Long delayed update...
I hadn't expected moving back home in my late twenties to be as simple as it was. The growing pains I'd expected as we slotted ourselves into my parent's routine never came, and I fell into an easy rhythm with them as though I'd never left.
Having Carlisle home had also gone more smoothly than I'd imagined. The more time that passed, the more secure I felt about my abilities to look after him, and I'd lulled myself into a false sense of security as the days rolled on and he hadn't had another seizure. Still struggling with the dizziness and his coordination, he'd needed to talk me through his injections and how to push the antibiotics through the line in his arm. He insisted that it didn't hurt, but neither thing felt right the first time. My initial suggestion that my mother might be more capable had been met with enough panic that I didn't suggest it again. It had stopped making me squirm by the third day I'd had him back.
The process seemed a little more tedious for him. It was abundantly clear that he'd never lived in a peaceful home; he jumped whenever someone entered the room, winced at every loud sound, and retreated to our bedroom at every possible opportunity. He did his best to mask that he was unwell, smoothing over as many of his symptoms as he could and attempting to cover any of the medical equipment he was still reliant on. Any questions about his health only surfaced answers of 'good' and 'fine'.
I let him get away with it in front of mom and dad. Between the two of us, he couldn't manage it. The doctors had warned me that he'd need help with a lot of mundane tasks while he recovered, but they apparently had expected him to figure it out on his own. It had only resulted in him becoming frustrated and anxious every time he failed.
Some days were better than others; when I woke up to discover that he'd regained enough coordination to be able to use his laptop, I'd thought that a lot of his troubles were over - only for him to be so bad the next morning that he couldn't cut up his own food at the breakfast table. He hadn't wanted to have a meal with the family after that. Aside from the isolation it caused him, I didn't think it would make a difference nutritionally; he was too polite to decline my mother's cooking but was inevitably sick an hour later. He'd tried to hide that from me too - and mostly succeeded, usually having tucked himself into bed and pretending that it hadn't happened by the time I found him.
I didn't know what to do about it.
In the meantime, with my limited handyman skills, I was helping my parents with some minor renovations in their home, in exchange for letting us live there rent free - rather, I spent most of my time at the top of a ladder while my father shouted directions from the ground. It wasn't a task that I enjoyed, painting the interior trims that meet the ceiling, but it was preferable to my sixty-something year old dad getting up there to do it himself.
He was doubtful enough of my abilities to keep hold of the ladder the entire time I was up there, snapping "careful" at me whenever I wobbled - which was any time I looked down. My husband had had the same reaction before he'd decided he couldn't watch me fall to my death and banishing himself back upstairs. It was very clear that he wouldn't be able to help - his first and only attempt to pass me the paint can from the ground had nearly resulted in another faint, him having to sit on the floor at my feet until he could get his breathing and heart rate in check, my mother's fussing around him not helping at all. I couldn't tell if it was due to the action itself or the strain that the weight of the tin put on his body.
.
.
Living with my parents, in my childhood home, was comfortingly nostalgic. The times that Carlisle somewhat covered his illness almost felt like we were on holiday, like we were here purely for christmas festivities. Mom met me in the kitchen early every morning, and we'd have coffee in the living room together before anyone else woke up. We cooked every meal together and ate as a family, and I was getting far too sappy about the entire thing.
It also meant I was spending nearly all of my free time in the kitchen, food as a hobby becoming as consuming as it had been before I'd met Carlisle and was introduced to a social life. In the space of a few days, while my husband hid in our room and tried to escape life in general, in between my nervous half-hourly welfare checks on him, I baked cookies for my mother's church meeting, cupcakes for another birthday party that Carmen had enlisted me for, and several desserts for our neighbour's dinner party.
Carlisle had gotten ready with me in preparation to go next door on the evening of the event, and I couldn't keep my hands off of him despite his nerves. We weren't dressed up by any means, but it was a long way from hospital pajamas and sweatpants. "Nothing fits," he complained to me, self consciously trying to adjust the waist of his pants and untucking his shirt when it didn't do any good. It wasn't entirely clear why he hadn't bailed on it yet; he would be miserable the entire time, and I doubted that he wanted the first time he'd gone outside since he was discharged to be walking one house over for dinner. It wasn't as though either of us were going to eat there.
