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“David!” Patrick’s voice comes from downstairs and David looks up from the laundry he’s folding. It must be later than he thought if Patrick is home already.
“Coming, honey!” he calls, standing up from the bed and pausing the podcast he’d been listening to. He wanders down the stairs to find his husband wrestling with a large box. “Ooh, what’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick replies, finally getting the awkward-shaped box over the threshold and into the foyer. “It was outside. You didn’t hear it get delivered?”
“No, I was listening to that unsolved murders podcast.”
Patrick shrugs the coat off of his shoulders and leans over to press a kiss to David’s cheek before gesturing at the box. “Can you take this to the kitchen?”
“It looks heavy.”
“Well, I’d guess it weighs significantly less than I do, and since you had no problem picking me up last night, I think you can manage.” Patrick smirks, but the tips of his ears have gone pink, no doubt because he’s thinking about the way David all but tossed him onto the bed to have his way with him. It was definitely one of David’s better moves, even if he felt a little twinge in his lower back afterward.
“That’s different. I was properly motivated.”
“How about this? If you take the box into the kitchen, you can open it! Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Patrick says, swatting at David’s ass.
David rolls his eyes but picks up the box (with minimal undignified grunting, thank you so much) and carries it to the kitchen. He does love opening things.
By the time Patrick wanders into the kitchen, David has the box open and is digging through the packing material. Patrick comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around David’s waist and pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s those outdoor Christmas lights I ordered,” David replies, pulling the lights in question out of the box. “They were backordered. I’m just glad they got here in time!”
“And where are you planning on putting these lights?”
David spins around in Patrick’s grasp, draping his arms over his shoulders and rubbing his thumbs over the soft wool of Patrick’s cable knit sweater.
“Well, I was hoping that you could put them along the roof on the front?”
“Oh, you want me to do it?”
“You know how I feel about heights!” David says. “And I was also hoping you could do it now before Stevie gets here.”
“David, I can’t do it now!” Patrick argues. “It’s about to get dark and I have to finish our end-of-the-year tax forms.”
“Those aren’t due for months!”
“Three weeks, David.”
“Fine, but this won’t take long!” David slides one hand down to cup Patrick’s ass and gives him a coy smile. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I’m sorry, are you trying to bribe me with sex?” Patrick tries to look stern, but David can see the flush creeping across his chest. He smirks.
“I don’t really think that should surprise you at this point?”
Patrick rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, and David leans in and presses a kiss to his lips, probing a teasing tongue at the seam. Patrick lets out a muffled groan when David squeezes his ass for good measure.
“Fine,” Patrick relents. “But you’ll have to take care of dinner.”
“I’m very comfortable with that.”
David puts the finishing touches on the charcuterie plate, which has ended up quite a bit smaller than he intended, but he had to sample some of the cheeses. Okay, all of the cheeses. And some of the meats. And the jam. He had to test them out! He’s not going to serve substandard appetizers to guests, even if his guest is Stevie, who wouldn’t know the difference between Brie and chèvre if her life depended on it.
He’s just put another cracker in his mouth when a crash comes from outside, followed by a startled yell. David is out the door in seconds, yanking his boots onto his feet, already fearing the worst. Even still, all that anxiety does nothing to prepare him for the sight of Patrick sprawled on the frozen ground, grimacing in pain, the ladder he’d been using lying on its side next to him.
“Patrick!” David shouts, racing over to him. Patrick groans and tries to sit up. David kneels next to him, sparing a brief thought for the damage it will inevitably do to his pants, and places his hand on Patrick’s chest. “Honey, what happened?”
“Slipped.” Patrick grits his teeth through the pain. “Fell off the ladder.”
“Oh my god!” David’s hands start roaming across Patrick’s body, checking for injuries. “Are you bleeding? Is anything broken? Did you hit your head?”
“I think, ah! I landed on my ankle. I might have sprained it.” Patrick gestures to his right ankle.
David turns his attention to rolling up the leg of Patrick’s jeans and unlacing his boot so he can get a better look. The ankle in question is bright red and starting to swell. Patrick hisses when David touches it and tries to pull away.
