.
.
It had only been a little argument. Hushed so that my niece didn't catch on that we were unhappy with each other. It had ended when Kate had come into the kitchen to badger me about going out and my husband had decided he didn't want to be accused of having an eating disorder in front of a six year old who's favourite word was 'why'. I still regretted it. Hopefully he'd be able to convince himself that the sandwiches I'd forced down his throat was an act of love and not one of torture - despite him acting as though I'd suggested chewing shards of glass.
His absence was glaringly obvious now. While Kate finished her snack and I spitefully sipped my coffee, he'd stayed at the table in resignation and eaten under my security. Still, he only made it halfway through washing his plate before he'd mumbled something to me about taking a shower and all but bolted up the stairs, abandoning the semi-dry plate and damp teatowel on the bench. I listened to the bathroom door hurriedly shut and sat myself down on the couch, turning up the TV so that I couldn't listen for it opening again. This would get worse if I went up there; I wouldn't be able to keep myself from outright accusing him of putting his fingers down his throat, and he didn't have a good track record for being honest with me about his mental health.
Eventually, I heard mom greet him in the hallway, his mumbled response inaudible but apparently enough not to concern her. I relaxed a little.
By lunch time, my niece was borderline unbearable, the TV unable to hold her attention and nothing I said dampening any of her energy. After our forty-something round of 'Go Fish', I was ready to throw the pack of cards into the fireplace, and the kid was hoarding pairs like a dictator. We needed to get out of the house.
Carlisle hadn't come back down, but I figured I could twist his hand a little since he'd promised earlier to come out with us. Staying cooped up all the time couldn't be doing him any favors either. To his credit, he didn't protest much past telling me he was tired, complying and starting to get dressed without me having to push too hard. Neither of us mentioned what had happened.
I tried to pick a quietish mall - somewhere with enough space that I could wear my niece out for the afternoon, but not so much that it would kill my husband. He didn't say anything about my choice, despite not asking what we were doing in the first place. I guessed the whole trip out was just a peace offering.
Pushing my luck, I reached over to squeeze his leg once the building was in view. "Thank you for coming."
He shot me a nervous smile and didn't reply, swallowing tightly as I pulled into the parking lot.
"We don't have to stay long; Kate can burn herself out on the playground, and we don't have to go far." I tried to keep my tone light, like I wasn't second-guessing my decision to make him come and didn't know for a fact that he'd only agreed so that we wouldn't bicker for a second time. There was an indoor playground, and I figured she could run around with the other cooped-up kids and we could watch from a safe distance from the sidelines.
"It's fine." It clearly wasn't.
"If it gets too much, I'll take you home," I promised. In the time it took me to get Kate out of the car and onto the sidewalk, he'd gotten out as well, doing a fairly convincing job of pretending he wasn't entirely miserable. I quickly kissed his temple as I stepped up beside him. "The playground isn't far; come." Again, he didn't comment. Guilt started to eat away at me; I shouldn't have been so persistent this morning.
I hadn't noticed it while we were at home, but once I had dragged him through a couple of stores on our way past it was difficult to ignore. He was having difficulties walking, dawdling to avoid us moving too quickly, and it didn't seem like his normal lack of coordination. He still shook his head when I asked if he just wanted to go home - it wouldn't be the end of the world if Kate and I had to drive back again.
He stopped suddenly. "Can we get coffee?" I doubted the question had been provoked by a lack of caffeine. He was leaning against a handrail when I turned to face him, one hand locked around it like his life depended on it.
"If you want." I took his other hand, keeping him at my side so I could keep an eye on him. The longer we stood together, making idle conversation while he stalled going any further, the more I floundered to pick what was going on. He leaned against me a little more as we waited in line for our order, oblivious to the seemingly hundreds of questions my niece bombarded us with. She'd taken the opportunity to grill me about our relationship - we'd never hidden that we were together but she'd suddenly seemed to put the pieces together and the unbridled six-year-old curiosity was a little much. Standing in an ever-growing line wasn't the ideal place for this conversation, and I was praying that she wasn't about to ask anything that I couldn't answer.
