So...I love the band KISS, as you know. I love their friendship, especially Gene and Paul, so I made a story where Paul is taken care of by his best friends. Because what are friends for?

This story takes place with the original four: Gene, Paul, Peter, and Ace.

Reviews are welcome!


He was sick.

He knew as soon as he felt the all-too-familiar sensation of heaviness in his limbs; the pounding headache and the dreaded soreness inside his throat.

It couldn't have gotten to him at a worser time. The band just finished a performance in Canada. All went well of course, and now they were all chilling in their latest hotel, the Colby Inn.

In London.

KISS was already so busy with the tour. They had had venues scheduled months in advance. How was he supposed to tell the manager he was sick?

Hey, sorry Doc, I know we've planned all of the tour dates to the button, but I'm feeling a wittle sick. Could we stop all production and postpone the next three shows?

Paul let out a sigh that, to his dismay, turned into a harsh, throaty cough that left him gasping for air. He took a few heaving breaths and squeezed his eyes shut. He painfully swallowed, letting his pounding head drop further into the cushion of his pillow.

He wanted to sleep for a week straight and not have to worry about the schedule. It was like anytime he wasn't working hard in the band, it was slipping through his fingers. It was a phantom thought that would run through his head every so often when things like illness would occur. He would be reminded of all the people that bullied his younger self, telling him he was weird because of his looks or that he didn't belong in the music world.

Then, KISS was formed.

Everything he had worked so hard on had come true and he had finally made it to stardom.

It was merely a simple illness, yet he couldn't feel worse.

Just then, a knock sounded on his door.

"Paul? You in here?"

It was Gene.

Paul steeled himself enough to sit up against the headboard of his bed. Only, he got up about halfway as his arms were weak from the fever raging in his body. He felt pretty pathetic, but it was all he could do.

He turned his head to see Gene's head poke out from behind the door. His friend grinned as he entered the room, not bothering to close the door. Upon looking at Paul, Gene couldn't stop his grin from turning into a frown.

"Hey," he said. "You okay? You look like hell, man."

"I feel awful." Paul brushed his face with a shaky hand. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Yeah, well it's not Brooke Shields."

Paul chuckled, but it quickly turned into a bout of wet coughs. Each one left him more breathless than the first.

"Woah, hey." Gene swiftly took a seat near the edge of Paul's bedside and put both of his hands firmly on his friend's shaking shoulders. "Take some deep breaths, okay?"

Paul's body wracked with a few more stubborn coughs before he was finally able to stop. His eyes fluttered with exhaustion and he lie back down on his pillow. He gagged at the phlem in the back of his throat before he felt a warm hand find the sweaty forehead beneath his dark curls.

"You're burning up." Gene's eyes were filled with concern.

"Yeah...I noticed."

"I'll ring up Doc; see if he can call us a doctor or something."

Paul nodded and absentmindedly rubbed circles on his sore chest with his hand. It felt like a weight was pulling down his lungs and someone had just poured tabasco sauce all over them. They burned with an intensity he hadn't felt in his whole life. He had many a cold before, but this one took the cake.

"You need any water? Some meds?"

Oh.

He'd forgotten Gene was still there.

"Mhm." He mumbled.

Why was the room still spinning?

Paul vaguley heard his friend leave and close the door softly behind him. There was no way he could perform. He'd played a thousand times with a raging fever, but this cough was terrible. A fever on stage was one thing, but a cough like this was just cruel.

He tried to keep his eyes open, but there was no stopping the persistant pull his exhaustion had on him. Paul's eyes fluttered closed once more and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.


"Should we get him to the doctor? Did he say he needed a doctor?"

"Man, stop worrying."

"...he does look a little pale, though."

"For goodness sakes, would you two please move? I need to give him his medication. And keep it down, will you?"

Paul heard voices penetrating the once peaceful, black calm his head had previously been in. He recognized Peter and Ace's worried tones and one other he couldn't recognize.

He peeled his sleep covered eyes open, rubbing away the goop on his eyes for good measure. He took a moment to refocus his vision as the swimming figures came to a dizzying stop.

"Ah, Mr. Stanely. How are we feeling this morning?"

Paul squinted his eyes as he put his attention to the stranger sitting by his side.

The man had salt and pepper hair slicked back neatly onto his scalp and a posh British accent. He had thin, wirey glasses sitting atop his long nose and thin teeth that looked like there were too many to fit in his mouth.