“I think we need to get you to the hospital.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Patrick protests. “No one has ever died from a sprained ankle before.”
David fixes him with a severe look. “You don’t know that.”
He might be being unreasonable, but the fear he felt at seeing Patrick splayed out on the ground, all pale and broken, is still thrumming through him, and anyway, no one has ever considered him a reasonable person.
“I’m fine, David. Just help me get into the house.”
“You are not fine!” David argues. “Please, honey, let me take you to the hospital. I just…I need to know that you’re actually okay.”
Patrick’s face softens the way it always does when he’s about to give in to whatever David is asking of him, though it’s quickly eclipsed by a grimace of pain. “Okay, David.”
“Okay.” David pulls Patrick’s sock back up and helps him ease up to a seated position. “Do you think you can put any weight on it?”
“I think so,” Patrick says, but David knows him well enough to read the uncertainty in his voice. He gets an arm around him and helps him to his feet. Patrick puts his injured foot down and immediately lets out a gasp of pain.
“I’ll take that as a no.” In a feat of strength that he usually only manages in the bedroom, David scoops Patrick up and carries him to where the Lincoln is parked in their driveway. He’s panting heavily by the time he gets there despite the short distance. “Do you have your keys?”
“In my coat pocket.”
David groans as he gently sets Patrick down so he can lean against the car. His chest aches when he sees Patrick’s paler-than-usual face and the way his jaw is clenched in pain. He hates seeing his husband like this, especially since it’s his fault.
He fishes around in Patrick’s pocket until he finds the keys and Patrick gives a weak chuckle.
“I don’t think this is the time to try to cop a feel, David.”
David just rolls his eyes, his cold fingers fumbling with the keys in the door. When he finally gets the door open, he helps Patrick ease himself into the front seat and presses a kiss to his temple.
“I’m just going to grab my coat. Are you okay? Do you need anything?” David asks, his anxious hands gesturing more than usual, eager to make everything okay.
“I’m fine, David.”
David nods, even though it’s clear that Patrick is not fine; he’s shifting uncomfortably in the seat, grimacing with each movement.
“I’ll be right back.”
Once inside the house, David grabs his coat from the closet and his phone from the kitchen, firing off a quick text to Stevie to tell her not to come for dinner. At the last minute, he grabs one of the handmade cooling packs from the freezer. One of their vendors makes them, and even though they’re just dried beans and rice sewn into some fabric, David swears there’s some sorcery involved. They always keep one in the freezer for his migraines, and one out to toss in the microwave as a heating pad for Patrick’s lower back. David hopes that the cold will provide some relief for Patrick on the long trip to the hospital.
The drive to Elmdale has never seemed so interminable. Patrick is shivering in the passenger seat despite the fine sheen of sweat across his forehead, and every time they hit a pothole (which is frequently. Is anyone in charge of maintaining these roads?!), he lets out an involuntary noise of pain that ratchets David’s anxiety higher each time. He puts his hand palm up on the center console and Patrick takes it, squeezing it hard as they hit another bump.
“How are you doing?” David asks.
“I’m fine,” Patrick answers through gritted teeth, and David sighs. His husband does have a tendency for stoicism.
“Patrick.” He wishes Patrick didn’t feel he had to hide his pain from him. “Talk to me.”
“It hurts,” he admits finally. His voice is so small that David thinks it might break him in half.
“I know, honey. We’re almost there,” David says, trying to sound as reassuring as possible and pretending that his own heart isn’t pounding against his ribs. Patrick doesn’t say anything in response, just clings to David’s hand like his life depends on it.
The hospital waiting room has to be one of the worst places that David has ever been to, and he used to frequent illegal raves in Brooklyn warehouses. The fluorescent lights are too bright and the chairs are uncomfortable, and most distressingly, he wasn’t allowed to accompany Patrick to get his x-rays done, so he’s stuck here waiting with nothing to do but mindlessly doomscroll through his phone. He’s just about to get up and ask the triage nurse for an update again when someone plops down into the chair next to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as he clocks the flannel jacket and curtain of dark hair that can only mean Stevie.
