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The morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, thin lines of gold streaking across the room.
Owen was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to lace his boots.
His hands were trembling slightly, though he was determined to ignore it.
His skin burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the Texas summer outside, and every breath came with an effortful weight, as though his lungs didn’t quite want to cooperate.
“Dammit,” Owen muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the laces again.
His body was sluggish, heavy in ways that made every movement feel like wading through mud.
But it was just a cold.
A fever, maybe.
Nothing that warranted missing a shift.
Behind him, the mattress shifted.
“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Billy’s voice was rough with sleep but laced with disbelief.
“You’re actually tryin’ to go in?”
Owen didn’t turn, though he could practically feel the disapproval radiating from his husband.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice hoarse.
“It’s just a little fever. My team needs me.”
Billy sat up, running a hand over his face before reaching for his glasses.
He slid them on and squinted at Owen, studying the stubborn set of his shoulders, the pallor beneath the flush of fever, the way his hands shook as he tried again with the laces.
“Your team needs you alive, not collapsing in the middle of a fire scene.”
Owen huffed.
“I’ve worked through worse.”
He pulled the knot tight..too tight..and winced when the motion sent a sharp throb through his skull.
His vision swam, but he straightened anyway.
He couldn’t let Billy see weakness.
But Billy already had.
He swung his legs out of bed and came around to kneel in front of Owen, gently but firmly stopping his hands.
“You’re burnin’ up,” Billy said softly.
His palms pressed against Owen’s shins, grounding him.
“Look at yourself. You’re not in any shape to command a shift today.”
Owen tried for a scoff, though it came out more like a cough.
“If I stayed home every time I had the sniffles—”
“This isn’t the sniffles,” Billy cut in, eyes narrowing.
“You can barely tie your boots, for Christ’s sake. You think I don’t notice you shaking?”
Owen bristled, pride warring with exhaustion.
“I don’t have time to be sick.”
Billy’s expression softened, but his voice was firm.
“You don’t have a choice. You’re sick whether you admit it or not.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
The only sound was Owen’s labored breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the nightstand.
Billy searched his husband’s face, the glassy eyes, the sheen of sweat at his temples, the stubborn jaw set in denial.
He reached up, brushing damp hair back from Owen’s forehead, and the heat beneath his touch made his chest tighten with worry.
“New York,” Billy said gently, “stay home. Please. Let me take care of you.”
Something in Owen’s chest clenched.
He hated being vulnerable, hated admitting when his body betrayed him.
But the sincerity in Billy’s voice, the quiet plea, was almost enough to undo him. Almost.
He shook his head stubbornly and stood. “I’ll be fine once I get moving,” he insisted, though the room tilted dangerously at the motion.
“I can’t just…”
The protest never finished.
A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over him, stealing his breath.
His knees buckled, and before he could catch himself, he felt the world drop out from under him.
Billy caught him.
Strong arms wrapped around him just in time, lowering him carefully to the floor before his body could meet it with force. Owen sagged against him, eyes fluttering shut, his strength drained in an instant.
Billy cradled him close, panic surging even as he tried to stay calm.
“Jesus, Owen,” Billy whispered, holding him tight against his chest.
He pressed his lips to Owen’s temple, whispering urgently.
“You’re not fine. You’re burnin’ up, darlin’.”
Owen gave the faintest groan, leaning into the embrace.
His body felt like fire and ice all at once, fever hot, but trembling violently.
His pride whispered that he should pull away, insist again that he could handle it. But all he could manage was a weak exhale, his face pressed against Billy’s shoulder.
For the first time, he didn’t argue.
Billy tightened his hold, his heart hammering.
“That’s it. You’re stayin’ home. And I’m not leaving your side.”
-
Billy managed to guide Owen back to the bed, half-carrying, half-dragging him with a strength born of sheer determination.
He laid him down carefully against the pillows, adjusting the blanket that Owen tried to swat away with weak irritation.
“I don’t need…” Owen began, his voice breaking on a cough that tore through him. His chest rattled, every breath a struggle.
Billy didn’t flinch. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the thermometer on the nightstand, one of the many small household items he insisted on keeping around despite Owen’s occasional mockery. He clicked it on, the small beep filling the room.
