He awoke to a gasping sound from his bedmate, and peeled his eyes open through the darkness to see Arthur hunched over and choking. Deep, hearty coughs rose up and out of his lungs, covers sliding down to his lap as he wheezed and rasped for breath.

"Arthur? What's wrong?" Francis murmured, fighting off the haziness of sleep as he clapped a hand onto the man's back and tried to shush him. He fumbled around for a bottle of water on the nightstand and found it after knocking something to the ground. Then, he set it in Arthur's hands and continued rubbing and patting his back. "Have some water, mon amour."

When the fit was over, Arthur drank greedily from the bottle and cleared his throat. He swayed for a moment, woozy until Francis got him to lie down again.

"Better?"

Arthur nodded and snuggled into his pillow to make himself comfortable. "Thanks. Go back to sleep."

"Not so fast," Francis chided before situating a hand onto the man's forehead. He might've been a tad on the warm side, but it was hard to tell. "This smoking habit of yours is going to kill you."

"Rubbish," Arthur mumbled in response, and it was apparent from his features that he was under the weather. His complexion was a shade paler, his voice was hoarse, and he'd neglected to shave the day before. "My mother has smoked for fifty years and Death has not taken her captive yet."

"You sound ridiculous."

Arthur just rested his head on the cool side of his pillow and said, "No, I don't."

"And you're becoming surly. Now I'm certain you're ill," Francis concluded before climbing out of bed. This was going to be a mental game of strategy. Arthur never allowed himself to be fretted over, not even when he had his wisdom teeth removed years back and was high as a kite after the procedure. He'd still wanted to go about his routine and gave up only when he'd burned himself on the kettle, earning himself a blistered finger and a maimed ego.

"I'm not ill, snail-eater."

"I'll believe you when you show me a normal temperature reading."

Francis wrestled a thermometer into Arthur's mouth and held it in place. "Don't be a child."

"'M not a child," Arthur groused, incoherent and half-asleep.

"Then let me take care of you for once."

Francis turned on a nearby lamp and held the thermometer under the light. "100.2. That's the start of a fever, English oaf."

"I feel fine."

"I'm sure you do," Francis muttered before pulling the covers over Arthur to tuck him in. Maybe the man would get tired of fighting him. "I suppose that cough of yours was nothing as well?"

"That's right."

Francis made a trip to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned with a bottle of purple cough syrup. "I want you to call and make yourself an appointment to the doctor tomorrow. He needs to check those charred lungs of yours. You're spending the weekend in bed."

Arthur groaned and mumbled something about wanting to do nothing of the sort, but then Francis was upon him again, wheedling the pungent syrup into him.

"Come now, Arthur. Down the hatch," Francis teased, propping him up. "I'll let you sleep after you take your medicine. If the twins can drink this stuff with a stiff upper lip, you can too."

And Arthur must have been at the end of his energy reserves because he mustered up one last groan of discontent before he allowed Francis to pour the muck down his gullet.

"Mmm… That's much better," Francis praised before rinsing out the medicine cup and returning to bed. He pulled Arthur close and wedged an additional pillow under his head to keep him elevated and help with his breathing. "No cigarettes until you've recovered, okay? I mean it. Smoking will only make the illness worse."

Arthur croaked out a noncommittal sound and fell asleep, wracked with chills despite the thick bedding.

Francis fetched another blanket from the closet and laid it over his grumpy companion. "You fool. See if I keep worrying over you."

His response was a moan of complaint as Arthur tossed and turned, entangling himself in the sheets. He must've heard some portion of what Francis had said because he peeked his eyes open and whispered, "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit."

"Not Shakespeare again. I've had enough of him. Sleep. Mon dieu, sleep and stop being such a pain in my neck."

Arthur rallied enough strength to snort and chortle.

He wasn't entirely stunned to see that the opposite side of the bed was empty the next morning, disheveled and abandoned. After working out the kinks in his neck, Francis rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and intended to make the pilgrimage downstairs, only to catch his trio of miscreants in the boys' room. They were gathered around and getting dressed.

"Why is everyone up so bright and early?" Francis greeted them, squinting through the harsh sunlight streaming through the window. He snapped his attention to Arthur, suddenly remembering their ordeal the night before. "And you. We're not starting this again."

Alfred tugged a hat onto his head and tried to put on his boots by himself. "Papa! Dad's taking us to the park to go sledding!"

