Strachey Mysteries Fic - Look After You
...my 1000th LJ post. Wow.
Title: Look After You
Author: kaly
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5100
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy
Category: h/c, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Summary: When Timothy falls sick, plans have to change.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: Thank you to geminigrl11 for the beta.
When Donald arrived home from work, the last thing he expected was to find the house dark. It wasn't so much that they never spent evenings apart; however, Timothy had mentioned feeling a bit under the weather. He had mentioned that morning his evening plans didn’t extend beyond a good book in front of the fire, and a warm bath. Tim had grinned, adding that Donald was more than welcome to share both.
Curious, Donald unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Glancing around the first floor, he did indeed find it empty and dark. "Timothy?" he called out, dropping his bag by the coat rack, and hanging up his jacket.
"Honey?" he tried again, walking into the kitchen and flipping on the light. As he did so, his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Donald paused at seeing the display: Home. Deciding that he had seen one too many horror movies - the call was coming from inside the house! - Donald answered. "Hello."
Instead of words, he was greeted by a violent sounding sneeze. A few seconds later, a stuffy voice said, "I'm upstairs."
Eyebrows rising, Donald pulled the phone away and glanced at it. "Timmy?"
"Yes." There was a muffled cough, followed by a shaky breath. "I'm upstairs," he repeated, and the line went dead.
Donald blinked, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Okay... That was different," he mumbled to himself, while jogging up the stairs. Entering their bedroom, he was brought up short by the scene that awaited him.
Timothy was wrapped in at least three blankets, his hair sticking in more directions than even the worst case of bed head should have accounted for. The wastebasket was overflowing with tissues, and the smell of vaporub filled the air.
"I feel terrible," Timothy declared, while Donald was rendered mute.
It was a challenge, but Donald managed to stifle his laugher at how much Tim sounded like Elmer Fudd. Barely.
"You don't look so hot, there, honey."
Timothy sniffled, before burying another sneeze in a tissue. "Thank you," Timothy replied, clearly unimpressed with Donald's assessment. "I feel so much better now."
Crossing the room, Donald sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to Timothy's forehead. "You're making up for it, however. You're burning up." He gave Tim's hand a squeeze, smiling. "When's the last time you took some Tylenol?"
Although he glanced at the clock, Timothy wasn't wearing his glasses and Donald doubted he could read the numbers. His guess was confirmed when Tim shrugged. "Not long after I got home. Senator Glassman sent me home early."
Another sneeze, and Timothy pressed a hand against his side, wincing. When he could breathe again, Tim continued. "Ow. She said something about not infecting the entire office."
Chuckling, Donald nodded. "Smart woman."
Tim gave him an unimpressed look. "I could have kept working. It'll pass quickly enough."
"Uh huh," Donald replied, skeptical. "I can see the pillow creases on your cheek, you know." He traced one with a fingertip, smiling when Tim pouted. When a glance around the bed revealed a distinct lack of dishes, he asked, "Have you eaten anything?"
Shuddering, Tim pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. After a couple of rough swallows, he managed to whisper, "No. And you can't make me."
Donald successfully bit back a sigh. Houston, we have reached mulish Timmy. Timothy hated to be anything less than one-hundred percent in control. And while Donald would happily admit to being stubborn as an ox, on his worst day, he had nothing on Tim when he was ill.
He conveniently ignored the fact that Timothy said - loudly and often to whoever would listen - the same about him. Maybe they were slightly less than polar opposites in some regards; however, in this one they seemed to be anything but. Not that Donald would ever fess up to it. The way he figured it, they probably deserved one another.
When Tim shivered almost violently, Donald pulled the covers up higher. "How about I make you some tea?"
"No, thank you," Tim replied through clenched teeth, turning positively green.
Unease growing, since the flu had been particularly bad around Albany this winter, Donald felt Tim's forehead once again. "I'm starting to think this isn't just a cold."
Timothy fixed him with a look that, even sick, clearly told Donald what he thought of that. "Unlike you, I actually managed to get a flu shot." Timothy threw a wadded up tissue toward the overflowing basket, and pulled another from its box. "It's just a bug."
Knowing it was pointless to argue - and hoping it wouldn't come to a doctor's visit, for Tim's sake - Donald merely nodded. "Yes, dear."
"It is," Timothy persisted, clearly mistrusting Donald's easy agreement.
Donald held up his hands in surrender. "I believe you. A cold." He paused, assessing his partner with a critical eye. "A cold where you want to throw up at just the mention of food."
Eyes closed, Tim took several long, steady breaths. When he apparently had his stomach under control, he glared at Donald. "I hate you. And it's a bug. There's a difference."
Laughing, Donald kissed Timothy on the forehead. "I love you, too, honey." Standing, he couldn't resist ruffling his husband's already tousled hair. "Sit tight. I'll bring you some more Tylenol."
Tim sneezed, and sighed. "Thank you."
"And some cold medicine," Donald added, once he was out of range of any hurled tissues.
At least for both their sakes, Timothy merely fell asleep when he took cold medicines. Donald could rarely remember his own reactions to them, but Tim's snickers once Donald was on the mend had never boded well. And Donald, manly man that he was, was always too chicken to actually ask.
He could, however, hear when Timothy growled. "Donald."
Returning from the bathroom, a glass of water and two sets of pills in hand, he gave Tim his most innocent look. "Yes?"
Glaring, Timothy held out his hand. "Tylenol." He waited until Donald dropped them in his hand and tossed them into his mouth. Once Donald handed him the water, Tim took as small of a sip as possible to wash down the medicine. It was almost immediately followed by a ragged cough.
When he was fairly certain Timothy wasn't about to actually cough up a lung, Donald held out the other two pills: dark green gelcaps. "Here."
Timothy gave him a pitiful look, clearly not interested. "They'll just make me sick."
Donald wondered, from the resigned tone, if Timothy knew this from recent experience.
"Try?" Not above a little emotional blackmail, if it helped Tim get better, Donald batted his eyelashes. "For me?"
"For heaven's sake, Donald," Tim said, sighing. Although clearly unhappy with the situation, he held out a hand. "Give them here." He swallowed them quickly, and, in a manner befitting a ten-year-old, stuck out his tongue. "Happy?
Donald could only laugh at the unexpected response as he nodded. "Thrilled."
The stubborn fire seemed to drain out of Timothy, and he sagged against the headboard. "I think I'm going to take a nap." He yawned loudly before curling onto his side and glancing at Donald. "Sorry, I'm not much for company tonight."
