Strachey Mysteries Fic - If the Fates Allow (1/2)
Title: If the Fates Allow
Author: kaly
Rating: PG
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy, Bailey, Kelly
Category: angst, holiday, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: extremely minor for On the Other Hand, Death and Ice Blues
Summary: A close call at Christmas shakes Tim's world.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: I would like to preface this fic by saying I'm not a doctor, nor do I know any doctors. I was recently burned pretty badly in another fandom because of this, among other things, so I'm a little gunshy atm.
Notes 2: For the Christmas tim_don_a_thon.
Thanks to bronwynferchdai for reading it over for me.
If The Fates Allow
Soft music filled the house, an instrumental carol giving it a festive air. It matched well with the tall fir tree that sat in front of the window, draped in baubles and lights. Tim paused to straighten one of the stockings on the mantle - a sentimental gift from his mother years before - and smiled.
The previous Christmas, Donald had been wrapped up in a case. He had been so busy that Timothy hadn't even seen him on either Christmas Eve or Christmas day itself. This year, however, they had managed to make it as far as the 23rd, and thus far, Donald was case-free. Donald had even gone so far as to give Kenny the week off.
With hopes for a better holiday this year than last, Timothy had taken several days off of work - with the Senator's blessing, of course. He was happily ensconced at home, wrapping presents, and nursing a mug of cider. When Donald got home he would probably insist on eggnog, but Timothy despised the concoction and avoided it whenever possible. Cider, however, was a Callahan family tradition around the holidays. One he kept close, especially since his family had become painfully estranged.
Tim tied the ribbon around one of Donald's gifts, and carried it to the tree, dancing slightly along with the music. And even though the holiday was so close, Timothy was careful to push the gift to the very back, hidden among the others.
Donald was as notorious when it came to shaking presents, as bad as any twelve-year-old. In fact, it had gotten to the point a few years earlier that Timothy had resorting to adding pebbles to some of his gifts, just to keep him guessing. It had been worth it, just to see Donald's confounded expression that first year.
Tim glanced at the clock, it was nearly dark, and snow had been falling since midday. It wasn't so much the cold that concerned him - they could build a fire easily enough - however, Donald had gone up to Hollis at Dorothy's request. He had asked Timothy to tag along, but Tim had opted to stay home and finish up the Christmas preparations.
Successfully fighting the urge to call and ask Donald how close he was to home, Timothy returned to the kitchen table, and the still-to-be-wrapped gifts that waited for him. He paused to top off his cider from the pot, and selected the next gift to be wrapped. Luckily, he was finished with Donald's presents, so it didn't matter how early he arrived home. All that remained were a couple of gifts for Kelly, and he would be done.
He was in the middle of taping a particularly difficult corner when the phone rang. With a sigh, he let go of the paper, resigned to starting over, and picked up the phone. Thumbing the power button, he asked, "Hello?"
"Tim? Bub Bailey."
Timothy held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, taking another piece of tape. "Ah! Hello, Detective! Merry Christmas." He paused, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he finally secured the paper. "I hate to say it, but Donald's not home at the moment."
Picking up his cider, Tim took a sip and heard Bailey sigh. "Yeah, about that... That's why I'm calling, actually." Timothy frowned, wondering absently why else he would be calling, since Donald wasn't on a case. He didn't have to wait long. "There's been an accident. Just outside of town."
The sound of shattering ceramic registered before Timothy even realized he had dropped the mug. Collapsing back onto a stool, his mouth opened and closed. Finding his voice, he asked in a whisper, "Is he..."
"He's alive," Bailey reassured him. "I wouldn't do that to you over the phone."
Closing his eyes, Timothy took a shuddering breath. "Thank God." Timothy gripped the phone so tightly the thought it might break. "How is he?"
There was the sound of a horn honking, followed by Bailey muttering under his breath. A moment later he said, "I'm not sure. They were on the way to the hospital when someone thought to call me, of all people." More honking. "Look, I'm almost to your place. Be ready to go, and I'll take you to him."
"I'll be ready."
Tim disconnected the call, dropping the phone on the table by the forgotten presents. Struggling to stay calm, Timothy hurried to turn off the music and the tree's lights. Satisfied everything was off, he moved to the hall closet on auto-pilot and retrieved his coat and scarf.
Checking that he had his wallet - complete with his Power of Attorney for Donald - Timothy picked up his cell phone, and went outside. He was just locking the door behind him when Bailey pulled into the drive.
Not wasting any time, Tim crossed the walk and was opening the car door almost before Bailey came to a complete stop. He climbed inside, putting on his seatbelt without thinking.
Heart in his throat, unable to look at Bailey, he asked, "Any news?"
"Not in the last three minutes."
Bailey put the car in reverse, and soon - not quickly enough, a small voice insisted - they were on the road. Digging his fingers into his scarf, Tim focused on the feeling of wool, as though something so mundane could keep him from flying apart.
Forcing himself to stay calm - Donald was fine - Timothy glanced at the other man. "Sorry. Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your assistance."
