Work Text:
Ted doesn't really know what he expects anymore.
Every time he has another doctor's appointment he knows that nothing's really gonna change, but no matter how much he braces himself for that fact he's still somehow surprised. It always leads right back to him sitting heavy in the passenger seat of their van, head tilted forward into his hands, trying to keep his breathing steady and the tears out of his eyes all over again.
He doesn't even know why he wants to cry this time; he should be used to this by now, shouldn't he?
It's just exhausting, to do this trying over and over again only for nothing to change. He always knows better than to really hope, but some stupid part of him just can't stop the wishing anyway. It might just get harder every time it happens, and the only slim relief he has is that he doesn't have to keep doing it alone. Not with Bill, quiet in the driver's seat, seeming similarly affected. But it's a totally weak reassurance that the only thing they have going for them is that they're both feeling just as heinous as the other.
Still, Bill doesn't try to offer any platitudes and Ted doesn't ask for any.
Instead he breathes in deep, pushes the heels of his hands over his eyes to brush them dry one last time, and sits back in the seat. "You ready?" he asks, tilting his head to look over at Bill, with a voice that's mostly steady.
"Yeah," Bill says, jolting out of his own thoughts, and turns the ignition over. "Let's get out of here, dude."
Their canes clatter against each other in the backseat when he pulls out of the parking lot, and Ted lets himself feel comforted by the noise even as he starts fiddling with the radio. All the words and frustration about the appointment are still building up inside of him, all jumbled up and way too confused to talk about yet, but the silence kind of grates after all the waiting around in different crowded rooms.
One of the stations is playing the Ramones: I'm not feeling very well; day, day after day, it never changes, it's always the same.
Ted snorts and changes the station, because right now it's funny but if he listens and thinks about it too long it might circle right back around into teary frustration. He won't have a choice for forever, but he just wants to not think about it for a little while longer.
Next to him, Bill can't help but sigh a little over them. He knows the frustration that Ted's feeling - has felt it for himself on numerous occasions. Still, he always hates to see it on Ted, the way he goes stiff and quiet, the little confused furrow between his eyebrows deepening - like he's trying to figure out what he did wrong (like he's trying to figure out if he's really sure he's right, even though he is). He wants to be able to say something to fix it. Wants to have something to say that will make it all alright again, but he knows there's not really anything that can do it.
So instead he keeps his eyes on the road, and pulls one hand off the steering wheel just long enough to reach out for Ted's hand. Ted takes it, and Bill squeezes it gently, feels the way Ted's palm sweats and trembles as he squeezes back. Quick as anything, Ted lifts their hands to press a kiss to the aching swell of Bill's knuckles, and then lets him go again so he can keep driving.
He never quite settles on a station to listen on. Bill doesn't really mind.
"How do you wanna play it today?" Bill asks, once they're parked back in their driveway.
Ted's been thinking about that since he'd realized the appointment was coming up last week. "I want us to shower," he says slowly, "and then just... go back to bed for a while, I think."
"Alright, duder," Bill replies, pocketing the keys. "Let's do it."
Ted nods and reaches back to grab his cane out of the backseat, handing Bill his own since he can't twist as good. Ted only really has to use his to steady against the dizziness as he stands up, a little bit of balance as he steps down from the seat, but not much for walking since they're so close to the front door.
He glances back to check on Bill to see if he needs any help getting out, and finds he's already coming up to Ted's side. He wonders if Bill's having a good leg day or if Ted's just moving slower than he'd realized, but Bill gives him a little grin and Ted decides not to worry about it. They trek up to the house together, a slow moving six-legged creature picking its way clumsily over the cement.
The cane could be left in the doorway, and Ted hesitates there, considering it. It might even be for the best to leave it there, so that he won't forget it the next time he has to go out and accidentally wind up in a bad spot again. He decides to keep it though, the shape of it in his hand is comforting, a reassuring weight at his side even if he doesn't really need the additional support to stay on his feet.
"Sometimes I really miss our old apartment," Bill says, loud enough for his voice to ring down the hall he's already walking down.
"How come?"
"It was way smaller! Made it much easier to get around."
Ted, staring tiredly up the hall to their room, has to concede the point.
That in mind, maybe keeping the cane was a good call; his feet feel heavy by the time he makes it to their room. He does leave it next to Bill's against the dresser by their bed, and still can't help but love the way they look next to one another.
They're kind of beat up by now, some of the varnish on the handles all chipped off and stained, and the paint along the shaft is even worse, but they still look totally rad. Billie and Thea had been more than thrilled by their decision to sit down and decorate not long after they'd bought them, and the girls' most expansive sticker collection had been an excellent addition to the look. Ted smooths down the curling edge of a Wyld Stallyns sticker on Bill's and feels the corner of his mouth quirk softly at the sight of it.