Francis sent a scowl in Arthur's direction and helped the child wiggle his boot onto his injured leg. "No, he isn't. Your father is ill, and he's going to get in the car and take himself to the clinic today."

"Aww! Why does someone always get sick after the best snowfalls? This is the second time! The universe hates me!"

"I'm sorry, Alfred. Besides, I think it's a little too soon for you to go sledding. Let your knee rest for another week or so, and then we'll go. Okay? You can enjoy the snow in the yard," Francis consoled as he gave him his crutches. "Take Mathieu with you… Don't give me that look. I'll check on you both later."

When the boys were out of the room, Francis swiveled on his heel and looked at Arthur in disbelief. He stepped forward and felt the man's forehead again, even though Arthur tried to swat his prying hands away. "You're terrible."

"Francis, there's nothing wrong with me," Arthur insisted, though he'd nearly lost his voice from all of the coughing he'd been doing. He nursed a lozenge in his mouth and made an attempt at fleeing, but Francis obstructed his path. "It's probably nothing more than a cold."

"Even so, you should be taking it slow today."

"Hmph."

Francis had another approach up his sleeve. He snuck his hands onto Arthur's shoulders and massaged them, kneading away the starched knots nestled under sore skin. All he needed to do was get him to drop his guard. "Think about it… I could keep the boys out of your hair for the day, and you could take a hot bath—catch up on some reading. Then, when you come back from the doctor, I'll make you some chamomile tea with honey, and you'll take an afternoon nap. Some homemade soup wouldn't do any harm either. And then, maybe, if you behave, I'll join you for a nap of our own and we can just relax… unwind…"

A low rumble of pleasure escaped Arthur before he could stop it. "I have to take Alfred to physical therapy since we missed the last session."

"I'll take him. It's not a problem."

"The bus stop is far from there. Don't make him walk."

"Shh, now. We'll figure something out. A walk will be good for him," Francis lulled before tapping Arthur's nose fondly and leading him down the hall. "Shall I get the bath started, then? I'll make it for two… Oww! I was only joking!"

After a thirty-minute soak and much persuasion on Francis's part, the man had begrudgingly agreed to get checked out at the clinic, none too happy at the arrangement. He brooded and moped for a while until he got into the car and couldn't turn back.

And so, with that settled, Francis took to making sure the twins were being civil to one another. Though they didn't seem to be on "best-friend" terms yet, they did sit in the snow together and talk while lodging snowballs at each other. A few more days, and Francis was sure their relationship would be rekindled.

Boys would be boys.

Around the time he was finishing the soup he planned to serve for dinner later, Arthur lumbered clumsily into the house, flushed and eyes at half-mast. He sat in the kitchen and laid his head in his arms, suffering through another cough.

Francis combed a hand against his hair and felt his forehead. Still fevered. "What did the doctor say?"

"Got bronchitis…" he said, voice muffled. "Caused by some kind of virus. He gave me a prescription for a more potent cough syrup."

"Did he say anything else?"

Arthur's glazed eyes rose from the table, and he flinched at the pain in his head. "Says it could become chronic if I keep smoking… He scheduled me for a lung CT next week, just to be sure everything's normal."

"I told you this would happen." Francis unraveled his husband's scarf and frowned when he smelled the odor on the fabric. "You were smoking? You were told you have bronchitis, and you're still smoking? Have you lost your mind?"

"I can't just stop."

"Give me your cigarettes."

"Francis, I'm not—"

"Arthur. The cigarettes, if you don't mind."

Arthur sat up and guarded his pockets, trying not to sound petulant but failing. "I do mind."

"Fine then! Do as you please, but don't expect me to be weeping at your grave!" Francis turned off the burner on the stove and swept out of the kitchen, shaking with rage. Arthur always knew how to annoy him and get his way. Just yesterday he'd been preaching about healthy habits, and now he was poisoning himself like the hypocrite he was. For a well-educated teacher, he was a damned idiot.

Alfred and Matthew had wandered inside to see what all of the shouting was about when Arthur broke into another bout of unreserved coughing, sending a tremor through the entire house. Within seconds, Matthew ran out of the kitchen to find him.

"Papa, help! Dad won't stop coughing!"

Francis was sorely tempted to say, "Serves him right," but held his tongue. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. As infuriating as Arthur could be, he'd vowed to be with him in sickness and in health, unfortunately.