"You were in a medically induced coma less than four weeks ago." I caught his hands, stopping the fidgeting, squeezing when he tried to pull away. "Carlisle, I don't expect you to come." The last thing I wanted was for him to push himself for a dinner that didn't matter. "You don't need to if you don't feel up to it."
He let me hug him, hiding his face in my shoulder. "I don't want to go," he mumbled into my jacket.
"You don't have to; get back in bed. I'm not going to stay for the meal, obviously, so I won't be long anyway."
"I don't want to be rude either. Do they…do the neighbours even know I exist? They won't notice if I don't come?"
"To be honest, I don't know if mom has told them that you'd be there, but it's irrelevant." I kissed his temple, my hand sneaking under his shirt to rub the small of his back. When he didn't step back, shrinking into me instead, I made the decision for him. "Lie down; I'll make you some tea, and you can stay here and finish your book in peace without me interrupting you every thirty seconds." I felt him laugh, grinning at him when he finally looked up at me - although I hadn't been met with irritation, I had been continuously bothering him for conversation while he hadn't wanted to come downstairs and I craved his company.
"I can't get into trouble if I'm in bed," he told me unsurely, not sounding as though he believed it himself.
"Just call me, and I'll come straight back," I promised. As much as leaving him here filled me with dread, I was sure I could get back within the hour. "Are you…feeling safe enough for me to go? I'll stay home too if you don't feel okay about being here alone." It would be a nice excuse to blow it off, to be able to pin it on him and not on my own anxiety, but I really needed to follow through on my promise to my mother. Carlisle's quick reassurance that he'd be fine was confusing until I realised he really just wanted to finish that damn book. Fine.
My parent's neighbours were lovely people. Renee and Phil had lived next door for years, and I'd waited tables in their cafe as a teenager. It was immediately obvious that my mother had been over to gossip. Renee knew most of the details of my life over the last decade, had been updated recently enough to ask after Carlisle and how he was doing.
I loosely told her about our move - both into my parent's home and to the UK, and she politely pretended that she didn't already know. She was overly enthusiastic about the desserts, and let me nervously blabber at her about the cheesecake as I fought not to check that I'd taken my phone off of silent mode for the fortieth time in ten minutes.
She realised I wasn't about to stay long before I'd even excused myself, packaging a portion of dinner and dessert for both Carlisle and I and sending me on my way without any hard feelings. I was back home less than forty five minutes after I'd left.
I dished both of our meals out of the plastic tupperware before taking them upstairs. We generally avoided eating in our room, but my parents weren't home to worry about it and a private dinner sounded like heaven. I had to fight the urge to run, forcing myself to walk calmly and keep my breaths slow and steady, my heart hammering against my ribs until I had evidence that he was still warm and breathing.
My husband hadn't moved at all, but had finished his tea and opened his laptop to watch a movie - some cheesy eighties horror, which was quickly paused when I came in. His novel had seemingly been finished and abandoned, having been set on the floor and the bookmark removed. Sooner or later, we were both going to have to endure a library trip. It was a hurdle for another day.
"Did you sneak out?" He smiled when he saw me, but it faded a little when he saw what I was holding. Still, he shuffled up the bed to sit against the wall. "That has to be a new record."
I grinned back. "Renee sent me back with dinner - she was worried I wasn't feeding you." Setting the plate down in his lap, I carefully watched his face as I settled beside him. He covered the sudden rush of anxiety well. "Just have what you want," I reminded him.
He nodded and took a careful mouthful of pasta to appease me. I watched him in my peripheral vision as I ate. Repeatedly shifting his weight, he did everything but swallow it, eventually relenting and accepting the vegetable portion. The segregation he'd created on his plate was very reminiscent of what my niece did when I served her something she was unsure about. "I don't think I want to eat meat anymore," he said eventually. "It makes the nausea worse."
"I don't think you have an allergy to all meat, Carlisle," I carefully replied.
He wouldn't meet my gaze, toying with his fork, as if he could push the greenery any further away from the mince he'd picked out of it. "It's not an allergy, but it makes me feel sick." His issues with food since he'd come home had been bordering on phobias, and I'd already had to be careful about what mom attempted to force feed him. We'd both been aware of his hovering when plates were served, worried about what came from which pot and what else was in there with it. Most sauces and seasonings were out, and he'd generally avoid everything completely unless it was bland and tasteless. I'd been needing to keep his meals largely separate from everyone else's anyway, in hopes that it would make it more tolerable. I'd been stupid to even hope that he might enjoy what was on the menu tonight.
