Thank you for your well wishes for 100 chapters, and thank you even more for reading this far in, especially while I've been slow with updates. I'm not from the USA, but happy thanks giving to those who celebrate it!
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The light stung when I opened my eyes, but it was nothing compared to the headache. Nausea chewed at my stomach, but I somehow managed to curb it enough to keep my stomach contents down. I couldn't stop the groan though. It took a moment for me to figure out that I was in bed - not the make-shift bed at Eleazar's, but in the bed I shared with Carlisle - and that I'd been stripped naked aside from my boxers. The pile of blankets on top of me fought off the cold, but it didn't stop the nerves; my insides churned as I hoped drunk Garrett hadn't been horrible to him last night. The last thing I wanted was to have forced him into something.
The alcohol left in my digestive system really wasn't sitting well. I struggled upright, unable to help the grumbles as my body throbbed uncontrollably. My legs wobbled, refusing to hold my weight, and I fell back onto the mattress when I tried to stand. I swallowed to try and keep it together. My hand landed on a now-thawed bag of peas wrapped in a teatowel - a makeshift icepack - and the water bottle and painkillers on the bedside table, neatly put back, made it very clear that I hadn't been looking after myself last night. I also wasn't covered in blood anymore. Carlisle had cleaned up after me.
I sat up slowly this time, managing to get on my feet and stumble to the bathroom. The nausea lessened after a few deep breaths, but my bladder still desperately wanted to get rid of the excess fluid I'd consumed. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I slowly started to piece together the night before. It was no wonder my head hurt so bad; I had a black eye, my jaw bruised and my lip split, my nose swollen but hopefully not enough to be broken. My stupid decision to confront Heidi came back to me in a rush, and the pain in my body made sense. I still couldn't remember coming home though. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what trouble I'd called for myself once I was back, but he'd obviously felt sorry enough for me to want to help. Or maybe he just didn't want to deal with blood on the sheets.
Gingerly brushing my teeth and washing my face, I tried to clean up a bit. The alarm clock in the bedroom told me it was almost lunch time as I pulled on a fresh change of clothes, and I was suddenly anxious to know whether he was still here. I hurried down the hallway, ignoring how the movement upset my stomach; I was so desperate to see him. "Carlisle?"
The kitchen was empty. Carlisle was gone. My heart sank instantly. I wandered over to the bench, trying to force away the disappointment; of course he didn't want to see me - he'd already had to deal with my drunk ass the night before. Still a little intoxicated, it was suddenly hard not to cry; I wanted him so badly. I was such a piece of shit.
That was until I reached the bench. There was a sandwich, wrapped in cling film to a plate, a note folded under it.
'There's coffee in the pot.'
He still cared.
He still cared, or he wouldn't have worried whether I ate today or not.
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I stayed at our apartment instead of returning to Eleazar's place. On the off chance that he maybe wanted to see me too. On the off chance I wasn't just delusional.
It was 6 o'clock by the time Carlisle came home. He looked exhausted, pale and worn out. It was immediately obvious he wasn't looking after himself properly; if I'd gained weight, he'd certainly lost as much, and it looked like he hadn't been able to sleep either.
He didn't notice me at first, on autopilot as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair. He stopped to lean against the bench as he shakily poured himself a glass of water, forcing it down his throat. It looked like he was seconds from hitting the ground and I was dying to steady him. He was also soaking wet from walking in the rain that still continued to pour outside.
"Hey," I said awkwardly, nervous.
He hesitated, his spine stiffening. "Hey." A moment of tense silence. "How's your head?"
"Better. Thanks to you, I guess." I swallowed. "How are you?"
"Fine." He had his hand on the bench, taking most of his weight as he fought to stay upright. After a few seconds, he reached the same conclusion as I had - he was going to faint if he kept that up. He stumbled his way to the table to sit down, ignoring my offered hand.
"Really?" I asked skeptically. There was no way he could lie to me now.
He pressed his forehead against the wood before he answered me. "Yes. Just fucking tired because you crashed in here at 3am. What the hell were you doing?"
There wasn't any point in lying to him - he was too smart not to figure it out himself. "Heidi's husband punched me in the face," I admitted.