Darn.

Couldn't he get a hot nurse or something?

"Who are you?" Paul croaked.

(a platypus plummer? Perry the platypus plummer? *GASP* PERRY THE PLATYPUS?!)

(sorry I couldn't help myself ;D)

"I'm your doctor, Mr. Stanely. Now please sit up so I can give you your medication."

Paul looked the man over once more with a scrutinizing eye. Then he glanced over at Peter, Ace, and Gene. Gene locked eyes with him and gave him a curt nod; a signal to tell him to do what the doctor said.

He reluctantly drew his eyes from Gene and turned his attention back to the doctor as he sat up with weak arms.

"What is this?" Paul took a small pill bottle from the doctor and turned it around in his hand.

"Medication," the doctor sighed, sounding a bit exasperated at Paul's lack of trust towards him. After a few moments of Paul glancing over the bottle, the doctor rolled his eyes and snatched back the pills.

"It's not poison, my dear boy. It's pills for your headache and cough."

He didn't need this.

He didn't need a doctor.

He just wanted to get back on stage. He wanted to perform. He had to.

For his fans.

This was a world tour. He couldn't mess this up.

"Look," the singer said pointedly, "I'm fine. I know I said I needed some before, but I'm fine, really. So will you just-"

But of course at that moment, his cough decided it was time to come back with a vengence.

A cough ripped through him, stealing the breath from his burning lungs. His throat burned and he squeezed his eyes shut from the pain. As the cough seemed to stop for one second, he inhaled roughly just as more coughs erupted from his weak system.

Through blurred, watery eyes, Paul watched the doctor talked calmly, but with worry etched in his eyes. Paul squinted to try and understand.

"Paul, try to focus."

"Listen to my voice."

"Take deep breaths."

Paul was coached by the doctor and slowly, painfully took some shaky breaths in and out. It seemed to take forever, but the coughs finally ended, leaving Paul limp against his cushions with a sheen of sweat on his brow and gasping for air.

"Well now that you're finished," the doctor said matter-of-factly, "I would like to administer your medicine."

Despite the doctor's lack of comforting words, Paul could hear a slight concern in his tone. He swallowed the mucus in the back of his throat with a miserable grimace.

Maybe this guy wasn't so bad.

Paul nodded weakly, but stopped as the motion made his head pound. The doctor gave the sick singer a stiff, upturned lip and proceeded to unscrew the lid of the bottle. He extracted two pills and put them on a tray seated on Paul's desk next to a glass of water.

"I trust you can hold out your hand for me." The doctor gave Paul an amused smile.

Paul did so and the man placed the two pills in his hand and held out the glass of water. Paul sat up and popped the medication in his mouth and forced it down with the water.

Feeling a sudden rush of exhaustion, he proceeded to plop back onto his cushions with a groan. Everything was spinning now and he brought a stabalizing hand on his clammy forehead. Apparently, just by sitting and taking some pills can take it's toll.

He was definitely in for it.

"Alright boys, I will retire for the night," the doctor told the band. "I hope you will be able to keep your friend from making himself worse."

With that, he slung his medical bag over his shoulder and walked through the hotel door. Just before leaving however, he turned to spare a glance towards Gene, who was now rushing to Paul's side; Ace and Peter in tow. He could hear his patient break out in a few, hacking coughs before it died out. He closed his eyes and let out a sympathetic sigh before closing the door behind him.

Americans.

Always think they're invincible.


The next morning, Paul still felt awful. His head felt heavy from lack of sleep as he had been kindly awoken last night coughing his lungs out. Every muscle in his body was achy and his throat was raw and sore. He needed a drink of water.

Blinking his eyes open, he shivered as a chill ran through his body. He pulled himself up against the headboard of his bed and put his hand up to cradle his pounding head; a groan escaping him.

Squinting through the pain, he looked around the room and spotted Ace sprawled out onto a nearby chair. His limbs were limp and he was completely passed out. He noted the line of drool that trickled from his friend's mouth. If Paul didn't feel sicker than a dog, he would have taken a picture.

He felt a slight pang of guilt as he thought of how much his bandmates have been caring for him. He really shouldn't feel guilty, especially because he would do the exact same if Gene, Peter, or Ace felt as bad as he did. In all honesty he was just really grateful for their help.