Donald shook his head, returning to his seat next to his miserable partner. Threading his fingers through Tim's hair slowly, Donald felt bad - all kidding aside - at how miserable Timothy really did look. "It's okay," he whispered, watching as Timothy's eyes slowly drifted closed.
He didn't stop petting Tim's hair until he was certain the other man was fast asleep. Only then did Donald decide to venture downstairs in search of something for dinner. As he walked down the stairs, he wondered absently if they had any soup for when Timothy woke up. Queasy or not, he would need fluids to fight the fever.
A quick scan of the refrigerator rewarded Donald with the makings of a sandwich, and he had just closed the door when he heard a door slam upstairs. Sighing - there was only one thing that could mean - Donald put his dinner on the counter and hurried back upstairs.
Donald rushed into the bathroom to find Timothy slumped against the edge of the tub. Squatting in front of the other man, Donald touched his cheek lightly, waiting for Tim to look at him.
With a groan, Tim managed to open his eyes, which were glassy with fever. "I really don't feel so good." He paused, smacking his lips with a grimace. "And that stuff you gave me tastes terrible."
Carefully, Donald wrapped Timothy's arm around his shoulders and helped him to stand. "I know, honey," he said quietly, slowly leading Timothy back into the bedroom. Once he was certain Tim was settled, he hurried back into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He paused only long enough to grab a washcloth and wet it.
"Open your eyes for me, okay?" Donald asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Only when Timothy complied, did Donald slowly bathe his husband's face with the cool cloth. He smiled when Tim all but purred. "Like that, huh?"
Eyes drooping closed, Timothy nodded. "Mm-hum. Sleepy."
Finished, Donald picked up the glass he had left on the bedside table. "Take a drink and rinse out your mouth." Timothy gave him an unhappy look, but did as he was told.
Deflating, Timothy sighed, sneezing. "I hate this."
"I know you do." Donald returned to the bathroom to empty Tim's cup in the sink. Pausing in the doorway, he indicated the glass. "I'm going to go get you a clean glass. And we'll try the medicine thing again." He left unsaid the threat of a doctor if Timothy didn't start keeping it down.
The night progressed slowly, although Donald at least managed to fix and eat his dinner in a lull as Tim slept. Otherwise, he was preoccupied with tending to Tim. He plied him with Tylenol again - skipping the NyQuil out of fear of overdosing him.
Donald then helped him to the bathroom when Tim's stomach revolted not half an hour later. He figured he was going to use every clean washcloth they owned, trying to cool Timothy's fever.
It was about midnight when he finally broke down and left Timothy alone long enough to run to the store for a couple of bottles of Sprite and a box of plain crackers. He was grateful beyond measure when he got home and the drink seemed to help the medicine to stay down. Donald wasn't brave enough, however, to risk the crackers just yet.
Sometime later, when Donald was running on fumes, he laid down on top of the covers beside Timothy. Tim had been asleep for over an hour, sneezing and sniffling occasionally, but blessedly sound asleep.
Donald must have dozed off, because the next thing he was aware of was Timothy's forearm smacking him in the face. "Ooof, Timmy, what?" he asked, before waking completely. Sitting up, Donald rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at Tim. Memory rushed back with a closer look at Timothy's sweat drenched face.
A quick glance at the clock revealed that Donald had slept for almost three hours, which - more importantly - meant Tim had, also. Pressing his palm against Tim's forehead, Donald was relieved to find that Tim felt much cooler than he had the evening before.
Tim's eyes cracked open, and he stared at Donald blurrily. "Donald?"
"Shh," Donald replied, brushing sweat-soaked hair away from Timothy's face. Hating to wake him, Donald reached for the Tylenol bottle, shaking two out onto his palm. It felt as though Timothy's fever had broken, but he didn't want to take any chances. He snagged the Sprite bottle, and opened it.
"Wake up for just a second?" Donald waited until he thought that Tim was paying attention, but to be fair it was hard to tell. "Take these, okay?"
He pressed the tablets to Timothy's lips, followed quickly by the drink. Timothy swallowed reflexively, and grimaced. Waiting just a moment, Donald pushed his luck and pressed two of the dark green gelcaps to Tim's lips. Surely enough time had passed, since the last round had met the toilet rather than staying down. "One more time."
Relieved to be done, Donald returned the glass to the table and kissed Tim's forehead. "Go back to sleep."
Timothy smiled, and nuzzled his face against Donald's throat, just barely managing to nod. "Mm, okay."
When Tim was still, Donald let out a long breath. Staring at the ceiling, he continued to card his fingers through Timothy's hair. Absently, Donald thought that he should find another washcloth and wipe Tim's face, but he didn't want to move. Timothy was comfortable - if a bit clammy, Donald thought with a wince - and Donald was loathe to risk upsetting that.
Instead, he was lulled back to sleep by the steady sound of Timothy's congested breathing. His last thought before sleep claimed him, was that his back was going to kill him in the morning, but considering the circumstances, he figured that he was okay with that.
When he woke next, sunlight was streaming in the widow. True to what he had expected, Donald's back protested painfully when he tried to move. Biting back a groan, he pulled away from Timothy and stood slowly.
He felt Timothy's forehead, disappointed to feel some of the fever had returned - though not nearly as bad as it had been the night before. Tim muttered softly, the words incomprehensible, before swatting at Donald's hand. Coughing just a bit, Tim rolled over, facing away from him. Unable to help himself, Donald smiled.
Satisfied that Timothy would sleep a little while longer, Donald yawned, and went in the bathroom to get cleaned up and ready to face the day. Ten minutes later, clean if not yet completely awake, Donald returned to their room and checked on his partner. Timothy was snoring softly, his breath ruffling a tissue that was caught in the pillowcase.
Moving quietly, Donald went downstairs and into the kitchen. He grimaced at the sight of his dirty dishes from the night before, but knew as long as they were cleaned before Tim saw them, he would be alright. Chores ignored, Donald pulled out the loaf of bread, dropping two slices into the toaster.
As Timothy's hopeful breakfast cooked, Donald set a pot of coffee to brew before fixing himself a bowl of cereal. He had just added the milk when the toaster popped, one of the slices flying onto the counter. Donald grabbed it, inspecting it for any obvious dirt, and put both pieces onto a plate.
Deciding not to wait on the coffee - no matter how badly he wanted it - Donald placed both dishes on a tray and carried them upstairs. If he knew Timothy - and he did - sick or not, his husband would be awake as soon as the sunlight found him. Not that he would stay that way, mind, but it would give Donald a chance to at least try and get something in Tim's stomach.
