Hey all! Another installment here. As a head's up, I should be wrapping up in the next couple weeks (3 chapters need about 1,000 more words each ... wow!). I'm really liking the last couple of installments, so hope you'll stick with me through it all! Your thoughts/encouragement have been much appreciated on this year-long-plus journey. ~Jo

Remember the time you drove all night/Just to meet me in the morning/And I thought it was strange/You said everything changed/You felt as if you'd just woke up

-First Day of My Life, Bright Eyes

January

It starts with a cough, which Don acquires shortly after they all reconvene post-holidays. He's been in Pennsylvania and then back to Manhattan, she's been in California for Christmas and New Year's and her birthday on the third, and they've been … talking. The forced separation, she thinks, actually might have been good, since they were forced to only talk — nothing else — for the week. And it's good talking, though they steer clear of their families, since that would inevitably lead to one of them saying something like, "You would really like my mom…" even though they're absolutely not ready for that.

But once she gets back (he picks her up at the airport, which is sweet and surprising and absolutely unnecessary), she notices that someone (maybe a niece? Or a nephew? She could see him with those) gave him a cold.

"It's nothing," he insists as he mindlessly throws kale, mango, banana, and almond milk into his blender for her favorite breakfast smoothie the next Saturday. "It's just —" hack, hack, "winter. You've never gotten a winter cold?"

"I have, but I treat it before I'm completely incapacitated. And don't cough on my kale, I don't want to get sick."

He rolls his eyes before plunking the top on the blender and flipping the switch. "The fact that you eat this — you know it's breakfast, right? Where you're supposed to eat pancakes, not vegetables."

"It's like an omelette without cheese. And all … blended up," she reasons, then smirks. "You're the one that's kissing me." When he moves in for a kiss, though, she backs off and holds up a hand. "Don't. You're sick."

"Seriously?" he groans.

"I'm serious! I don't want to get sick."

"You're being a little overdramatic." Hackhackwheezehack. He pours her her juice.

"And you're being all stubborn and masculine. And not in the way your shoulders are masculine, because those are awesome and this is not." She takes a sip, and it's pretty good. She should stock up on some chia seeds for his kitchen. "Do you want me to pour some of this for you? This is why I'm not sick."

"You're not sick because you were in California soaking up Vitamin D while I was in friggin Pennsylvania freezing my nuts off," he asserts. He plops a straw down into the glass, takes a drink, makes a face, starts choking, starts hacking again. "See, this made me even sicker," he grouses. "How do you even drink that?"

"What are you talking about?" she smiles, removing his straw and grabbing a clean, non-germy one. "It's delicious."

By Tuesday, the day of the New Hampshire primary, he's congested and wheezy, walking around the newsroom dropping Kleenex like he's in a German fairy tale. He sneezes all over the conference phone during a news call with Washington and hacks on Jerry Dantana, so hard the twitchy guy takes a step back (why is he even up in New York again? The primary? Whatever project he and Mac are cooking up?). Elliot spends all of the live coverage making fun of Don's 'Batman' voice, as Don feebly throws back weak comebacks between hacks and slurps and snorts. Sloan, who can hear them on her feed, raises an unimpressed eyebrow. It's disgusting.

They meet up at the Gristedes after they're finally done with live show (he turns left out of the building, she takes the direct route, they meet by the flowers and carts), and she tosses Sudafed in next to his six pack of Magic Hat. He promptly tosses it back out. "What the hell? Don, you're sick."

"Ib I'b sick, Sudafed won' helb," he says, and honest to god he sounds like an Elmer Fudd parody.

She rolls her eyes and throws it back in. "Let's just take Pascal's side," she reasons. He rolls his eyes back but she wins the argument. He takes two next to her in bed, and she realizes, with a start, that this is the first time she's stayed over and they haven't so much as fooled around. She takes in his miserable, red-nosed, swollen-eyed, appearance and unexpectedly reaches out to shove her fingers into his hair.