Bill's already got the water running by the time Ted wanders into their bathroom, sighing heavily to even his breath a bit. He's caught for a moment, looking at the soft broadness of Bill's shoulders, the way his muscles flex as he braces himself against the edge of the tub to keep pressure off his hips, but has to pull back from the thought quicker than he might have liked. "Think I've gotta get sick one more time, Bill," Ted tells him, a little regretfully.
"No problem, Ted. Was gonna go refill our water bottles anyway. Be right back." He lifts himself up onto his toes to press a kiss to Ted's cheek, and Ted feels his face flush under it before he refocuses and starts yanking his belt off in Bill's wake.
Bill walks off, humming under his breath and mostly just glad his legs are doing alright today. His fingers all the way down to his wrists are stiff and aching pretty bad, and his hip is clicking again, but he can manage that alright. He's got the practice to keep going either way, but there's a relief in it anyway, of course. Especially when he knows that there almost always tends to be a post-doctor crash. For now it's just nice to know he'll be a little more steady in taking care of Ted if he needs it.
Or getting things ready for himself maybe too, he decides, grabbing a couple of apples and some pretzels to take back since he's already in the kitchen. Just because it wasn't his appointment today doesn't always mean that he'll be safe from it.
It really has been a most troublesome set of months since they'd started their latest round of trying to get some help, or even just answers. Their first attempt was a couple of years after their Battle of the Bands win, when they'd looked around and finally realized that not everyone walked around feeling as heinous as they did all the time.
It's been about fifteen years since then. It's only their sixth round of doctors, technically, but Bill's sorta started running out of hope anyway.
Ted, meanwhile, is mostly hoping that this will actually be it today. He'd gotten stuck in the bathroom four times already before they'd even managed to leave for the appointment, and he's getting tired of the swell of sharp half-hollow pressure tearing through all his guts. That's uncomfortable enough without even getting to how it leaves his whole body feeling weird and numb - being so totally aware of all his intestines might be his least favorite part of all this mess.
He sighs and lingers a little longer, just in case, yanking the gauze and cotton out of the crook of his elbow and taking his earring out with a bit more care. Makes a mental note to get more toilet paper the next time they head out to the store. Bill makes his way back before Ted's had a chance to finish, but he's not really too embarrassed by any of it anymore.
Like almost everything else he's thought about since they'd walked out of the clinic, Ted wonders if that's part of why he didn't get anywhere today. He wonders if he should be ashamed of it, or if maybe he should at least fake it. Doctors always seem to like it when they get to be the ones to tell you a bunch of stuff about your body, but they don't ever seem to appreciate hearing about it. Ted's tried playing dumb about it all before, not that it had gotten him anywhere except stuck wondering if that was part of the reason he didn't get anywhere.
It's hard not to know all about it though. It's hard to carry that shame for so long. Ted got kind of tired of having to feel like that all the time, so mostly he just tries not to anymore.
That's not really easy either, of course. Turns out a lot of people who say it's good to listen to yourself still think that it's better to be embarrassed about being sick if that means they don't have to look at or deal with it themselves. He hadn't realized how many people ignored that they were also bodies until Ted couldn't ignore his own anymore.
Oh well, though. He could spend all day wondering and still not really get anywhere. The thought just bums him out more than anything, the beginning of a headache starting to curl around his temples, and he's been upset enough today to last the whole week. He leans forward to press his forehead against Bill's hip as he checks on the water, tries to put it all out of his mind. "Can you wash my hair?" he asks against the skin there.
Bill pauses to flex his fingers a couple of times. "Yeah," he decides, he can handle that. So while Ted is finishing up, Bill strips his clothes off and goes to clamber onto the shower chair sitting under the spray. Usually when they share showers like this, Ted's the one who sits on it, but as long as they're careful about him getting up off the floor, it won't make him dizzy enough to fall.
Ted gets in a couple moments later, lowering himself down to sit on the tile and leaning his head back against Bill's knees indulgently. The breadth of Bill's shoulders winds up blocking most of the shower spray from hitting him, but just enough gets through to keep Ted from shivering while the air heats up around them.
While Bill combs his fingers through Ted's hair, waiting for it to get wet enough to wash, Ted plays with his fingers and tries to finish sorting all the stuff he's feeling into boxes neat enough to hold it. He thinks he's making pretty good progress, then Bill's fingers come back with some dark red flakes clinging to the tips after tracing over the curve of Ted's skull. "Your head's bleeding again, Ted," he says.
