Who Names The Colors

Charge of the Lancers

Jo sat in her office worrying her empty right ring finger. She wondered if anything had festered in the days she was off campus. She hadn't been to her office in nearly a week by the time she made it in to her office hours this morning, the flu kept her in bed for forever, so if anyone saw them, her and Harry, in the parking lot, Jo thought that may be the only place they walked the line, she was blithely unaware still. They did well inside. She doubted she'd get hauled in by the dean anyhow.  They'd done ok, maybe got away with it, being in public together.

Except with his mother. Harry slipped multiple times there and she still hadn't put the screws to Harry to find out what Anne had said. He had been there, to her house when she was sick, had noticed that she hadn't come to her office and turned up with things to make soup. She'd been so ill, and he'd been there.

Zoe was on the mend by then and he spent a good amount of the afternoon entertaining her when he'd come to check on them mid week.

"C'mon flyaway Zoe" she had heard from the living room faintly, the door snicked and there was blessed quiet for her to sleep off her fever.

Jo was moaning a little, into the still air of her room and she felt like the whole place smelled like her body, and she needed to pee and she wanted a shower so bad. But she couldn't get up yet.

"Jo?" God, she loved his voice and that he was here. He came to her bedside and placed his hand to her forehead, then his lips.

"Don't!" she said." You'll get it!"  And pushed his hand off of her, so he just kissed her forehead.

"Then you'll take care of me." He squeezed her cheek and it hurt a little because everything ached. "You're burning up baby."

He disappeared for a moment.

When he had come back in, a minute or an hour later, she was bleary-eyed and hotter, he picked her up like the sack of sticks she was. The bathroom rang with his voice. "Jo, when was the last time you ate? You're really thin babe."

"What day is it?" Her voice skipped like a scuffed dvd.

"It's Wednesday, morning. I knew you had come down with whatever Zoe had when you weren't in your office." He pulled his t-shirt off her shoulders and picked her back up and stepped into the bath with his jeans on to put her in.

"Your jeans, you'll be uncomfortable—" It was too late, but she put up a protest. "You went to my office?"

"You didn't answer my text yesterday afternoon and I knew you told me to steer clear on Sunday because of the fever. Monday, I gave you a pass on class because I figured Zoe was still sick." He got out of the bath and onto his knees. "Can you wet your own hair?"

She dipped beneath the water and watched him pour shampoo into his hand and wanted to cry. It had been four days since she had washed up. She was too tired and then too sick.

"I hate how wonderful you are," she said as he put the shampoo into the crown of her head and massaged her scalp.

"You don't," he told her and poured water over her head with the cup on the tub sill she used to wash Zoe's hair.

"I don't. I love you." She blubbered a little.

"I missed you, and was trying to wait to talk." He seemed as tender as her with time and unspoken words like there were broken boards on the suspension bridge between them.

"I'm scared, Harry." She had let him sink into her bones, and Jo felt like their expiration date was the time stamp on that video. "Did you delete it?"

"We haven't watched it." He dodged. "Jo, after I clean you up, I need to feed you." His hand ran up her gaunt torso. "Can you try some of the soup I made, and drink some water?"