Before you even open your eyes, you know something isn't right. Sometime in the night, Brittany had detangled herself from you, but you feel her arm, draped over your chest. You feel her arm, like a hot iron, burning into your skin. You open your eyes, and, she's liberated herself of the comforter, her other arm, it's flung across her forehead, and she whimpers. She whimpers, even in sleep. Otis, he knows something isn't right, too. It's not often that he crawls in bed with the two of you, but, you see him, at Brittany's feet. Eyes open, alert, watching her. She's sick, she's really sick, if her clammy, flushed skin is any indication, and you feel the lead in the bottom of your stomach. You know it's probably just a late summer flu, but, you don't even like seeing her with a sniffle. Brittany in any kind of pain, it pains you as well.

Carefully, trying not to wake her, you move her arm off your body, then her other one off her head, and you press your lips there in replacement. You check her temperature with them, the way your mother always did for you, and her skin, it scalds them. Her skin, it's scary hot, but her body, it shivers. It shivers at your touch, then it shivers again, at the loss of it. It shivers, and you can't help but shiver in response. Truly, you've never taken care of a sick person before— your mother, she never got sick— and you feel yourself begin to fret a little, not wanting to do her wrong.

"Don't feel good." She murmurs. You're not sure if she's awake, fully, but, you suck in a deep breath, because she doesn't sound good at all. "Need some water."

"Okay, Sweetheart." You say it out loud, though her eyes are closed, so you know she doesn't know you did. But you squeeze her hand, you tell her, without the words, that you're fulfilling her request, and you slip out of bed.

Otis, he doesn't leave her side. He moves into your spot, but he doesn't touch her. He just keeps his face on his paws. He watches her, and, you think, maybe, maybe, he feels just as helpless as you. Content though, that she's being watched over, you go to the kitchen. You debate for a few seconds about adding ice to her water, but, she's shivering, and, hot as she feels, you're not sure it's a good idea. You don't know the answers, you really don't. It's early, really early, and you can't even call your mother to ask.

When you return to the bedroom, Brittany is back under the covers. Otis raises his head up to look at you, and you just shrug your shoulders. Helpless. Setting the glass down on your nightstand, you kneel on the bed, you kneel over Brittany, and you watch her fitful sleep. You'd love to leave her be, but you're pretty sure hydration is vitally important, so you press your lips back to her forehead. You kiss her face, you stroke her bare arms, you try to wake her, gently, because you don't want to alarm her. It's to no avail though. She startles, and when her eyes snap open, they're clothed, murky. Those universe eyes, they don't shine bright.

"Britt, honey, I brought you some water." You tell her, and she shakes her head. She can't focus on your lips. It's obvious, and you immediately feel bad. You try to make it easier for her, making the sign for water, and she nods weakly, trying, and failing, to sit up. I'll help you.

"My head feels heavy." She groans. And Brittany, she never complains. She takes everything in stride. But now, as she slumps against the headboard after you help her sit up, she scares you.

Okay. You stick to signing, scrambling in your head to gather all the words. You're not even sure she's processing them, but, you tell her anyway. I'm calling the doctor. Drink this for me.

You bring the water to her lips, and she barely manages a sip. You know the feeling. When sitting hurts. When swallowing hurts. When simply existing hurts. And you wish, you wish, you could take it away from her. But, the best you can do is help her lie back down. The best you can do is kiss her already parched lips, because you figure, if you're going to catch what she has, it's probably already too late to prevent that. The best thing you can do, is kiss her forehead again, and leave Otis in charge, so you can call the doctor.

While you wait on hold, because it's Sunday, and the walk-in clinic is probably already overloaded, you make coffee. You make it, and you drink it quickly. You don't want to leave her for longer than you need, though, you hope she's gone back to sleep. Finally, finally, you get someone one the phone. You tell them she's sick, you tell them she has a fever, a high one, you think, but you can't find a thermometer. You tell them she's sweaty and disoriented. You're sure you sound shaky and panicked. But, you kind of are, and making the effort to hide it seems unnecessary. You know it's just regular sick, but, it's your first time handling it, and, it makes you ache inside that you're powerless to make her better.