“Open your mouth,” Billy said.
Owen turned his head stubbornly, eyes fluttering closed.
“I don’t need babysitting.”
Billy sighed, leaning down close, his lips brushing just against Owen’s fevered temple in a whisper.
“Through sickness and through health, remember?”
Owen’s chest tightened, not from illness this time, but from the reminder.
The words carried weight, the echo of vows spoken in front of friends, family, the universe itself.
He cracked an eye open and found Billy’s gaze steady, unwavering.
For a moment, the fight drained from him.
Reluctantly, he parted his lips, and Billy slid the thermometer under his tongue.
They sat in silence, Owen’s body trembling faintly beneath the covers, Billy’s hand resting lightly against his arm.
When the device beeped again, Billy withdrew it and frowned.
“103.8.” His stomach twisted.
“No wonder you collapsed.”
Owen tried to muster a smirk, though it fell flat.
“I’ve run hotter.”
Billy shot him a look.
“This isn’t a competition, Owen.” He set the thermometer aside and pressed a cool palm to Owen’s forehead again, only to recoil at the scorching heat.
His heart pounded with worry, but he forced himself to stay calm for Owen’s sake.
Minutes passed in uneasy quiet.
Owen dozed fitfully, jerking awake every few minutes with a harsh cough.
Billy stayed right beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead, murmuring reassurances every time Owen startled awake.
Then came the first wave of nausea.
Owen groaned low in his throat, turning onto his side, a hand clutching at his stomach.
Billy was quick, grabbing the basin he had set by the bed just in case.
He held it in place as Owen retched, body convulsing violently, each sound tearing at Billy’s chest.
When it finally subsided, Owen slumped back against the pillows, utterly spent.
His face was pale now beneath the fever’s flush, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.
Billy set the basin aside and reached for a damp cloth, carefully wiping Owen’s face, his neck, his trembling hands.
“You don’t have to…” Owen croaked weakly, voice frayed.
“Yes, I do,” Billy interrupted softly, his thumb brushing over Owen’s cheek.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, then to the lobe of his ear.
His lips lingered there as he whispered,
“You took care of me when I didn’t deserve it. You stood by me when I gave you a thousand reasons not to. Let me do this, Owen. Please.”
Owen swallowed, his throat raw.
His instinct was still to argue, to claim he didn’t need help.
But he didn’t have the strength to lie not with Billy’s arms around him, not with Billy’s words threading through him like oxygen.
Another coughing fit wracked his body, sharp and relentless.
Billy tightened his hold, rubbing slow circles along his back, whispering low and soothing in his ear.
“I’ve got you. Right here. Just breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re not alone.”
Owen sagged against him, body shaking with exhaustion.
For once, he didn’t push away.
He let himself be held, let himself sink into Billy’s steady warmth, the grounding presence that anchored him through the storm tearing at his body.
The fever, however, wasn’t easing. If anything, it seemed to be climbing.
Billy checked his temperature again an hour later, and the reading made his stomach drop: 104.2.
Too high.
He pressed another cool cloth against Owen’s forehead, watching him flinch at the chill.
“We’ve got to get that down,” Billy murmured, more to himself than to Owen. “I’m not letting this fever take you from me.”
Owen’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and glassy, and for the first time that day, there was no fight left in them.
Just trust. Blind, unguarded trust.
Billy brushed a kiss across his damp hair and whispered, “I’ll take care of you, love. No matter what.”
-
-
By the time night had fully set in, Owen was restless.
He shifted and tossed, pulling at the sheets only to shove them away seconds later, his body unable to decide if it was freezing or burning.
His skin glistened with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead.
Billy sat on the edge of the bed, cloth in hand, wiping him down with gentle, deliberate strokes.
Every so often he’d wring the cloth out in the bowl of cool water beside him, then smooth it along Owen’s arms, his chest, his flushed face.
“Billy…” Owen’s voice cracked with weariness.
“You don’t… have to make such a fuss.”
Billy stilled, cloth hovering in the air, then met his husband’s fever-clouded gaze.
“Yes, I do,” he said firmly.
“You married me, Strand. You signed up for this.” His expression softened, his thumb brushing Owen’s cheek.
“Through sickness and through health. Remember?”
