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Last week, Dennis broke his arm in three places.
He's 45 now, and Mac’s known for a while that the injuries sustained when he faints are going to get progressively worse the older he gets, but he can't say it wasn't shocking when his boyfriend came round from unconsciousness and screamed.
They'd driven to the ER as soon as Dennis was able to stand up without passing out again, and there the doctor had prodded and poked while he lay there, exhausted and pale and shivering. Mac had reassured him that it would be over soon- that they would put him in a cast and then Dennis could go home and sleep like he usually does after his POTS flare-ups.
And then they'd mentioned surgery.
It was too badly broken, they said, to heal without intervention. Dennis would need to go under, and the surgeons would put pins in his arm like he was some kind of voodoo doll.
Mac wonders distantly as he sits in the waiting room whether the pins are in yet or not. He's been here a few hours since Dennis was wheeled into the OR, eyes heavy-lidded from the preoperative meds they had him on. The coffee from the machine in the corner has gone cold in Mac’s hands. He hasn't been drinking it because every time something enters his mouth, his stomach does a flip.
It's his own fault really. He's been reading up about possible complications, scaring himself to death about low blood pressure during surgery (thanks, POTS) and infection (thanks Dennis’ horrific immune system). The longer he sits out here, the worse his imaginings get. Suddenly, Dennis is never coming out of surgery. He's somehow dying on the table because of some unforeseen circumstance, and Mac’s heart is beating way too quickly, and even the People magazine with Paul Rudd on the cover isn't helping anymore.
At last, though:
“Mr McDonald?”
Mac’s eyes jump upwards to see a friendly-looking nurse just outside the corridor. He rises to his feet.
“Is he okay?”
He doesn't care that his voice is shaky, and he sounds way too terrified for a man whose boyfriend just went in for a relatively routine operation. He just needs to know.
The nurse smiles. “He's going to be just fine. Why don't you come through, and you can see him?”
Mac sighs with relief. Nods. “I’d like that.”
As it turns out, Dennis is fast asleep when Mac enters the recovery room. He’s a little paler than usual, and his arm (now sporting a dark blue cast) is resting on top of the blankets draped over him. The monitor by the bed is beeping rhythmically. He's wearing a nasal cannula.
And yet, despite all these little irregularities, Mac can almost imagine he's just taking a nap.
“Hey, Den.” he whispers, wandering over and settling into the seat beside the bed. His hand reaches through a gap in the railing to grip Dennis’, thumb swiping gently against the cannula site. The other hand finds his boyfriend’s slightly sweat-damp hair. “I’m here, sweetheart. Everything's alright.”
As he brushes back a stray curl from Dennis’ forehead, he's suddenly struck by how small he looks beneath the fluorescent lights. How delicate. Mac’s known his fragility for a while, of course, but it's in rare moments like these where he just gets to… see it. The moments when the mask of stoicism drops completely, whether that's when he reaches up for Mac following a particularly bad episode of fainting or when general anaesthesia lowers all his walls- well, Mac’s learned to appreciate them.
Eventually, Dennis stirs. His brow furrows, and he swallows, groaning gently.
“You’re okay, Den.” Mac reassures him. “You're just coming round from the anaesthesia after your surgery, everything went well. Just relax.”
He squeezes Dennis’ hand again, feels his fingers twitching beneath, flexing as if to test his range of movement. Strokes Dennis’ hair just as icy blue irises appear from beneath heavy eyelids.
Mac bites his lip to keep from crying. God, he's emotional today.
“There you are.” he whispers, watching his boyfriend blink languidly. “Good job. I’m right here with you, babe.”
Dennis moans again, eyes unmoving from Mac’s. It's clear that he won't be fully with it for quite a while.
“Are you in any pain, sweetheart? How are you feeling?”
His boyfriend’s nostrils flare. He shakes his head.
“No to the pain?”
A small nod.
Mac sighs with relief, watching Dennis’ eyelids flutter closed again, throat bobbing gently. He knows the peace won't last for too much longer. The pain will almost certainly spike, and most importantly, the post-op nausea will kick in (with Dennis, it always does). But they'll get through it. Mac will position a basin beneath his chin and hold him up like Atlas holding up the earth.
Dennis is his world, after all.
He’d move mountains just to keep him sleeping peacefully like this: the cares of the world, for a few moments, drifting away with each exhale.