It died down a little as I let her choose a cookie from the glass display cabinet, and I thought I'd put an end to it, but she piped up again as we waited for our drinks to be ready. "Dad said that Carlisle isn't your boyfriend anymore and that's why you had to sleep on the couch at our house."
I internally groaned - neither of us needed the reminder. Thanks, Eleazar. "I said I was sorry, and we made up." Nervous, I glanced over at him to make sure that it was still true, but he was zoned out, vacantly fixated on the menu like he hadn't just refused everything written there.
"So he's your boyfriend again?"
"Yes; we're married."
"Is that why you were kissing in the car? Mom said that when people are married and really love each other-"
"Yep," I cut her off, desperately needing to not hear the rest of the explanation. "So no kissing any boys until you're married, alright?"
Another beat of blissful silence. "Did you kiss Carlisle before you got married?"
Hearing his name for the second time in the space of thirty seconds was enough to make him glance over, but quickly turn away again once he realised what I was being subjected to. Not about to bail me out, then. The kid was going to give me a fucking aneurysm at this rate. I lied through my teeth. "No."
She was quiet for a moment and I dreaded to think what she was going to come out with. "Can you hold hands if you're not married?"
"Uh, only if you're an adult," I said eventually. "No kissing boys until you're married. Eat your cookie." By divine intervention, the barista called out our order, and I let the two of them together to retrieve our cups. I hadn't heard the question, but whatever she'd immediately turned to my husband to ask had made his cheeks burn, the curt "ask your mother" he gave her suggested that I really didn't want to know. I towed her out of the store before she had a chance to continue it.
.
.
We wandered a little further until I felt Carlisle come to a stop again. I was sure that he was stalling again until I turned to see what the hold up was. A swell of relief washed over me; it had been so long since he'd had an interest in anything. "We can go in - do you want to go in?" I gave his hand a quick squeeze and tugged him forward, toward the automatic doors before he had a chance to overthink it. Kate might whinge a little about being in an art supply store if we were there too long, but she'd been well behaved so far.
We'd only been in the shop a few minutes before Carlisle mumbled that he wanted to leave, his first objection for the whole outing. My niece, clutching a kids pencil set and a fluffy notebook, grumbled as predicted. Something in his expression made me immediately shush her and drag both of them out. "What's up? Are you not well?" It was a stupid question, really. I kept hold of his wrist so that he couldn't shy away, wishing he'd meet my gaze.
He wouldn't. "I don't think I can draw anymore," he said instead.
Despite him looking like he was about to have a panic attack, I wasn't sure what had brought it on. "Of course you can; what'd you mean?"
He shook his head. "Garrett, I still can't cut up my own food some days."
"That's been happening less, though. Your pencils and stuff are at mom and dad's house; I'll find them for you when we get home," I tried to reassure him.
He didn't look encouraged. Nervous and a little upset instead.
When he still refused to look at me, fidgeting with nothing in his hands, I slipped my arm through his to tug him in the direction of the playground. "Hey, it'll get better." It was already better, whether he was able to see it or not, though I did wonder how much he managed to mask while I wasn't paying close enough attention. My parents were definitely convinced that he was coping with much more than he currently did.
"I hope so."
"Let's go and sit down."
He didn't protest to that. We slowly made our way toward the playground, and I released Kate's hand once it was in sight, dragging my husband toward the closest table and chairs to get him off his feet. The relief was obvious as soon as he didn't have to stand up anymore, and I slowly rubbed the back of his hand while it rested on the table between us.
"You sure you're okay?"
He nodded, and I dropped it.
.
.
He was struggling even if he wouldn't admit it. As Kate ran around the plastic tunnels and the other kids squealed and thundered about the place, he sat in silence, his arms folded against the table and his head on top of them. Each loud noise sent tension through his body. I'd been watching him more than the kids. It was nearing the time when he'd be able to take his next lot of medication, and I hoped that it might take the edge off. "Look after Kate for a moment," I murmured, squeezing his shoulder as I stood up.
He nodded - sort of, anyway - but couldn't bring himself to look up, the light too bright. I didn't pull him up on it - I could still see my niece from the nearest convenience store, and it was only going to take a few minutes to get him a drink so he could swallow the pills - his water bottle was empty after he'd all but chugged it to try and settle his stomach. It looked like it had only made him feel worse. Buying a bottle of water from the fridge, I took it out to him. "Here, baby."