The reminder landed like a balm, quieting the protest before it could leave Owen’s lips.
He closed his eyes instead, sighing shakily as Billy resumed the careful ministrations. Each touch was slow, steady, grounding.
But despite Billy’s efforts, the fever still raged.
By midnight, it was climbing dangerously close to
105.
Billy’s chest tightened with fear.
He knew he had to act.
“We’re going to try something else,” Billy murmured.
He slid his arm beneath Owen, coaxing him upright.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you into the bathroom.”
Owen groaned miserably, his head lolling against Billy’s shoulder.
“No. Too tired…”
“I know.” Billy pressed a kiss to his temple, tightening his hold as he helped him to his feet.
“But this will help bring it down. I promise. Just a few minutes, and then you can crawl right back into bed. Okay?”
Owen’s answer was a weak grumble that sounded suspiciously like a curse, but he didn’t fight him.
He let Billy guide him step by step to the bathroom, his weight heavy against his husband’s side.
Billy eased him down onto the closed toilet seat while he ran the bath, filling it with just a few inches of cool water.
He tested the temperature with his hand, then turned back to Owen, who sat slumped with his head in his hands, looking utterly defeated.
“I hate this,” Owen muttered hoarsely.
“I know you do.” Billy crouched in front of him, taking his hands gently.
“But I hate seein’ you like this even more. And if this brings your fever down, then I’ll drag you in here every hour if I have to.”
Owen let out a small, broken laugh at that ended in a cough. “Bossy.”
“Only because I love you.” Billy pressed a kiss to Owen’s knuckles.
“Now, come on.”
It took coaxing, but eventually Owen let Billy help him into the tub.
He sank down with a miserable sigh, shivering at the contact of cool water against fevered skin.
His eyes closed, lips parting in a soft groan of protest.
“Just breathe,” Billy whispered, kneeling at the side of the tub.
He cupped water into his hands and drizzled it gently over Owen’s shoulders, his neck, the back of his head.
Each motion was careful, soothing.
“You’re doin’ good, baby. Just a few minutes.”
Owen leaned his head back against the edge, lashes damp, cheeks flushed.
He looked vulnerable in a way that few people ever got to see..unguarded, trusting.
Billy’s chest swelled with something fierce and tender all at once.
He smoothed damp strands of hair back and pressed a kiss to Owen’s fever-warm temple.
“That’s it. I’ve got you. Always.”
When Owen whimpered softly, Billy’s heart broke a little, but he stayed steady, whispering encouragements as he cooled him down.
After several minutes, he helped Owen out, wrapping him in a towel and carrying most of his weight back to the bed.
Owen collapsed onto the pillows with a groan, looking utterly spent but slightly less flushed.
Billy exhaled in relief as he tucked the blankets around him.
“There we go,” Billy murmured, settling beside him.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Speak for yourself,” Owen rasped, his voice scratchy but teasing.
“You didn’t just get dunked like a teabag.”
Billy chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against his damp hair. “
You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Doubt it,” Owen mumbled, already drifting, but his hand reached weakly for Billy’s.
Billy laced their fingers together and held on, his thumb brushing soothing circles over Owen’s knuckles as he kept vigil at his side.
_
_
The hours crept by in a haze of fever and half sleep.
Every time Owen stirred whether from a cough, a shiver, or a sharp groan of discomfort Billy was there, smoothing his hair back, pressing a cloth to his forehead, whispering quiet reassurances until he settled again.
_
_
By the early hours of the morning, Owen had gone nearly twelve hours without food.
Billy’s worry grew with each passing minute.
Fever or no fever, he couldn’t let his husband starve himself into weakness.
He slipped out of the bedroom briefly, moving quietly into the kitchen.
He pulled out the container of chicken soup he’d prepared earlier in the week, an old habit of his, always keeping something hearty on hand.
He warmed it carefully, the scent filling the quiet house, then carried the steaming bowl back toward the bedroom.
When Billy pushed the door open, Owen stirred at once, as though his body could sense his presence even in fevered dreams.
His eyes cracked open, glazed and heavy lidded.
“Billy?” he rasped.
“Right here.” Billy set the tray down on the nightstand, then sat beside him, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face.