"That's fine, if it's going to make it easier for you to eat." I reached over to squeeze his leg.
"I'm sorry I'm a pain in the ass."
"You're not a pain in the ass," I chuckled, nudging him with my shoulder.
He rolled his eyes at me. "That's such a lie; I'm objectively difficult, Garrett."
"Not difficult, just trying to get better," I corrected. It was going to be easier for him once the residual symptoms he still had died down. As it was, he'd stalled and didn't seem to be able to bring himself to have any more. My offers of wine and dessert were predictably refused. That didn't stop me having some of both. We finished the movie, lying in bed once I'd washed our plates, and once again I was struck with how much I loved all of this - except the state my husband was in.
Carlisle had given up on the film about an hour in, but I continued to use watching it as a ruse to remain tangled around him. The soft kisses we shared remained just that, but my heart still raced. Giddy and hot, I tried to keep my hands gentle as they brushed over him, sneaking under his clothing to hold his waist, pulling him against me.
By the end of the movie, I'd had to slow down in fear of hurting him. He hadn't complained, so long as I stayed close - as if I could bring myself to allow any space between us. Thinking we were in bed for the night, he'd turned in my arms, his back pressed against me, while I'd moulded myself around him, forcing slow breaths to stop myself from getting out of hand. He shuffled his hips back against mine, nestling back into me as I slipped my arm around his middle to tug him closer.
Every little shift drove me crazy. He moved his leg back between mine, not awake enough to feel what he was doing to me, apparently. I ran my hand up his chest, my fingertips brushing bare skin as I slipped under his shirt, teasing his ribs. For a second, I wondered if he'd started this on purpose - until he hugged my arm around him and laced our fingers together.
"Baby, I need to get up," I told him, feeling the heat flush from my face and down my neck, my throat dry. I pressed a kiss to his shoulder as if it would help me.
He mumbled a plea for me to stay, his hand tightening over mine, resting his weight back against me.
My heart was going to beat out of my chest. "Carlisle, please." I couldn't get my arm out from under him without being too rough, his grip on me tightening when he felt me attempt to draw back.
He rolled over to face me, looking concerned suddenly. My cheeks started to burn, his sudden proximity not helping the rush of endorphins in my system. As much as I needed to get out of bed and calm down, I was dying to kiss him again. He was so pretty, and I was so happy to have him back.
"Just for a few minutes. I'll be right back." I tried to sound sure about it. Like I wouldn't have given absolutely anything to have his hands on me.
"Are you alright?" His hand came to rest against my neck, his thumb brushing over my throat. When I took too long to respond, panicking a little while I floundered for an answer that wouldn't make either of us uncomfortable, he lightly pressed his lips to mine.
I snaked my arms around him, crushing any space between us. Almost involuntarily, one hand tangled in his hair, bringing my mouth back to his. We couldn't do anything. Not while we were in my parent's house. Definitely not while he was barely out of the hospital.
Still, he allowed my frantic kisses, my skin tingling as he trailed his fingertips across my bare chest. He knew. He had to know - I was pushed up against him so obviously, despite my best attempts to not do it. It was embarrassing, really; I was a grown man and no better at controlling myself than a teeneger. Christ, we were both still dressed and I was about to-
He shifted, taking his weight off of his shoulder as it started to ache, but it aligned my hips with his. My responding moan was involuntary. We couldn't keep going - I was going to blow our cover. His chuckle was silent, a vibration in his chest as he failed to hide his smile. His hand rested against my sternum, still softly teasing, while I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood.
I was so desperate that it was painful. As much as I was ready to beg my husband to touch me, I didn't trust myself, didn't want to pressure him while he was unwell. I grabbed his wrist to stop him as his hand shifted downward. "I can't," I blurted out.
He laughed again, and it did horrible, wonderful things to my body. I could feel myself blushing again, his next kiss landing on my forehead before he met my lips again. "Can't, what? Keep quiet?" he teased.