Just as he had expected, Tim was beginning to stir when Donald walked into the room. "Morning, sunshine," Donald said, smiling when Timothy glared at him.
"I want the number of the truck that hit me." Timothy struggled to sit up straight, grimacing when he saw the pile of tissues.
Making a mental note to clean that up soon, Donald placed the tray in front of Tim. "Breakfast." If possible, Timothy looked even less pleased with that prospect than he had with the tissues. Donald grabbed his cereal and took a bite before urging Tim. "Just try, okay?"
With a heavy sigh - Donald might as well have asked his partner to eat bugs - Timothy tore a corner off one of the pieces of toast. He chewed slowly, so slowly Donald could practically see Tim trying to convince himself to risk swallowing the bread. Eventually he did, and Timothy gave Donald a forced smile. "Yummy."
Rolling his eyes, Donald mumbled around a mouth full of cereal, "Drama queen." When a bit of milk escaped, he wiped it away with the back of his hand, happily ignoring Tim's disgusted look. He indicated the remaining toast with a wave of his spoon. "Keep going. If you can't keep something down, you'll end up at the doctor."
Timothy huffed, taking another bite defiantly. He repeated his earlier actions almost to the letter, and then crossed his arms over his chest. "I do not have the flu." He did, however, sneeze violently. Sighing miserably, Timothy blew his nose. "A cold, maybe, but not the flu."
Undeterred, Donald just raised an eyebrow. "A cold where you throw up all night?"
Refusing to cave, Timothy shook his head. "A bug then. Besides, nothing sounded good yesterday, I'm sure it was just the effect of medicine on an empty stomach."
Not convinced, Donald watched as Timothy stretched carefully, wincing when he twisted too far. "And aches." Playing innocent - and knowing he was failing horribly - Donald said, "Oh, yeah, sounds just like a cold to me."
Yawning, only to have it cut off by a sneeze, Timothy glared at Donald from behind a tissue. "Don't you have to go to work? Cheating spouses to spy on?"
Hurt by the dismissal, Donald dropped the spoon into the bowl, still considering his reply when Timothy sighed. He reached across the bed, covering Donald's hand with his own. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I just..."
When he didn't continue, Donald put his bowl onto the bedside table and linked his fingers with Timothy's. Something in Tim's foul mood set off warning bells. "This is more than just being sick."
Tim nodded, not meeting Donald's eyes. "I was just looking forward to tonight."
Wracking his brain, Donald tried to remember what Tim was talking about. Suddenly, it hit him. "The symphony tickets."
"Yes," Timothy said, pressing a hand against his chest as he coughed. When he could breathe again, he gave Donald a watery smile. "No excuse for being cruel, though."
"I'm sorry, honey. I completely forgot."
Donald felt terrible - although he hadn't been especially looking forward to the night, he knew Timothy had been. He had made Donald promise, as best as Donald was able, to be off work that night, and Donald had even managed it. Not that it mattered with Timothy sick.
Brushing Tim's cheek with the backs of his fingers, Donald smiled sadly. "I know you were looking forward to it."
Timothy shrugged, and Donald hated the familiar, resigned look. And even though Donald himself wasn't the cause - this time - he couldn't help wanting to fix it.
"It's okay," Tim replied, trying, if failing, at sounding nonchalant. He cleared his throat before adding, "There will be other performances. You could go ahead and go, though."
"No. Thank you, but no." Donald had only been going because he knew it would make Tim happy, anyway.
They were silent for a few minutes, Timothy slowly finishing at least one piece of the toast. He pushed his plate away, however, leaving the other untouched. Donald gave him an appraising look. "How's your stomach?"
The other man paused to consider this, pressing a hand against his abdomen. "So far, so good."
Relieved, Donald nodded. "Do you think you'll be okay if I go into the office for a while?"
"I'm a big boy, Donald." Timothy rolled his eyes, but smiled at his husband fondly. "I'll be fine." Kissing Tim on the cheek - ignoring his muttered "You'll get sick, too!" - Donald stood and retrieved their dishes.
He gestured toward the bottle of Sprite sitting on the table next to the Tylenol and NyQuil. "Take some more, okay?" Reconsidering, Donald glanced at the clock. "Well, take some more Tylenol now. Give the other a few more hours."
Pausing in the doorway, Donald watched as Timothy begrudgingly moved to comply. "Call me if you need me. I'll call the senator for you, okay?"
Snuggling under the covers, burying another sneeze in his sleeve, Timothy nodded. "I will. Have a good day."
"Feel better. And eat something!"
Timothy smiled, already beginning to drift off. "Thank you." Donald had just turned to leave when he heard Tim whisper, "Love you."
He smiled, reaching to pull the door shut. "You, too."
Donald put the dirty dishes in the sink, along with those from the night before, and found a travel mug. He filled it full of coffee, taking a couple of large drinks and topping it of, before grabbing the phone. Luckily, Tim's office was on speed dial, and within a moment, he had talked the receptionist into letting him speak with the senator.
"Thank goodness," she said, sounding more than a little relieved. "I was afraid he would come in today, looking like death warmed over."
Laughing, Donald shook his head. "He put up surprisingly little fight. That said, just be glad tomorrow's Saturday."
"Oh, I am," Glassman said with a laugh. "I've never worked with someone so dedicated, but sometimes he just pushes too hard."
Comforted that someone else understood his partner so well, Donald smiled. "Don't I know it. I appreciate you sending him home yesterday, though I don't envy you the task is must have been."
She chuckled, and Donald could imagine her chagrined expression. "Luckily, I'm good in a verbal sparring match. Comes with the job." She paused before speaking quietly to someone else on the other end. "I'm afraid I have to go. Tell Timothy we'll see him Monday, if he's feeling up to it?"
"I will. Thanks, Senator."
He disconnected the call, and picked up his keys and wallet. Patting his pocket to ensure his cell phone was there, Donald grabbed his coffee and hurried out of the house. He had plans to make.
~<>~<>~
By the time Donald returned that night - hoping he wouldn't end up regretting leaving Kenny in charge at the office - he was exhausted. From outside, he had been able to tell that only the bedroom light was on, and was relieved.
Dropping several bags onto the kitchen island, Donald jogged upstairs, calling out, "I'm home!" He went into the bedroom and found Tim sitting up in bed, reading a book. "How're you feeling?" Donald asked, dropping a kiss on Timothy's cheek.
Timothy smiled, rubbing his nose absently with a tissue. "Almost human."