"You've been sending me 'I miss you' texts from her bed?" He was livered, his voice breaking at the sudden assumption I'd been cuddled up with her while I was gone. "Garrett, I can't believe-"
"No! No, I was drunk, and I was so angry that she came here and put you through that, and I went to confront her. We argued, and her husband lost it when he found out," I explained quickly. "I haven't been sleeping with her; I've been on Eleazar's couch the whole time - you can ask him and Carmen; he's sick of it and she's upset with me."
Quiet for long enough that I started to wonder if he was going to respond at all, he sighed. "Do you think it's broken? Your nose?" he questioned eventually.
"No. I mean, it's a bit sore, but it's alright," I mumbled, embarrassed. Carefully, I sat across from him at the other end of the table. Fox bunted at my ankles, quickly crawling into Carlisle's lap when I ignored her, entirely focused on him. "Have you been eating properly?" The question was out before I could stop it. I could have slapped myself - I may as well have been trying to piss him off.
"Yeah." Guilt. He hadn't been eating. Much at all, by the look of him. He was a terrible liar.
"How's you stomach healing?"
"Garrett, you can't just walk back in here and ask me that shit like everything is fine," he snapped. He made the mistake of lifting his head off of the table, the flush that had been in his cheeks seeping away.
"Yeah, well, you look like shit, and we've barely seen each other since you had a major surgery," I snapped back, matching his tone. I was way too nauseous to keep my temper. "Jesus, how long have you been alone? When did Alistair go home?"
"He stayed three days," he mumbled.
"You're not coping on your own," I accused.
"And you're having an affair," he replied hotly.
"I'm not, Carlisle. I mean, I did, but I'm not anymore. She's gone. The only person I want is you." No amount of reassurance was going to repair the gap between us. "I love you, I'm sorry I hurt you so much."
"She had your shirt, Garrett. And she knew where we lived."
"We've talked about that; you know why," I reminded him. "She was here one time, that's all. Last night...did I…?" I silently begged him to tell me I wasn't a complete asshole, that I hadn't tried to force anything on him. If nothing else, it jerked him away from the subject momentarily.
"You were drunk, and you came in bleeding and mumbling about being assaulted, so I put you to bed." He must have realised what I was so worried about, because he added; "that's it."
"Thank god," I groaned out of relief.
He frowned, managing to look up at me. "You're an asshole, but you're not a predator, Garrett."
I had to chuckle at that, despite how horribly relieved it made me feel. "I was so worried that I put my hands on you when you didn't want it," I mumbled, my face getting hot. "Sorry you had to clean up after me."
"It's alright," he mumbled. "I'm sorry I never replied to your messages."
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It was nice. Kind of. We talked for a while, without bickering for the first time in a month, and I was grinning like a moron because he wasn't pushing me away. It wasn't an entirely friendly conversation, but it was better than how we had been. I could see he had absolutely no trust in me, no faith, but he seemed so exhausted that he just didn't care.
"Do you...Can I make you a cup of tea or something?" I asked after a while. It looked like he was about to fall, despite trying to stabilise himself on the tabletop.
"Um, can I have some more water, maybe? Please?" he asked shakily.
I quickly got up - too quickly; my head spun with the hangover - hurrying to get him a glass. "You're pretty wobbly, huh?" It took everything I had not to put my hand on his shoulder as I handed him the cup, but I shoved them into my pockets instead. "You sure you're okay? What's going on?"
"The doctor said my blood pressure is low; it makes me dizzy sometimes," he admitted.
"From you immune thing? Have you been back in hospital?" I frowned, suddenly feeling very out of the loop. It stung that he hadn't called me, but it didn't make sense that he would if we weren't together.
"Not hospital, just to the doctor's clinic. I kept getting sick, and I needed antibiotics." My attention made him shift and squirm, fidgeting with his sleeves, nervous.
"Why on earth did you go to out today? You should have stayed home if you've been feeling terrible." And he was still drenched, his body not making the heat required to dry his clothing.
His face flushed pink, but he didn't try and fool me. "Because I didn't think I wanted to be home with you, but you were hurt and I didn't want to make you get up because it wasn't fair." Trying to swallow down the water, he surrendered suddenly. "I need to lie down, Garrett, I don't want to fall again." He tried to stand up, managing to get as far as the couch before he gave up.