He was somewhat surprised when Bailey smirked. "Your boyfriend would make my life a living hell, otherwise. So it's purely selfish on my part, I assure you." He glanced over at Tim quickly, before turning his full attention back to the slick roads. "And my name's Bub."
"Well, thank you anyway," he paused, almost - but not quite - smiling at the obvious line the detective was feeding him. "Bub."
Bailey rolled his eyes. "Though how I got appointed his babysitter I'll never understand."
"It can be a full time job, yes." He was too worried to fully appreciate the attempts at humor, but he did his best to play along, even as his mind ran in more and more depressing circles. Polite to the end. However, it was with a wave of sadness he stared out the window and added, "I know the feeling."
"I'm sure he's fine."
Tim turned to look at Bailey, somewhat surprised by the usually gruff man's attempt at comfort. It was obvious to see that Bailey was out of his element, but Tim appreciated the effort, none the less.
He opened his mouth to reply, before closing it. Turning his attention back to the scenery as it passed by quickly, Timothy shivered at how wrong Bailey might be. Closing his eyes, praying silently, Tim fought back the urge to throw up.
Eventually, he whispered, "He has to be."
The longer it took to reach the hospital, the more nervous Timothy became. Bailey's assurances, even when coupled with Tim's own denials, could only work for so long. He needed to see Donald, to hear from his doctor that everything was going to be okay.
His eyes burned with tears, and when he tried to blink them back, one managed to escape. Timothy didn't bother wiping it away. Taking a stuttering breath, his chest tight with worry, Timothy prayed harder.
After all, it was Christmas...
The car came to a sudden halt, shaking Timothy from his prayers. He looked around, momentarily confused. When realization broke through his mental fog, Timothy scrabbled to unhook his seatbelt. He paused, looking up when Bailey said, "I'll park and come find you."
Tim nodded, but didn't otherwise reply as he exited the car, attention focused only on finding Donald. He hurried through the Emergency Room doors, barely waiting long enough for the doors to open before sliding through. Reaching the desk, he slumped against it, breathing heavily.
"Donald Strachey? He should've just been brought in..."
The nurse glanced up at him, clearly assessing his physical state. When it was obvious Timothy wasn't a patient, she glanced at the computer monitor and typed a few keys. Instead of speaking, much to Timothy's mounting frustration, she then handed him a clipboard of paperwork.
"Fill these out, and return them, please."
Flustered, he looked at the papers, and back to the nurse. He slammed the clipboard down on the counter. "But how is he?" he demanded. "Where is he?"
"Sir, if you don't calm down, I'll be forced to call security." She picked up the phone, but didn't dial. "Just please fill that out."
Furious, he opened his mouth to reply but was cut off when a hand grasped his elbow. Spinning around, he ripped his arm free only to stop, mouth gaping, when he found Bailey standing there.
The detective just picked up the clipboard and handed it to Tim, before smiling at the nurse. Pulling out his badge, he showed it to her. "Anything you can tell us?"
She glanced at Timothy once more, but shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. The doctor will come find you when he can." Softly, she added, "And I really do need those forms."
"Not now," Bailey muttered in Timothy's ear when he began to protest, clutching the clipboard against this chest. To the nurse, he merely said, "Thank you."
Anger and fear and adrenaline combined, almost overloading him, and Timothy began to shake. He distantly felt Bailey's hand on his back, choking back a sob at how badly he wished it were Donald's instead. "Come on." Bailey gestured toward an empty corner with his free hand. "Let's sit down and you can take care of those."
As he sat, Timothy couldn't help rolling his eyes. Holding up the clipboard, he gestured toward the forms. "I fill these out so often, I should just make copies." The joke nearly caught in his throat, gallows humor was always more Donald's forte.
"And put them in his wallet?"
Eyes watering, Tim managed an anemic smile, before turning his attention to the questions he could - and quite possibly had - answered in his sleep. "Indeed."
They fell silent as Timothy completed the paperwork. It was moments like these that Tim was absurdly grateful he had finally finagled getting Donald on his insurance. He couldn't even imagine what might happen if Donald were still uninsured, as he had been when they had met.
He was grateful when Bailey took the completed papers from him, and carried them up to the desk. Rather than watch the detective deal with the nurse again, Timothy stared at the doorway he knew the doctor would walk through. If willpower alone could summon someone, well, Donald would be there with him. But lacking him, the doctor certainly would have already appeared.
The longer they sat there, a television droning in the background, the more horrible Timothy's thoughts became. He was stunned then, when he looked at the yellowed clock on the wall and discovered they had only been there for ten minutes. It had felt like an eternity.
He had been focused so intently on conjuring Donald - or the doctor - that when one finally appeared Timothy froze, unable to breathe. The dark-haired woman wore scrubs splattered with blood, and had a steely look on her face.
"Strachey?"
Timothy jumped up, staggering when the blood rushed out of his head, only Bailey's quick grab saving him from the floor. They met her halfway across the room, Timothy nearly strangling his scarf in an effort to keep from wringing his hands.