Pleased, Donald cupped Tim's face in his hands. "Good to hear." He took a closer look at Tim, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. Tim did indeed seem to be on the mend somewhat, and blessedly fever free. Sitting back, he grasped Timothy's hand. "Were you able to keep anything down?"
"Mostly," Timothy replied, cringing. At Donald's pointed look, he amended that by admitting, "I was only sick once." He shook Donald's hand slightly, smiling. "I'll be fine." After a sneeze, he gave Donald an evil grin. "But if you think those dishes are staying in the sink..."
Laughing, Donald rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Take your medicine?" Though at least Timothy was a little less stubborn than he was in that regard, it never hurt to ask.
Clearly tired, Timothy nodded before coughing softly. "Yes, dear. Good day at work?"
"Slow," Donald said, not exactly lying, letting his partner change the subject. "Can't complain."
When Timothy yawned, his jaw popping, Donald stood. "Why don't you take a nap? I'll wake you for dinner."
Although Tim grimaced at the mention of more food, his eyes were already falling closed. Donald rescued the book, before it fell onto the floor, marking Tim's place and sitting it on the nightstand.
"Okay."
Donald waited until he was certain that Timothy was sound asleep before retreating downstairs once more. Reaching the kitchen, he began to sort through the bags he had brought home. More Sprite - left out of the refrigerator, as room temperature seemed to help - followed by several cans of chicken noodle soup and another box of crackers.
Uncertain how long Tim would sleep, Donald set the soup and crackers aside, unopened. For the time being, he busied himself with cleaning the dishes as he had promised. That chore done, he snuck upstairs long enough to empty the wastebasket, and collect all of the used washcloths.
Tissues in the trash, laundry in the hamper; Donald sighed and went in search of a snack. It had been far too long since the hamburger he had picked up for lunch. Soon enough, sandwich made, and chips dug out of the pantry, Donald let himself relax and eat, careful to keep an ear out for any noise upstairs.
Stomach happy, Donald then set about finding every candle they owned. It turned out to be quite a number - Tim had a fondness for buying them that, while Donald appreciated, he never quite understood.
Donald placed them all around the room, literally covering every surface he thought safe. There were so many, it took several minutes to light them all. He pulled the blinds closed and flipped the light switch, smiling at the soft, flickering effect the candles produced.
He carried the Sprite and two champagne flutes into the main room, and left them on the coffee table. Satisfied they weren't too close to any of the candles, Donald went back into the kitchen.
A glance at the clock showed it to have been a couple of hours since Tim had fallen asleep, and Donald expected he would probably wake soon. Cold medicine made Timothy sleep, but, oddly enough, never for hours upon hours at a time. In fact, Donald tilted his head, almost positive he heard his partner moving around.
Opening one of the cans, Donald pulled out a pot and emptied the soup into it. Although he was more the microwave type, Timothy had taught him the merits of soup heated on the stove. Soon the liquid was simmering, bubbling gently and making Donald's already-full stomach growl.
Donald heard the bed creak - an unmistakable sign that Tim was up - and he hurried into the living room to turn on the stereo. He picked out one of Timothy's favorite CDs, and soon an orchestral piece was playing softly.
Returning to the kitchen, he ladled out some of the soup into a bowl. He put the bowl on a saucer, adding crackers, and placed it on the coffee table next to the drinks. Satisfied that the room was as perfect as he could make it, Donald rubbed his palms on his jeans and went upstairs.
He found Timothy exiting the bathroom, bundled up in his robe and flannel. Before Donald could say a word, Tim held up a shaky hand. "I wasn't sick." Relieved, Donald nodded. "But if I don't get out of this room soon, I might go mad."
Chuckling, Donald nodded, happy to note the flush of fever was gone from Timothy's cheeks. They had entered the next phase of Timothy being sick - the bored silly phase. Too sick to go out, but not wanting just to sleep. Donald was almost positive he didn't get this way, but Timothy only laughed himself to tears the one time that Donald had dared mention it.
Donald held out his hand, smiling when Tim took it. "Let's go downstairs, then."
"Sounds wonderful," Timothy replied, though he sneezed, shivering as he wrapped his arms around Donald's waist. He was only still for a moment, before leaning back to wipe his nose with a tissue. Tim sighed. "I am so sick of sneezing. I never want to see another tissue, ever again."
Tugging on Timothy's arm, Donald asked, "How about some dinner, some medicine, and then more sleep? Tissues are entirely optional."
"I'll try," Tim replied with a cough, resting his cheek on Donald's shoulder.
Donald patted the top of his head, before kissing him behind the ear. "All I can ask. Come on, dinner awaits."
He pulled Timothy along with him, moving toward the main room, rather than the kitchen. Clearly confused, Tim asked, "I thought..."
"Not tonight," Donald replied, smiling at the furrow creasing Tim's brow. He tugged Tim's hand. "Come on."
They rounded the corner into the main room and Timothy came to a halt. "Donald?"
Donald moved so that he could see Tim's shocked face, and smiled. Cupping his partner's cheek, he waited until Timothy looked at him. "I know it's not the symphony at The Palace..."
Timothy smiled, blinking back tears. "I'd kiss you, but I don't want you sick, too."
Laughing, Donald held Tim's face between his hands, and kissed him soundly. When he pulled back, he grinned at Timothy's mock-annoyed expression. "I'd say it's inevitable at this point, anyway." Waggling his eyebrows, Donald said, "Might as well enjoy myself."
Rolling his eyes, Tim took Donald's hand and stepped into the softly glowing room. Tiling his head, he listened to the music for a moment with his eyes closed. "Beethoven." He squeezed Donald's hand, muffling a cough against his own shoulder. Once he could speak, Tim looked at Donald with bright eyes. "They were playing Beethoven tonight."
Donald nodded, and tugged Timothy toward the center of the room. Taking his husband in his arms, he guided Tim's head onto his shoulder. As they danced slowly, Moonlight Sonata swirling peacefully around them, Donald let his eyes drift closed.
Except for the fact Timothy was feeling so poorly, Donald couldn't help but think he had come out ahead. A night in, dancing in a sea of golden light, was much more his idea of a perfect evening than the hustle and bustle of the symphony. It wouldn't have been, before Tim, but that was true of more things than Donald could - or even wanted to - count.
Sighing happily, Timothy curled his hand around Donald's shoulder as they swayed back and forth. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Donald replied, kissing Timothy's temple. He knew it wouldn't be long before Timothy was falling back asleep, and he really needed to convince him to eat first. In the meantime, however, Donald was determined to enjoy this moment for as long as it lasted.
end
Title: Look After You
Author: kaly
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5100
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy
Category: h/c, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Summary: When Timothy falls sick, plans have to change.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: Thank you to geminigrl11 for the beta.