The receptionist, she squeezes you in for an appointment at noon, and you thank her, about a dozen times. You want to let Brittany sleep a little longer, you have a few hours, and though Otis is extremely reluctant to leave her side, you know he needs to go outside, and you coax him to come with you. Again, you kiss her forehead, you brush her hair off her face, and you tuck the blanket around her when she shivers. You leave her, though you hate to, but, with Otis' sense of urgency to get back, coupled with yours, you're sure you won't be long. It's strange, you think, this is the first time you and Otis have been alone together. Sure, he'll curl up with you on the couch sometimes, while Brittany paints, but he's typically glued to her side, and, now he's a little lost, without her, as you walk him around the block.

"It's alright, buddy, she's sleeping." You tell him. You know he understands. He's the smartest dog you've ever seen, truly, and not just because of his training. He's intuitive, and, the way he cares for Brittany, it's unmatched. "She'll be alright without us for a few minutes, and when we get back, we're going to get her to the doctor."

He nuzzles your hand, in response, you think. When he's finished, and you get back upstairs, ignoring Mr. Shapiro's complaints about something you're sure you actually didn't do, Otis goes right to check on her. He cares more for that than his food, and even after you get his bowl ready, it takes a lot of encouragement from you to get him into the kitchen. Brittany, she's still sleeping, and when you peel back the blanket to wake her up, you find that she's stripped off her pajamas in your absence, and she lies curled in a ball on her side, covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Oh, Britt." You talk to yourself, you sigh, so full of worry, and you wrap your arms around her. You've got to get her up, but, the idea of disturbing her, when it seems she's sleeping soundly, it makes your insides twist. "Brittany. Honey. Wake up for me." You murmur the words into her temple. Making vibrations you know she'll feel. And she stirs. She stirs, and she opens those murky eyes again. She parts her cracked lips, and she releases another moan.

"I'm gonna throw up."

You try, you try to help her get to the bathroom, but, her knees, they buckle as she attempts to walk, and you're too small to carry her all the way. Instead, she vomits on your bedroom floor, and, when she does, she immediately bursts into tears and hiccuping apologies. Really, really, you never thought anything could break your heart, not the way this does, but the way she weeps, the way she can't hold her body weight up. You're destroyed. Sinking down to the floor, you pull her into your arms, and when she buries her face in your chest, hot tears soaking through your shirt, tears of pain and embarrassment, you think, you stroke her hair. You stroke it, and you murmur soft words of love. Because although you know she can't hear them, and maybe they're just for you, you don't know what else to do for her.

"Britt." You tilt her chin up to you. Because she's hot, she's so hot, and, you may have texted your mother when you were out with Otis, you may have asked her for advice. She's done this, lots of times, when you were sick as a kid, when you were scared and achy, and you clung to her. Get her in the tub, she'd told you, a cool bath, and then a little rubbing alcohol, it'll bring the fever down. A bath though. A bath for Brittany, it wasn't going to be easy, even in her fragile state to convince her of that. Need to talk to you. You sign the words, and you speak them, too. We've gotta get your fever down.

Doctor. She signs back to you, and you nod, confirming.

Soon. Mom says a bath will help.

She shakes her head. She shakes it vehemently. And you know, you know she hates any depth of water, you know the idea of submerging herself, it's horrifying. You know, and you get it, but, she's almost delirious from how high her fever is, and you're scared of what will happen if you don't help her bring it down.

No. No bath. Shower.

"Britt. You need—" You switch back again, when she keeps shaking her head. You're really, really glad at how fluent you're becoming. Because this conversation, it's important, it's really important, and you need to make sure she understands. You need her on board, because otherwise, you'll terrify her. You need to get cool.

"But the water." She groans, and you hold her. You hold her tight. You try to soothe away those old fears. Fears you know you never can. Because you, you've never felt what she has, that feeling of being surrounded by it, of being unable to make your way out. You can't soothe her fears, but, you can promise to keep her safe, you can hold her, and— You can get in the tub with her, the idea comes to you. You can get in with her, so she's not alone,

Both of us. You point between your bodies. I'll hold you.

"Promise?"

"Promise." You say it out loud. You see a flicker of recognition on her pallid face. "I promise you, I won't let you go."