"How is he?" he asked, desperation tingeing his voice.
She appraised them both critically, dispassionately, and Tim found himself wishing Donald's case had fallen to one of the doctors they knew. "Are you family?"
Preparing himself for a fight - it wouldn't be the first time - Timothy nodded. After the first time Donald had been hurt when they were dating, Tim had spent endless weeks ensuring neither of them would be left in the dark again. Those few hours until Donald had woken had nearly killed Timothy.
He merely blinked when she didn't press. "That's good. We need to hurry." Timothy opened his mouth to question, but felt Bailey squeeze his arm to keep quiet. "It took us this long just to stabilize him, but we have to get into surgery right away."
"Surgery?" Tim asked, barely words and not mere breath. Terrified, he could only stare at her. "What...? He'll be all right, right?"
Face softening just a bit, the doctor - whose name tag said Reid - shrugged. "I hope so, but he's bleeding and time is critical if we're going to save him. We have to get in there and find the source and get it stopped. We've already paged a surgeon, and he's scrubbing up now."
Somehow swallowing past the lump in his throat, Timothy nodded. Tears brimming in his eyes, despair nearly rendering him mute, Tim choked out, "Go."
"Wait for me in the surgical waiting area. I'll come find you once we're done." With that, the doctor turned and jogged away.
Timothy turned and looked at Bailey with haunted eyes. He didn't think he would ever be able to repay the detective for being there. His voice only barely shook when he asked, "What if...?"
Bailey squared his shoulders, replying without a hint of doubt, "He'll be fine. He's a stubborn son of a bitch. Drives me nuts by it."
"Oh, God." Tim sagged against Bailey, his legs not wanting to keep him upright. He couldn't contain his fear, his dread. Voice little more than a whisper, he asked, "But what if he's not?"
Squeezing Timothy's shoulder briefly, Bailey shook his head. "He will be. You just have to focus on that."
"I want to, but..." He straightened to his full height - he had to be strong, for Donald. Timothy couldn't afford to fall apart when Donald needed him. Chin wavering, he sniffed loudly and blinked his eyes clear. "You're right." Timothy gave the detective a watery smile.
Bailey smirked at him. "I always am." He pointed toward the nurse. "Want me to ask her where the waiting room is?"
"No need," Timothy replied with a quick headshake. "I've been there before."
Eyebrows high, Bailey questioned, "Strachey?"
"Who else?" Timothy shrugged, his eyes tracking back to the swinging doors that hid Donald from him. "What can I say? I married a trouble magnet."
Bailey snorted. "Ain't that the truth." Gesturing toward a door on the opposite side of the room, he added, "Lead the way then."
Surprised, but touched, Timothy just stared at him for a moment. "You're staying?"
"At least until you hear something, yeah," he replied with an understanding trace of sympathy in his eyes. "Unless you don't want me to?"
Shaking his head, Timothy turned absently toward the door. "No, no, that's fine."
"Is there anyone I can call for you?" Bailey asked, after he caught up to Tim.
As he pushed the door open, Timothy looked at Bailey and shook his head. "No, my family is out of town for the holiday. Kelly and our parents are taking the chance to reconnect." He didn't mention that he hadn't been invited, much to his sister's very loud annoyance. Tim had merely put on a brave face - the last thing he wanted to do was cause strife between them after so many years apart.
"And Donald's..." He shrugged, a familiar hopeless feeling filling him, as it always did when their families were mentioned. "Donald doesn't talk to his family."
Bailey looked surprised, Tim noted distantly, grateful when the detective didn't press. "Oh."
Reaching the elevator, Tim pressed the up arrow and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Yeah." He tried to smile, but gave up on the idea quickly. Unable to look at the other man, Timothy stared at his shoes and said in a small voice, "So, thank you for staying."
Although he couldn't see him, Timothy couldn't help noticing how Bailey shifted back and forth uncomfortably for a moment. The other man cleared his throat roughly. "It's no problem."
The dinging noise, announcing the elevator's arrival at their floor, caused Tim to jump. He glanced up at the numbers, noting they were indeed on the surgical floor before exiting. Two right hand turns, and Tim found himself facing a far too familiar room. He wished he had only been exaggerating when he said he had been there before.
Taking a deep breath, Timothy stared at the worn couches and chairs, and the tables littered with magazines and papers. It was several moments before he was ready to enter. Foolishly, each time he visited Timothy had hoped not to return.
He must have stared off into space long enough to worry Bailey, because he asked quietly, "Tim?"
Shaking his head, he tried to find a smile, but failed miserably. Instead, he shrugged. "This is one of the last places I want to be."
"Understandable." The detective gestured toward the seating area. "I guess we should get comfortable."
Tim wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself tightly. He glanced toward the nearby nurse's station, wanting nothing more to start demanding information. However he had learned the hard way his first time there how little that actually gained. It hadn't even really made him feel better in the end.
With a resigned sigh, he forced himself to cross the room, taking a seat near Bailey. He selected the same chair he always did, when it was available. It granted him a view of both the hallway the staff would use, and the window. Sitting ramrod straight, he laced his fingers together on top of his lap.