"And you're- I don't want to make you worse." While he was in the ICU, and eventually when I knew the date he'd be coming home from the hospital, I'd been fine with the fact that we wouldn't be able to be intimate for a long time, that the hugs and kisses between us would be somewhat platonic while he got better - mentally I'd prepared myself for this being our reality for the rest of our lives; I'd be fine with it for as long as he needed me to be. What I hadn't expected was how badly I still wanted him; it felt almost perverted when he was struggling to get through the day. I knew that it would be a long time before he could physically handle being together how we used to, that he wouldn't be remotely interested in me with all that was going on, but fuck it was killing me.
He was apparently having similar thoughts. "It's just my hand; nothing bad is going to happen."
I hesitantly released his wrist, resting my arm over his waist again, my hands fidgeting with his shirt. I couldn't grab at him. Couldn't pull him too roughly, couldn't rest my weight against him. It was agony.
"Relax, Garrett," he whispered.
Whatever I got out between my teeth was unintelligible. The warmth of his palm below my waist was almost the end of everything. He tried to shush me, kissing my temple when I attempted to smother any sound I made in his shoulder. It should have been mortifying, how quickly it was over. He held me against him while I panted to get my breath back, his free hand rubbing the back of my neck until I could bring myself to look at him again.
"I can- do you want me to-?" My throat was still dry, even if the tension was gone. I felt gross suddenly, selfish and ashamed of myself.
He shook his head and shifted onto his back. His fingers knotted in my hair, pulling lightly at my scalp as I kissed his chest, his neck, his face, sorry.
"Are you sure?"
His cheeks flushed. "I don't think I can…that's not going to happen for me for a while."
"I love you."
.
.
The next morning marked our fifth day here. I was up far too early; Carlisle's tossing and turning had made it difficult to stay asleep, and I'd quickly developed a vicious cycle of waking every hour to check on him. I surrendered at 6am, getting up to retrieve his antibiotics, not getting much more than a sleepy nod when I warned him that I was about to administer it. Usually, he'd force himself to be coherent enough to guide me through it, but this morning I'd had to fight his arm out of the bedding, and the most help I'd gotten from him was an attempt to shove his sleeve out of the way to give me access to the end of the line.
I watched his face as I slowly pushed the syringe. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept much either, his breathing a little too jagged to be considered restful. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I asked as an excuse to talk to him. Unable to resist, I reached over to brush his hair off of his face, wanting him to wake up. It wasn't entirely fair to make him get up too, despite how desperately I wanted his company before he hid himself away for the day. I still got a thrill out of having him home again; it felt like the novelty would never wear off. If I had it my way, we'd spend every second together, and I'd get to have my hands on him whenever I liked, to always have him in my arms. He was still far too unwell to tolerate half of it - he couldn't spend too long downstairs without it bringing on a rush of symptoms. "I'll make breakfast."
"No, thanks," he mumbled. He glanced over as I disconnected the syringe, watching as I capped the line, and started to fall asleep again when I'd apparently done it correctly. "Thank you."
I leaned down to kiss his temple, my free hand lightly squeezing his forearm. "I'm so glad you're home." Seeming as nobody else was awake and I doubted he'd appreciate me insisting on a conversation, I hauled myself into the shower in hope it'd make me feel a little more human.
I stood there far too long, letting the hot water scald my shoulders. I wasn't sure how much time had passed before the bathroom door suddenly flew open, ricocheting off the wall with enough force that it slammed closed again. My husband barely made it to the toilet before he was sick. The violence of it took me off guard; he'd avoided it happening in front of me since he'd come home.
"Jesus." Frozen, my pulse still hammering in my ears after the sudden intrusion, I just watched the scene play out. The hiss of the shower seemed amplified in the silence between us.
"Sorry," he mumbled once he was able to.
"Are you alright?" There wasn't much I could do in my current state, covered in soap, so I quickly started to rinse myself off. By the time I was dry enough to be of any use, he'd managed to sit back, resting his head back against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. "You've not been feeling well all night, huh?"
He shook his head. "I kept hoping it would go away. I'm really glad it was you in the shower, though - we might have had to move again if it wasn't."
"You picked your timing well." I was a little unwilling to joke about it while he was still fighting to breathe, clammy when I touched his shoulder. "Are you in pain?"
"Nothing too bad."
Liar. Tying my towel around my waist, I crouched down to level us. "Did you eat something this morning? What triggered that?"
"It happened when I sat up; the dizziness is really bad this morning." His hand drifted up to touch his face, to wipe away the steady stream of blood that'd started to run.