I was standing at the same time as he was, holding his arm before I could stop myself. I felt the bandages under his sleeve, both of us wincing, but the relief to be touching him again overwhelmed everything. "Again? What'd you mean 'again', Carlisle?"
"I told you that I was dizzy," he mumbled. He had all but collapsed now, too dazed to fight me off.
"This is going too far," I grumbled, suddenly angry at every medical professional we'd ever spoken to. "If you're struggling that much, then you can't be living alone - what happens if you get too sick to take care of yourself? Or if you fall and knock yourself out?" My questions dug into him more deeply than I intended, but it was a conversation we needed to have, and we had to have it.
"I can't be in a relationship with you, Garrett, if that's what you're hinting at." He ripped his sleeve out of my hand, stumbling as the violent movement off balanced him.
"This isn't about 'us', this is about you getting worse and not making plans to manage your own health. You at least have to acknowledge that this is dangerous," I reasoned. I knew he was depressed, that this was the last thing he could be bothered with, but it was probably the most important.
"I need to get changed," he mumbled, folding his arms over his face. Escaping.
"Carlisle," I pleaded.
"I'm cold; leave me alone."
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"Can you open this?" He held out a jar to me as I came into the kitchen, hair still wet from showering and clothing askew, visibly flustered. It had been about half an hour since I'd last seen him, but he had achieved the bare minimum. The amount of effort it had taken him to get off the couch and to the bathroom was painful to watch.
"Yeah." I frowned as I popped the top off, leaning my hip against the bench and watching him struggle for a few minutes. It was only toast, but the amount of effort it took from him made it seem like a three course meal. I wasn't sure how to step in and stop him. "Do you want a hand?" I asked after a while.
"No," he replied quickly. Unfortunately for him, he dropped the butter knife he was holding, sending it clattering into the sink as it slid along the bench, the lid of the jar dropping onto the floor a second later. He instinctively reached down to pick it up, cursing as bending down sent a stab of pain through his stomach.
"Let me help you, Carlisle. You had to clean up after me; I can make you dinner," I insisted. I picked up the lid and passed it to him, frowning as I caught sight of the bandaging on his wrists. It was haphazard and clumsily done, certainly not a pressure dressing like the nurse had told him. That was a battle for later. "Why don't you sit down?"
"Because I need to make dinner," he told me flatly, agitated.
"I'm going to cook; you're going to sit down," I interrupted him. "Please. I know you're mad at me, but you don't need to be doing this to yourself." It didn't seem like a good idea to touch him, as much as I was dying to.
He was shaking his head, his back stiff. "No, I-"
"Now really isn't the time to be stubborn," I cut him off. "It's one meal. It doesn't mean that you suddenly have to take me back and we're going to go back to normal, it's just to stop you hurting yourself." Annoyed with him, I did consider leaving him to drown on his own for a moment, but I couldn't do it. Even if he was being a pain to deal with. "Christ, I know you hate me, but why does everything have to be so difficult with you all the time. I'm literally doing you a favour," I grumbled.
"No, you're telling me what to do after being gone for three weeks and screwing some woman behind my back! I asked if you could open the jar for me, not fucking cook. Just leave me alone if you're going to yell at me! Why are you like this?"
I ignored the tantrum he was throwing, swallowing away any mean comments I wanted to make. "I'm trying to stop you getting hurt, Carlisle."
"It's far too late for you to worry about that, Garrett." Bitter. He was so bitter.
"Is me cooking for you really that terrible?" I sighed.
"Yes. It is." He raised his chin definitely, crossing his arms across his chest.
"So you're just going to live on toast for the foreseeable future? You'll starve to death."
"Good."
"Carlisle," I groaned through my teeth. "You realise this is ridiculous, right?"
"You realise that it's ridiculous that you think you can walk back in the door and I'll forgive you, right?" he replied sarcastically.
"Hey, I might not think that if you didn't look after me last night," I reminded him.