"And now we wait." Absently he hoped he didn't sound as despondent as he felt.
He must have, because Bailey paused, leaning halfway across another chair where he had been reaching for a discarded newspaper. The other man nodded briefly, before grabbing the paper. Settling in his seat, he gave Timothy a feeble smile. "It'll be okay."
Sadly, Tim didn't trust the words anymore this time that the last. His faith was one of his most precious traits, his faith in Donald doubly so. But sitting in a deserted waiting room two days before Christmas, Timothy feared what if their luck had run out. What if this time his faith wasn't enough?
"I need to go make some calls. You want a coffee while I'm out?"
Startled, Tim looked at the detective as though he had lost his mind. After a moment, though, he recognized the knowing look on Bailey's face. Obviously he wasn't hiding his fears as well as he'd hoped, or even at all.
Even though the thought of anything to eat or drink made him queasy, Timothy nodded anyway. "That would be quite nice."
Bailey stood, dropping the paper into his chair. "I'll be right back."
Timothy's attention drifted out through the window, and he nodded absently. In a whisper, he replied, "I'll be here." He had no where else to be.
It felt like no time at all, and an eternity, when he looked up to find the detective standing in front of him, a large coffee in each hand. Offering one to Tim, he grimaced, "I wasn't sure how you took yours."
"Black's fine." He accepted the offering from Bailey, bringing it to his lips before pulling it away as his stomach roiled at the thought. No, that was definitely a bad idea. Knowing it was a futile hope, he had to ask, "Did you see anyone?" his eyes tracking to the empty hall.
"No. All's quiet." Bailey shook his head, taking a sip of his drink and then wincing. "Wow, that's bad."
Timothy smirked, if only just. He merely played with his own, spinning the cup between his hands, relishing the warmth if nothing else. "It is terrible here."
Bailey shrugged out of his leather coat, folding it across a seat. He glanced at Timothy, who in turn shrunk into his own coat. At the detective's raised eyebrow, Tim shrugged. "I can never get warm here. Donald," he paused, swallowing hard. "Donald gives me no end of grief about refusing to take off my coat. Says it's my security blanket."
"Ah." Tim counted himself grateful when Bailey didn't say anything more.
A clock on the far wall ticked off the seconds. Tim couldn't stop himself from looking at it every few minutes, making the night feel longer than it was. Every little noise made him jump; the sight of two nurses walking down the hallway had him on his feet only to be disappointed when they didn't stop.
He collapsed back on the chair, all pretense of posture gone. Slumping forward, Timothy rested his head in his hands, shoving his fingers into his hair. Exhaling loudly, he ground the heels of his hands against his eyes, ignoring how his hands shook.
The noise of a tray falling to the floor, somewhere out of view, scared him so badly he jumped out of his chair. He was two steps toward the hallway before he turned and paced over to the windows instead. Timothy was grateful Bailey didn't comment, but instead kept hidden behind his paper.
It was odd - or oddly fitting - that even with a small television droning on in the corner it was the ticking of the clock that filled Timothy's ears. For the first time since they had arrived, Tim looked at the screen and saw what was airing. He was just in time to see Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed dancing, chaos imminent.
Tears burned Timothy's eyes, and he wiped a tired hand over his them. "We watch this every year." He didn't know if he was speaking to Bailey, to himself, or to no one at all; however, he absently noted Bailey looking at him.
"Our first Christmas we ended up snowed in together. I had a small apartment, and a tiny black and white television that only picked up three channels." As the swimming pool started to appear, Tim felt his chest tighten, but the story continued to pour out of him. "The only thing on those three channels that we could agree on was It's A Wonderful Life."
"Traditions start in funny ways."
Tim startled, his eyes torn away from the television to stare at the detective. "I guess they do." He paused, staring off into space, his eyes unfocused. "We haven't had a chance this year."
"You will."
The other man sounded so certain that Timothy couldn't bring himself to voice doubt. In its place, he clung to that certainty. It might be their New Year's celebration this year - or even after that - but hell or high water they would be curled on the couch, watching as bells rang and angels got their wings.
Moving to the window, he pressed his hands against the glass, longing to be out there, in the world. He wanted so badly to be at home, wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire with Donald. Instead, he stared at the slowly drifting snow, and the small thatch of covered woods beyond, mesmerized by how it sparkled in the hospital's lights.
It seemed so peaceful, so perfect for a winter's night.
And so horribly wrong.
Suddenly unable to stand the idyllic view, Timothy spun around to face the detective. "You mentioned a phone call. Was it about the accident?"
"Yeah," Bailey said, lowering the paper so he could see Timothy. "I called a buddy down at the station, see if the report had come in."
Practically vibrating, Tim gestured with his hands for the other man to continue. "And?"
Bailey glanced out the window. "Black ice, it looks like. Happened in a curve, was probably going a little too fast and lost control." A pensive look crossed his face, and Timothy worried he might not continue. "Went down an incline, into some trees."