It takes a couple of seconds for the words to process over the noise of the shower, and then once they do, for whatever reason they're what finally breaks through the last of Ted's self control. He reaches up with hands the shake and jitter to cover his eyes again. "I forgot," he chokes out, feeling most despondent at the realization. No matter how much he tries to prepare ahead of time, he always forgets at least one thing he was supposed to bring up.
"It's alright," Bill says softly, letting the spray wash the little clumps of blood away. "I forgot too."
They always go to each other's appointments these days; most of the music they make is out of their own garage and they don't do much else besides that, so there's no really any reason not to anymore. Half is just for support, and the other is so that they can try to help fill in whatever the other might forget or have trouble explaining. Clearly, it's not exactly a foolproof solution.
Ted just shakes his head, the dam cracked open and the feelings all a mess again. "They treat us like morons, dude," he laments, not for the first time, his voice wobbling. "No matter how we try to do it, they always just say the same stuff all over again. It's like that groundhog movie, dude; I'm tired of it."
This time the doctor had seemed like he was at least taking what Bill was saying seriously, even if he'd only sort of half-nodded along to Ted's list, up until he'd noticed that there were two canes propped up against their chairs. Then it went right back to the same half-condescending tone they've been hearing from everyone since they were in high school, saying that it was probably all fine and that whatever tests they could do would probably just come back negative. Ted hates the way it still affects him, the way he's always left feeling unhappy and scared. He hates how doctors always manage to make him feel like a dumb kid who's just making stuff up to try to get out of going to class.
"We can always give up again," Bill suggests half-heartedly, sluggishly massaging soap into Ted's hair, letting the hot water and the gentle movements slowly unstiffen his hands, careful to keep the suds out of Ted's face while he talks.
"No, we can't," Ted argues back. "Cause then they'll say the same thing next time that they said this time; that if it's all so bad why'd we wait so long to ask for help, or since we missed the appointment, we must have just been exaggerating or whatever."
There's not really anything to say against that one. Even Bill's dad used to make the same complaint; that if they were really sick, they'd be "trying harder to get better" - whatever that meant - so they must be fine otherwise.
"Yeah," he agrees tiredly instead. "We can do it anyway, though."
Ted sighs back, slumping against Bill's legs a little more. "Yeah," he says, staring sullenly at the soapy tiles. "But I mean, like, everyone always ignores us so maybe there's no point, but I'm still worried that like, something could really be wrong."
He's fallen (more like passed out) twice already just this year, once in the grocery store in front of everyone, and he keeps getting worried that it'll happen again, that the next time he does he'll crack his skull open against something on the way down. He's worried when he sees that Bill's hands have swollen nearly twice their usual size again, slow and sluggish and barely able to get around the neck of his guitar. He worries when he can't quite catch his breath, when Bill can't keep his knees from giving out under him, and when they're both too tired to even get out of bed. He keeps trying to tell all the doctors that, but none of them seem like they're listening.
That just makes him mad all over again. "Then they just give us psych referrals again," he spits. "Or do the same blood-work, or just try to talk to us about drug use or whatever... I just, the nurse was nice this time," he allows, "but I almost hate that more."
"Yeah," Bill agrees, a little more readily this time, letting his hand rest against Ted's hairline to make sure none of the soap rinses into his eyes. "At least when they're all being dickweeds it doesn't make you feel guilty to be mad at them."
"Exactly, Bill." Ted's breath hitches a little, caught by all the talking and the building humidity in the room, and he quiets down a little to let it catch back up, trying to let the press of Bill's hands against his skin keep comforting him. "I just... what if they're right, dude?"
"About what?"
"About like, what if we are just fine? Or what if we're faking and don't even realize or something?"
Bill considers it a second, thinking about high school adventures ("Why would we lie to ourselves?") and the last time they'd had this conversation. "Dude, I think if we were faking, we would have stopped a long time ago," he says. "Because none of it is any fun, and also no one's even nice about it, so why would we bother? And there's no way it's all normal," he continues, "cause we noticed it wasn't forever ago and nothing's changed since then."
"Yeah," Ted sighs. He does know it all, mostly, but it's still nice to hear someone else say it. He's starting to get tired talking about it though. "Do you want me to wash your hair too?" he asks instead.
"Kinda," Bill admits. "Careful getting up though, Ted."
"Got it, Bill," he replies, carefully levering himself up onto his knees, letting all the blood in his body adjust before slowly pushing himself standing. He loses all his breath again still, head aching unhappily and vision going a little fuzzy as he leans up against the wall and feels Bill's hands reach out to steady his hips, but he stays on his feet. He gives himself a couple of extra moments to be sure, and then pushes away from the wall and takes the jar of conditioner soap out of Bill's hands to scoop some up.