"I might not have done that if you hadn't come in here unannounced at 3am pissing blood out of your face and saying you'd been assaulted. What else was I supposed to do?" Only getting more upset, he picked up the toaster, trying to shove it back into its place on the shelf. It was too high, bending his hand the wrong way. He jerked back, a sharp yelp of pain escaping as the appliance tumbled to the ground, it's case cracking around it's frame.
My initial response was to yell at him for being clumsy, but the look on his face made me shelve it for later. It shouldn't have hurt him, really, but he was clutching his wrist with his other hand, holding his breath as he squeezed it against his chest. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I just going to pretend that didn't happen?" I picked up the toaster, writing it off immediately and throwing it in the trash.
"Nothing's wrong; I just slipped the other day," he mumbled. "It's fine."
"It's not fine; you've hurt yourself. Let me see." I reached for him, but he turned his shoulder on me.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
"You're not, don't be dumb."
"I am - it's just a sprain," he mumbled. "It's fine."
"It's not fine if you're in pain."
"I've been in pain for the last six months, why does it suddenly matter so much now? My stupid hand is the least of my problems right now." Although he'd tried to stay angry, it was dissolving, anxiety replacing it again.
We stood in silence for a few minutes, me watching his face while he avoided looking at me. "Let me make dinner, I need to cook for myself anyway," I reasoned softly. "Please go and sit down."
"Okay, Garrett," he agreed softly. Giving up, he did what he was told.
I gave him some space while he picked up Fox, cradling her in his lap as he sat on the couch. I quickly shoved some pasta on to cook, throwing it all in a pot and suddenly finding out that we didn't have any fresh produce - of course we didn't; Carlisle clearly wasn't coping. It was an effort to curb my tongue, to not scold him being so dumb and not telling me, but I managed it. Sighing through my teeth, I quickly jotted down a grocery list to pick up tomorrow.
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I'd been trying to catalogue what he was struggling with in my head, but he'd half-done so much that it was difficult to tell. He'd been able to do laundry, but not fold it, straighten the bed, but not tuck the blankets in, and put the trash out but not get the recycling bin back into the cupboard. It hit me all at once that he was used to this, used to doing enough to appear okay from the outside, but falling apart behind closed doors. I finished what he hadn't managed, cutting his food into little pieces before I handed him his plate; he must have almost killed himself trying to help me the night before.
"I'm, uh, going to go to the grocer tomorrow; is there anything you want in particular?" I asked carefully. It didn't surprise me when he shook his head. I let the silence continue while we ate, watching him battle with the cutlery to avoid twisting his hand again. "Is it okay with you if I stay here tonight? I'll sleep out here."
He nodded slowly. "Thanks for cooking."
"It's alright." I swallowed a few more mouthfuls to work up to the next question. "Can I...will you let me fix your bandaging? It looks like it's hurting you."
"Yes please," he mumbled. He carefully picked at his meal, but I already knew he wouldn't be able to finish it. "It's hard to do it with one hand."
"How've your headaches been?" I was just looking for trouble now.
He swallowed another mouthful. "Kinda bad." It was almost inaudible. "Work's been stressful, and…"
"And we both know it's not work causing all this for you."
"It has to be work, because I don't know what to do if it isn't." His voice broke. "I'm really sorry, but I can't finish this, Garrett." Starting to put his plate down, he was starting to look like he was waiting for me to yell at him for it.
I took it from him. "I didn't expect you to finish it, Carlisle. Sit there a minute, and I'll fix your arms, okay?" The urge to kiss him as I stood up almost got the better of me, but I managed to stop myself just in time.
"Actually, um, don't worry about it. I just need to go to bed."
"Are you not feeling well?" Even if it meant having to deal with the wounds, I'd rather that if it meant that I got to touch. The three feet between us on the couch felt like a fucking ocean. "It'll take five minutes."
"It doesn't matter; I just need to lie down, or I'm going to throw up," he told me. He stood up too quickly, the world spinning and sending him stumbling, almost tripping. I caught him as he fell into me, both of us shakily drawing in a breath at the sudden contact. "I don't care if...you don't have to sleep on the couch."
"I'll stay out here," I assured him. "You okay getting to bed?" I so, so badly wanted him to ask for my help, just to keep my arms around him a little longer, but he shook his head.
"I've been fine for three weeks, Garrett."
That was an absolute lie.
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