"Oh," Tim said, dropping back into his chair. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse for knowing. In a shaking voice, he asked, "Was anyone else involved?" Timothy knew Donald wouldn't forgive himself if there had been.
He didn't breathe until Bailey shook his head. "No. Just Strachey." His mouth quirked, the grin in stark contrast to the somber conversation preceding it. "Car's a goner, though."
Lets hope Donald isn't crossed Timothy's mind in a flash, but his bit the words back. He couldn't give voice to something so broken. He couldn't bring himself to tempt fate worse than he already had. Instead, he merely stared at his hands. "Oh."
"Thought you might not mind that part."
It was on the tip of his tongue to snap at the other man, but dignity and gratitude for all Bailey had done held the sharp words at bay. Timothy glanced at him, blinking back renewed tears. "Ask me again in a couple of days if..." He choked. "When Donald's better. Then I most likely won't mind that part."
"Sorry," Bailey said, looking embarrassed.
Timothy took a deep breath, holding it, before exhaling slowly, hoping it would take some of the inescapable tension with it. "No, I'm sorry. I just... I can't think..."
Bailey but a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Really. Lash out all you want if it makes you feel better. Lord knows I'd be a basket case by now if I were in your shoes."
Still not quite sure what to make of this new side to the other man - one whom he had never seen him anything but gruff and annoyed - Tim gave him a considering look.
"Detective..." At Bailey's glare, Tim amended, "Bub. Won't your family be wondering where you are? It's two days until Christmas." He glanced at the clock. It gave proof time was indeed moving, even if Timothy felt trapped - it had passed midnight. "Make that Christmas Eve."
Picking up his coffee, Bailey shook his head before taking a drink. "That was one of the phone calls I had to make. They understand."
Surprised, he raised his eyebrows. Even though he tried, Timothy could never truly understand when Donald was away or busy over the holidays. "Really?"
"I told you, I'll stay till they come tell you what's going on." Bailey rolled his eyes. "And I thought your boyfriend was stubborn."
Of its own volition, the corner of Tim's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Oh, Donald would argue otherwise. To hear him tell it, he's nothing compared to me."
"Well, then," Bailey replied, a knowing light in his eye. "Sounds like something to focus on right about how, huh?"
Caught, Timothy sighed and slouched back in his chair. "You're right. It's just..."
"Hard."
Nodding, Tim looked at the clock - two minutes later than the last time - and rested his head against the wall. "Very."
Timothy turned his attention to the ceiling, counting the familiar marks there and cataloging new ones. In the back of his mind, he was reciting every prayer he could remember, even possibly making up some new ones. He was so focused, Timothy jumped when Bailey said quietly, "It's a time of miracles right about now. Or so they say."
Unable to look at Bailey for the tears in his eyes - Tim knew if he dared move, or even blink, they would fall - he stared even harder at the ceiling. He felt broken, hollow. When he spoke, it was in a rough, whispered voice. "I'm counting on that."
"Are you here for Donald Strachey?"
Timothy jumped as though he had been shot, standing so quickly he almost fell. Steadied by a hand on his arm, he nodded frantically. "How is he? Is he okay?"
"I'm Doctor Silverman," the doctor said, so calm Timothy wanted to claw at his own skin, and possibly the doctor's as well. "I performed the surgery."
Shaking, Timothy swallowed roughly. "And?"
"Why don't we have a seat?" he asked, gesturing toward the chairs.
"Why don't you tell me how my husband is?" Timothy snapped, losing patience.
Silverman sighed, but nodded in understanding. "I'm cautiously optimistic."
Timothy swayed when relief washed over him. Distractedly, he felt Bailey standing beside him, anchoring him. "He'll be okay."
"He should be," the doctor replied, but held out a hand. "I'll be happier when he's through the next twelve to twenty-four hours, however."
It was a phrase that Timothy had heard before. He would've preferred a more certain answer, but Donald had survived the surgery and in some of his darkest moments he had feared for even that. "Can I see him?"
"At the moment, he's in Recovery. And it's well past visiting hours."
Wanting to scream, Timothy clenched his teeth. "I need to see him." He was willing to beg, plead or even cry. Whatever it took to let him see Donald, touch him, as soon as humanly possible. He had to see him with his own eyes.
The doctor's eyes darkened with understanding, and he nodded. "Once he's out of Recovery, and in ICU, I'll arrange for you to see him." He held up a hand, one finger pointing at Timothy. "But only for five minutes. I'm afraid those are rules I can't break."
Timothy's heart fell at the mention of ICU, although he had known it was a likely next step. And to think, once upon a time he knew nothing about emergency medicine. His spirits were buoyed, however, by the promise of visitation.
"Thank you, Doctor."
For the first time since arriving, the doctor smiled. "I need to prepare you, though. We've put him on a ventilator." Tim's mouth dropped open, panicking - Donald had never needed intubated before. "It's purely precautionary, I assure you." Silverman's words were rushed, clearly trying to calm Timothy.