Paul fished his legs out from under his mess of covers and swung them over to the side of his bed. He brought a fist up to his mouth to try and quell the wet cough escaping his lungs. Thankfully, Ace continued to snooze in his chair, his chest rising and falling peacefully.

As soon as he stood up, the room tilted.

Well, shoot.

His feet ungracefully tripped over one another and his hands shot out to brace himself against the wall. The coolness of the wall sent a jolt through his body, making him shiver. He took a moment to catch his breath, heaving in a couple raspy breaths before starting towards the bathroom where his medicine and water had been moved to.

Paul took tentative steps to the bathroom and soon felt the cold tile beneath his feet. He barely made it to the sink before leaning over and letting out some dreary coughs. He looked up in the mirror.

Dark circles under his eyes showed his lack of sleep and he could see a sheen of sweat glistening over his forehead, making his dark curls sticking to his head. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with a weary moan.

As he took his hands away, however, he could see spots on the mirror. He brought his hand up to inspect it, but the spots seemed to multiply rapidly. The mirror wobbled and Paul stumbled backward and put a stabilizing hand on his knee to prop his upper body up. He coughed a few times, trying not to choke on the mucus building at the back of his throat.

Suddenly he couldn't quite get enough air. He felt himself beginning to panic and he tried and failed to take in air. His coughs increased, tearing his insides apart. The world tilted and before he knew the ground was rushing toward him and he collapsed on the cold, hard tile. Dark edges crept through the corners of his eyes as he struggled to breath. The coughs had ceased, but every breath was labored; wheezy and raspy.

A blurry figure materialized above him. It looked as if it were shouting something. Paul blinked lazily, trying to figure out who it was, but nothing seemed to work.

Strong hands took a hold of Paul's fevered cheeks and shook his head, trying to get a response out of the singer. Paul remained unresponsive, his eyes glazed over and breathing shallow. A voice echoed above him, but it sounded distant.

"-aul."

"PAUL!"

It was then that the darkness took over.


"He needs to be hospitalized."

"Help me lift him up...no, not that way!"

"Everything's gonna be okay..."

"Paul? You still with us?"

"I'll get you a sexy nurse if you don't die!"

"Paul, wake up..."

"...what do you think it could be?"

"...pneumonia..."


Beep...beep...beep...beep...

Paul awoke to the sound of his own heartbeat. His throat was sore and he felt as if every muscle in his body was still on fire, not to mention his lungs. His fever wasn't far behind either.

Opening his eyes, he stared blankly until his vision focused. He looked around to find himself in a room with stark white walls and machines. He turned his head to his right and saw the heart monitor he was connected to surrounded by multiple other instruments he couldn't name.

He tried to sit up but a pinch in his elbow stopped him. He glanced down and noticed an expertly placed IV taped to his arm. He felt himself smirking as he was reminded of the time him and his bandmates drew their own blood and mixed it into the ink of their very own KISS comic books. It was a pretty sweet idea, he thought.

A knock at the door sounded and a nurse walked in, closing the door behind her with a click. But it wasn't just any nurse. It was the nurse. She was absolutely gorgous; bright blue eyes, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in soft curls, and of course he didn't miss the nice curve her body gave off.

Dang.

She was hot.

I guess he had finally gotten his pretty nurse, huh?

"How are you feeling?" the nurse asked as she pulled a wheelie chair with her to sit next to Paul's bedside.

Okay.

She was hot and British.

Despite his attraction to her, he felt an involuntary chill run through him.

Still feel like absolute crap, he remembered.

Paul mumbled something smart back like, "Uhh..."

The nurse just gave him a prize-winning smile and chuckled. He didn't miss the way her laugh sounded like jingling bells. It was beautiful. She took out a thermometer and stuck it in Paul's mouth. "Let's take your temperature."

A sudden realization came over him: he must look terrible. He could literally feel the heat still radiating off his body and he knew his hair must look like a bird's nest and his lips felt chapped. His voice didn't sound that great either, now that he thought about it. How long had he been unconscious, anyway?

The thermometer beeped shrilly three times before the blonde took it back. She glanced down at it, frowned, and then put it safely into a plastic waste bag.

"Well," she sighed, "you're fever's still high. I'm going to have the doctor check on you in a bit, alright?"