You wait. You wait for her to nod her consent. Because you'd never, ever force it on her, no matter how sick she is, no matter how high her fever. It takes some time. Some more hair stroking, kisses on droopy eyelids and the crown of her head. But her nod comes. You know she feels that bone deep ache of a fever, and she wants it out. At least a little bit. You help her back to her feet, and Otis, he follows you to the bathroom. He waits with Brittany, once you have her wrapped in a robe, seated on the toilet, and you have the tub running. He waits with her, his head on her naked thigh, while you quickly clean up the bedroom floor, while you get a fresh glass of water, and clean, fluffy towels for after. He waits with her, while you go about getting everything ready so you can take care of the girl you love. The girl whose eyes you want to bring the universe back into.

When you come back to her, her head is resting against the wall, and her hand sits atop Otis' head. You smile at her, just, because you love her so immensely, and you want her to know that, especially now. Weakly, she gives you one back, and you take her hands, just for a minute to hold. The tub is ready, and she's nervous, you know, but, once you slide your own clothes off, you help her back out of the robe, and you press your skin to hers. She shivers, when she comes in contact with you, she shivers, as you burn, and you kiss her head again, trying, trying to soothe her aches. Otis lies down on the tile floor, and you're glad he's remaining close by, you're glad Brittany has the support of both of you, as you turn off the taps, and you step into the cool water first.

It takes Brittany a minute, once you help her step over the edge of the tub, to get her bearings. She's disoriented, she's really disoriented, and you hate it. You hate it so much, because you think it must feel even more intense for her, for her amplified senses to be out of whack. You stand there. You hold her from behind, and slowly, slowly, you sink down into the water with her. Her body, it stiffens, as you help her submerge, but you don't let go. You don't let her think, even for a second, you won't help her keep her head above the water.

This, this is one of those few and far between times, where you wish she could hear you. This, as you hold your sick, scared girlfriend in the bathtub, is one of the times you wish you could speak to her with words. Because she's out of it, she's really out of it, and holding her from behind, it's impossible to communicate verbally. But, then you think, you think of how much of your interaction with Brittany occurs without words. You think of all the times, when touches and caresses have done the job for you, and you know, most of the time, they're so much more powerful than the words any person could ever speak. So you use those tools you have, your special way to speak to Brittany. You settle her head on your chest, so her body is beneath the water, but her chin, it never hits the surface. You'll never let it, you'd promised that. And with the hand that's not wrapped around her midsection, you draw your hearts, you draw your love words. With your lips, you kiss her hairline. With your lungs, you breathe against her skin, and you let her feel the rise and fall of your chest from behind her. You're letting her feel your reassurances, you're letting her know you're there, and as the water leeches the fever from her skin, you feel her muscles loosen, you feel her body relax, right there in your arms. You don't need words for that. You only need presence.

For a long time, you lie with her like that. And you're sure, as she begins to drift in and out of wakefulness, that this is the deepest form of trust. She knows you, she knows that you'll take care of her, you and Otis, and the swell of love you feel, it's unsurpassed. You've never been a caretaker. You've been scrappy and quick, you've been ambitious and generous, you've given back, and you've cared about people, immensely. But, caring for someone, it's entirely different. Caring for someone involves your body, your mind, your very soul. And this girl, this gorgeous, gorgeous girl, who lies, limp against your chest, her hair braided back, so it stays off her face, she changes you, she changes you every day. Because in the way she cares for you, it makes you want to do the same in return, and it makes you love her, harder, deeper, to the ends of the Earth.

"I love you Britt." You whisper, though she can't hear you. You whisper it for you, mostly, but she knows. She knows with the love hearts on her skin, she knows with the way you kiss her head, she knows with your arms tight around her.

You help her out of the tub, and her skin, it's cooled a lot. It's warm, far warmer than normal still, but, it doesn't burn quite the way it did. She let's you wrap her up in a towel, and she puts her arms around your neck. She tucks her face into your neck, and you hold her there, just for a moment. She needs some water in her, some Tylenol, too, and she needs to get dressed, so the doctor can see her. But, if this is what she wants to help her feel better, too, you're more than happy to oblige. You're more than happy to hold her tight.