"Thank you." He tried to smile, sitting up enough to dig his tablets from the bag I'd packed. His hands shook the entire time, catching on the zipper and then fighting with the foil packaging. The longer he was forced to sit upright, the more colour drained from his face. "I think I need to go home soon," he admitted finally.
"Of course. Thank you for coming out with me today; I know it's hard for you." I rubbed his hand once he had one free, watching his face while he tried to regulate the discomfort. When it didn't seem to get any better, I shifted into the seat directly next to him, slipping my arm behind him. "I love you. Do you want to leave now?"
He leaned against me as soon as I made contact, resting his cheek against my shoulder. "Not yet."
I wondered if he couldn't physically stand up right then. I gave him fifteen minutes before calling for Kate to extract herself from the playground. Thankfully, she came back without complaint. The expulsion of energy was hopefully enough to tire her out for the afternoon. Standing up, I turned to offer my husband my hand, squeezing when he linked his fingers through mine. He begrudgingly dragged himself to his feet and followed me out to the car.
Several times on the drive back I watched him shudder, try to swallow, press his hand against his lips and silently panic. He didn't ask me to stop, and I figured he'd probably vomit whether he was in the car or out of it, and that it'd be better if we just went home.
I glanced over at him to do another welfare check as I pulled the car into the driveway. The grey in his complexion and the sheer effort he was putting in to concentrating on something out the front window suggested that we were playing with borrowed time. I needed to get my niece out of the vehicle.
"Can I stay here for a couple of minutes?" he asked before I could get a word out. He hadn't looked at me, the question coming out in a rush, his already aggressive hold on the bottle of water tightening violently.
I quickly squeezed his leg. "Yeah; let me get Kate inside." She was already extracting herself from the back seat, fighting with her seatbelt, and I stretched backward to pop it undone for her. Out of the vehicle before I was, I only had to walk her to the front door, letting her charge ahead of me once it was unlocked, before I shut it again and jogged the few steps back to the car.
In the couple of minutes that I'd taken the key out of the ignition, Carlisle had started to shiver against the quickly cooling interior. He'd stuffed his hands under his thighs, sitting stiffly while he fought to keep his breathing under control.
I restarted the car to get the heater back on. "What's wrong? And don't say nothing because you're obviously not right today."
"I'm so tired."
"Come inside and lie down, then." It still looked like he was about to vomit. I gave his hand another squeeze, prying it out from under him and shifting it into my lap. My thumb traced slow circles against his palm while I watched his face. The emotion was hard to read, but eventually it registered as fear. I couldn't guess at what exactly had made him so anxious.
"I need to sit here for a bit." His voice trembled too. "Please."
"Dizzy?" I already knew the answer.
He still denied it. "Really, really tired."
"Let's go in." Eventually, he seemed to come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to feel any better too. I watched him fight to open his door, battling the weight of it, and he didn't stand up until I was in front of him. I gave him my hands again, but he reached past me to grab onto my jacket, unable to get his balance until my hands were on his waist.
"I'm going to trip," he whispered. "My body isn't working properly."
"I won't let you fall, Carlisle." Still half suspecting that he might be sick at any second, I only risked quickly kissing his cheek. For the entire short walk back to the front door, he struggled to get one foot in front of the other, so out of breath by the time we'd gotten up the three steps leading to the porch that I was worried he might go into respiratory arrest right there. "Do you want to go to bed?" I asked once we were inside.
"I can't," he mumbled back. It wasn't a lie - he barely made it as far as the couch before his legs gave out - much to the confusion of my parents. His mumbled reassurance to my mother hardly made sense.
I couldn't bring myself to leave him alone. Instead, I anxiously sat next to him, monitoring every breath he took until I caught both of my parents frowning at me. My husband was past caring that they were watching us. Leaning against me more and more, he was fighting not to fall asleep, his struggle worsening as I slipped my arm around him to rub his hip. As his arm crept over my waist and he buried his face in my chest, I watched my father's reaction in my peripheral vision; we'd been affectionate in front of him before, but I wondered if cuddling might be a little much. He didn't have any reaction past quickly glancing over when he heard us shift.