All of his words feel totally dried up, so there's nothing to say as he starts to work his hands through Bill's hair. It's an excellent feeling, to be able to do this for him and to feel the strands and scalp under his fingertips. Bill's hair is always majorly soft, but the sensation is always extra sublime when it's all wet. Ted puts all of his attention there in his fingers, trying to put everything he can't fit into words into the movements, and tries to keep the rest of his body out of the way when Bill starts washing his off while Ted works.
He gets a little lost in the sensation, and startles when Bill reaches out to start washing his body too, just as Ted's about to start rinsing his hair. He hums appreciatively as Bill makes brisk work of it, cleaning all of the hospital and sick off of him, and whispers out a thanks that Bill returns with a kind little grin.
For a confusing moment, Ted finds himself feeling oddly bereft when Bill pulls his hands away so they can get out. He doesn't really feel hot for anything, not this close to getting home from the hospital, but he wants Bill's hands back on him anyway. Enough to almost be a little startled by how deep the feeling hits him.
"You wanna just turn the TV on and try to nap or something?" Bill asks, voice kinda nasal since he's upside down to scrunch his hair dry.
Ted hesitates, pulling his tank-top on and rubbing half-heartedly at his own hair with heavy arms. "I," he starts, then stops. Shrugs and keeps going, "I want you to touch me," he says, tasting the words out to try to make sense of them. "Not like, I don't wanna fuck or anything, but," he huffs. "I don't know, dude. I always hate when strangers touch me, and I want you to touch me instead."
It's like listening to music or humming real loud to replace the echo of the sounds like amp feedback, or wiping his hands off on his shirt when he accidentally touches some of the fabric they line instrument cases with. Bogus sensations have always clung to Ted way longer than he'd like them to, and the stuff from the hospital is no exception. The shower had helped a little, but not enough, and he wants Bill to be the one to chase the rest of it all away.
There's a couple of quiet moments where Bill dwells on the somewhat jumbled explanation, but he thinks he gets it. He's had his own joints prodded and felt up more times than he can count. It's always kind of irritating, intimidating maybe too, and Bill's not even close to being as particular about touch as Ted always has been.
"Okay," he agrees easily. "I can do that."
"Thanks, Bill," Ted says, leaning his hip against the sink counter to get the balance to pull his pants up. Feeling soft and happy that Bill understood what he meant, that he's willing to help.
So they finish getting dressed and move back into the bedroom. Bill glances over at their canes in the corner, painted like their old guitars and covered in Billie and Thea's stickers, and can't help the rush of affection that goes through him. Sometimes he wonders if Ted really gets how good he is, how strong he can be, if he really understands all the wonderful stuff he's done over the years.
Not strong how other people say it sometimes, the ones who actually believe them about their bodies but who aren't really any better about it. They say strong like they don't know another word to admit that they're surprised he and Ted get up in the morning and have lives, or how they go out in public at all (or at least, how they do it without being embarrassed by themselves for it). A bogus jumble of assumptions and cruelty they don't even know they're admitting to.
No, Bill doesn't mean it like that. He means it like Ted had been the one to strike the deal that he would get himself a cane if Bill finally got one too, even though he flinched and shook at the guilt of using it also. He means in the way that Ted learned how to finally let himself get upset again, how he lets himself cry and lament about the way people treat him after all the years of quietly bearing the brunt of it and just thinking that it was all his own fault. In the way he asks people for chairs and where the elevators are, and finally lets himself wiggle and rock how he did when he was a kid, and asks about ingredients even when people act like that's asking too much.
No one really tells you what to do when your body doesn't work how it should, no one ever prepares you for that, but lots of people still complain about how you figured it out for yourself.
He's done just as much of the work over the years, of course, but still, Bill can't help but be taken with Ted for his contributions. It's just as attractive as any other part of him, and if this is the way he can show it right now, then Bill would be more than happy to sit there and show him all day long.
Ted hobbles clumsily into the center of the bed while Bill's switching the TV on quiet, sprawling out and letting all his organs adjust to the position. His stomach twinges just enough for him to start to worry, but the sensation doesn't linger, and he relaxes a little.
He turns his head to watch Bill shuffle over, his hair damp and skin flushed pleasantly from the shower. His movements look loose-limbed and clumsy and Ted loves the sight of them. It's a familiarity, sure, but despite the fact that no one else seems to agree, Ted thinks the way Bill moves his body around his joints always looks good. A slow-quiet beauty in the effort he's put into finding ways to do things that won't hurt him as bad as others.
