The first thing Eddie feels is heaviness. Her arms and legs weigh a million pounds. Next it's her mouth, the dryness, the nasty taste, how swallowing is about as comfortable as plunging a steak knife down her throat.

Well, that cold that's been chasing her for the last week has finally caught up.

She's gotten through her last few tours by chaining herself to a box of tissues and popping cough drops like candy, but now it's moved past the stuffy nose and minor cough. Her head throbs and her body aches. There's no way she can work today.

She takes two solid minutes to psych herself up enough to reach for her phone on the nightstand. A water bottle sits next to it, so she pulls it onto the bed and pushes herself up against the pillows, at least enough to sip without spilling all over herself. Clearing her throat, she tests out her voice—it's an awful, squeaky croak, but she knows she needs to call into work now instead of waiting. So she dials the number.

The conversation lasts exactly 42 seconds but it can't be over soon enough. It just takes so much effort to sound like she's not dying. When she's made the official call, she sends Jamie a heads up that she won't be in today and she trudges to the bathroom, shivering without the thick covers to trap her body heat.

By the time she makes her way back to bed, Jamie has replied. Finally took my advice, huh? reads the first text—the last two days he's tried to convince her to take off, even though she insisted she wasn't that sick—and then Get some rest and let me know if you need anything. Feel better!

A box of nighttime cold medicine sits on Eddie's nightstand and she dumps the last blister pack into her hand. She tears it open and somehow manages to swallow the pills, even though her throat screams in protest. And then she burrows deeper under her covers in the blue morning light and drifts back to sleep.

She's disoriented when she wakes up again. The midday sun sits at the perfect angle to blare through the gap between two slats of the blinds and she rolls sideways so it doesn't hit her eyes. The movement takes more effort than it should, and it forces a cough out of her. Right. She's sick.

She can tell that the fever is back. She feels awful, and it doesn't help that her stomach is so empty it seems to be flipping itself inside out. She only snacked after yesterday's tour before she passed out, so it's been a full day since she's eaten real food.

Food. Gatorade. Medicine. Her brain chants the words like a mantra in case she forgets what she's looking for between her bed and the kitchen. She opens the fridge to survey her options but she's out of leftovers and even with how hungry she is, the idea of actually making something threatens to overwhelm her. So she reaches for her box of over-the-counter meds, hoping that a dose of DayQuil will give her the strength to heat up some soup and maybe take a shower.

But there isn't any. She groans and leans against the counter, defeated, as she remembers that she took most of the package to work the other day. She's taken everything in her house and whatever's left is in her locker at the 12th. Tums and ibuprofen won't do her much good and the eight cough drops she has left will last her about two hours.

She drops her chin to her chest to consider for an endless moment whether she'll be able to ride out this virus without drugs.

Ugh. There's no way.

Eddie consoles herself with the promise of food—a burrito sounds so good right now, and there's a drugstore down the block from her favorite place. It's a twenty-minute walk—thirty today, probably—and it'd be easier to just drop by the pharmacy right near her building. But there aren't burritos there.

She washes her face, rakes knotty hair into a ponytail, and puts on yoga pants over the underwear she's been sleeping in all day. She's several days past the need to do laundry and her t-shirt drawer shows it. There on top is that gaudy pink I kick ass shirt Jamie gave her a couple months ago. She's still never worn it but now she's too tired to care about how silly it is. So she pulls it on before wrestling into her favorite zip-up hoodie.

The fresh air invigorates her just enough that the walk doesn't seem impossible. She practically cleans out the pharmacy of its cold medicine inventory and adds a bottle of water so she can take a dose the second she walks out of the store. Now that she'll be set for the rest of this illness—and two or three in the future—she heads to the burrito place.

The radio car parked a ways up the street means nothing to her. She's a few blocks outside the confines of the 12th so it's not like she'll see anybody she works with. Good thing, too, because her yoga pants are stained with macaroni and cheese from three nights ago and she's not wearing makeup and her hoodie is so big it swallows her, and she generally looks like she's been hit by a truck.

The line is long as the tail end of the lunch crowd moves through. Eddie shuffles along, leaning against the back wall as long as she can before she'll have to loop around the barrier to order. She's in her own world, oblivious to everything except the throbbing ache in her joints and the way she practically tastes, rather than smells, the heavy aroma of Mexican spices.

And then she hears him. She's so in tune to his voice that it rises over the din of conversation and cuts through the dense fog in her head.

"It's back in that hallway, to the left," he says, referring, she knows, to the location of the restroom.

Awesome.

She recognizes the cop who excuses his way past the line—Almora, a recent transfer to the 12th who she doesn't know very well. He doesn't notice her when he passes. But Eddie's eyes train on his partner for the day, and she can't help the groan that escapes her. Of all the places he could've chosen to eat lunch—of all the places within the 12th—how'd he end up here?