I caught his wrist. "Your nose is bleeding, baby."
He had so much trouble trying to grasp the tissues I passed him that I had to press them into his hand. It was a wonder that he'd actually been able to make it to the bathroom in the first place. "My stomach is bleeding a little too, I think."
I sighed, frowning at him. It took everything I had not to immediately freak out. My study of his face, in an attempt to determine how ill he really was, gave away nothing. My own gut was twisting. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
"I'm okay, Gar," he promised. "It's just a bad day."
I didn't believe it. Still, I hurried back down the hallway to throw on the closest change of clothes. Fox tripped me with every step; she'd been drawn in by the sound of our voices and was now demanding breakfast as though she was starving to death. She had adjusted to the change within a couple of days of being here, having taken to sleeping on my father's lap while he sat in his lounge chair by the second evening. It was one unexpected thing we didn't have to worry about.
Her claws needled my bare thighs as I tried to get dressed, her paws stretched up my body as far as she could reach as she continued her ravenous plea. I grumbled at her, scooping her up, pulling the bedding straight before I dumped her onto it. She'd settle there once Carlisle was lying down again.
He met me in the hallway, gingerly on his feet and his hand on the wall to keep himself steady. I automatically reached for him. "Still feeling sick?"
He nodded, needing to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the room spinning enough to regain his footing. It was looking awfully like the prelude to the episode that had landed him with a tube down his throat.
"I'll call your doctor once the clinic opens. Is the headache back?" I anxiously tried to gauge if he was warmer than normal, if he was febrile, if the flush in his face was from more than vomiting, if the infection was back in his bloodstream and I needed to rush him back to the hospital.
"It never left; I don't feel any different to the last few days." Wanting to lie down, he tried to push away from me, to walk back to bed, but his legs had started to shake and he couldn't get far without me steadying him again.
"You weren't vomiting like this yesterday," I pointed out. I kept my hand on the small of his back until he was safely sitting down.
"I've been like this since I came home, Gar. Just not usually while you were in the shower." He looked a little better once he was tucked under the blankets, colour starting to come back to his face.
Once again, I grabbed the cat off the floor. Her purrs were instant as I set her beside him. "I'm going to get you some water; don't move."
.
.
Mom handed me our mail as I came into the kitchen. She didn't give me long to comprehend why she was looking at me like I was stupid. "When were you going to tell me you two have gotten married? You didn't invite your own mother to your wedding." She was grinning when I looked up at her from the envelopes in my hand, shaking her head when she realised I was too dumb to catch on. "I assume that's what's happened, since Carlisle has changed his name?"
I swallowed dryly, guilty. One of the letters had our shared surname on it. The novelty of that was going to take a while to wear off. "We signed the paperwork not long before he ended up in hospital last time. It's going to make things easier while he's sick and we're moving."
Her expression became guarded and she turned back to the bench, hesitant. "Has it helped?"
"Yes; Carlisle has residency here, and it should help me get a visa into the UK."
Again, her pause was too heavy. "Do you love each other?"
"It isn't a sham marriage, mom, jesus," I grumbled back. "You love him too - I know you do. So does dad." A little annoyed, I stepped around her to get to the tap.
"Of course we do. But I know things were rough between you two earlier, and his friend seemed rather involved with him when I visited." Al. Even when he wasn't here, he was making things complicated.
"We've gotten through it, and Alistair has moved away." Granted, he had been less handsy with my husband in my mother's presence. I wasn't sure what he'd done to make her worry. It didn't bode well that she'd noticed, and I held my breath while she was silent, knowing there was more coming.
"Does Carlisle know that his friend is in love with him?" she asked eventually.
I couldn't help the relieved sigh that slipped out. "Yeah, we're both painfully aware."
She nodded like she'd expected that. "I'm pleased he's officially my son in-law; your father will be too. Will you two have breakfast with us this morning?"
I shook my head and gave her the edited version of what had happened earlier, leaving out the blood and my nudity, and then edged around her again to get back upstairs to him.
She caught my arm before I could get past. "Congratulations, love. We'll have to celebrate when Carlisle is feeling up to it."
.
.