Appeased, I kissed the top of my husband's head, slipping my hand under the back of his shirt to tease the small of his back. It was slightly uncomfortable with the outdoor clothing, but I doubted he'd tolerate me trying to strip him in the family living room. "Upstairs?" I tried again, this time in a whisper.
"Can't," he repeated at the same volume. "Did I have a seizure?" The question seemed random, making everyone in the room stare at him, just as confused as he seemed to be.
The long silence was uncomfortable. "No, Carlisle," I told him eventually.
"Are you sure?"
"I've been right beside you for the last few hours."
"Did I hit my head?" That was quieter, more unsure, his fingernails biting into his own palms.
"Nothing has happened."
Looking as worried as he had in the car, he didn't relax as I rubbed his hip. "I don't think I took my medication."
"You did; I had to get you water, remember?"
"No," he answered quietly.
I gave up on it for the time being. As another hour passed and he clearly didn't have any intention of moving, I wiggled out from under him, letting him lie in my place while I helped my mother with dinner. It was an immediate red flag when he didn't object, didn't say anything other than a mumbled 'thank you' when I spread a throw over him. "Is he alright this afternoon?" she asked once we were alone. "He's not usually this comfortable around us."
Uncomfortable would have been more accurate; I doubted he'd let the last couple of hours happen by choice - certainly wasn't about to nap on the couch if he could avoid it. "I don't know what's wrong," I admitted. "Maybe getting up early with the kids and going out on the same day wasn't the best idea." I threw a glance toward the living room out of habit, though the wall blocked my view of him.
Mom watched me do it. "I can manage here on my own, if you'd rather."
I shook my head as if it was worthwhile pretending I could be cool about my proximity to him. "We've spent all day together; I can leave him alone for half an hour."
"It seemed like he was improving there for a while."
"I thought so too - I hoped so." I was still stupidly hopeful that a nap would fix him, at least return him to the state he'd been in yesterday. I just wanted him back how he used to be, before I was worried that I was missing something important every couple of seconds. In the last month, we'd started dealing with enough medical stuff at home that I felt like we should have been making more progress, and hated that he was back peddling without telling me why.
At dinner, I prepared myself for the same fight we'd had earlier. Mom relaxed her ever-strict rule of having to eat at the table, apparently concerned enough to not comment as we ate in the living room on the couch. The plus-side that I hadn't anticipated was that Carlisle sure as hell wasn't about to bicker with me while my parents were present.
I wondered if distraction was going to be the end of most of our problems. With the TV on while we ate, it only took a few prompts throughout the meal for my husband to eventually finish what was on his plate, his dissociated state seeming to make the process a little easier. I sat with him for long enough after we were done that I was sure he wouldn't be able to undo it if he made himself sick, before I dared to leave him alone and do the dishes.
"You going to stay here and finish the movie with dad?" I checked. I quickly kissed his temple as he nodded, even though my father was snoring softly from his chair and the credits were due to roll in a couple of minutes. Despite looking a little uneasy, it seemed believable when he agreed to stay put until I came back. I watched from the doorway until he settled in my place, and then headed back to the kitchen.
.
.
Carlisle POV
The way my heart fluttered was entirely unpleasant. I struggled to breathe each time the palpitations came on, feeling like blood was rushing to my head, but it was far worse today than it had been for the last week. It started again as I tried to get up the stairs, the staircase tilting dangerously underneath me as I reached the halfway mark. My heart was going to beat out of my chest. Worse - I was going to ruin my mother in-law's carpet if I couldn't get up there quickly enough.
I leaned my shoulder against the wall, trying to suck in enough air that I wouldn't collapse. My stomach cramped, rolled, threatening to bring up the meal I'd finished an hour earlier. All of this was my fault - I was a fucking idiot; I shouldn't have been so scared to admit to Garrett that he was going to have to deal with something else.
He'd guessed, at least partially, about what was going on. His offers of food had slowly morphed into suggestions of soft fruits and various frozen treats, soups and cooked vegetables, though he'd never out-right asked why I was being so difficult. When Sasha had made broth to go with dinner one night and it hadn't immediately made me sick, he was up too early the next day to make far more portions of the same thing than I'd ever be able to get through, to put in the freezer for me.