Jamie's gaze follows Almora for a moment, and then it lands on Eddie. She watches one corner of his mouth twitch across his cheek as he slowly recognizes her. Leaving the two lidded paper cups on the table he's saving, he makes his way over.

"Eddie! What're you doing here?"

"I was—" she clears her throat and wishes she could shrink even further into her jacket. "I was hungry."

His eyes flick down her body, assessing her. "So you couldn't order delivery from somewhere? You look awful."

"Thanks," she mutters. She unfolds her arms, which have been holding the unzipped front of her sweatshirt closed, and adjusts the fabric to overlap across the front of her body.

"I just mean—" he starts, but she notices his glance dip once more as she moves, and he can barely contain the surprised grin that threatens at his lips. "Nice shirt, Janko."

Eddie frowns a little as she looks down to remember what she's wearing. A sliver of pink is visible past the edge of the black hoodie. Right.

"Thought you said you were never gonna wear it," Jamie teases.

She scowls and angles her body away a little to zip up her jacket, completely covering what's underneath. "This doesn't count," she croaks. "I'm out of clothes and I wasn't supposed to see anyone. How come you're over here, anyway?"

"We got tagged with taking an inmate to the courthouse," he says, "which makes a lot more sense than you being this far from your apartment like this."

"I'm fine."

Skeptical brows knit together at the bridge of his nose. "Uh-huh."

She doesn't have the willpower to argue her case so she just shifts forward as the line moves, watching the workers behind the counter so she doesn't have to look at Jamie.

"What's in the bag?" he asks.

She glances down at the plastic hanging from two fingers. "I ran out of cold medicine."

Jamie frowns at her, propping hands on his hips, and she sort of feels like a child having to explain a silly decision to her parent. "I could've brought you some. I told you to tell me if you need anything."

"I wanted to get out of the house," she lies. All she really wants is to be home in bed with a magically summoned burrito.

Jamie flaps his jaw, ready to call her out, but she's next in line. She glances at him over her shoulder and then starts to place her order.

Jamie slinks back to his table, where Almora meets him. Eddie gets her to-go bag and wonders if she can make it out of the restaurant without having to talk to them again.

No such luck.

"Eddie!" Jamie calls.

"Reagan," she complains. "I just want to go back to bed."

"We can give you a lift to your building," he offers.

"Yeah, Janko, you don't look like you'll make it one block on your feet," Almora adds through a huge mouthful of burrito.

Eddie ignores him. "It's fine, Jamie. You have to get back to work. It's not far."

"You're not walking," he insists. "So you can go voluntarily or I can break out the cuffs…"

She rolls her eyes at his attempt to make her laugh.

"Sit down," he continues, gesturing to the empty chair next to him. "We'll be done in a minute and we'll take you home."

Eddie scowls and drops her shoulders, knowing she won't win this fight. She waits while Jamie and Almora finish up the last of their lunch, and they lead the way to their radio car. A few minutes later she climbs out of the backseat in front of her building, offers a rushed thank you, and heads inside.

The next morning she calls in sick again, hoping that one more day of rest combined with tomorrow's day off will render her well enough to work her next tour. She spends most of the morning in bed before ordering lunch and cleaning up around her neglected apartment. It's enough to exhaust her again and she collapses on the couch, where she conks out halfway through an old episode of Grey's Anatomy.

Four sharp knocks yank her from a dreamless sleep.

At first she thinks the noise comes from the TV, but when the knocking starts again she realizes someone's at her front door. Untangling herself from the pile of throw blankets on top of her, she swings her feet to the floor and yawns as she plods across the living room to see who it is. If it's the old man from down the hall needing her help to change his TV input again, so help her—

It's Jamie.

She opens the door as she pushes her hair out of her face. "What're you doing here?"

"Hello to you too." He invites himself in and sets a paper bag on her breakfast bar.

"No, I mean—how'd you get inside?" She locks the door and pivots to watch him shrug out of his leather jacket.

He doesn't answer her question, though this isn't the first time he's snuck inside as somebody else left. "I texted you that I was coming, like, half an hour ago."

She reaches for her phone on the side table by the couch and sees that he's right. "Oh."

"I figured you might be hungry. Feeling any better?"

"Yeah, a little," she sighs.

"Good." He turns into her kitchen and grabs two glasses from her cabinet to fill with water. "Uh, what're you watching?"

Glancing at the TV, Eddie smirks at Jamie's reaction to the two doctors onscreen, cuddled up naked in the green sheets of a twin bed in the on-call room. "Grey's Anatomy," she tells him.