"Ow," he mumbles, grabbing her hand and pulling it out of his hair. "You're not still worried about getting sick?"

"I'll survive," she shrugs, lying down. She spoons him from behind, then kisses his awesome, masculine shoulder. He sucks in a wheezy rattle before coughing, and she laughs a little into his spine.

She's usually out the door before he's up, and the next day is no different. She assumes that he'll lug his stubborn ass into the office, Kleenex and OTC drugs and attitude and all, but when she notices Jim leading his staff meeting after her two, she's surprised. "Don called out sick?" she asks dumbly as Jim exits the conference room.

"Yeah?" Jim squints. "You didn't know that?"

"Of course not. Why would I know that?" she protests, as Jim just gives her A Look. She turns, because it's embarrassing, and runs into Mac. Perfect. "Kenzie," she says, "What block is my segment in tonight?"

"I think we can get you into B, if you'd like to go home to Don," Mac says breezily. "Or we could just push the segment today — you were on yesterday and we're still pretty busy with the Arab spring and ramping up to the South Carolina primary."

She wants to say no, because job before boy, but finds herself saying, "Yes. Thank you."

She impulsively leaves shortly after six, taking a pile of work with her (she's normally there till 11, for good reason. She has stuff to do. Give her a break). She stops at Gristedes to buy six kinds of soup, since she doesn't know what he likes, and five more OTC cough medications. When she gets to his building, she realizes she doesn't have keys; since she's worried he's sleeping, she waits until Magda, the Ukrainian busybody on the sixth floor, comes in with two grocery bags. "That boy's given you keys, hasn't he?" she asks suspiciously.

"I … Yes! I just, you know. Forgot. I mean, like duh," she feigns smacking herself on the forehead.

Magda isn't buying it. "I thought they, the ones on the TV, they said you were so smart."

"I'm the dumb kind of smart," she explains, and she's never been so happy for the elevator to reach Don's floor.

Her no-key problem isn't solved when she gets to his door, so she knocks, then bangs, till Don answers the door. He's in boxers and a T-shirt, and a five o'clock shadow has crept across his face at some point during the day. His hair is crinkled oddly from sleeping, and his nose is rubbed red and raw from tissue overuse. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees her. "Sloan," he says. "Why aren't you at work? You're supposed to be on in … less than an hour."

She's suddenly angry. "Mac told me to come take care of you. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I — you knew I was sick! You've been hassling me about it since Saturday."

"Yes, but I had to find out from Jim that you weren't coming in. Not coming in to work is a lot more serious than annoying everyone with your cough." She shoves the grocery bag at him. "I brought you soups." She walks around him into the apartment. "You should have texted me. Why didn't you text me?"

"I — I don't know. I forgot?"

"You forgot? You remembered to text Jim and Mac but forgot to include me? We all have iPhones. It could have been a group chat!" She holds the back of her hand up to his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I — I woke up and felt like a Mack truck had run over my lungs, backed up, and then run over my sinuses. So I thought it might be worth a sick day."

She takes the bag of soups back from him. "Did you take any medications?"

"I took some DayQuil."

"What about an expectorant?"

"An expectowhat?"

"To break up your cough. Did you take anything for that? And your fever. Did you take anything to reduce that? You're warm."

"I — I took some ibuprofin around noon."

"What about fluids? Have you taken any fluids?" she walks into the kitchen, where she knows he has a meager supply of medications. "And what about the sudafed I bought the other day?"

"I took some of that!" he says proudly.

"Great. When?"

"Uh — two? I don't know; really I've just been sleeping all day, Sloan. Everything just kinda hurts."

She runs her hand through his hair, chastened. He really does sound pitiful. "I know. But that's why you really need to take the meds." She taps out two Sudafed PM, a Mucinex, and an Aleve into her palm, then hands them to him with a glass of water.

"I can take all of these at once?" he asks skeptically.

"Yes! Take them and go back and lie down. Go on, turn on ACN. Just don't scream so loudly you lose your voice."