"Precautionary?" Timothy asked, not understanding.
"He needs to rest, to heal. The ventilator will help take the strain off of his body. It should only be until the critical period has passed. This time tomorrow, he should be breathing on his own."
Timothy looked skyward, whispering thanks, before letting his chin fall against his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, his knees shaking. "I think I need to..." He gestured toward the chairs, before collapsing gratefully onto one.
After taking several deep breaths, the emotional rollercoaster leaving him lightheaded, he looked at the doctor once more. "Could you tell me his injuries?"
Silverman sat in the seat next to Timothy, Bailey sitting on the table across from them. "Based on the bruising, it appears as though he wasn't wearing his seatbelt." Tim filed that piece of information away for later. They had talked about that! "This allowed for two things to happen."
The doctor gestured toward the left side of Timothy's chest. "This rib right here, snapped, scraping against his lung."
"It punctured his lung?"
"No, very luckily for him, it didn't. It was very fortunate, because it meant we weren't dealing with a pnuemothorax, too. The broken rib and bruised lung will be painful for a while, but not debilitatingly so."
They had been in surgery far too long for that to be all, Timothy was certain of it. Sitting up straighter, his mother's voice in his head saying a gentlemen didn't slouch, he took a deep breath. "What else?"
Silverman glanced between the two of them, not replying immediately. His voice was low, and quite serious, as he explained, "The blunt force trauma from the steering wheel caused massive bleeding from the spleen. We nearly lost him twice on the table."
Timothy's vision grayed and he choked, swallowing back bile. "Lost?"
"It happens, with injuries like this. It sounds horrible, and it is, but we were able to contain it and get him back." Silverman rested a hand on Timothy's arm, no doubt seeking to comfort him, though not succeeding. "He fought his way back both times, and by the time we closed, his vitals were steady. I truly do believe he'll be fine, eventually."
Relief poured over him at those words, so profound Timothy felt deflated. "Thank you," he whispered.
The doctor smiled and nodded. "Like I said, officially his condition is guarded. But based on what I saw in there, with the right care, and the right support..." He paused, squeezing Timothy's arm. "I think he'll make a full recovery. It will just take time."
Smiling, the first truly happy emotion he had felt since Bailey's call, Tim nodded. "Support I can do."
"I figured as much." Standing, the doctor held out his hand, shaking Timothy's. "I'll have a nurse come and find you once he's been moved."
When Timothy couldn't find his voice, it was Bailey who replied, "Thank you, doctor."
"You're welcome," he said with a nod, before turning and disappearing around the corner. They watched him leave, a much more comfortable silence settling between them.
It was several minutes later when Bailey snickered. Timothy glanced at him, curious, in time to hear, "Knew he was a stubborn SOB."
Timothy giggled, exhaustion and relief making him silly, before slapping a hand over his mouth. Bailey just grinned at him. Calmer, Tim nodded. "Yes, you're quite right about that."
"After they let you see him, I'll give you a lift home." Timothy opened his mouth to argue - he was staying, damn it - but Bailey cut him off with a wave. "You heard the doctor. It'll be a day or so before he wakes up. Go home, get some sleep, and eat something."
What if's slammed into him, all earlier good humor evaporating. "I need to be here."
"You have to take care of yourself, too, Tim." There was understanding in Bailey's eyes that was oddly compelling. "I've been there, well, sorta. Partner of mine was hurt a few years back, was touch and go for a while. Other guys from the precinct were there, and yet, even with that, I know what it's like to wait and worry, feeling totally alone."
Surprised by the confession, Tim stared. "I'm sorry."
Bailey waved the condolence away. "It was a long time ago, and he's still kicking." The detective grinned. "I still kick his ass at poker every chance I get." More seriously he said, "But I understand the waiting, even if it wasn't my wife." Timothy winced at the wording, and Bailey noticed. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know. Honest," Tim said quickly, seeking to reassure him. The last thing he wanted to do was offend someone who had done so much for both of them. "And I appreciate the offer, but..."
"No buts," Bailey interrupted. "You're no good to him when you collapse and end up down the hall."
Timothy winced, hearing the truth in the words, but hating them all the same. The thought of going home - alone - and leaving Donald was almost too much to bear. Softly, he admitted, "I don't want to leave him."
The other man nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "He knows that."
Resigned - if quite unhappy about it - Timothy acquiesced. "Okay. I'll go. But I'm coming back first thing in the morning."
"Wouldn't have dreamt otherwise," Bailey replied, rolling his eyes. He fell silent, before looking around briefly. "I need coffee."
"At two AM?" Timothy wasn't sure if he should be amused or alarmed. Neither was an emotion he would've been capable of, thirty minutes earlier, but it was amazing what the words I truly do believe he'll be fine could do for one's heart.
The detective flushed, but shrugged. "I'm a cop."
"Ah yes. Something else you and Donald have in common." Bailey looked at him, a mixture of amused and annoyed. Timothy clarified, "An unhealthy addiction to coffee. I replaced his with decaf once." Grimacing, Timothy mock shuddered. "It was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Mostly Hyde."
