A/N: You know it's funny that I wrote this because I've actually written something like this before, for a fanfiction.

I like this one more. Enjoy!


It started last Wednesday, when he plopped down on her couch by her feet. He couldn't tell exactly what was wrong, but he was fatigued and he could feel slight aches in his limbs. He prayed that he wasn't getting sick, or if he was that he could stop it from getting any worse. He didn't want to miss work.

"Are you okay babe?" Harley's voice cut through the fog in his brain, because only she could. She poked his arm with her cold toes. He blinked. His head swam a little when he turned to look at her.

"Um, not feeling great," he mumbled. It was uncomfortable to speak. Out of his periphery he watched her remove her feet from his side to change her position. She draped her arms around his shoulders and rested her forehead on his arm. Her right hand lightly scratched the space between the end of his shoulder blade and his arm.

"I'm sorry. Let me get you some orange juice." She hopped up and hightailed it to the kitchen. She was tiny, delicate and appeared so lithe when she moved. Whenever anyone felt less than great she got them orange juice, because she thought it cured all ailments. (At least no would ever develop scurvy around her.) He tried to smile, but he simply lacked the emotional energy.

She hurried back with a glass, and delicately grabbed his hands to mold them around it, and then gave a gentle pat to his fingers. Then she happily curled up next to him and pulled a blanket that rested on top of the couch and wrapped it around the both of them. She fussed over it, moved it around until it covered them both perfectly.

"My beautiful Beau doesn't feel good," she murmured as she hugged him. And he wished that the subtle compliment made him feel better, but it didn't.


She was beautiful. He was nothing special.

She kept the world going. He slowed it down.

She was everything to him and he doubted his worth to her.

The following Saturday he found himself in the middle of a sickness storm. The heat of the battles took place in his throat, his head, and the muscles surrounding his chest. They ached and refused to let him feel comfortable. His sinuses hurt, his nose felt like it was stuffed but it wasn't, his eyes watered, his throat was scratchy in the weirdest way, his thoughts were muddled, and he felt miserable. It was a stupid virus that couldn't be treated, only helped until it went away.

Harley texted him and asked if he wanted her to come over, and he panicked; he couldn't let her see the mess he'd let his apartment become. He replied and said that he'd rather go to her apartment, save her the trouble.

Beau had been keeping himself from her for the last week. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her, because she was probably his favorite person. The problem was that there was no way she would find herself endeared to him when he was sick. He firmly believed that she was barely attracted to him now, only with him because she was too gentle and giving to leave him.

He did his best to look presentable before he left. It was hard and all he felt like doing was dying in his bed like he had been. He also did it because he knew cleaning up would do him some good anyway. It had been too long since he showered, too long since he washed his hair that was matted to his forehead. By the time he turned the keys to turn on the engine, he felt better, less gross.

"Good grief babe, you look so pale. I can't believe you're this sick and you didn't tell me," Harley chastised as soon as she opened her door for him. He looked down, because she was right, and he knew she would say that. Caregiving was her nature, her calling. If there was anybody he needed to help him take care of himself it was her, but he didn't want to be a burden. He also knew what she would say next.

"I should've known- because if I had I wouldn't have let you drive here. You know that you're supposed to sleep when you're sick, that your body makes you sleepy when you're sick, and that so many damn crashes every year because of problem sleepiness-"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and he didn't expect that to stop her but it did. When he looked up at her she was looking at him with concern, but something else that confused him. It was almost like she could read his mind, and he hoped that that wasn't the case. (If anyone could read minds, it was her.)

"Come on, you should be resting. I'll make some soup, you go get in bed. Take off your shoes," she said, and she ushered him inside. He slipped off his shoes and socks and made his way to her bedroom. Beau could hear her in the kitchen, talking to herself.

Shit, he pissed her off. He didn't mean to do that. Maybe he should've talked to her more. He screwed up, he didn't mean to screw up. He paused in the hallway, felt his pulse pick up. He sighed and walked into her bedroom. He shrugged off his jacket and let it drop to the floor because he was too tired to put it somewhere else.

By the time he crawled in bed Harley was coming in with a small tray, a bowl and a glass on top.

"Beau, I don't want you alone if you're sick, things could escalate. How many days did you work this week?" she asked. She situated the tray on his lap, and then she touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

"Every day except yesterday. And today," he muttered. She nodded, and for some reason she seemed satisfied with his answer.

"You should've come here yesterday. Hey," she grabbed his face, "I love you, babe. I'm gonna go get a thermometer and some pain killers." She ran a hand through his hair before she turned and went in the direction of the bathroom. Beau looked at the soup and the orange juice, trying to convince himself that he had the appetite for it. God, she was too good for him, she made him food and he couldn't even convince himself to eat it.

He brought the bowl close to his chest and managed to down a few bites before Harley came back. He took a good look at the thermometer and he got confused. What she had in her hand looked like the otoscopes they used to check on your ears in school.

"Is that a thermometer?"

"An aural one, yeah. Can't put one in your mouth if you're eating, fucks up the temperature," she said, more to herself than to him.

She got the thermometer ready and made sure he ate as she stuck the thing in his ear. It wasn't great, actually pretty uncomfortable, but he didn't say anything. After the little machine dinged and she removed it from his ear, he really tried to focus on eating. He didn't want to, but he could try.

God, he didn't deserve her.