He looks at her skeptically before shoving all the pills into his mouth at once, chugging several gulps of water, and shuffling back out to the living room. "Good boy!" she calls.

"Bite me!" he gravel-snarks back.

She pops her head out of the kitchen two seconds later. "Hey, uh, Don?"

"Yeah?"

"What's your favorite type of soup?"

"Soup?"

"Yes, mister, your favorite type of soup. I have six. Minestrone, Italian wedding, chicken noodle, beef stew, tomato, vegetable. I … didn't know what you liked."

"Uh … tomato."

"You want a grilled cheese with that?"

"You can make grilled cheese?"

"I have skills you can't even imagine."

"Ha. Alright, then, yes."

"Got it."

"What's your favorite type of soup?"

"My favorite type of soup?"

"Yeah. For future reference."

"Miso. With seaweed, potatoes, and mushrooms."

He wrinkles his nose. "That sounds disgusting."

Fifteen minutes later, she's carrying two grilled-Gouda-and-ham sandwiches, a bowl of tomato soup, and a bowl of vegetable soup. He's flat on the couch but makes an effort to sit up.

"Don't," she nags. "You're sick."

"I have to eat, Sloan," he says, sitting up anyways. He takes the bowl from her and takes a few slurps. "You're not a bad nurse, Sabbith."

"Hidden talent," she says. "I am also a surprisingly solid skeet shooter."

"Wanna watch NewsNight? It's starting in a few."

She cocks her head. "Actually, do you want to watch a movie instead?"

"A movie?"

"Yeah," she says, pointing to his DVD shelf. He actually has one, in 2012, which in and of itself is pretty impressive. "You have, like, a million movies, and I haven't seen any of them. Want to do that instead?"

"I know I shouldn't be surprised given that you haven't seen When Harry Met Sally, but — you haven't seen any of them?"

"No," she shrugs. She's not a movie person. She doesn't get why he can't get that.

"Like, you've gone down the shelf to confirm? You have seen none of these."

"Yes," she insists.

"Half of those are journalism movies. You've never seen All the President's Men? Citizen Kane? It Happened One Night? Sleepless in Seattle? You said you've seen that."

"Ok, how is the last a journalism movie?"

"She's a reporter and his son calls into a radio show!"

"I think the bigger question is why you have a copy of it."

"It's a journalism movie. Network? Broadcast News? You work with Will and nobody's ever made you watch Network? I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore? How did you get even a third of the jokes made after his Northwestern speech?"

"I promise you, besides Sleepless in Seattle, I have never seen any of these."

His jaw drops. "Well, we're going to have a few movie nights." He scrambles up, grabs two DVDs, puts them behind his back. "Pick one."

"Pick one?"

"Right or left, Sabbith."

"Alright. Left."

He pulls out Roman Holiday, the other choice, she can see, is His Girl Friday. Another day. "Alright, Princess Ann, we're watching this."

"Is that Gregory Peck?" she asks, stretching to see the cover image.

"Yup. And Audrey Hepburn. Tell me you've at least seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?" She's silent. "Oh my god," he runs both hands through his hair. "I don't know why I'm surprised anymore."

"Come on, you have a headache. Don't hurt your head any more."

"You're lucky this movie is amazing."

"Holding you to that, mister. You're not making me watch Network tonight?"

"Nah. Not tonight. This is better for now, trust me."

She lifts his head into her lap as newsreel footage of Princess Ann No-Country-Named sets in. They watch the endless parties, the sedative-induced meet-cute, the escape from the dance on the boat, Gregory Peck's fights with his editors, the frolicking through Rome on a Vespa, the ice-cream-eating. It's an enchanting movie and, as Princess Ann takes the final questions from Joe and Irving and the rest of the reporters, she finds herself tearing up.

"You liked it?" he asks as she stretches in a post-movie haze.

"Yeah," she says. "But it was sad!"

"Well, yeah, but — it's still an incredible movie."