Jamie frowns at her, a combination of disbelief and a little disgust. "Really? I pegged you as more of a SportsCenter-and-sitcoms person."

"I am, but that doesn't mean I can't watch this too." She stands on her toes to peer into the bag Jamie brought. "What'd you bring?"

"Chicken parm and fettuccini alfredo. You pick."

Eddie opens both boxes and decides the fettuccini looks more appetizing. She slides the chicken parm across the counter to Jamie and settles back on the couch with the plastic fork from the bag. As she changes the channel to a How I Met Your Mother rerun, Jamie sets the glasses on the coffee table next to her empty tea mug and sits next to her.

"I can't watch this show," he groans. "The last season ruined it."

Eddie rolls her eyes. "Who's demanding now?"

"There," he says, waving his fork at the TV as she brings up the guide. "Big Bang Theory."

"You would," Eddie scoffs, but she selects the channel. "Thanks for this. It's good."

"Yeah, no problem. Don't want you wandering around outside sick again, needing rides from cops to get home…"

"Okay, I didn't need you to take me home," she argues. "I'm not, like, dying, Reagan. I have a cold."

He offers a good-natured shake of his head. "You'd've keeled over in a coughing fit after two blocks. You're just lucky we were there."

"I made it there just fine. I would've made it back."

"Hey, you know, whatever you need to tell yourself," Jamie teases.

She narrows her eyes at him and returns her attention to her food. It doesn't taste right, probably because of her stuffy nose, but she's hungry enough that she doesn't care. Jamie covers his mouth with the back of his hand as he laughs at the TV and Eddie forces herself to swallow the unexpected burgeon of heat in her chest that has nothing to do with her fever.

"So that shirt you were wearing yesterday," he starts.

"Oh no," she groans.

"Looked good on you. I've got good taste."

"No, you have awful taste."

"Clearly you didn't think so when you got dressed yesterday."

"You know what I was thinking when I got dressed yesterday? That I wanted a burrito and it was probably best if I wore clothes while I made that happen. That's it."

"Still, out of all the shirts you could've picked…"

"I picked the first clean one I saw," she finishes for him.

"And that's the first clean one you saw because…you keep it where you see it all the time, so you can remember what a great person I am?"

She starts to laugh but it turns into a cough that she takes a minute to get under control. "No. It's the first clean one I saw because it lives at the very bottom of the drawer and that's how badly I need to do laundry right now."

Jamie regards her with an arched eyebrow as if he's waiting for her to confess that she's lying. "Nah," he concludes, shaking his head. "You just don't want to admit that when it comes to choosing gifts, I kick ass."

"Oh my God," Eddie protests loudly. "You are the worst, Reagan."

He leaves his half-empty takeout container on the coffee table so he can bring his open palms up in a show of innocence. "Hey, you said you'd never wear the shirt, and then you did."

"Because I'm out of clean clothes! You know it's tacky and awful and normally I'd never."

"But you did."

"I wasn't supposed to run into you," she groans.

"I'm just saying, it can't be that tacky and awful, because you did wear it. I caught you red-handed."

She doesn't tell him that his gesture, giving her the shirt in the first place, was so damn charming that it almost makes up for the tackiness—almost. "Never again."

Jamie shrugs her off. "Hey, you've said never before, and we know how that went."

Eddie laughs in spite of herself. "Get out of here."

"I guess you don't have to hide it in the bottom of your dresser anymore if you're going to add it to the regular rotation of shirts you wear."

"I never—oh my God." Eddie lets an exasperated sigh escape into the air. "I'm still sick and I can't deal with you right now. Come on. You're done."

She grabs onto his forearm and pulls him up off the couch, reaching for his jacket as she drags him past the kitchen chair where he left it.

"I'm just teasing you, Eddie," he laughs.

She smirks up at him, knowing he understands that she's not actually angry. "And you teased yourself right out of my apartment."

"I can't even finish eating?" he whines dramatically.

"Nope. I need to rest, remember?" She throws his own words back at him from their tour the other day. "I need peace and quiet and not your smug ass thinking that shirt is a decent piece of clothing."

Spinning him in front of her, she plants her hands on his back to push him towards her door with all the strength her achy muscles can manage. He leans back, resisting a little, and pretends to scuffle his feet as he finally moves. "Hey, how much cough syrup have you had? You're getting kinda handsy."

"You wish," she retorts. When they get to her door she stops and reaches around him to open it.

Jamie shifts into the hall and turns around to give her his best puppy dog eyes. "I give you an awesome shirt, and I bring you dinner when you're sick, and this is how you repay me? Kicking me out?"

She grins at him through the gap in the door as she starts to close it. "Yeah, thanks for the food, partner. I'll see you on Monday."