She throws up again, before you manage to coax her into a few sips of water, and two pills. You help her get dressed, and you dress yourself, before you leave her with Otis, this time, so you can pull the car up in front of the building. It's August, and it's eighty-seven degrees, but she wears a sweatshirt and sweatpants, the chills, back in full force. Otis lies at her feet, in the front seat, and she pushes her seat back to give him space, but you see it, her relief that both of you are close by. As you expected, once the doctor sees her, he confirms the flu, and, though he writes a prescription, he tells both of you, the best thing is rest, fluids, and more cool baths, to keep her high fever down.

For two more days, she stays as sick as she was. For two more days, you coax broth and Gatorade down her throat. For two more days, you wrap her up in blankets when she's cold, and you turn up the air conditioner when she's hot. For two more days, you take baths with her, and you hold her tight, in the tub. And you worry. You and Otis both. You worry when you need to go to the drug store. You worry when you take Otis for his walks, quicker, each time, at his insistence. But, by late Tuesday afternoon, her fever finally breaks, and when you peek in on her in the bedroom, she finally looks like she's getting some sort of restful sleep. Seeing her like that, peaceful, even Otis feels comfortable leaving her, and he comes and lies down with you on the couch. He lets you scratch behind his ears, he nuzzles your stomach, and the two of you, you take a much needed rest, together.

It's the feeling of fingers in your hair that you wake up to, familiar fingers. You open your eyes and, there she is. There's Brittany, skin still a little pale, wrapped in her Phillies sweatshirt, the one that you've basically taken ownership of, at least in private, and her eyes, her eyes. Her universe eyes. You smile, a sleepy smile, but, a happy one. Because the clouds are gone, they're clear again, and, the way she looks at you, you don't think there will ever be a time in your life when you've had enough of that. The way she looks at you, it truly makes you see forever.

"Hi." She smiles at you. The first true one you've seen in days. Her voice is still sick raspy, and a little weak, but, she's smiling.

"Hey. You're out of bed. How are you feeling?"

"Still tired, but, not like a whole bunch of those cartoon anvils are sitting on top of my body. I— I don't even think I really remember the last— what day is it, even?"

"Tuesday." You tell her, and you push yourself to sit up, trying not to disturb Otis.

"Wow. I don't even remember Monday at all."

"Probably better, it wasn't a good day for you, Sweetheart."

"Santana." Those universe eyes, they sparkle. They sparkle, even though they're still so tired, and she brings a hand up to cup your cheek. "Have I ever told you that I love it when you call me that? That I love being your sweetheart?"

"Only once or twice." You wink. "But, even if you hadn't, your eyes always give you away. You've got no secrets from me."

"That's okay." Brittany, she blushes, and you welcome the color on her cheeks. "I have nothing I want to hide, not from you."

"Good." You kiss the tip of her nose, and, you lean back again. "Because you know all my deep dark secrets, too."

"They're not very dark." Her laughter, it's music. Her laughter, you forgot how much you'd missed it in just a few days. "But I am glad you share them with me. And thank you, for taking care of me when I was sick like that. I've always gotten really scary high fevers, ever since I was a kid, but usually it's just me and Otis, until I end up texting my mom because I can't get up to make it to the bathroom. I'm— I'm glad I didn't have to."

"We take care of each other." You promise it to her. You think of her mother, and, you never want Brittany to have to worry about feeling like a burden. Never again. Because this, this relationship you have with her, you're partners, first and foremost. And her, being sick, her, letting you help her, it's another type of step in your relationship. "And Otis, too."

"Well, I did appreciate Otis' cuddling." She strokes his back. He was awake before you, probably from the moment she entered the room, and his eyes are on her. They always are. You two have that in common, you think, though for two very different reasons. "But he couldn't make me that awesome soup."

"Oh, you liked my chicken and stars? Send your compliments to Campbell's."

"Campbell's didn't heat it for me and get into bed with me and hold the bowl."

"That's true." You giggle, and you catch her, the way she watches you, like she's memorizing you. "I'd prefer if they refrained from that."

"I'm pretty sure you have nothing to worry about." She kisses you, slow, deep, the kind of kiss you haven't had for days, and then she sinks into you, her whole body still heavy and tired. "I love you a lot, Santana Lopez. I'm really glad I've got you."

"I'm glad I've got you, too, Britt."