My stomach wouldn't tolerate solid food anymore, couldn't process it, maybe, hadn't since I'd woken up in the hospital. I kept hoping that the symptoms would just disappear, that it was just related to the anesthetic like the doctor had assured me during my last appointment, but it wasn't getting any better. I wasn't going to be able to keep it from him much longer - it was starting to become unmanageable; the muscles in my legs and hands were starting to cramp, the fatigue getting so bad that it was hard to move, and I couldn't stay warm. My heart felt like it was skipping beats, irregular when I held my fingers over my pulse. I was sure I was dying.
As it was, I'd been dumb enough to eat dinner with Gar and his family, too awkward to refuse and hoping that by some miracle the problem had magically dissipated. My eyes were starting to water, forcing me up another few steps as I worried that I wouldn't make it to the bathroom in time. The room was spinning, my legs starting to wobble. I suddenly regretted not telling Garrett that I didn't feel well, but I was too far gone to call out to him.
I couldn't hold it down any longer. Against my better judgement, I ran the last couple of stairs, holding my breath as my heart beat frantically, falling hard on my hands and knees in front of the toilet. Another undigested meal came up. The usual rush of dizziness from moving so quickly worsened by the strain on my body. I was going to pass out.
I needed Garrett.
It wouldn't stop. I knotted my hands in my hair in a pathetic attempt to keep it away from the mess, bracing my arms against the seat to gain enough leverage to stay on my knees. Each heave produced more stars, my vision tunneling, not leaving me enough time before each wave to take a breath. My lungs desperately burned and my eyes stung with involuntary tears from the effort.
I couldn't make a sound. Didn't get enough time between spasms. When I finally was able to yell for my husband, his name didn't come out loudly enough for him to hear it, a pathetic whimper instead. A hot trickle ran over my lips - blood on my hand when I tried to wipe it. Again, I tried to call for Garrett, for anybody, unable to get the words out.
At the same time as a hand brushed down my back, another held something cold against my forehead. The gentle circles rubbed against my spine came with words of comfort that I could only hear when it subsided just enough for me to suck in a breath. My stomach kept squeezing and squeezing. Didn't feel any better even once it was empty. I was panting for air by the time it relented.
I leaned my weight on my elbows, ducking my head against my arms as my body slumped forward. The fatigue made everything ache. My teeth were chattering. The headache was unbearable. I was too scared to move in case it came on again. Scared to breathe too deeply. Really needed the tremors to stop. So tired that I couldn't stay awake. My slurred attempts to ask for Gar again were barely audible. My heart was going to stop.
"I'm right here, baby," he soothed immediately. Carefully, he shifted me backward. The relief to be lying down overrode the room spinning. He was pressing a cool cloth against my face, still softly talking to me, rubbing my arm as he let me lie with my head on his thigh for a few minutes. He held the back of his hand against my forehead again, letting out a frustrated sigh as he presumably felt nothing.
"I'm not sick," I tried to tell him. Slowly, the room was coming into focus again. Once I was able to breathe again, no longer in danger of passing out, I carefully sat up - as much as I desperately needed to lie down, I didn't trust myself not to be sick again.
"I beg to differ, Carlisle," he grumbled. Squeezing my knee, his forced smile came out as more of a grimace as I covered his palm with mine.
"It's not a virus, I mean." I leaned my head back against the wall, sinking down a little. Telling him was the worst part of all of it; it wasn't helping my heartrate settle at all. "I can't digest anything - at least not anything solid."
He was quiet for the longest thirty seconds of my life. "When was the last time you kept something down?"
"I can handle liquids," I hedged. "And the soup you made was good too."
"A proper meal, though?"
"I don't know." Admitting that it was before I was put into a coma seemed like a terrible idea. He can't have been blind to what it had done to me in the few weeks I'd been home, but he hadn't brought it up. I could manage just enough to keep it from outright killing me, apparently. Not for much longer though.
He thought for a moment, shifting forward onto his knees. I desperately watched his face for any sign that he couldn't tolerate me any longer. "You weren't…things didn't seem this bad; were they? Did I not notice?"