"Where do you want me, duder?" Bill asks, jolting Ted out of the sappy thoughts and into something more contemplative.
"My arms," he decides, thinking of blood pressure and tourniquets and those little machines they clamp on your fingers. "And my stomach," he adds; the aching discomfort of palpating hands and the chill of stethoscopes.
And Bill delivers, his face softening in understanding as he leans over Ted's body, hands trailing over his skin. Ted's still sweating from the heat and humidity, and Bill's hands are still swollen, and some part of Ted still pauses and wonders if he's really supposed to like the way their bodies fit sometimes, if he's really allowed to like it.
But he'd wondered the same thing about them both being men when he was younger, and Ted doesn't doubt that anymore at all.
His belly still feels rigid and tense under Bill's hands, but the touches are gentle and soothing, a welcome contrast to the cold harsh hands from earlier that morning, that sought out all the hurts to push at them demandingly. Bill's hands skate over them, shifting away from any place that makes Ted brace himself instinctively. Ted hums with it gratefully, the way it relaxes his lingering tight muscles and leaves him feeling warm and content.
Some of the anxiety still lingers, some remnant of upset clinging to the back of Ted's head, but Bill has always made that easier. Just his steady presence, and his strong arms and warped joints, and the gentle reminders that he and Ted have been piecing together their own answers and solutions for almost thirty years and just cause the doctors won't take them seriously doesn't mean they've gotta stop.
Ted doesn't always like being touched, but right now he can't help but wish they could stay like this forever. Merge into one lovely, terrible body and never quite separate again. Bill's body feels solid and warm above his, his hands big and almost cool in contrast to Ted's overheated skin, fingers tracing careful lines and trails over his skin, his veins, his muscles. He lingers on the dull bruise and scab the blood dude left on him, and hunches over to press a kiss there that makes Ted shake just a little.
He runs his hands over Ted's arms one last time, a slow lingering thing, and then goes back to his stomach. Hands slipping under his shirt and running over the skin with just enough pressure to keep from tickling, skin catching against skin and callouses against thick hair, and not nearly enough force to press down and hurt. Exploring without searching for anything.
Ted's gut twinges a little, hollow and aching, when Bill leans down to press a kiss there too, but he's far from minding. It all leaves his skin feeling warm and sensitive in the best way possible, most completely resplendent all the way through to his bones.
His temperature is starting to switch on him though, going from hot and dizzy from the shower to cold chills under the warmth of Bill's hands. A quiet interruption, demanding their attention. It's a little disappointing, as his muscles go tense again with new shivers and shakes, to think that they'll have to stop.
Still, maybe it's a kind of benediction. Bill crawls up a little higher along the length of Ted's body, cups Ted's trembling jaw in his palms and leans in for a tender soft kiss. Then he pulls back just enough to mumble, "Dude, my fucking hip," in a beleaguered tone that makes Ted giggle despite himself.
So he shuffles back to wiggle under the covers while Bill maneuvers himself off his joints and off to the side carefully. Ted holds the blankets up so Bill can slip under them and adjust after the movement, and hunches in on himself to try and catch some warmth again in the meantime.
There’s a careful caution in the way Bill lays on his back, half-propped up by their pillows that are already damp from Ted’s hair, letting all of his bones and joints settle into the new position. Ted tosses the covers over him and waits, especially for the back part of his hip to settle, until Bill nods that he’s ready. Then he relishes in being able to shuffle up close to his side, plastering his body there and laying his head on Bill’s chest, leeching up all the warmth he can get from him.
Bill turns up the TV volume to something comprehensible with one hand and throws the other around Ted's shoulders. He squeezes him a bit, just for the joy of feeling Ted wiggle closer, the way he closes his eyes and preens with it even though his body is still shaky and cold.
Ted loves it, loves him, and loves even more that he can feel Bill love him in the same way. Not despite their busted pieces, but in them, because of them.
He wants to dwell on the comparison of their heartbeats, Ted's own senselessly rabbit quick against the steady pulse of Bill's, but tucked up in the warmth of his favorite place in the world like he is, he falls asleep too quickly for it. The final thread of tension between his shoulders unraveling completely under the idle weight of Bill's hand.
Bill’s chest goes sticky and soft with it. His fingers are stiff again when he pulls some of Ted’s hair out of his face, but they aren’t clumsy enough to wake him. He scrunches down to give him one last kiss, over the scar on his brow from when he’d fallen in the shower a few months after they’d graduated high school, and luxuriates in the warm protective comfort he can feel brewing between their bodies.
They might not have any answers, but they’ll always have each other. That counts for something, Bill thinks.
He thinks it counts for everything.