He trudged back to the stubborn mule and handed him more water, grimacing at the frantic wheezes Arthur was producing. He spit up some sputum into a tissue and groaned, ribs and lungs aching.

"Okay, boys. Give him some room. He doesn't need you both crowding around."

Alfred placed a hand on Arthur's leg and said, "Are you feeling better, Dad?"

His father nodded, but they all knew it was nothing more than a comforting lie. "I'm all right, poppet. I think… I think I just need to lie down for a bit."

Francis pulled out Arthur's chair and led him to the stairs. "Bed rest and fluids, that's what the doctor probably told you, hmm?"

"Something like that."

"Ah-ha, and how much sleep have you gotten today?"

"Five hours, I think. I woke up a few times during the night."

"And how much water did you drink?"

"Just what you gave me," Arthur admitted, letting Francis take off his coat and pilot him into the bedroom.

"Boys, if you see your father out of bed at any point during the day, you have my permission to scold him," Francis called to the children at the base of the stairs. They were still lagging behind their parents, entertained by the scuffle. They couldn't wait to put their new privilege to the test, and they were sure Arthur would flout the rules at some point. Time to stay alert and wait for the moment to strike.

The two adults made it to the bedroom without incident, and Francis looked on in astonishment as Arthur sat himself on their bed and removed the pack of cigarettes from his trousers.

"Here," he said, tossing the carton into Francis's hands. "I can't be trusted with them anyway."

Francis turned the Marlboros over in examination and stowed them into his own pocket. He'd come up with a hiding spot for them later. "I'll need the lighter as well."

Arthur dug through his pockets once more and relinquished the sterling silver Zippo, already feeling the craving to smoke. A switch flipped in his brain, and he almost clung to the lighter for dear life, as though Francis were asking to take a kidney from him.

"Thank-you," Francis murmured, wrenching the lighter from between his fingers. "You won't be needing this anymore. Sleep tight."

Unbelievable. Un-bloody-believable.

He'd been asleep for over two hours, and could feel the shame seeping into his bones. How could he let himself waste a perfectly fine day by doing absolutely nothing and loafing around in bed? Francis had to have slipped something into that cough syrup.

A yawn, a stretch, and then he was up and about. He habitually reached for where his lighter normally awaited on the dresser, making a sound like a dying animal when he recalled the great atrocity that had been committed that day; he'd given everything to Francis.

He coughed at the tickle in his lungs and stepped out of the room, leaving the buzz of the humidifier behind him. Seconds later, a new sound echoed against his ears, and it wasn't nearly as pleasant.

The screech of a plastic whistle left his head pulsating with pain, and he desperately tried to find the doorknob behind him to head back to bed. Another hour of loafing didn't seem too bad anymore.

The infernal noise was caused by no one other than Alfred himself. The twins were stationed in little chairs in the hall, playing cards and drinking juice.

"What're you doing, cadet?" Alfred said in a booming voice, quite proud of himself for pulling off an impressive tone. He boasted a toothy grin and blew into the whistle hanging around his neck once more for good measure. "Sergeant told us nobody gets in or outta that room 'cept him!"

"Alfred, what is happening here?"

"I don't havta answer your questions, cadet! We've got orders to be here. Hey, Mattie, you got a queen?"

His brother shook his head and took a swig of his juice. "Nope. Go fish."

"Darn."

Arthur smothered a cough in his fist and held the back of his hand against his forehead. Delirium was the only explanation for what he was seeing, surely.

"Did you go to physical therapy?"

Alfred let out a little whine and stomped the foot of his healthy leg. "Yeah, Dad. Papa took me. I can't talk to you right now! I've got a job to do."

"Did the swelling go down? You should put ice—"

"Daaaaaad. I'm not a little kid."

"I worry."

Alfred brought the whistle to his mouth and pummeled another gust of air into it, making Arthur hiss. "Cadet, I'm gonna call the Sergeant."

"That's enough of that," Arthur snarled, grabbing at the whistle.

"Stop it! That's an order, cadet! You can't—PAPA! He's not listening, Papa!"

Francis was at the head of the stairs a moment later and settled the quarrel, a book in his hands. "I'll take it from here, Officer Alfred. Go back to bed, Arthur."

"I'm going to the bathroom. I presume this powwow out here is your doing?"

"I needed a way to make sure you weren't on your feet for too long, and the boys were happy to lend a hand. At first, I'd only asked Mathieu to assist me, but Alfred took initiative and joined the party. He's a very dedicated member of the force, as you can see," Francis joked, elated with how well he had organized everything. "I have something for you when you're ready to talk."