Bailey grinned, standing. "You don't mess with a man's coffee."
"Oddly enough," Tim said, raising an eyebrow defiantly. "I know many men who can cope without such copious quantities quite well."
"Amateurs." With that, Bailey disappeared down the hallway in search of caffeine.
Timothy laughed, and just for a moment he allowed himself to wallow in the joy and relief. He knew that Donald wasn't completely out of the woods, but he had rediscovered his faith after a little encouragement. And though he knew he would confess his doubt to Donald, once his partner was healed, it would hurt him to do so.
Bailey was still gone when a nurse came into the room. "Doctor Silverman asked me to show you to ICU."
Standing, Timothy smiled, but shook his head. "I know the way." As an afterthought, he asked, "Would you mind telling Detective Bailey that's where I am, should you see him?"
"I can do that," the young man agreed, before returning to the station.
Timothy steeled himself, taking a steadying breath. After so long spent waiting and wondering and worrying, he was suddenly terrified at what awaited him. He held his breath while waiting for the elevator, forcing himself to breathe when it arrived and he stepped inside.
Seconds later, the doors were opening on another floor, only distinguishable from the last by the country blue paint that lined the hall. To the right, Timothy saw the glass walls of ICU, and beyond them, the individual pockets that housed the patients. Even from outside he could hear the muted beeping of machines.
Forcing himself to stand up straight, Timothy approached the night duty nurse at the desk. "Doctor Silverman sent me? I'm here to see Donald Strachey."
"Right this way, sugar," she replied, smiling kindly. Timothy felt almost overwhelmed at the unreserved kindness. "I'm Emily, by the way."
Tim nodded, smiling politely. "Tim Callahan."
"Do you have a cell phone?" Tim nodded, pulling it from his coat pocket. "You'll need to turn it off while you're in ICU." Timothy did so without question, showing her the darkened face once he was done.
She gestured to a sink, which was in an alcove by the doors. "You'll need to wash your hands, please."
Surprised, but not willing to argue, Tim nodded and quickly accomplished the requested task. Done, he held his hands up for her to see. "All clean."
"And you'll need to wear this." Timothy's eyebrows - and nerves - rose, and Emily smiled to reassure him. "It's just a precaution, I assure you. We all follow it." To prove her point, she pulled a mask onto her own face. "Good. In we go, then."
Emily pressed a button on the wall, causing the door to slide open with a hiss. "You can stay for five minutes, but I'm sorry, you'll have to leave after that." When Timothy nodded, she gestured for him to precede her. "He's just over here."
There were others in the various cubicles which surrounded the main station, nurses and doctors here and there tending to them. However Tim only had eyes for the one Emily had indicated. "How is he?" he whispered, wincing when his voice carried in the quiet anyway.
As they approached, Emily smiled encouragingly, although he could only tell by her eyes. "He's steady. It's a good sign."
She pulled the curtain back, giving Timothy his first sight of Donald. Even though he thought he had been prepared, the air rushed out of his chest at the sight. While not a large man, Donald's personality always made him seem so. But lying in the bed, surrounded by more machines that Tim could name, he looked so achingly small.
At a touch on his back, he ripped his gaze away from Donald to stare at the nurse. "Breathe, sugar." She smiled, dropping her hand. "Talk to him. I bet he wants to hear you." Emily turned to leave, but paused, pointing at her watch. "Five minutes starts now."
He didn't watch her leave - he only had eyes for Donald. Trembling, heart in his throat, Timothy stepped forward unsteadily. Knowing what had awaited him, even having seen Donald surrounded by machines before... Neither truly prepared him for the sight.
"Oh, baby," he whispered, reaching forward hesitantly to touch Donald's cheek.
There was no chair in the room, so Timothy hovered. Donald's eye was swollen, and would no doubt be a spectacular shade of purple before all was said and done. There was a small line of sutures, just along the edge. Tim wondered absently what he might have hit to cause it.
Moving around the bed, Timothy picked up Donald's hand, thankful at least one was free of any tubes or monitors. He squeezed the cool flesh, pressing the lax fingers against his cheek before kissing them softly through the mask.
"I don't know if you can hear me. I guess probably not, since I say it every time you're here..." He paused, blinking away tears as he stared at his partner. "But I'm here. And I love you. Oh, God, how I love you, even when you scare me terribly."
He choked back a sob.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse approaching. Silently cursing how time could be so slow for so long, only to pass in an instant when he wanted to cling to it, Tim wiped a sleeve over his face. Leaning forward, he kissed Donald's forehead, though it wasn't the same due to the mask. Closing his eyes momentarily, Timothy prayed - to God, to Donald, to the spirit of Christmas miracles if it helped.
"Please come back to me soon."
"I'm sorry..." Emily said, standing at the entry. Tim glanced at her, and nodded. "There's a rotation during the day, you can see him then."
Although Timothy was aware of the rules, he didn't mind knowing that he could visit again tomorrow, even if he didn't want to leave in the first place. As it were, it took all of his will power to release Donald's hand, and cover it with the sheet.