“It’s good to see you, too, asshole.” She scuffs her feet against the linoleum and glares at him, and he feels slightly chagrined; Patrick is her friend, too, and he didn’t give her much detail in his text, just that they were going to the hospital. He didn’t expect her to show up, though.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, but she waves him off.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“He slipped off the ladder putting up some Christmas lights. He says he just sprained his ankle but”—David waves toward the doors that Patrick disappeared behind an hour ago—“he seemed really hurt.” Anxiety churns in David’s stomach, now mixed with the acrid taste of guilt in the back of his throat.
Stevie stares at him for a moment and he feels like he’s the one being x-rayed. “He’s going to be fine.”
“But what if he’s not?” David asks. The thought took hold of him somewhere around the town limits and hasn’t let go. “I can’t…” But he can’t even put a name to his fears. Stevie seems to understand, though, and quietly slips her small hand into his.
They stay like that for several minutes, not saying anything but taking comfort in each other all the same, until the guilt he’s feeling bubbles up to the surface.
“It’s my fault, Stevie.”
“Why? Did you push him off the ladder?”
“Obviously not,” he snaps. “But I might as well have.”
“Your self-pity is always so charming,” she says, rolling her eyes. He’s about to say something cutting in response but a nurse approaches them. It’s not the same nurse that took Patrick back, but hopefully she still has news.
“Patrick Brewer’s family?”
“Yes, that’s us.” It’s Stevie who answers her because David seems to have lost the ability to speak.
The nurse nods. “He’s done with x-rays and we’ve taken him to an observation room. If you’d like to come with me, Mrs. Brewer, I can show you to his room.”
“Oh, no, no,” Stevie says, shaking her head vehemently. “I’m not—“
“Excuse me,” David interrupts. “Hi, David Rose. I’m Patrick’s husband.”
The nurse looks apologetic, glancing between the two of them. “Of course, I’m sorry, Mr. Rose. If you’ll come with me?”
He follows her down the labyrinthine hallways, hoping he isn’t going to be expected to navigate out of here because there’s no way his anxiety-riddled brain is going to remember the way. She leads him to a small room where Patrick is lying on the bed. His eyes are a little glassy and the dopey, lovestruck smile that takes over his face when he sees David is a clear indication that he’s already been given some pretty heavy-duty painkillers.
David rushes over to the bed and sinks down into the chair next to it, grasping Patrick’s hand where it rests on the low thread count white sheets.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse says and David thanks her as Patrick waves with far more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary.
When she’s gone, David takes a moment to really look at his husband. His injured foot is propped up on some pillows, the angry red of his skin in sharp contrast with white of the hospital sheets. His hospital gown is rucked up over his knees, showing more of his impressive thighs than is probably appropriate given the situation. David reaches over and tugs the gown down.
“Ooh, frisky!” Patrick says with an uncoordinated shimmy. He tries to tug David over onto the bed, but David resists with a laugh.
“I don’t think this is the time, honey.”
Patrick pouts and it’s so adorable that David can’t help but kiss it off his lips, pulling away when Patrick tries to deepen the kiss. As David settles back into his chair, Patrick frowns and shivers in the chilly hospital air.
“Are you cold?” David doesn’t wait for an answer and grabs a blanket out of the nearby cabinet, gently draping it over Patrick’s body. He’s careful not to jostle his ankle as he tucks the blanket in.
“You take such good care of me, David.” Patrick lays his head back and smiles sleepily up at David. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”
The words send ice through David’s veins and guilt bubbling unpleasantly in his stomach.
You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
Except he did. He’s the one who insisted Patrick put up the lights, even when Patrick said it wasn’t safe. Just because he wanted some fucking Christmas decorations. Shame burns through him. It’s his fault that Patrick got hurt. It’s his fault that Patrick is lying in this bed.