“Thought I’d try to get some food in you. Just a few spoonfuls. You need the strength.”
Owen groaned low in his throat.
“Not hungry.”
Billy’s thumb smoothed over his cheek, coaxing rather than commanding.
“I know, baby. But humor me. Just try.”
Reluctantly, Owen shifted upright with Billy’s help, his head lolling against his husband’s shoulder.
Billy scooped up a spoonful of broth and blew gently to cool it before bringing it to Owen’s lips.
Owen accepted the first sip, swallowing slowly.
For a moment, Billy dared to hope.
He offered another, and another, but then Owen’s face twisted, and he turned sharply toward the basin Billy had kept at the ready.
His body heaved violently, the soup coming right back up.
Billy was quick, holding the basin steady with one hand while bracing Owen’s shaking body with the other.
He whispered all the while, words soft against Owen’s fevered skin,
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it out, love. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
When it finally passed, Owen slumped against him, trembling, exhausted.
His breaths came harsh and uneven.
“Told you,” he rasped weakly.
“Not hungry.”
Billy’s chest tightened with helpless affection.
He set the basin aside and pulled Owen close, cradling his head against his chest.
He pressed a kiss to Owen’s temple, lingering there as he whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll keep tryin’. I’ll keep takin’ care of you, no matter how many times it takes.”
Owen gave the faintest shake of his head. “You shouldn’t… fuss so much. I’ll be fine.”
Billy tilted his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Listen to me, Owen Strand.” His voice was steady, firm but gentle.
“I don’t give a damn if you think it’s fussin’. You’re my husband. My partner. My everything. And when I said those vows to you, I meant them with every piece of me.”
He leaned in close, his lips brushing Owen’s ear as he whispered the words, the very same vows they’d spoken on their wedding day.
“Through sickness and through health. Through better or worse. You don’t get to tell me to step back when this is exactly what I promised I’d do.”
Owen swallowed hard, throat tight, eyes stinging despite the fever.
He let his forehead drop against Billy’s shoulder, too weak to argue and, for once, unwilling.
A shaky breath escaped him, his hand fisting in Billy’s shirt.
“You’re too good to me,” Owen whispered, voice breaking.
Billy kissed the crown of his head, whispering into his hair.
“Not good enough. You deserve more than I’ll ever be able to give. But you’ll never go through this alone. Not while I’m breathin’.”
Owen’s chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm, but there was peace in it now, a surrender to Billy’s care.
For the first time that night, he didn’t feel the weight of pride pressing down on him.
Only Billy’s arms, Billy’s words, Billy’s love wrapping around him like armor against the fever’s fire.
_
_
The night stretched long, each hour bleeding into the next.
Owen drifted in and out of fevered dreams, never sleeping more than twenty minutes at a time before waking in fits of coughing, or shivering so violently that the bed trembled beneath them.
Each time, Billy was there.
When Owen coughed until his ribs ached, Billy rubbed slow, grounding circles across his back, whispering low comforts,
“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you. In and out. That’s it.”
When Owen jolted awake from a restless dream, chest heaving and eyes wide with fevered disorientation, Billy kissed his temple and spoke his name until recognition returned.
When the heat of his skin climbed to unbearable levels again, Billy guided him once more into the bathroom, easing him into the shallow cool water of the tub.
Owen groaned miserably, head lolling against Billy’s shoulder as he complained weakly.
“Feels like torture,” Owen muttered, voice hoarse.
Billy chuckled softly, though his heart ached at the sound of Owen’s suffering.
“If this is torture, then I’m the most lovin’ torturer you’ll ever meet.”
Owen cracked the faintest smile, eyes slipping shut.
“That’s… not comforting.”
Billy pressed a kiss against his damp temple, keeping his tone gentle.
“It’s supposed to be. Humor me, Strand.”
Owen sighed, letting the water lap against his skin as Billy scooped handfuls to drizzle along his chest, his arms, his fevered face.
The touch wasn’t just about cooling him down it was about connection, about reminding him he wasn’t alone in this fight.
Minutes passed.
When Billy finally lifted him back out, wrapping him carefully in a towel, Owen didn’t resist.
He leaned heavily against his husband, too weak to stand on his own, murmuring softly against Billy’s shoulder.
“You should… be sleeping too.”