Paul just nodded. He could already feel the tug of drowsiness upon him and making his eyelids heavy. The last thing he saw was his nurse getting up from her seat to dial a number on the phone before his eyes slipped closed once more.


"Mr. Stanley, I'm going to need you to wake up for me."

Paul wearily opened his eyes and found a doctor sitting next to his bedside to check on him, just as his nurse had said. Before saying anything, the doctor took his temperature and proceeded to poke around the singer's face and neck with gloved fingers.

"Fever's one hundred and two," the doctor said as he took off his gloves, "still high, but less than yesterday."

Paul noticed this doctor's accent was American. Even though traveling on tour was cool, he was just glad to hear a familiar accent speak back to him. Paul cleares his throat painfully, "how long have I been out?"

"Let's see, is it...ten days from now?"

Paul's eyes widened. Ten days? That was impossible! He felt himself lurch out of his bed until the doctor stopped him with a firm hand on his aching chest.

"Calm down, son. I didn't mean to scare you. To tell you the truth you got here last night."

The doctor, who's name was Dr. Barren from what Paul could see on his identification nametag, folded his hands together contemplatively.

"Those were some loyal bandmates you got yourself," he told him, "they got you here just in time."

Gene, Ace, Peter.

"Where are they?" Paul rasped.

"Right outside the door. In fact, here they are now!"

As the doctor said, the door creaked open and Peter, Ace, and Gene stepped in. They all looked just as tired as Ace had been and sported dark circles under their eyes and messy hair. Peter smiled his toothy grin and took a seat next to Paul while Ace and took a chair near the doctor's desk and Gene leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed.

Peter glanced at the Dr. Barren, who got the drift. He nodded politely and got up out of the room to leave them to it.

"How's everything?" Peter asked.

"Still like crap if that's what you mean." Paul croaked with a smile. "How long do you think I'll be in here for?"

"Doctors said two weeks or more. Gene says we're gonna have to cancel the tour if you don't get better."

Paul's heart sunk. One week and maybe some shows could have been delayed, but they could still have finished the tour. Two weeks? Three? That would back everything up completely. There would be no show!

"Gene come on, be reasonable!" Paul tried, sitting up in his bed.

Gene shook his head, "I am being reasonable, Paul. You can't perform in a week. There's no way."

"What about two weeks?" Paul could already feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

"I don't care if it's two weeks or five weeks. You're being ridiculous and you know it."

Paul didn't meet his friend's eyes. Maybe Gene was right. It was just one tour, right? Surely the fans would understand.

Just then, the door to Paul's hospital room was slammed open. The conversation was completely forgotten as the band's heads snapped up to meet a crowd of news reporters yelling and cameras flashing.

It was overwhelming. Voices called out and each camera flash seemed to temporarily blind Paul, who put an arm up to try and cover his eyes from the blaring lights. The reporters bombarded them with questions:

"How is your health, Mr. Stanley?"

"Is it true the tour is being cancelled?"

"When will the band be back on tour?"

Paul could feel his heartrate pick up speed. His hands shook as he could feel anger and fear rush through him. To his right, Peter was trying his best to block the reporters from any more pictures by putting his arms out. Ace had materialized next to Paul's bedside to put a comforting hand on his friend's chest.

Despite their best work, the crowd pushed on in a frenzy and Peter was thrown to the side. His back crashed against a case of thermometers and he fell painfully to the floor. The thermometers shattered on the ground and Paul saw Peter wince in pain as he assumed a few jagged pieces of glass must have found their way into Peter's hands.

Whatever Gene had been doing previously, Paul didn't know. Seeing his friend on the floor, Gene saw red as he stood to his full height.

"OUT! All of you!"

Gene was always one to care for publicity, but this time it was the least of his worries. Paul watched as Gene angrily stomped towards the crowd and started pushing the reporters roughly out of the room. A camera flashed towards his right and Gene grabbed it wth a large hand and yanked it to the floor.

"All you people, get out!"

Finding his ability to move again, Paul slammed his hand on the button on his bed to call for help. The reporters were relentless. Gene tried his best to push away the reporters and Ace went over to give him aid.

Just then, the blonde nurse came rushing to the door, her eyes wide.

"What in the-?!"

Her hand flew to her mouth in shock as she watched the commotion. After a few seconds, she ran out back into the hallway, most likely bringing reinforcements.