There wasn't anything I could tell him that would make either of us feel better. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and avoided looking at him as if it would bail me out of the situation.
"I'll call your doctor tomorrow morning when the clinic opens." He stood up, offering me his hand to pull myself up. My body was deadweight, almost too heavy for me to lift, and I must have looked unsure enough that he immediately poised to catch me. He hovered while I brushed my teeth, not allowing enough space between us for me to end up on the floor if I did collapse.
"I'm okay, Gar - just shaky." Feeling a little less gross once I couldn't taste the acid any longer, I turned to face him, his hand grazing down my back as he pulled me into him.
He kissed my temple. "I know you're used to feeling like crap, but none of this is alright."
"I'm not going to die overnight, though," I insisted. I hoped.
"Don't even joke about that."
.
.
The next morning, we were in the doctor's office before 9am. I didn't know what Garrett had told them, and frankly couldn't bring myself to care. It was unfortunate that the appointment was for today - everything had seemed to flare up overnight, and I wasn't sure whether I was going to vomit, cry or faint as the man spoke to me. My husband, apparently, had settled on the latter option and wouldn't take his hand off me, holding a fistful of my jacket against my shoulder blade as if I was going to slide off of the chair, his arm around me as a ruse. Maybe it wasn't such an incorrect assumption.
Garrett did most of the talking thankfully. With my mouth welling with saliva, I wasn't sure what would happen if I tried to speak. My vision was blurring. I leaned into him, letting him support my weight as it became harder and harder to think. My ears were starting to ring a little, and I rested my cheek against his shoulder, struggling to keep my eyes open suddenly.
"Hey- are you going to pass out?" Sounding anxious, he roughly grabbed my waist, jolting me awake again.
"Tired," I tried to explain, forcing myself to keep my eyes open. "Just tired." They were both staring at me. I needed to get up. My heart still felt off-beat.
The doctor ushered me toward the exam table, holding his stethoscope against my chest for long enough that I felt awkward, unsure whether I should keep breathing normally. It was worse when his hands shifted, pushing into my abdomen before shifting around my back, fingertips digging deep into my sides. I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle the whimper that threatened to surface. Fuck, it hurt.
Gar shifted closer, clearly worried, and I realised I must have made a sound after all. His hand sifted through my hair as he protectively hovered at the head of the bed. The room hadn't stopped spinning even though I was lying down.
Whatever the doctor said was muffled by my own pulse thumping in my head as I sat up. Garrett still nodded. His arm snaked around my waist as I tried to stand, taking enough of my weight that my knees didn't immediately buckle. Thank god - the look that they shared made it very clear that I wouldn't be going home if I had fallen. It wasn't until we were walking out of the office that I realised I didn't have any idea what they'd decided.
"What's happening now?"
"We have to go and get a blood test," Garrett told me. His hand drifted down my back, guiding me toward reception.
I nodded, already out of breath. The pain had shifted down my legs, making it hard to stand suddenly, even worse to walk. As he spoke to the receptionist, I leaned heavily against the counter, taking the opportunity to catch my breath before I had to move again.
"Let's go," Gar murmured, his hand grazing my spine again.
"Where?" I asked, desperately trying to remember what he'd said a couple of minutes before.
"To get blood taken." He was starting to look worried again, his arm draping over my shoulders as we stepped outside. "You okay?"
"Can't think straight," I mumbled uselessly. The palpitations were getting worse the longer I stood, the tingling in my fingertips coming with a surge of dizziness.
"I'll take you straight home afterwards," he promised. He opened my door for me, kissing my temple before I sat down. "It'll be okay."
I kept quiet about it as long as I could, trying to gaslight myself into thinking it was manageable. The idling of the car aggravated whatever was happening in my stomach, the incessant need to double over irresistible. I only made it to the end of the street before complaining again. "Can we do it tomorrow? I don't feel well, Gar."
At the stop sign, he looked over at me. "We need to know how much damage the malnutrition has done."
"It's not that bad." The pain was, though.
He continued to stare at me with the same disbelief. "Carlisle, I don't think you have a very accurate gauge on that at the moment. You're really not well."