Patrick’s eyes flicker closed, completely oblivious to the fact that David is on the brink of a panic spiral. David swallows hard as the cocktail of emotions threatens to overwhelm him. Normally, Patrick is the one to talk David down from the edge of a panic attack, but now David has to be the strong one. He’s trying to formulate some excuse to leave the room and find a place to drown in self-pity in private when a tall, dark-haired woman in a white coat knocks on the door frame.
“Patrick?” she asks.
“Hell-oooo!” Patrick sing-songs, dragging out the ‘o’ until the doctor laughs.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re in good spirits.” She turns to David. “I’m Dr. Park.”
“David Rose,” he replies, tamping down his guilt and panic. He can deal with it later. The last thing he needs to do right now is have a full breakdown in front of this doctor. “I’m Patrick’s husband.”
Even just saying the word husband threatens to pull David under, because if he were a better husband, they wouldn’t be sitting here right now. But he shoves the thought aside because the doctor is still talking.
“Based on the x-rays, it looks like you have what we call a non-displaced lateral malleolus fracture. It’s a break in the fibula at the ankle joint.”
“Hey. Hey, David.” Patrick tugs on his sleeve. “Guess what?”
“What, honey?”
“The foot bone’s connected to the leg bone,” Patrick sings, making David roll his eyes. He’s unfortunately now very familiar with Patrick’s tendency to burst into song when he’s under the influence.
Dr. Park laughs and continues. “Since it’s non-displaced and seems fairly stable, surgery shouldn’t be necessary.”
David lets out a breath. In the many worst-case scenarios his anxious mind came up with, surgery hadn’t even come up, but he’s still relieved to know that it isn’t something they need to consider.
Patrick is still singing about bones under his breath, so David asks the questions he probably should be asking.
“So, um, what’s the recovery process? Does he need a cast?”
“No, no cast,” Dr. Park says. “A walking boot for a few weeks should be fine. He should be able to put weight on it, but rest, elevation, and ice for the next few days will help a lot.”
David nods, taking Patrick’s hand again and stroking his thumb across the back of it.
“As far as broken bones go, it’s pretty much the best case scenario.” Dr. Park looks at David like she knows exactly what’s going through his head. “I expect he’ll be back to hanging up decorations in no time.”
David knows that things could be so much worse. While waiting for news, he definitely considered the possibility that Patrick would never walk again, among other things. But he still can’t shake the gnawing guilt at the fact that they shouldn’t have even been in this situation if he were a better husband.
David can’t stop looking over at Patrick. He really should, given that it’s dark and he’s driving and it’s December in Ontario so it’s likely there’s ice on the road, but he can’t stop. Patrick is resting his head against the cold glass of the passenger side window, his eyes closed. They had to push the seat all the way back in order to accommodate the clunky boot on Patrick’s foot and Stevie agreed to meet them back at the cottage to help get him inside, but David can’t help but worry.
“I’m fine, David,” Patrick says after the millionth time David looks over at him.
“Um, no, you have a broken bone. You are categorically not fine.”
“It’s really not a big deal.” Patrick winces even as he says it. “I broke my arm playing hockey in high school and that was way worse.”
“That’s nice, honey, but you’re not a teenager anymore.”
“Are you calling me old?” Patrick teases, then lets out a groan as they hit a pothole.
What’s wrong?” David demands. “Are the painkillers wearing off? I don’t think it’s time for the next dose but I think there’s some ibuprofen in my bag. I don’t have any water, though.”
“David.” Patrick takes his wildly gesturing right hand in both of his own. “I know I scared you but I promise I’m going to be fine.” He’s speaking in that low, even tone like he thinks David might spook if he speaks any louder. Then again, David can’t promise that he won’t. Patrick presses a kiss to the back of David’s hand and gently places it back on the steering wheel. Even with a broken ankle, Patrick is still taking care of him.
“You can drive a little faster, though,” he adds with a smirk that David can just see in the dim light of the car.
“Uh-uh, nope. We’re going at my speed.”
