London, 1936

It had started as an itch in your throat, dreading the outcome, you worked through the beginnings of your symptoms, willing it to go away before it had the chance to develop into anything else.

It only took a day for said symptoms to worsen, rendering you sniffling and delirious by noon the next day.

Rifling through Alfie's bathroom cabinet of course you had so little to work with, the only menthol you'd found was in the form of stale cigarettes he smoked in his youth but had clung to for god knows what reason.

Alfie had found you in the bathroom, coming up behind you to rest his hand on your waist.

"Looking for anything in particular love?" he'd asked.

After learning of your illness (and attempt to work through it) he'd chided you gently and put you back in his bed.

"Now, now I'll hear none of it my precious jewel," he said gruffly, pulling his blankets up to your chin, "you must rest now my darling, and don't you worry about getting me sick, I'm clearly made of tougher stuff than you, I've been snogging you for weeks and I'm fit as a fiddle,"

Alfie made you tea and even went to the old woman next door (who Alfie swore up and down was a witch) to fetch one of her homemade remedies.

Alfie was a perfect nurse, one moment you were too hot, he'd crack a window and lift your blankets off you, run a cool washcloth over your forehead, the next you were too cold and it was back on with the blankets and more hot tea to help soothe your throat.

After a while, you got particularly chatty and delirious, Alfie had a puzzled smile on his face.

"I fear the fever has taken you my love," he chuckled.