After a few more minutes of the band fighting for their lives, there was another sound at the door and a dozen doctors, including Dr. Barren and Paul's nurse, along with two members of the Scotland Yard shoved their way through the crowd. The police took charge, yelling orders at the reporters to stop what they were doing and get out or they would press charges.

Paul watched as the crowd slowly dispersed out of the room; frustration etched on their faces. One of them in particular, yelled at Gene for breaking his camera to which Gene answered:

"Just get out, ya lowlife. We don't want to see your sorry face again!"

Paul let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, which to his dismay turned into a cough. His throat still felt raw and his body shivered as each cough surged through him. As soon as it finished, he felt his body go slack and he flopped back onto his pillows with a tired groan. To his left, he heard Ace talking worriedly to Peter in hushed tones.

"You alright, man?" He asked Peter as he pulled him to his feet by his elbows.

Peter gave a slight nod and winced as he felt a particular shard of glass prick his skin. Dr. Barren rushed to Peter's side, asked him all sorts of questions and waved to one of his doctors to attend to him. Just like that, Peter hobbled out of the glass strewn room with a doctor and Ace pressed to his side.

Now the only people left in the room were Paul, Dr. Barren, the blonde nurse, and Gene, who was still trying to not throw a chair. His knuckles were white from clenching them at his sides as he paced around the room.

"Can't believe those people..." He muttered. "Should be ashamed..."

The blonde nurse had taken to sweeping the broken glass and carefully distributing it into a trash can, meanwhile Dr. Barren started to check Paul's vitals again.

"Feel any pain? Any more than usual?" He asked Paul.

"No." Paul blinked. "Just tired."

"Those guys had no right to come in here," the doctor continued, sticking a thermometer in the singer's mouth. "I'm going to have a word with my superiors about this."

He turned to the blonde nurse, "Diane? Make sure he gets some fluids and rest, alright?"

Diane nodded and went her way over to Paul's bedside as the doctor put all of his things into a black bag and make his way out the door.

Paul just watched as Diane expertly handled his IV and added some things here and there. Soon, he felt a warm feeling pass through his limbs. His eyelids drooped and in no time he had fallen asleep.


It was definitely a rough start, but two weeks into his hospital stay, Paul's body decided to take a turn for the better. You would think that that was good news, right?

But the boredom.

There was nothing to do in this hospital. White walls, freezing cold air, and he just wanted to lift his stupid heart monitor off the floor and slam it through the wall. The constant beeping was enough to drive a man insane.

If he was being completely honest, the band was what was keeping him together. They would bring him his fan mail every day, crack jokes (especially Ace) and just talk with him a couple hours each day. Once, the band even decided to bring Paul's guitar to him so he could play it.

He maybe had that precious, beautiful gem in his hands for one nano second until Dr. Barren took it back, repremanding him and saying he still needed to rest.

It was absolute hell. He just didn't know what to do with himself. Diane was gone, much to his chagrin, because out of complete curiosity he had tried to kiss her while she had been bent over him to fix his pillow. Diane had been very suprised. Her face had turned bright red and her blue eyes had widened like saucers.

What can he say? He was Paul Stanley. The girls go crazy.

But apparently, she wasn't too happy. In fact, after he had kissed her, she'd given him a look much akin to embarrassment and anger and stormed out of the room, mumbling to herself about how rockstars are always the same.

Leave it to a girl to never make sense.

Paul looked up at the white ceiling and extended his hand out in front of him. It was the early evening and his deskside lamp was glowing, casting shadows all around his room. He started to make funny shaped shadows with his hands and tried to create a figure of his guitar. It ended up looking like a disfigured version of Gene's grandma instead.

He sighed and dropped his hands back into his lap. He glanced at the electronic clock on his desk:

1:30 AM

How was he still awake?

Paul grumbled and tossed around in his bed. A painful twinge in his chest made him put a protective hand around his chest. He was mostly recovered, but he had to keep reminding himself of just how bad the infection in his lungs actually was. He didn't think he had been this sick in his entire life.

He wondered what would have happened if he had died. Would the band he worked so hard to keep die along with him? He was never one to get too emotional, but he tried not to think about what his bandmates would do without him. Or him without them. Because to him, the band was his life. His bandmates were everything to him.

KISS had made him who he was and no one was going to change that.