When Donald arrived home from work, the last thing he expected was to find the house dark. It wasn't so much that they never spent evenings apart; however, Timothy had mentioned feeling a bit under the weather. He had mentioned that morning his evening plans didn’t extend beyond a good book in front of the fire, and a warm bath. Tim had grinned, adding that Donald was more than welcome to share both.
Curious, Donald unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Glancing around the first floor, he did indeed find it empty and dark. "Timothy?" he called out, dropping his bag by the coat rack, and hanging up his jacket.
"Honey?" he tried again, walking into the kitchen and flipping on the light. As he did so, his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Donald paused at seeing the display: Home. Deciding that he had seen one too many horror movies - the call was coming from inside the house! - Donald answered. "Hello."
Instead of words, he was greeted by a violent sounding sneeze. A few seconds later, a stuffy voice said, "I'm upstairs."
Eyebrows rising, Donald pulled the phone away and glanced at it. "Timmy?"
"Yes." There was a muffled cough, followed by a shaky breath. "I'm upstairs," he repeated, and the line went dead.
Donald blinked, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Okay... That was different," he mumbled to himself, while jogging up the stairs. Entering their bedroom, he was brought up short by the scene that awaited him.
Timothy was wrapped in at least three blankets, his hair sticking in more directions than even the worst case of bed head should have accounted for. The wastebasket was overflowing with tissues, and the smell of vaporub filled the air.
"I feel terrible," Timothy declared, while Donald was rendered mute.
It was a challenge, but Donald managed to stifle his laugher at how much Tim sounded like Elmer Fudd. Barely.
"You don't look so hot, there, honey."
Timothy sniffled, before burying another sneeze in a tissue. "Thank you," Timothy replied, clearly unimpressed with Donald's assessment. "I feel so much better now."
Crossing the room, Donald sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to Timothy's forehead. "You're making up for it, however. You're burning up." He gave Tim's hand a squeeze, smiling. "When's the last time you took some Tylenol?"
Although he glanced at the clock, Timothy wasn't wearing his glasses and Donald doubted he could read the numbers. His guess was confirmed when Tim shrugged. "Not long after I got home. Senator Glassman sent me home early."
Another sneeze, and Timothy pressed a hand against his side, wincing. When he could breathe again, Tim continued. "Ow. She said something about not infecting the entire office."
Chuckling, Donald nodded. "Smart woman."
Tim gave him an unimpressed look. "I could have kept working. It'll pass quickly enough."
"Uh huh," Donald replied, skeptical. "I can see the pillow creases on your cheek, you know." He traced one with a fingertip, smiling when Tim pouted. When a glance around the bed revealed a distinct lack of dishes, he asked, "Have you eaten anything?"
Shuddering, Tim pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. After a couple of rough swallows, he managed to whisper, "No. And you can't make me."
Donald successfully bit back a sigh. Houston, we have reached mulish Timmy. Timothy hated to be anything less than one-hundred percent in control. And while Donald would happily admit to being stubborn as an ox, on his worst day, he had nothing on Tim when he was ill.
He conveniently ignored the fact that Timothy said - loudly and often to whoever would listen - the same about him. Maybe they were slightly less than polar opposites in some regards; however, in this one they seemed to be anything but. Not that Donald would ever fess up to it. The way he figured it, they probably deserved one another.
When Tim shivered almost violently, Donald pulled the covers up higher. "How about I make you some tea?"
"No, thank you," Tim replied through clenched teeth, turning positively green.
Unease growing, since the flu had been particularly bad around Albany this winter, Donald felt Tim's forehead once again. "I'm starting to think this isn't just a cold."
Timothy fixed him with a look that, even sick, clearly told Donald what he thought of that. "Unlike you, I actually managed to get a flu shot." Timothy threw a wadded up tissue toward the overflowing basket, and pulled another from its box. "It's just a bug."
Knowing it was pointless to argue - and hoping it wouldn't come to a doctor's visit, for Tim's sake - Donald merely nodded. "Yes, dear."
"It is," Timothy persisted, clearly mistrusting Donald's easy agreement.
Donald held up his hands in surrender. "I believe you. A cold." He paused, assessing his partner with a critical eye. "A cold where you want to throw up at just the mention of food."
Eyes closed, Tim took several long, steady breaths. When he apparently had his stomach under control, he glared at Donald. "I hate you. And it's a bug. There's a difference."
Laughing, Donald kissed Timothy on the forehead. "I love you, too, honey." Standing, he couldn't resist ruffling his husband's already tousled hair. "Sit tight. I'll bring you some more Tylenol."
Tim sneezed, and sighed. "Thank you."
"And some cold medicine," Donald added, once he was out of range of any hurled tissues.
At least for both their sakes, Timothy merely fell asleep when he took cold medicines. Donald could rarely remember his own reactions to them, but Tim's snickers once Donald was on the mend had never boded well. And Donald, manly man that he was, was always too chicken to actually ask.
He could, however, hear when Timothy growled. "Donald."
Returning from the bathroom, a glass of water and two sets of pills in hand, he gave Tim his most innocent look. "Yes?"
Glaring, Timothy held out his hand. "Tylenol." He waited until Donald dropped them in his hand and tossed them into his mouth. Once Donald handed him the water, Tim took as small of a sip as possible to wash down the medicine. It was almost immediately followed by a ragged cough.
When he was fairly certain Timothy wasn't about to actually cough up a lung, Donald held out the other two pills: dark green gelcaps. "Here."
Timothy gave him a pitiful look, clearly not interested. "They'll just make me sick."
Donald wondered, from the resigned tone, if Timothy knew this from recent experience.
"Try?" Not above a little emotional blackmail, if it helped Tim get better, Donald batted his eyelashes. "For me?"
"For heaven's sake, Donald," Tim said, sighing. Although clearly unhappy with the situation, he held out a hand. "Give them here." He swallowed them quickly, and, in a manner befitting a ten-year-old, stuck out his tongue. "Happy?
Donald could only laugh at the unexpected response as he nodded. "Thrilled."
The stubborn fire seemed to drain out of Timothy, and he sagged against the headboard. "I think I'm going to take a nap." He yawned loudly before curling onto his side and glancing at Donald. "Sorry, I'm not much for company tonight."