It would be a while before he would be feeling up to anything. By the time I got back upstairs, he wasn't bleeding anymore but clearly wasn't well. Exhausted, he'd sunk into the blankets, all but asleep again. The water sloshed against the plastic when I handed the bottle over, the cautious sip he took seeming to help despite his hands shaking.
I sat with him until I was sure that he wasn't going to go into cardiac arrest right there. He quickly fell into fitful sleep again, awake every ten minutes, briefly checking whether I was still beside him before he'd pass out again. I kept his hand in mine, my fingertips curled around his wrist to rest over the artery there, calmer while I could feel his heart beating. "I'm okay," he told me again eventually. "Just tired."
I wondered if it was my nerves that were keeping him awake. Outside, I could hear dad cursing as he dragged the ladder back into the house from the garden shed, the banging of the metal frame against the wood of the porch sent a jolt through my husband, his hand suddenly on my leg. A few seconds passed before he recognised the sound and relaxed again. "You should go and help your father."
"Am I bothering you?"
"No, but I'm okay without a babysitter and he is going to hurt himself doing that alone."
I wasn't sure how to explain that the need to be near him had become pathological since he'd come home, and even the thought of being away from him made me feel physically ill. Unless I could see that he was still breathing, still warm and pink and able to talk to me, it was difficult to focus on anything else. He was right though - I needed to hijack the task. "Will you come downstairs?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He shifted, looking up at me while I avoided him. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, but I feel better when I can keep an eye on you, especially while you've been unwell like you were this morning," I said carefully.
"Not just today though, Garrett; you've been strange about me being alone since I've come home - more than you were before," he pressed gently.
"I like to be able to see that you're okay, after everything that has happened." Thinking about it formed a lump in my throat, and I tightened my hold on him. It wasn't fair to get upset about it in front of him and I wished he'd just drop it before it became a problem. I'd tried not to badger him too much about staying in my vicinity, but my time downstairs with my parents was marred by the constant worry that he was ill and I didn't know, that he'd have a seizure and would choke, or faint and hurt himself and bleed out-
It was too easy to spiral.
"Of course you don't have to, but I'd really appreciate it if you came with me," I tried again, feeling as pathetic as the plea sounded.
He looked skeptical, but something stopped him from refusing, his nod seeming unsure.
I leaned forward to wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his shirt for a couple of seconds as I rode out the wave of relief. "Thank you."
His fingers weaved through my hair. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Just terrified of losing you. I nodded, lifting my head enough to kiss his jaw but not enough for him to see my expression. Another clatter of metal, the clang of the ladder hitting the top step, brought on an involuntary sigh. I contemplated rushing downstairs to confiscate the task without my husband, but I still couldn't bring myself to leave him. Instead, I waited for him to slowly get upright again, watching the colour seep from his face as he sat on the edge of the bed, eventually managing to breathe steadily enough to get control of the lightheadedness.
By the time we made it to the living room, dad had successfully wrangled the ladder frame inside. I surrendered Carlisle to my mother - the enthusiasm we'd been met with when she realised he intended to stay downstairs with us was a little too much. He didn't seem to care, so long as he could sit down again, still clutching the water like it was a lifeline as he carefully settled on the couch.
In the dining room, I was only half paying attention to the task at hand. As my father passed me up what I needed, once again grumbling that he was perfectly capable of doing all of this himself and I didn't have to do it if I didn't want to, I watched mom and Carlisle in the reflection in the window. She had her knitting in her lap, the gentle clicking of the needles breaking the silence between them as she let him settle with his book. In the glass, she wasn't focused on her project - a tan sweater which was starting to tumble from her lap - watching him instead. I had a knot in my gut as I tried to figure out what she was seeing that concerned her more than usual.
I eventually gave up staring; if I managed not to fall and break my ankle, I was definitely going to make a mess. Already, the paint had dribbled from where I'd spread it too thickly while I hadn't been paying attention. I still couldn't resist little glances over at him. He was starting to look queasy again, the too frequent sips of water he forced not helping the visible discomfort. "I can finish this on my own, you know," my father murmured as he followed my line of sight.
"No way, old man," I grumbled back, trying to tease despite my pulse still thumping in my ears.
He scoffed, making as though he was about to tip me off of my step, rolling his eyes. "I'm only in my sixties, Garrett; stop acting like I'm ancient."