"I'm not making myself sick." The lump in my throat was instantly back, my eyes starting to sting. "It's not intentional."
"I wasn't trying to insinuate that. But if it's been happening since you were discharged, we should have dealt with it a lot sooner, and you wouldn't be so bad." He reached over to hold my hand, squeezing my fingers. "Don't panic; we're going to get blood taken, then we're going to go home and you can go back to bed, if that's what you want."
I was panicking. More about what he thought of me than anything to do with the doctor. I leaned my head against the window, keeping my mouth shut while the alternative was a meltdown.
"Baby?"
"I'm sorry."
He didn't reply, his hold on me tightening momentarily.
I watched our hands as my vision started to burn, repeatedly swallowing to get rid of the tightness in my throat. At the next intersection, I fought the urge to throw myself into the oncoming traffic, to put an end to what was ruining both of our lives.
"You okay?"
I couldn't do it. "I need to go home, Gar," I pleaded. "Please."
"Not a chance; it's happening today. You really need this; the doctor was worried that you're going to start having problems with your heart, and that you could have already damaged your kidneys. You're going to give yourself organ damage - I can't believe you didn't tell me earlier, Carlisle; I thought you were doing better." He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles blanched white, his jaw locking.
I didn't want to tell him that it already felt like my heart was going to stop, flopping uselessly under my ribs. Couldn't without making myself cry. Instead, I forced myself to suck it up, to sit up straight and stop whining before he got sick of me.
.
.
I didn't remember much of the tests or the drive back home. In a daze, I let my husband help me out of the car, not knowing how to break the tension between us now. His hands were still gentle as he touched me, but he guided me upstairs without breaking his silence, all but pushing me into our bedroom. "Do you need help getting into bed?" It was the first thing he'd said to me since we'd left the clinic.
Not trusting my voice to come out, I just shook my head. He left without another word, closing the door behind him, and I slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress. A wave of homesickness washed over me, of wanting to leave but having nowhere to go - I'd cursed us with that too. Garrett seemed to enjoy being with his family, but it never felt comfortable, always like I shouldn't be intruding.
I got into bed to avoid doing anything else stupid. As bad as the exhaustion was, I couldn't fall asleep, staring at the wall in half-darkness, light still filtering through the gap in the curtain. The pain was getting worse no matter how I lay, making it harder to breathe, my stomach too tight, and I bit a hole in my cheek trying to keep from making a sound. Distantly, the cat cried to me, her weight landing on the bed a second later, and I tried to stretch my hand out in her direction without moving, feeling her soft nose push into my fingertips a second later.
We'd be leaving her too, if we were ever able to actually get out of here. I was sure that the trip to the UK would kill me, if we were ever able to afford it in the first place. I coaxed her to lie against my body once she was close enough, her warmth and purring soothing if nothing else. Over the next few hours, I watched the light in the room change as the sun set, noise downstairs suggesting dinner and ripping Fox from my arms once she caught wind of being fed. Her claws accidentally tore into my forearm as she fled, blood immediately bubbling over, and I pressed my free hand over it in a useless attempt to stop it getting on the sheets. Any attempt to sit up was quickly foiled by how fucking badly it hurt.
My palm became tacky as the blood dried under it. I needed another infusion soon; my mouth had been bleeding for the last week and a half, every little knock making me either bruise or bleed, but I didn't want to face the cost of an unscheduled trip to the hospital until I was sure that I couldn't make it until I was booked to get the medication next.
Numb to the time passing, I listened as the noise downstairs eventually died down, Garrett's parents getting ready for bed in the room next door, the TV shutting off before there were footsteps on the stairs. Light streamed in as the door cracked open, my husband creeping in to keep from waking me. I wondered if I should just pretend to be asleep to avoid whatever awkwardness sleeping next to each other tonight brought.
"You awake?" he asked lowly.
"Y-yeah." The lamp on his bedside table dimly lit the room after I'd answered, and he leaned across from behind me to kiss my temple. I kept still, holding my breath, not daring to move.
"You have another doctor's appointment early tomorrow morning; they want to see you about your test results." He shuffled around the room, presumably getting changed, oblivious to how hard his statement had made my heart pound.
"Will you come with me?"