Arthur hoped it was nicotine because he would soon be salivating for a cigarette. He disappeared beyond the bathroom door and left the police squad, smiling to himself with the absurdity of it all. How could he not smile? His family was wonderful and silly and—

As he was washing his face and scowling at the stubbly beard he'd begun to sport, Alfred put his whistle to use once more and said, "You're taking too long in there, cadet!"

"Alfred, let him be," he heard Francis tell the boy.

Even though he hated to acknowledge it, Arthur was ready to go back to resting because the scratchiness in his lungs wasn't getting any better and each breath he took seemed to exacerbate it.

He left the bathroom and sighed upon reaching Alfred, one hand on his hip. "I'm confiscating the whistle. Hand it over."

Alfred fought the hands that tried to take away the annoying piece of plastic and doubled over with a squeal as Arthur tickled him.

"I said to give it to me!"

"Never, cadet!"

They were both laughing as Alfred tried to shield the sensitive skin of his sides, neither willing to give up the battle.

"Mattie, call in reinforcements!"

The boy leaned away from Arthur's touches and suddenly stopped his giggles when his chair toppled. It sent him crashing to the ground, knee hitting the hardwood floor. Before he knew it, there were tears in his eyes—it hurt so bad he couldn't see straight. The fun twisted into horror.

"Alfred! Are you all right? I'm so sorry." Arthur rolled him onto his side and cradled his head, trying to ease his writhing. "I should've known to be careful. It's my fault. Come, let's get you to bed. We could both use a lie down."

With Francis's help, Arthur brought the boy into their bedroom and laid him on the mess of covers. When the two were comfortable, Francis left them alone, knowing that matters concerning Alfred were Arthur's expertise, just as matters concerning Matthew were his.

"We'll rest together, love," Arthur cooed, gently rubbing the smarting knee. "It should be all better soon. Look at us, we're both hazards to ourselves."

"I j-just wanted you to make you feel better!" Alfred cried, cuddling into his father's knit sweater. "Cause it's not the same when Papa takes me to physical therapy, and I like it when you help me build stuff in the snow and when you make me hot chocolate. Papa didn't want to let me help, but I told him he had to 'cause you always take care of me, and I wanted to do something good for you too."

Arthur stroked the injured leg and nuzzled a kiss into Alfred's hair. "Thank you for caring about my wellbeing so much."

He was touched, really. Ever since Alfred had been injured, he had a sinking feeling that the boy was upset with him, as though he'd been the cause of his ailment. It was a relief to hear that Alfred wasn't angry, and the soft spot he had for the child blossomed.

"I know I can be a rubbish cadet sometimes, but you know how to keep everyone in line, officer."

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

"Fairly competent," Arthur agreed with a grin, fiddling with the whistle they'd been fighting over earlier.

This led to the continuation of the tickle war, and Alfred yowled in submission, flopping onto his stomach with a shriek. "Stop it! Ahahaha!"

"Break it up!" Francis decreed as he crossed the threshold with a bowl of soup at hand. "Officer Alfred, if you're feeling better, there's soup in the pot at the kitchen counter. Have Mathieu ladle some for you so you don't spill it."

Alfred picked up his crutches from the bedside and limped over to the door, saluting Francis on his way out. "Hah! I'm not gonna spill anything. Bye, Dad! See ya later!"

It was uncanny how alike they could be. Alfred must've picked up his adamant disposition from his father.

Arthur waved goodbye before settling into bed so Francis could set the bowl of steaming soup in his lap.

"Be careful, it's very hot. Finish every drop, and I'll give you nicotine gum as a reward."

"Can I have it now?"

"No."

"Sadistic frog."

Francis stuck his tongue out at him and scrunched his nose. "You are in an awful mood today. Take better care of yourself, and I won't have to be so sadistic. I want you to go back to sleep after you finish eating."

"Well, we can't always have what we want, can we?"

The man underestimated him; Francis could be just as coy. "It's a pity you're so sick… I was thinking we could do something fun today, since you're all cooped up, but it looks like you're in no condition for it, especially when you consider all of the complaining you've been doing."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and ate the soup at a rushed pace, anxious and sweating—and, god, he wanted that gum. "Fun, you say?"