"I hate sad movies," she explains. "I didn't watch Titanic until this fall."

"Well, that movie is sad because it's bad," Don says, propping his head up on his hand. "This is sad, sure, but at least Joe and Ann got those couple days. They connected. And they'll have those couple days for the rest of their lives."

She settles down next to him, cognizant that he's still recovering. "We'll have to — later on, we should watch the rest of them. Your journalism movies. If you want, I mean."

"I — I would. If you want, I do." He uses the remote to turn to Elliot's show. "I'm really sorry I didn't text you earlier when I decided not to come in."

"Hey. It's fine."

"No, it's not. I thought about it but decided against it, so no, it's not."

"You thought about texting me and then decided against it?" She's trying to fight a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"I didn't want to bug you — I couldn't tell if —"

"If what? I'm missing something." She doesn't like how accusatory her voice sounds.

"If we told each other when we were sick."

She sits back. "Oh," she says.

"I mean, I guess we are? So I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright," she says. "I guess … I guess I didn't know we were either."

"You know, my fear of commitment, your trust issues, we're doing alright here," he says, half-joking.

"I don't have trust issues!" she protests. He raises an eyebrow. "I normally … have trust issues. I … trust you though," she says, considering. It's true. Their friendship — where she witnessed enough warning signs to know that she should have trouble trusting him — has vaccinated her against any minefield. She knows him, the good and the bad, already, and she likes him because of and in spite of everything she knows about him. She knows he won't fuck with her. He's already terrified of whatever this is going south, and she gets that. She is too. She hopes their mutual fear prevents them from fucking it up long enough that they can get comfortable. She wants that, she wants this, but she is honestly not sure they can do it.

"Until I give you a reason to doubt," he says.

"You won't," she shakes her head. He's different with her than he is with other people. "Though I do think we're at the point where we can start being honest, yeah?"

"Honest?"

"That thing you do where you tell the truth?" she says, suddenly concerned.

"No — I mean, you haven't been honest for the past month?"

"No! I mean, if we're pissed, we have to say that we're pissed; if we're sick, we let the other person know; if we don't want to see the movie or go to dinner we say so instead of pretending or making up an excuse."

"I got it."

"I mean, we don't have to," she backtracks, though honestly, they do. They tap-dance around things and they need to stop.

"No. It's good. We gotta talk. That's …. that's what you do."

She evaluates him. "Alright. Let's get you to bed. You think you'll make it in tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'm not trusting Jim to handle the show again."

"You sound better," she says, finding his flannel shirt that she's commandeered. She's out of clothes now; she'll have to swing by her place before going into work. Wait. She has jeans she can rewear and then just raid wardrobe.

"Probably that drug cocktail you gave me," he smiles, then starts to get confused when she starts unzipping her dress. "Wait. You're staying?"

She pauses mid-unzip. "Yes?" she says. "Do you — is that OK?"

"Yeah. I mean, you didn't want to get sick."

"I stayed last night and you were sicker yesterday," she points out.

"Oh, yeah," he shrugs. "I guess so."

"Do you need … water or anything?" she asks, yanking on his shirt.

He shakes his head. "I'm good. You sure … I'll probably cough a lot. And toss and turn. Maybe I should sleep on the couch."

"What the hell has gotten into you? I'm not making you sleep on the couch when it's your bed and you're the one that's sick. Come on Keefer," she grins. "Man up. I don't have cooties."

He slides into bed gingerly, angling so he's facing her, and she flips off the lights. "You really don't have to stay," he says.

"You say that one more time and I am going home," she threatens.

"But I am glad you did," he says. Then, quietly, as if he's scared of what she'll say back, he says, "You and me, this is good, right? This … is happening?"

"I … think it is," she says, nervous now too. Because he does have commitment issues. And she does have trust issues. And together they could very easily destroy each other. There are stakes here, pretty big ones. "That's OK, right?"

"Yeah," he breathes, with a smile. "Yeah, it's OK."