Apparently she didn't care about getting sick because Harley was attached to his side almost literally for hours. She wrapped herself around him and he didn't know which way to feel. On one hand he practically melted into her because she was so comfortable, and on the other he could feel his nerves swim in his insides until it made him nauseous, or maybe that was just the sick thing. She continued to fret over him, take his temperature, and he now had a glass of ice water to go along with the forever refilled glass of orange juice. She didn't pet his arm the way she usually did, and the logical part of him knew that she suspected that if she did it would only rub his skin wrong, because everything felt wrong to the touch. He knew that's why she wasn't doing it, because it was true. It's the only reason he was down to his boxers.

It was nearly ten at night, and Beau didn't know what was going to happen. He'd spent several hours in the bed with her, and he wasn't sure if or when she was going to kick him out. He didn't want to drive, didn't think it was safe. He also didn't want to stay and be a burden towards her anymore.

The more he stayed the more he grew to resent his condition and resent himself. He couldn't believe he had just wasted her entire Saturday by being sick, with a completely manageable little illness. He knew that he should have just stayed home, continued to find away around seeing her and ruining her day, but he was just stupid stupid stupid and-

"Baby, you're shaking, are you cold?" He literally jumped when she spoke, because he had been so laser-focused on his thoughts. He turned his head to look at her concerned face, and she put the back of her hand against his forehead. He thought his shaking was just something he was feeling on the inside, like he did sometimes. Being sick really sucked.

"N-no, just shaky. I- I'm sorry," he answered. She frowned.

"No, honey, don't be sorry. Why do you think you're shaky?" She words questions like that because she was a therapist who was pretty quick to the point. As it turned out someone could find a lot about themselves if they just bothered to ask themselves why they reacted to things the way they did.

"I guess I, I'm just tired. And, I'm so, so s-sorry that I've ruined your day. I didn't mean to, I wanted to stay away and keep you from getting sick or getting tired of me, but you wanted to see me and it had been too long and I couldn't stay home. I'm sorry I'm sick and boring and I promise I'll make this up to you-" he rambled, but she cut him off, placed a hand on his arm. Her jaw was dropped and her eyes bore into his with questions. She shook her head lightly.

"Baby no, don't be sorry. Everybody gets sick. An average adult gets the cold at least once every year. You didn't ruin my day, I promise. If anything you gave me a reason to stay home in my pajamas. I love you, I want you to feel better," she said. He sighed.

"Y-you're just saying that. G-god, I'm so f-fucked up," he muttered as he tugged at locks of his hair. She quickly batted his hands away and took them into her own.

"No, Beau, hold on. Have you been taking your medicine? Your mother called me the other day, told me you got like this when you were sick." Shit, even his mom called.

"I, I think I forgot to get it refilled the other day, I just felt so awful I just wanted to go home," he tried. She nodded.

"Okay, I'll call in to get you a refill and I'll pick it up tomorrow. I'm sorry you feel like this baby, I wish you weren't sick," she cooed. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, and her lips felt cold against his face which was burning.

"I know. I hate doing this to you," he murmured. Harley frowned.

"Beau, no you're not doing anything to me. I love you, I'm going to care for you when you're sick. If I had known you would be this bad I would have shown up yesterday. Please tell me you don't feel like this when you're healthy. Because I'd hate it if you felt this insecure regularly." He cringed.

"No? Okay, well, yes, but only likeā€¦ yeah it's not normally this bad but you're way too out of my league and I guess my anxiety problems from when I was younger are acting up because this week has been hell and-"

Harley kissed him. At first it was urgent and harsh, but almost immediately it sweetened and slowed. She pat his cheek and tried to subtly touch his forehead again. For a second it hit Beau that she felt genuine care and concern for him, and somehow he felt less shaky.

He let her fuss over him until the medication pulled his eyelids shut.

Harley didn't let go of the conversation after he got over the flu. If anything, she was stronger about it. She made him sit down on the couch with her and talk.

"You can't feel insecure about our relationship, it's not good. So, I'm gonna ask a couple of questions, and then you can just talk, okay?" He nodded.

"Go ahead." Then she nodded.

"Am I not affectionate enough?" He shook his head.

"You are, I just feel like I don't deserve it, I guess."

"Why do you think I'm too good for you?"

"Have you looked at me, and then looked in the mirror? Besides, you've got a master's degree, I never went to college." He took a couple of art classes at his local community college, but that was it.

"Your career doesn't require a college degree. I mean, I find you smart, Beau. Believe me I think you're smart, otherwise you wouldn't hear me go off on random tangents the way I do. Besides, you're ambitious and talented, you're so fucking hot, like damn it I couldn't believe you were single." He smiled a little, at how earnest her words were. He loved the way she explained her attraction to him, made it sound so specific, and not just something she caught from a romantic comedy.

They spent an hour talking. He explained to her that he had anxiety as a teenager, and that it got worse when he was sick. He told her that he'd liked her for so long before they went out, that he had started to talk himself down the more he pined. She reminded him that she knew his name before he even told her, because she had asked for it. She made him promise that if he started to feel so doubtful again, to talk to her so she can tell him that everything's alright.

"I love you," he whispered. She beamed.

"I love you too, promise," she said.


A/N: Please review!

(Also there's a poll on my profile for romance stories, check it out!)

~RosesAndWriting