"It's about time I got you a walking frame." The next time I looked over my shoulder, Carlisle was up, stumbling in the direction of the closest bathroom, mom watching him leave and asking whether he was alright. It took everything I had not to immediately leap off the ladder and give chase, to stay where I was and pretend I wasn't so jumpy.
"He's not doing so well this morning, is he?" Dad frowned.
"Nauseous," I told him.
He let the silence hang between us for a few seconds, both of us watching the hallway where Carlisle had disappeared. "Do you want to check on him?"
I swallowed. "He doesn't like me hovering." I had to at least give him a chance to be okay on his own. My attention shifted to the clock on the wall. Every few seconds, my eyes darted away from the brush in my fist to the hands gliding over the numbers, measuring both the time he'd been out of my sight and my own exhales. Five minutes - that was the amount of time I'd decided I could afford him before I had to check on him. To make sure he hadn't collapsed. Wasn't bleeding. He couldn't bleed out in five minutes.
Could he?
I gripped the brush handle a little tighter, my nails biting into my palm in my free hand.
Four minutes later, he snuck out onto the back porch, definitely not wearing enough clothing to be out there but struggling to catch his breath in the warm air inside. I supervised from my vantage point as he ducked under the eve of the roof to avoid standing in the snow. I forced myself to stay put and trust that he had enough sense to come back inside before he froze. Mom had followed him, no doubt with good intentions, but it had only made his posture more uncomfortable. It was taking everything I had not to intervene as I kept an eye on them through the window.
Dad was only half invested in my painting abilities now. He kept one hand on the ladder, despite me only being two steps up, but most of his attention was on his wife. "She's very happy to have you two here," he told me. "I know it's probably not the most comfortable, but it's been nice to have you back home."
"I really don't know what we would have done otherwise; we really appreciate it," I told him for the millionth time since we'd arrived. Mom was forcing conversation while Carlisle half focused on her, their voices too quiet for me to catch, her offer of the water bottle again quickly accepted when she held it out to him. The first mouthful ended in disaster. He'd panicked, turned to come back inside before realising he wouldn't make it and leaning over the porch railing to be sick onto the lawn.
Dad looked away. Mom was fussing, wanting to touch him but not daring too, Carlisle flustered and apologising and desperately trying not to vomit again. That was my final straw. Backing down the ladder, I quickly wiped my hands on my pants, stepping around the paint cans at my feet to get into the hallway, bolting out the backdoor.
He was trying to pretend that he was fine by the time I got out there. Despite attempting to reassure my mother, he was bleeding again, pale and shivery while he tried to joke through it, holding his hand over his mouth to cover the worst of it. "Want to come inside?" I asked as our eyes met. It wasn't really a question - I was already holding his other wrist, tugging him toward me. With my arm around his waist, I guided him back inside.
He let us get to the staircase before pulling free. "Please not so fast - I'm so dizzy; I can't see." Still unable to catch his breath, he suddenly sat down on the bottom step, leaning into the wall while I supervised.
"You're bleeding again, baby. This is the second time in a couple of hours." I frowned at him, crouching to level us, a little queasy myself. In my peripheral vision, I watched my father approach us, hesitating before he passed me some paper towels.
Mumbling yet another apology, my husband avoided looking at him. He winced as I wiped his face, not trusting his abilities to manage it himself without making a mess. "You've got paint on your pants," he told me once his vision had cleared, his attempt to tease me not landing while he looked so awful.
I couldn't pretend to be entertained. "It'll wash off."
"It absolutely will not." He tried to smile, but threw a nervous glance over my shoulder instead. My mother's footsteps trailed down the hallway, and he tensed, fingers knotting through mine as he anticipated her intrusion again. She never did, but he didn't relax.
"Let's go," I tried again. I stood, giving him my hand to pull himself up with. The staircase may as well have been Everest. The strain of climbing each step stole the air from his lungs, and he managed a grand total of three stairs before he was forced to sit down again. We were going to have to get a place that was one level when we moved. "You're more short of breath than you used to be." More than he was the day before, even.
"It's when I stand up; my heart races, and I can't breathe, and it makes me lightheaded," he said once he was able to. "It goes once I lie down."
I crouched to level us. "You look like you need to go to the hospital." I desperately wanted to take him. Even if they only sent him home again, at least we'd have the reassurance of health professionals that nothing had changed for the worst.
He shook his head. "It'll pass."