"You can't exactly drive yourself - you don't have a license anymore; of course I'm taking you."
I didn't need a reminder of how much of a burden I'd become. It immediately made my eyes sting again. "Thank you."
The mattress moved as he got in bed, shifting under the sheets until I felt the warmth of his body near mine. I hadn't anticipated how much the shudder would hurt, the ache inside of me sparking stars in my vision. His hand was suddenly on my shoulder. I wasn't sure what'd I'd done to give myself away. "You okay?"
Dizzy, I couldn't answer him, the room swimming as he pulled my shoulder, rolling me onto my back. My ears rang until all I could hear was white noise, my hands tingling. He untangled the sheet from where it was wrapped around my body, lightly rubbing my forearm with his free hand. The movement stopped suddenly.
"Where's the blood from?"
"Just a scratch," I mumbled, aware that the answer was barely coherent. "From Fox."
He pulled my hand away from the wound anyway, immediately seeming ratified that I hadn't done it to myself. Promising to be back, he got out of bed, a couple of long minutes passing before he slipped back under the covers. "The bleeding is getting worse again, huh? The doctor wants you to have the medication for it tomorrow while we're in the clinic."
"It's not due for another two weeks."
"Yeah, but you're anemic again, baby; you're bleeding again from somewhere." He wiped as much of it off me as he could, the bandage he loosely secured around my arm a little uncomfortable but better than trying to keep it off the sheets.
I didn't think the blood in my mouth would account for that. Neither would the cat scratch. "Did they say what was wrong with me?"
He hesitated, clearly debating whether he was going to tell me or not. "You've messed up your electrolyte levels because you've been throwing up so much, and you need fluids because you're so dehydrated," he said eventually. It sounded like an edited half-truth.
I couldn't breathe properly. "I'm sorry."
"Come here," he murmured, feeling the shudder that ran through my body. He shuffled his arm under my shoulders, drawing me closer, his free hand resting against the back of my neck to play with my hair. "I'm not mad at you, Carlisle, but I am upset that you let things get this out of control and didn't say anything. Everyone is trying to help you, but it's all for nothing if you don't help yourself. We've been through this over and over again, and I don't understand why we always circle back around to this; I can't trust you to try and get better." He gently kissed my forehead, squeezing me gently when I rested my cheek against the crook of his neck.
I wanted to die. I wished I wouldn't wake up in the morning. That my heart would just stop and I wouldn't be a burden anymore. "I'm sorry," I repeated.
He sighed, blowing out a tight breath. "I know."
"I'm really scared."
"I know; I love you."
"I'm going to die before I get over there, Gar, we can't afford plane tickets and I don't know where we'd live, and- I'm getting worse not better."
"Mom and dad are going to pay for our tickets after we speak to the doctor tomorrow to see how soon it'd be reasonable for you to be able to fly - we need to make sure your seizures are under control and that your heart is alright - your lab results really weren't great."
"They can't do that."
"I'll pay them back once we're able to, but we don't have many alternatives right now- Carlisle, it's okay; don't freak out," he tried to soothe, feeling me tense again. "It'll be okay, baby."
"But your parents-" I was going to vomit - if only I could throw up the guilt.
"They wouldn't have offered it if it was detrimental to them; they love you and just want this to be over for you." He kept lightly rubbing my spine, kissing my face again. "I love you; it'll be alright."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move with how hard my stomach knotted. The feeling didn't fade, even after we fell quiet and he fell asleep, his arm still wrapped around me. At one point, when I tried to shift away from him, to get up to have enough room to think - to be far enough away that I could panic without panicking him - the arm tightened and he tugged me back into him.
"Are you going to be safe if you get up?" Despite him mumbling and being half asleep, I still jumped when his voice interrupted the darkness.
Shaking, I almost lied to him - it didn't seem like he was asking after my physical wellbeing. I swallowed, feeling his hand tighten around a fistful of my shirt at my hesitation. When I couldn't respond, he pulled me down more tightly, forcefully enough that I couldn't resist him, until I was lying flat again. He tugged the blankets tautly enough around us that I struggled to move, wouldn't be able to roll without disturbing him.
"Then stay in bed, Carlisle."
.
.