Donald shook his head, returning to his seat next to his miserable partner. Threading his fingers through Tim's hair slowly, Donald felt bad - all kidding aside - at how miserable Timothy really did look. "It's okay," he whispered, watching as Timothy's eyes slowly drifted closed.
He didn't stop petting Tim's hair until he was certain the other man was fast asleep. Only then did Donald decide to venture downstairs in search of something for dinner. As he walked down the stairs, he wondered absently if they had any soup for when Timothy woke up. Queasy or not, he would need fluids to fight the fever.
A quick scan of the refrigerator rewarded Donald with the makings of a sandwich, and he had just closed the door when he heard a door slam upstairs. Sighing - there was only one thing that could mean - Donald put his dinner on the counter and hurried back upstairs.
Donald rushed into the bathroom to find Timothy slumped against the edge of the tub. Squatting in front of the other man, Donald touched his cheek lightly, waiting for Tim to look at him.
With a groan, Tim managed to open his eyes, which were glassy with fever. "I really don't feel so good." He paused, smacking his lips with a grimace. "And that stuff you gave me tastes terrible."
Carefully, Donald wrapped Timothy's arm around his shoulders and helped him to stand. "I know, honey," he said quietly, slowly leading Timothy back into the bedroom. Once he was certain Tim was settled, he hurried back into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He paused only long enough to grab a washcloth and wet it.
"Open your eyes for me, okay?" Donald asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Only when Timothy complied, did Donald slowly bathe his husband's face with the cool cloth. He smiled when Tim all but purred. "Like that, huh?"
Eyes drooping closed, Timothy nodded. "Mm-hum. Sleepy."
Finished, Donald picked up the glass he had left on the bedside table. "Take a drink and rinse out your mouth." Timothy gave him an unhappy look, but did as he was told.
Deflating, Timothy sighed, sneezing. "I hate this."
"I know you do." Donald returned to the bathroom to empty Tim's cup in the sink. Pausing in the doorway, he indicated the glass. "I'm going to go get you a clean glass. And we'll try the medicine thing again." He left unsaid the threat of a doctor if Timothy didn't start keeping it down.
The night progressed slowly, although Donald at least managed to fix and eat his dinner in a lull as Tim slept. Otherwise, he was preoccupied with tending to Tim. He plied him with Tylenol again - skipping the NyQuil out of fear of overdosing him.
Donald then helped him to the bathroom when Tim's stomach revolted not half an hour later. He figured he was going to use every clean washcloth they owned, trying to cool Timothy's fever.
It was about midnight when he finally broke down and left Timothy alone long enough to run to the store for a couple of bottles of Sprite and a box of plain crackers. He was grateful beyond measure when he got home and the drink seemed to help the medicine to stay down. Donald wasn't brave enough, however, to risk the crackers just yet.
Sometime later, when Donald was running on fumes, he laid down on top of the covers beside Timothy. Tim had been asleep for over an hour, sneezing and sniffling occasionally, but blessedly sound asleep.
Donald must have dozed off, because the next thing he was aware of was Timothy's forearm smacking him in the face. "Ooof, Timmy, what?" he asked, before waking completely. Sitting up, Donald rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at Tim. Memory rushed back with a closer look at Timothy's sweat drenched face.
A quick glance at the clock revealed that Donald had slept for almost three hours, which - more importantly - meant Tim had, also. Pressing his palm against Tim's forehead, Donald was relieved to find that Tim felt much cooler than he had the evening before.
Tim's eyes cracked open, and he stared at Donald blurrily. "Donald?"
"Shh," Donald replied, brushing sweat-soaked hair away from Timothy's face. Hating to wake him, Donald reached for the Tylenol bottle, shaking two out onto his palm. It felt as though Timothy's fever had broken, but he didn't want to take any chances. He snagged the Sprite bottle, and opened it.
"Wake up for just a second?" Donald waited until he thought that Tim was paying attention, but to be fair it was hard to tell. "Take these, okay?"
He pressed the tablets to Timothy's lips, followed quickly by the drink. Timothy swallowed reflexively, and grimaced. Waiting just a moment, Donald pushed his luck and pressed two of the dark green gelcaps to Tim's lips. Surely enough time had passed, since the last round had met the toilet rather than staying down. "One more time."
Relieved to be done, Donald returned the glass to the table and kissed Tim's forehead. "Go back to sleep."
Timothy smiled, and nuzzled his face against Donald's throat, just barely managing to nod. "Mm, okay."
When Tim was still, Donald let out a long breath. Staring at the ceiling, he continued to card his fingers through Timothy's hair. Absently, Donald thought that he should find another washcloth and wipe Tim's face, but he didn't want to move. Timothy was comfortable - if a bit clammy, Donald thought with a wince - and Donald was loathe to risk upsetting that.
Instead, he was lulled back to sleep by the steady sound of Timothy's congested breathing. His last thought before sleep claimed him, was that his back was going to kill him in the morning, but considering the circumstances, he figured that he was okay with that.
When he woke next, sunlight was streaming in the widow. True to what he had expected, Donald's back protested painfully when he tried to move. Biting back a groan, he pulled away from Timothy and stood slowly.
He felt Timothy's forehead, disappointed to feel some of the fever had returned - though not nearly as bad as it had been the night before. Tim muttered softly, the words incomprehensible, before swatting at Donald's hand. Coughing just a bit, Tim rolled over, facing away from him. Unable to help himself, Donald smiled.
Satisfied that Timothy would sleep a little while longer, Donald yawned, and went in the bathroom to get cleaned up and ready to face the day. Ten minutes later, clean if not yet completely awake, Donald returned to their room and checked on his partner. Timothy was snoring softly, his breath ruffling a tissue that was caught in the pillowcase.
Moving quietly, Donald went downstairs and into the kitchen. He grimaced at the sight of his dirty dishes from the night before, but knew as long as they were cleaned before Tim saw them, he would be alright. Chores ignored, Donald pulled out the loaf of bread, dropping two slices into the toaster.
As Timothy's hopeful breakfast cooked, Donald set a pot of coffee to brew before fixing himself a bowl of cereal. He had just added the milk when the toaster popped, one of the slices flying onto the counter. Donald grabbed it, inspecting it for any obvious dirt, and put both pieces onto a plate.
Deciding not to wait on the coffee - no matter how badly he wanted it - Donald placed both dishes on a tray and carried them upstairs. If he knew Timothy - and he did - sick or not, his husband would be awake as soon as the sunlight found him. Not that he would stay that way, mind, but it would give Donald a chance to at least try and get something in Tim's stomach.