"You're worse than you were yesterday." My thumb trailed across his cheek, my other drifting to grip his hip. "Let me pick you up?"
"Please don't - it'll hurt."
Panicky, I grasped him a little tighter. "Hurt where?" My vision was getting hot and blurry, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. The interrogation came out involuntarily. "How long have you been in pain? Just since this morning? Is it- is it the same as last time?"
"It's okay; I'm okay," he told me quietly, lightly squeezing my forearm. "I promise I'm no different than I have been for the last week."
My chest was too tight. "You're bleeding and you can barely walk, Carlisle."
"I'm okay, though," he insisted. "I have a clotting disorder, and I need my next round of infusions soon - I've told the doctor already." Tucking his hand into the edge of his sleeve, he used it to wipe away the tears that I didn't realise had fallen. "I'm alright; I just don't feel well right now. Everything is fine; I'll tell you when you need to worry."
I felt another wave of panic build up, the few swallows I forced starting to clear the lump in my throat. I couldn't do anything other than stare at him, useless.
"You've been getting better at dealing with the medical stuff - what's happening today?"
"I don't want anything to happen to you; I need you." This was pathetic and unfair. Even worse that my parents were likely in earshot for the whole thing. I pulled my husband into a careful hug as the self-loathing started to set in, kissing his neck while I fought to get the awful wad of emotion under control again. He draped his arms around my shoulders, letting me guide him forward. "Please let me help you upstairs, Carlisle; you need to lie down."
This time, he reluctantly agreed, and I was sure he had done it for my sanity.
.
.
My parents pretended that the incident hadn't happened. The three of us had dinner together as though he hadn't slept through the rest of the day. I burnt my mouth trying to finish my meal as quickly as I could to rush back upstairs - it had been well over an hour since I'd last been able to check on him.
"Renee has offered you a job at the cafe," mom told me, breaking the silence I'd subjected them to for the last ten minutes. I tried to ignore how hard the thought of it made my heart pound. She anticipated my protest before I'd even gotten the words out. "It would only be for a couple of hours in the afternoon, and she knows what your situation is at the moment - Carlisle won't be here alone, but it's not far if you did need to come home quickly."
"I don't think he's well enough for that, mom; you saw what he was like today." I wasn't well enough for it - I'd have a nervous breakdown. Perhaps I was already having one; it felt a little like it whenever he wasn't in my immediate proximity.
"It wasn't anything that we couldn't have dealt with - he's been okay since he has been able to rest, yes? I doubt he'd want to come down and hang out with your father and I anyway," mom insisted.
That was part of the issue; they wouldn't know if he deteriorated. He definitely wouldn't ask them for help unless he was about to drop dead - maybe not even then.
"I'll talk to him about it," I told them noncommittally. The money would be useful; neither of us currently had an income. It could pay for flights at the very least. Mom sighed as though she doubted I'd say anything.
It would go down as the second difficult conversation I needed to have with my husband in the immediate future. I'd never told him about Heidi, about the video footage of her in our old home, that he'd been right all along and someone had been breaking in. It didn't seem like a good idea to bring it up at all - I didn't trust that his heart wouldn't give out. I needed to drive back over to meet with the police, but I'd been delaying the visit as long as possible; even with mom's promise to look after him, I couldn't shake the worry that separation caused me. The only alternative was him enduring a total of six hours in the car and an interview with the police - I knew he'd agree to it if I really asked him to do it, but it wasn't realistically feasible.
In the end, I lied to him. Told him that I needed to go back to deal with our old apartment. The excuse wasn't waterproof, but he wasn't well enough to realise. The lump in my throat made it agonisingly difficult to say goodbye, as if I'd never see him again once I left the driveway, and I had to fight off the urge to cancel the whole thing and let Heidi come away unscathed.
His "Text me when you get there" was cut off by my "Call me if you're not well." I pressed a firm kiss against his lips as I hugged him in preparation to leave, stalling a little longer. It was far too early in the morning, and neither of us had been able to sleep much. Again, he was insisting that he'd be okay, and I pretended to believe him. I swallowed another plea for him to tell mom if anything worsened.
It could be a trial run. If we both survived today, then maybe I'd be able to take the job. I left the house clutching my phone and trying to remember to breathe steadily. It wasn't a big deal.
He was fine.
We'd both be fine.