By the time they get home, Stevie’s car is already in the driveway but she’s nowhere in sight, no doubt already inside warming up and raiding the fridge. She has a key, though she rarely uses it these days after walking in on them a few too many times. (David was unapologetic; it’s their house, after all, and she should learn to knock.)
David shuts off the car and hurries around to the passenger side to help Patrick out. While the doctor didn’t seem concerned about him putting weight in his ankle right away, it’s clear by the way Patrick winces and leans more heavily on David with each step that it’s causing him a lot of pain. They hobble together up the walkway and through the front door.
Stevie greets them at the front door with her cheeks stuffed full of cheese like a chipmunk and gets an arm around Patrick’s other side. Together, they get him to the couch and collapse there in an exhausted heap.
“Are you hungry?” David asks Patrick. “I can get you something if Stevie hasn’t eaten it all already.” He glares at her, but she just grins and pulls a couple of crackers out of the pocket of her flannel jacket.
“It’s not my fault you drive slower than Nana Budd on quaaludes,” she says. “Besides, what happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’?”
“Mm, I don’t think I ever said that.” Their bickering is familiar and comforting, and for a moment, David can forget the torrent of anxious thoughts that have been threatening to overwhelm him ever since he saw Patrick lying on the ground. He smiles as Patrick rests his head on his shoulder.
“Some food might be good,” Patrick mutters sleepily into David’s shoulder.
David presses a kiss to the top of his head. Stevie rolls her eyes at them both but unfolds herself from the couch and heads to the kitchen. David’s not sure how much food will actually be left by the time she gets back, but he’d rather not disturb Patrick by getting up, so it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
Patrick looks up at him with a frown, eyes wide and full of concern.
“I’m sorry I ruined our dinner plans,” he says, and David immediately shakes his head.
“You didn’t! We’re having dinner now. With Stevie!”
But Patrick continues on, undeterred. “And I’m sorry I didn’t get the lights put up. I can try to get them up tomorrow if–”
“Absolutely not!” David interrupts. “Patrick, listen to me. I don’t care about any of that, okay? You’re going to rest tomorrow, and as long as you need to feel better. I don’t need the lights. I just need you.”
Patrick’s eyes go soft and David thinks he could drown in their whiskey-brown depths.
“I love you,” Patrick says quietly. David presses a kiss to the space between his sparse eyebrows.
“I love you, too.”
Stevie reappears with what’s left of the charcuterie platter David prepared earlier, and a bottle of pinot noir and a bottle of water tucked under her arm. She sets everything down on the coffee table.
“I opened red before you got home, hope that’s okay,” she announces. David doesn’t even justify that with a response; she’s the primary reason they keep a stock of the pinot noir in the house, not that he’ll ever admit that to her.
They eat their way through all of the meats and cheese, and David and Stevie drink half the bottle of wine between them. Patrick sticks to water, not wanting to mix alcohol and painkillers. The conversation is meandering and shallow, none of them having the energy to delve into deeper topics. Patrick starts to nod off against David’s shoulder as he and Stevie get into a debate about the results of this year’s holiday episode of the Great British Bake Off.
“C’mon, honey. Let’s get you to bed,” David murmurs into Patrick’s hair.
Patrick mumbles something unintelligible in response, and both David and Stevie get an arm around him. It’s awkward and takes a while, but they manage to get Patrick up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Stevie bids them goodnight and disappears into her own room at the other end of the hall.
David sits Patrick down on the bed and kneels in front of him, gingerly unfastening the boot from his ankle. Patrick watches him with hooded eyes and the softest look of adoration on his face. David can’t look at it for too long; it’s a lot like looking into the sun.
“Wanna kiss you,” Patrick whines, tugging on David’s sleeve. Unable to deny his husband, David relents and stands, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.
It takes some coaxing and a lot of kisses, but David finally gets Patrick into his pajamas and tucked into bed. He planned to get up and do his nightly skin care routine, but Patrick tugged him down into bed with him and won’t let go, so David wraps his arms around Patrick and holds him close.