Just as he had expected, Tim was beginning to stir when Donald walked into the room. "Morning, sunshine," Donald said, smiling when Timothy glared at him.
"I want the number of the truck that hit me." Timothy struggled to sit up straight, grimacing when he saw the pile of tissues.
Making a mental note to clean that up soon, Donald placed the tray in front of Tim. "Breakfast." If possible, Timothy looked even less pleased with that prospect than he had with the tissues. Donald grabbed his cereal and took a bite before urging Tim. "Just try, okay?"
With a heavy sigh - Donald might as well have asked his partner to eat bugs - Timothy tore a corner off one of the pieces of toast. He chewed slowly, so slowly Donald could practically see Tim trying to convince himself to risk swallowing the bread. Eventually he did, and Timothy gave Donald a forced smile. "Yummy."
Rolling his eyes, Donald mumbled around a mouth full of cereal, "Drama queen." When a bit of milk escaped, he wiped it away with the back of his hand, happily ignoring Tim's disgusted look. He indicated the remaining toast with a wave of his spoon. "Keep going. If you can't keep something down, you'll end up at the doctor."
Timothy huffed, taking another bite defiantly. He repeated his earlier actions almost to the letter, and then crossed his arms over his chest. "I do not have the flu." He did, however, sneeze violently. Sighing miserably, Timothy blew his nose. "A cold, maybe, but not the flu."
Undeterred, Donald just raised an eyebrow. "A cold where you throw up all night?"
Refusing to cave, Timothy shook his head. "A bug then. Besides, nothing sounded good yesterday, I'm sure it was just the effect of medicine on an empty stomach."
Not convinced, Donald watched as Timothy stretched carefully, wincing when he twisted too far. "And aches." Playing innocent - and knowing he was failing horribly - Donald said, "Oh, yeah, sounds just like a cold to me."
Yawning, only to have it cut off by a sneeze, Timothy glared at Donald from behind a tissue. "Don't you have to go to work? Cheating spouses to spy on?"
Hurt by the dismissal, Donald dropped the spoon into the bowl, still considering his reply when Timothy sighed. He reached across the bed, covering Donald's hand with his own. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I just..."
When he didn't continue, Donald put his bowl onto the bedside table and linked his fingers with Timothy's. Something in Tim's foul mood set off warning bells. "This is more than just being sick."
Tim nodded, not meeting Donald's eyes. "I was just looking forward to tonight."
Wracking his brain, Donald tried to remember what Tim was talking about. Suddenly, it hit him. "The symphony tickets."
"Yes," Timothy said, pressing a hand against his chest as he coughed. When he could breathe again, he gave Donald a watery smile. "No excuse for being cruel, though."
"I'm sorry, honey. I completely forgot."
Donald felt terrible - although he hadn't been especially looking forward to the night, he knew Timothy had been. He had made Donald promise, as best as Donald was able, to be off work that night, and Donald had even managed it. Not that it mattered with Timothy sick.
Brushing Tim's cheek with the backs of his fingers, Donald smiled sadly. "I know you were looking forward to it."
Timothy shrugged, and Donald hated the familiar, resigned look. And even though Donald himself wasn't the cause - this time - he couldn't help wanting to fix it.
"It's okay," Tim replied, trying, if failing, at sounding nonchalant. He cleared his throat before adding, "There will be other performances. You could go ahead and go, though."
"No. Thank you, but no." Donald had only been going because he knew it would make Tim happy, anyway.
They were silent for a few minutes, Timothy slowly finishing at least one piece of the toast. He pushed his plate away, however, leaving the other untouched. Donald gave him an appraising look. "How's your stomach?"
The other man paused to consider this, pressing a hand against his abdomen. "So far, so good."
Relieved, Donald nodded. "Do you think you'll be okay if I go into the office for a while?"
"I'm a big boy, Donald." Timothy rolled his eyes, but smiled at his husband fondly. "I'll be fine." Kissing Tim on the cheek - ignoring his muttered "You'll get sick, too!" - Donald stood and retrieved their dishes.
He gestured toward the bottle of Sprite sitting on the table next to the Tylenol and NyQuil. "Take some more, okay?" Reconsidering, Donald glanced at the clock. "Well, take some more Tylenol now. Give the other a few more hours."
Pausing in the doorway, Donald watched as Timothy begrudgingly moved to comply. "Call me if you need me. I'll call the senator for you, okay?"
Snuggling under the covers, burying another sneeze in his sleeve, Timothy nodded. "I will. Have a good day."
"Feel better. And eat something!"
Timothy smiled, already beginning to drift off. "Thank you." Donald had just turned to leave when he heard Tim whisper, "Love you."
He smiled, reaching to pull the door shut. "You, too."
Donald put the dirty dishes in the sink, along with those from the night before, and found a travel mug. He filled it full of coffee, taking a couple of large drinks and topping it of, before grabbing the phone. Luckily, Tim's office was on speed dial, and within a moment, he had talked the receptionist into letting him speak with the senator.
"Thank goodness," she said, sounding more than a little relieved. "I was afraid he would come in today, looking like death warmed over."
Laughing, Donald shook his head. "He put up surprisingly little fight. That said, just be glad tomorrow's Saturday."
"Oh, I am," Glassman said with a laugh. "I've never worked with someone so dedicated, but sometimes he just pushes too hard."
Comforted that someone else understood his partner so well, Donald smiled. "Don't I know it. I appreciate you sending him home yesterday, though I don't envy you the task is must have been."
She chuckled, and Donald could imagine her chagrined expression. "Luckily, I'm good in a verbal sparring match. Comes with the job." She paused before speaking quietly to someone else on the other end. "I'm afraid I have to go. Tell Timothy we'll see him Monday, if he's feeling up to it?"
"I will. Thanks, Senator."
He disconnected the call, and picked up his keys and wallet. Patting his pocket to ensure his cell phone was there, Donald grabbed his coffee and hurried out of the house. He had plans to make.
~<>~<>~
By the time Donald returned that night - hoping he wouldn't end up regretting leaving Kenny in charge at the office - he was exhausted. From outside, he had been able to tell that only the bedroom light was on, and was relieved.
Dropping several bags onto the kitchen island, Donald jogged upstairs, calling out, "I'm home!" He went into the bedroom and found Tim sitting up in bed, reading a book. "How're you feeling?" Donald asked, dropping a kiss on Timothy's cheek.
Timothy smiled, rubbing his nose absently with a tissue. "Almost human."