Billy carried him back to the bed, settling him beneath fresh sheets.
He tucked the blanket snug around Owen before climbing in beside him, pulling him close.
“I’ll sleep when you’re better.”
Owen groaned faintly.
“That could be… days.”
“Then I’ll be awake for days.” Billy kissed his temple again, lips lingering against hot skin.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re worth it.”
Owen’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest.
He wanted to argue, to insist Billy couldn’t wear himself down like this.
But every protest died on his tongue when Billy’s hand slipped into his, their fingers twining together.
The warmth of it, the steady anchor of Billy’s presence it was enough to silence every stubborn word.
So he let himself sink into it, trembling body pressed against his husband’s steady strength.
The fever burned on, the hours dragging slowly.
But every time Owen faltered, Billy was there to catch him.
Whispering.
Holding.
Cooling.
Loving.
And though Owen hated being weak, hated being vulnerable, he couldn’t deny the truth that pulsed steady in his chest..he needed this.
He needed Billy.
_
_
Dawn broke in pale streaks of gray and gold, the faint light filtering through the blinds.
The house was quiet, save for the uneven sound of Owen’s breathing.
He had made it through the night, though barely.
His fever still clung stubbornly, his body trembling with every cough, every shift beneath the blankets.
Billy hadn’t left his side once.
He sat propped against the headboard, one arm around Owen, holding him close.
His other hand stroked lazily through Owen’s damp hair, whispering soft reassurances each time his husband stirred.
Sleep had only touched Billy in brief moments, but he didn’t care.
His world was in his arms, and nothing else mattered.
Owen stirred again, his lashes fluttering as he blinked groggily.
His throat worked before he rasped,
“Still here?”
Billy smiled faintly, brushing his lips over Owen’s temple. “Always.”
Owen’s brows furrowed weakly.
“You’ll get sick too if you keep hovering.”
“Let me worry about that,” Billy murmured, kissing the lobe of his ear softly.
“You’re my husband. My job is to be here.”
Owen groaned faintly, nuzzling closer despite his protest.
His pride tugged at him, the instinct to argue still there, but his body was too spent, and his heart too full of quiet gratitude to put up much of a fight.
Billy reached for the thermometer one more time, slipping it beneath Owen’s tongue.
They waited in silence until it beeped.
When Billy read the result, he exhaled.
104.3.
Still too high, but down from the night’s peak.
A small victory.
“Better,” Billy said, brushing damp hair back from Owen’s forehead.
“Not enough, but better.”
Owen gave a tired huff.
“All thanks to my bossy husband.”
Billy smirked softly. “Damn right.”
He coaxed Owen into another sip of water, then settled back against the headboard, gathering him close.
Owen rested his head on Billy’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his arms an anchor against the fever’s haze.
They stayed like that, wrapped in silence, until Owen broke it with a whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
Billy frowned gently, tipping his chin down. “For what?”
“For being stubborn. For… making you go through all this.” Owen’s voice cracked, raw with both fever and emotion.
Billy kissed his hair. “Don’t apologize for bein’ human, Owen. You’re allowed to get sick. You’re allowed to lean on me.”
Owen closed his eyes, his throat tight.
“I don’t like being weak.”
“You’re not weak,” Billy whispered firmly.
“You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known. And strength isn’t about pretending you’re invincible, it’s about trusting the people who love you enough to catch you when you fall.”
A silence stretched, heavy with meaning. Then Owen shifted slightly, turning his face up toward Billy’s.
Their lips met in the softest kiss,
feather-light, lingering with unspoken gratitude.
When they parted, Owen whispered against his lips, “Now you’re going to catch this.”
Billy smiled, brushing his thumb along Owen’s cheek.
“Then we’ll both be sick. And I’ll still hold you through it.”
Owen let out a shaky laugh that melted into a cough, but Billy held him close, kissing his temple again.
For the first time since the fever began, Owen stopped protesting.
He let his head rest against Billy’s chest, let his husband’s warmth surround him, let the quiet strength of their vows echo in the steady beat of Billy’s heart.
And as the morning sun rose, casting soft light across their entwined forms, Owen drifted at last into something close to peace, safe in the arms of the man who had promised him forever, through sickness and through health.