The tour seems to be flying by so quickly, your head spinning as you board planes, check into hotels, and go to shows every night.

You're on a plane to Vegas, eyes heavy as you lean against Elvis's shoulder. He's slumped against you as well, the two of you trying and failing to keep your eyes open as the plane lands. It's been weeks since Phoenix, and you're all headed to Vegas for one last show before headed home to Graceland.

You're excited and nervous all at once, never having been to Elvis's Tennessee home before.

Candice yawns across from you, her head nestled in Jerry's shoulder. The sight makes you smile. The two of them had gotten incredibly close during the course of the tour, Candice spending your evenings getting ready for shows gushing about how much she liked the older man.

A thought hits you as you watch Jerry settle a hand on Candice's tawny thigh, a name you haven't thought of in weeks- Shelia. What ever happened to her, the woman you had never met but had grown unreasonably jealous of in Texas? It seems like Jerry hasn't thought much of her either, seeing as he's currently trying to pull a half asleep Candice into his lap. You dismiss the thought, storing it away to ask Candice about later.

Elvis sighs, rubbing at one eye with a closed fist. You know he's been so exhausted, ready for this tour to end. He'd been doing so good, not relying on Dexedrine as heavily as before, the sleeping pills dwindling down to one a night instead of three. It comforts you to know he's doing better, but you can't wait to have him home, Elvis already making plans to move you into Graceland as soon as the Vegas show ends.

When the plane touches down, you're rushed off in a daze, the elevator trip non eventful and tiring as you make your way to the familiar suite. Colonel Parker is in his office above- occasionally sending runners down to badger Elvis about this evenings show- but for the most part the two of you are left alone.

It's four in the afternoon and you've drawn the blackout curtains, lying in bed with Elvis who hasn't moved an inch since the two of you made it into the suite. You can almost feel the exhaustion radiating off of him.

You feel it to, limbs like led as you snuggle up to the older man, legs tucked up tight to your chest. Elvis is flat on his back, one arm under his head as a makeshift pillow. You're eyes are closed, breathing evening out. You're on the edge of sleep when Elvis speaks.

"I can't keep doin' this, Y/N."

You furrow your brow, eyes opening slowly.

"Hm?"

"The Colonel, he's killing me."

Elvis's voice sounds muted, distant despite him lying right next to you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, pulling the hair that falls into your face away.

You take a moment to look at Elvis, really look at him. He's lying there with his eye's closed, skin pale, face thinner than usual. You'd noticed he'd lost weight during the tour, but it hadn't seemed this drastic until now. Your heart surges with worry, anger at the Colonel, anger at yourself for not being able to help like you want to.

You reach up, brushing a hand across his forehead. It's hot, feverish.

"Elvis, baby, you're burning up." You proclaim, sitting up on your knees. He only hums in response, eyelids fluttering like he wants to open them but can't.

"'m tired, doll." He mutters, lips chapped.

You take a moment to think, getting up to get a cold rag from the bathroom.

"You're sick, baby." You point out, coming back with a damp rag that you immediately apply to his forehead.

Elvis's eyes flutter open, hazy and unclear as they look up at you. A shaky hand comes to meet your cheek, fingers ice cold as they meet your skin.

"You look like an angel, Y/N." His eyes swim. "My angel, so pretty."

You shush him, patting his face gently.

"Mama woulda loved you, I know it." A tear falls down his cheek, and your heart aches.

You plant a kiss to his forehead, reaching for the phone beside the bed.

You dial Jerry's number quick, anxiety pinching your lungs until you can barely breathe.

The phone rings five times before it's picked up, an obviously exhausted Jerry answering.

"'Lo?" He mumbles, and you quickly tell him the situation.

"Elvis is sick, he's got a really bad fever." You turn to look at the man in question, Elvis's face pale and sweating as he furrows his brow. "Jerry, I think it's really serious."

"I'll be there in two minutes, I'll have Dr. Nick come take a look at him." His tone is fierce, urgent.

You swallow, both hands around the receiver.

"Okay, please hurry." You demand, hanging up the phone so you can get back to Elvis.

It pains you to see such a usually charismatic man reduced to this wan exterior, shaky and weak as he focuses his gaze on you.

"Doctor's on his way, honey, it's okay." You try to reassure him, hands cupping the damp rag around his face.

It reminds you of being a child, Kerry holding a wet rag to your forehead as your mother and father threw a dinner party downstairs, drunk and oblivious to their child's pain.

"Go somewhere nice, Y/N." Kerry had told you, twelve and bespectacled, already too wise for his age. "Think of the time we went sledding, how we got stuck in the ditch that one time."

It had comforted you, bought you peace in a moment of pain.

You want to extend the same relief to Elvis now.

"Think of someplace nice, Elvis." You say, stroking his hair. "Think of something happy, something safe."

His eyes flutter, open and shut as he sweats out this fever.

"Hollywood," He mutters, and you frown in confusion. "Night I took you up there, to the stars." He's not making much sense, but you think he's talking about the time at the Hollywood sign, the night you escaped the paparazzi together.

Your first date.

Your heart swells with affection.

"That's good, baby." You coo, ringing out the wet rag over the side of the bed. You plant it over his forehead, dabbing at the sweat there. The suite door swings open, someone obviously using a master key to get in. You turn, expecting to see Jerry and Doctor Nick.

Your heart sinks, however, when the Colonel rears his ugly head.

He toddles in, Doctor Nick at his side, a furious looking Jerry following close behind.

"Schilling, get this girl out of here." The Colonel orders, accent lilting and dark as he points his cane towards you. You refuse to move, hovering protectively over Elvis.

"I'm not going anywhere, he needs me." You spit.

Elvis groans beneath you, shaky hand reaching for your arm.

"Y/N," He mumbles.

"Shh, I'm here, I'm here." You reassure him.

The Colonel doesn't relent, coming over to take your shoulder himself, and you recoil.

"Listen to me," The Colonel demands. "The only thing that matters is that that man gets up on that stage tonight."

Your eyes shine with rage.

"He's sick! He need's to rest." You declare.

The Colonel's gaze darkens.

"You'll leave now or be forcibly removed." The old man threatens.

You don't budge.

The Colonel sighs.

He turns to the door, and is if on cue, two tall, intimidating men appear in the doorway, making their way in. You stiffen, eyes wide. Elvis has a clammy hand in yours, grip weak as Doctor Nick looks him over, thermometer in his mouth and a syringe in the Doctors hand.

"What is that?" You inquire nervously, stumbling as two rough hands grab you by the waist. You flail, looking around wildly as one of the Colonel's goons maneuvers you off the bed.

"Hey!" You shout, and Jerry moves towards you.

"Don't you touch her!" Jerry shouts, his own movements halted by the other one of the Colonel's bodyguard's.

"Elvis!" You exclaim, feeling all the world like a desperate animal caught in a cage. You can't understand why the Colonel is doing this, isolating Elvis from those who care about him most.

As you and Jerry are shuffled out of the room, you watch in horror as Doctor Nick plunges a syringe into Elvis's forearm, mysterious liquid seeping into the man you love's veins.

The door closes in your face.