Pleased, Donald cupped Tim's face in his hands. "Good to hear." He took a closer look at Tim, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. Tim did indeed seem to be on the mend somewhat, and blessedly fever free. Sitting back, he grasped Timothy's hand. "Were you able to keep anything down?"
"Mostly," Timothy replied, cringing. At Donald's pointed look, he amended that by admitting, "I was only sick once." He shook Donald's hand slightly, smiling. "I'll be fine." After a sneeze, he gave Donald an evil grin. "But if you think those dishes are staying in the sink..."
Laughing, Donald rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Take your medicine?" Though at least Timothy was a little less stubborn than he was in that regard, it never hurt to ask.
Clearly tired, Timothy nodded before coughing softly. "Yes, dear. Good day at work?"
"Slow," Donald said, not exactly lying, letting his partner change the subject. "Can't complain."
When Timothy yawned, his jaw popping, Donald stood. "Why don't you take a nap? I'll wake you for dinner."
Although Tim grimaced at the mention of more food, his eyes were already falling closed. Donald rescued the book, before it fell onto the floor, marking Tim's place and sitting it on the nightstand.
"Okay."
Donald waited until he was certain that Timothy was sound asleep before retreating downstairs once more. Reaching the kitchen, he began to sort through the bags he had brought home. More Sprite - left out of the refrigerator, as room temperature seemed to help - followed by several cans of chicken noodle soup and another box of crackers.
Uncertain how long Tim would sleep, Donald set the soup and crackers aside, unopened. For the time being, he busied himself with cleaning the dishes as he had promised. That chore done, he snuck upstairs long enough to empty the wastebasket, and collect all of the used washcloths.
Tissues in the trash, laundry in the hamper; Donald sighed and went in search of a snack. It had been far too long since the hamburger he had picked up for lunch. Soon enough, sandwich made, and chips dug out of the pantry, Donald let himself relax and eat, careful to keep an ear out for any noise upstairs.
Stomach happy, Donald then set about finding every candle they owned. It turned out to be quite a number - Tim had a fondness for buying them that, while Donald appreciated, he never quite understood.
Donald placed them all around the room, literally covering every surface he thought safe. There were so many, it took several minutes to light them all. He pulled the blinds closed and flipped the light switch, smiling at the soft, flickering effect the candles produced.
He carried the Sprite and two champagne flutes into the main room, and left them on the coffee table. Satisfied they weren't too close to any of the candles, Donald went back into the kitchen.
A glance at the clock showed it to have been a couple of hours since Tim had fallen asleep, and Donald expected he would probably wake soon. Cold medicine made Timothy sleep, but, oddly enough, never for hours upon hours at a time. In fact, Donald tilted his head, almost positive he heard his partner moving around.
Opening one of the cans, Donald pulled out a pot and emptied the soup into it. Although he was more the microwave type, Timothy had taught him the merits of soup heated on the stove. Soon the liquid was simmering, bubbling gently and making Donald's already-full stomach growl.
Donald heard the bed creak - an unmistakable sign that Tim was up - and he hurried into the living room to turn on the stereo. He picked out one of Timothy's favorite CDs, and soon an orchestral piece was playing softly.
Returning to the kitchen, he ladled out some of the soup into a bowl. He put the bowl on a saucer, adding crackers, and placed it on the coffee table next to the drinks. Satisfied that the room was as perfect as he could make it, Donald rubbed his palms on his jeans and went upstairs.
He found Timothy exiting the bathroom, bundled up in his robe and flannel. Before Donald could say a word, Tim held up a shaky hand. "I wasn't sick." Relieved, Donald nodded. "But if I don't get out of this room soon, I might go mad."
Chuckling, Donald nodded, happy to note the flush of fever was gone from Timothy's cheeks. They had entered the next phase of Timothy being sick - the bored silly phase. Too sick to go out, but not wanting just to sleep. Donald was almost positive he didn't get this way, but Timothy only laughed himself to tears the one time that Donald had dared mention it.
Donald held out his hand, smiling when Tim took it. "Let's go downstairs, then."
"Sounds wonderful," Timothy replied, though he sneezed, shivering as he wrapped his arms around Donald's waist. He was only still for a moment, before leaning back to wipe his nose with a tissue. Tim sighed. "I am so sick of sneezing. I never want to see another tissue, ever again."
Tugging on Timothy's arm, Donald asked, "How about some dinner, some medicine, and then more sleep? Tissues are entirely optional."
"I'll try," Tim replied with a cough, resting his cheek on Donald's shoulder.
Donald patted the top of his head, before kissing him behind the ear. "All I can ask. Come on, dinner awaits."
He pulled Timothy along with him, moving toward the main room, rather than the kitchen. Clearly confused, Tim asked, "I thought..."
"Not tonight," Donald replied, smiling at the furrow creasing Tim's brow. He tugged Tim's hand. "Come on."
They rounded the corner into the main room and Timothy came to a halt. "Donald?"
Donald moved so that he could see Tim's shocked face, and smiled. Cupping his partner's cheek, he waited until Timothy looked at him. "I know it's not the symphony at The Palace..."
Timothy smiled, blinking back tears. "I'd kiss you, but I don't want you sick, too."
Laughing, Donald held Tim's face between his hands, and kissed him soundly. When he pulled back, he grinned at Timothy's mock-annoyed expression. "I'd say it's inevitable at this point, anyway." Waggling his eyebrows, Donald said, "Might as well enjoy myself."
Rolling his eyes, Tim took Donald's hand and stepped into the softly glowing room. Tiling his head, he listened to the music for a moment with his eyes closed. "Beethoven." He squeezed Donald's hand, muffling a cough against his own shoulder. Once he could speak, Tim looked at Donald with bright eyes. "They were playing Beethoven tonight."
Donald nodded, and tugged Timothy toward the center of the room. Taking his husband in his arms, he guided Tim's head onto his shoulder. As they danced slowly, Moonlight Sonata swirling peacefully around them, Donald let his eyes drift closed.
Except for the fact Timothy was feeling so poorly, Donald couldn't help but think he had come out ahead. A night in, dancing in a sea of golden light, was much more his idea of a perfect evening than the hustle and bustle of the symphony. It wouldn't have been, before Tim, but that was true of more things than Donald could - or even wanted to - count.
Sighing happily, Timothy curled his hand around Donald's shoulder as they swayed back and forth. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Donald replied, kissing Timothy's temple. He knew it wouldn't be long before Timothy was falling back asleep, and he really needed to convince him to eat first. In the meantime, however, Donald was determined to enjoy this moment for as long as it lasted.
end