge listed, and he knew that Bart did like porridge, plus, it would be hot and easy to swallow. If Bart wanted some eggs, Bret could always give him some of his own…

"Porridge?" the clerk guessed.

Bret nodded. "I think that would do him good. Can you sweeten it with honey?"

The clerk nodded. "Certainly."

Bret handed him back the menu. "Thanks. I appreciate it, and Bart will too."

The clerk nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

Bret walked over to the door and looked out. It was a windy day and looked cold for October…or maybe it just seemed that way to him and Bart, after growing up in Texas and traveling all over the hot, dusty west.

He headed back upstairs and thought he heard his brother coughing, but the sound disappeared before he reached the door, and when he went inside, Bart was laying quietly, eyes closed. His hand was atop his chest again, with a handkerchief fisted in it. His face was pale under the fever flush on his cheeks and he didn't look good at all.

Bret frowned and sat on the side of the bed. "Bart," he said, feeling his forehead again. "You look terrible. Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I'm sure," Bart croaked.

Bret shook his head. His brother was being stubborn. "It's pretty obvious what you have, Bart. I don't like it."

"That makes two of us," Bart said. He started coughing again, covering his mouth with the handkerchief.

Bret stood, with a sigh.

Once Bart stopped coughing, he again clutched at his throat, wincing.

"They're bringing up tea and porridge for you," Bret said. "The heat should help."

Bart nodded. "Thanks." He opened his eyes and looked at his brother for a few seconds, before closing them again. "You should get a different room," he said. "So you won't catch this."

Bret shrugged. "I think it's a little late to try avoiding it," he said. "Besides, I never catch anything."

"Lucky you," said Bart, carefully swallowing as he tried to resist coughing again.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door from the same bellboy. Bret gave him a coin and took the cart in, before placing the tray of porridge on his brother's lap.

Bart swallowed a spoonful, relieved at the comforting heat. It felt wonderful.

Bret poured him a cup of tea and placed it on Bart's tray, before sitting to eat his eggs.

They ate in silence, and once finished, Bret put all the dishes on the cart, leaving a fresh cup of tea on the nightstand. "Do the aspirins help?" he asked.

"A little," Bart said.

Bret picked up the bottle to see how strong they were. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt next time to take three instead of two?"

"Maybe," Bart said. He'd certainly done that before, while recovering from being shot.

Bret had done the same himself. He put the bottle back on the nightstand and felt his brother's forehead again.

Bart tried to move his head away. "You don't have to keep doing that."

The fever wasn't any higher, thankfully, but Bret was still uneasy. He kept expecting it to get worse.

"Go play poker," Bart said, eyes closed.

"It's too early," Bret told him. "It's still morning."

"Well go whenever it starts. I'll recover faster once I see a nice pile of green paper," Bart said, with a slight grin. He shifted his position a little, and suddenly shivered.

Bret stood. "Are you cold?" Without waiting for an answer, he went over to the fireplace and threw a log in it, quickly striking a match and setting it aflame. "How's that?" he asked.

The heat hadn't had a chance to reach Bart yet. "When it gets here, I'll let you know."

Bret went over to the closet and opened it, finding two extra blankets inside: one for each bed. He brought them both over to his brother and spread one over him, leaving the other at the foot of the bed.

Bart opened his eyes. "Don't think me unappreciative, Bret," he said. "But why are you so nervous? It's not like I've never been sick before."

"You have influenza, Bart," Bret said. "That can be dangerous."

Bart knew that was true; whole towns had been wiped out by the illness. "I'll be fine," he said.

Bret said nothing, frowning when his brother started coughing again.

"Ohh," Bart moaned when the fit ended, clutching his throat again.

Bret picked up the cup of tea and handed it to him.

Bart drank it, grateful that it was hot. He looked at his brother. "I'll be fine," he repeated.

Bret nodded. "I know," is what he said, but you'd better be, is what he thought.

TBC