"Oh, yes," Francis chimed, slithering a hand down his husband's abdomen with a cheeky smile. He traced patterns over the famished belly and awarded him the promised gum when most of the soup was gone. Then, he stopped his caressing, swiped the bowl out of Arthur's lap, and sauntered over to the door. "What a shame… You'll have to miss out."

He quietly shut the bedroom door behind him and stifled a laugh when he heard his grouchy Englishman swear like a sailor and cough.

Days after the coughing subsided, Arthur bought himself a brand-new lighter, and a fresh fill of cigarettes. Francis wouldn't have known, except for the fact that the smell was unmistakable, and he'd witnessed Arthur smoking in the farmost corner of the yard, swirls and plumes of smoke waltzing out of his mouth.

"This has to stop, Arthur. Look at yourself."

He startled him, and the slender hand holding his cigarette fell from his lips. "I'll start cutting down."

"As if I trust an addict to keep his word. Did you hear the results from the CT scan?"

A sniff and a peevish grumble provided him with an answer.

"Care to tell me what happened?"

Gentle fingers touched the man's chin and turned him so that he was facing Francis. He flicked the excess ash from his cigarette and bit his tongue.

One glance into those troubled eyes, and Francis knew something was amiss. Arthur displayed an emotion he rarely allowed others to see—fear.

"Tell me what's wrong. Arthur, please."

"There's—there's an abnormal mass in my left lung. Might be an early sign of cancer… Might not be."

An iciness came over him, and Francis flung an arm around the other's waist, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Why did he always try to keep these things to himself? Didn't he know they were in this together? Didn't he know he loved him even though he was insane? Who was the one who had embraced Francis when he'd quit and told him he would take charge? And who was the one who stayed up late at night to make sure he made it home safe? Who had taken care of him and Alfred after the accident?

Who was the one who told Francis that life would move on—that he'd be okay despite what had happened the day he watched a man die? The day he'd lifted his gun and lost all hope in himself. The days when he'd hated every inch of his being. The days when he saw nothing but a monster in the mirror, and Arthur smiled at him as though he were the most flawless soul in the world and said, "Hush… You knew this might happen. It is the way it is. It's the horrible reality of the job… You did your job. You had no choice."

But he did have a choice, and he'd chosen wrong. He could've let himself get shot. He had a bulletproof vest on that day. They could've both survived, and he wouldn't have to sleep with scars on his mind, haunting him and telling him he was a nothing more than a disgusting murderer.

"I love you. I love you because you care for every single person in this town, and even when they aim weapons at you, you tell them it's all right… To lay down their arms because you can still help them," Arthur whispered during mornings when he couldn't get out of bed. "And that's what makes me worry… The danger you're willing to put yourself through without raising a fist."

Who had convinced him to go back to being a police officer?

So, why couldn't he let him return the favor?

"What do we do next?"

"I'm supposed to get a biopsy, so we can find out what it is."

"How would it be done?"

"In the hospital. I'd be there a few hours, and then they'd send me home the same day. They stick a needle into your lung, grab some tissue, and screen it."

Arthur didn't seem very eager to go through with it, as evident by the sour expression on his face as he spoke.

Well, like it or not, Francis was going to make him do it.

"I want you to have the procedure done. Pick a day next week when I'm off of work, and we'll go. The boys will stay with the Vargas brothers, and you can call in sick."

"You can't—I won't. What if something goes wrong? I'll have a collapsed lung."

Condolatory and understanding, Francis set a chaste kiss on his ear and said, "It has to be done, Arthur. I'm sure the chance of complications is low, so don't be scared. I'll be with you."

"I'm not scared."

"Of course not," Francis mocked him and cupped a hand around the back of his head. "It's okay."

And the way Francis said that word gave it a million meanings.

They stood in silence for a little because neither wanted to speak, and sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.

"If we're done here, it's time to take Alfred to physical therapy again. He'll be saying au revoir to the crutches and brace today. We should bring Mathieu along… It's important that we include him in these things."

And though his hands were shaking like a leaf, Arthur put on a casual front. "You never told me how you managed to get them to reconcile."

He was human, just like the rest of them.

Francis felt a sadness in his gut, swishing back and forth. His rough and gruff Arthur had withered, but he knew he'd be back soon enough.

"I can't divulge all of my secrets, mon chou, but if you must know, I didn't do a single thing."

Arthur's head shot up, and he glanced back at the house with a frown. "How did they—?"

"I suppose if children can unite during great adversity, we'll be all right as well," Francis said.