As exhausted and comfortable as he is, though, sleep proves elusive, and long after Patrick’s breathing has evened out and turned to soft snores, David is still wide awake. He tries matching his breaths with Patrick, tries the 4-7-8 breathing that his therapist taught him, but nothing works. Eventually, he lets out a heavy sigh and carefully extracts himself from the bed, trying not to wake Patrick.
He pads downstairs, tugging one of Patrick’s hoodies over his head to stave off the late-night chill in the house. On his way to the kitchen to make a cup of the lavender chamomile tea Patrick bought for him for the nights he can’t sleep, he notices a figure sitting out on the back porch. Normally, this would be cause for concern, but David recognizes Stevie’s small frame and bad posture, not to mention the way she has her feet up on the handcrafted table he picked out. He grabs a wool throw from the back of the couch and heads outside to join her.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks as he plops down into the chair next to her, wrapping the blanket around himself.
She shrugs. “It’s nice out here.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Then what are you doing out here?”
“Excuse you, I saw someone sitting on my back porch and came to make sure it wasn’t some serial killer getting ready to murder us all.”
“A serial killer who decided to take a break and chill on your porch before murdering you?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a sociopath!” David huffs. Stevie snorts and lets the silence settle around them.
After a few minutes, she turns and studies him in that way that always makes him squirm. She just knows him far too well.
“So…” she says, still staring at him.
“What?”
“What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies haughtily.
“You still think it’s your fault.”
Yeah, she knows him entirely too well.
“It is my fault, Stevie.” He strokes a hand over the soft fabric of the blanket. “I insisted that he put the lights on the house tonight. I’m the reason he was on that ladder in the first place.”
“David, it was an accident. These things happen.”
“But it shouldn’t have happened, Stevie! We’re supposed to take care of each other.” His voice is too loud for the quiet night but he can’t help it. All the anxiety that’s been building up all evening spills out of him. “I’m a failure as a husband.”
“You think you’re a failure as a husband because he accidentally broke his ankle?” She shakes her head. “Look, I’m hardly an expert on marriage or whatever, but I do know you guys, and you’re good for each other.” David starts to protest but she holds up her hand to stop him. “Just shut up, okay? Shitty stuff is going to happen, and maybe someone is to blame, or maybe no one is, but what matters is how you handle it.”
David is not sure he’s been handling it particularly well, and he’s about to say so, but she stops him with a look.
“You got him to the hospital. You stayed with him, you got him home, made sure he was comfortable. Whatever was going on in your head, you still did all of that for him.” She pauses, biting at her lower lip. “It’s kind of gross, actually.” She stands and shoves her hands into her pockets. “Anyway, I’m going to bed. And you should talk to your husband.”
He knows she’s right, not just that they should talk, but about all of it. She has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what he needs to hear. He really hates that sometimes.
Back upstairs, David climbs back under the covers as quietly as possible, but when he lays his head down on the pillow, he can see Patrick staring blearily back at him.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” David replies quietly. And then, “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to put up those lights.”
“You didn’t,” Patrick argues, and David gives him a look. “Okay, you did, but I didn’t mind. I like doing things that make you happy.”
“But I don’t want you to hurt yourself to make me happy.” The words spill out of him, out of his control, and tears spring to his eyes. “I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt.”
“David.” Patrick brushes a gentle thumb across David’s cheek, wiping away the tears that have spilled over. “This was an accident. It’s no one’s fault.”
“That’s what Stevie said.”
Patrick chuckles. “Well, she’s surprisingly wise. David, I love you, and you make me so happy. This is a crappy situation, but you’ve done nothing but take care of me today, and I need you to know that I don’t need anything else.”
“Are you sure? Because–” Patrick interrupts his protests by stealing them off of his lips with a gentle kiss, and David relaxes into it. “I love you, too,” he says, when Patrick pulls away.
They curl around one another, careful not to jostle Patrick’s injured ankle, and it’s not long before David finally drifts off to sleep, content in the knowledge they’re both safe, and he loves this man so deeply, and is loved just as well in return.