Pressing his lips to Donald's ear, he whispered, "I love you." When he turned, Emily was still waiting. "Thank you," he said with a nod.
She gestured toward the sliding doors, waiting until Timothy began to move. "You're welcome."
Leaving ICU, Timothy removed his mask and dropped it into a bin. Looking up, he found Bailey waiting for him. "How'd he look?" the detective asked, pressing the button for the elevator.
The emotions of his visit - relief, fear - threatened to overwhelm him. Timothy shrugged, staring back through the glass doors, even though he couldn't see Donald's area. "Small."
Bailey blinked, clearly taken aback. "Huh."
The elevator doors opened, and Timothy entered, not stopping until his back was pressed against the wall. It was entirely possible it was all keeping him upright. "I can't decide if I won't be able to sleep at all, or won't be able to keep my eyes open."
"Adrenaline will do that to you."
Thinking back to the last time the topic had come up, and the evening that had followed, Tim's eyes watered. Staring at nothing, ignoring Bailey's concerned look, he merely whispered, "Yeah."
Neither spoke as they exited the elevator, crossed the lobby and made the short walk to Bailey's sedan. Timothy had never removed his jacket - never quite warming in the hospital - and wrapped it more tightly as a strong wind greeted them. He shivered, pressing his face into his scarf.
He didn't have any idea where Bailey had found to park, and followed the detective blindly. Part of him was grateful not to have to worry about it, but instead just follow the other man's lead. It left more of his focus on Donald.
Timothy stumbled to a stop, turning to look at the hospital entrance. He felt a tug in his chest, longing to draw him back inside. A logical voice in his mind argued that Donald would sleep the night through, and most of the next day - that the others were right in sending Tim home - but it was nearly drowned out by the voice railing at him for leaving.
With a stuttering breath, Tim hunched his shoulders against both the wind and the voice, willing them both to be quiet. He knew there would be no silencing the guilt, not until Donald woke.
"Almost there," Bailey called, having paused to check on Timothy.
Tim nodded, but didn't speak. Giving the hospital another glance before resuming walking once more, he clenched his hands into fists and felt his nails biting flesh. As he walked away, Timothy looked skyward, the snow still drifting down.
Once at the car, he opened the door and climbed inside on automatic pilot, clicking the seatbelt shut. Pressing his forehead against the glass, Timothy's eyes fell closed and exhaustion washed over him. It felt a lifetime since he had slept last, warm and safe with Donald's arms wrapped around him.
It was possible he dozed off, because one moment they were on the interstate, yellowed lights ticking by, and the next Bailey was shaking his shoulder. "We're here."
"What?" Timothy pried his eyes open, and shook his head against the cobwebs that had built within. "Ah. Yes." Unbuckling his seatbelt, he paused long enough to force a smile for the detective. Hand on the door handle, Timothy paused halfway through opening it. "Thank you."
Bailey shrugged. "Merry Christmas."
Tears burned Tim's eyes at the reminder - as though it were possible to forget - but he blinked them back. "You, too."
Slamming the door shut behind him, Timothy dug his keys out of a pocket and hurried up the walk. He nearly dropped them as he unlocked the door, his shaking hands making the mundane action a challenge. Frustration built until the key finally slid home, the tumblers moving as he turned it.
He stepped inside, turning to give Bailey - who was waiting - a wave. Inside, he pressed the door closed, throwing the lock, and falling heavily against the wood. Timothy could still smell the cider, and his chest cinched at how normal things had been, not so very long before.
Taking a deep breath, trying to focus on Donald's impending recovery, Timothy pulled off his scarf, hanging it on a peg. His coat followed, on top of the scarf, then his shoes, beneath both. Moving on instinct he wandered into the kitchen, and put his keys and wallet on the island beside the unwrapped gifts.
Logic dictated he should eat something, but his stomach felt upset even at the idea. He glimpsed the broken mug, the long-cold cider causing a cloying smell that had Tim swallowing roughly, forcing down bile.
Hating the mess, but too worn to care - and wouldn't Donald have a field day with that, Timothy noted - he turned away from the kitchen. He paused then, closing his eyes briefly, struggling to ignore the wave of melancholy the thought brought. Forcing himself forward, Tim slowly made his way upstairs to their bedroom. Upon reaching it, he flipped on the light switch and stared at the hastily made bed for several moments.
Donald's robe was thrown across the covers haphazardly. It never seemed to matter when Donald woke, he was eternally running late. Tim crossed the empty space, dropping onto the bed; he picked up the robe and clutched it to him. He lifted it to his face, smelling Donald's aftershave, and took a deep breath.
It was only here and now, surrounded by their room and Donald's scent, that Timothy felt his resolve crumble. Shoulders shaking, he knew composure was a doomed effort once the first tear broke free. He rocked back and forth, clenching his fingers in the flannel, and letting the pent-up fear and relief escape through the sobs.
And though he knew that he should get up, shower and change for bed, Tim couldn't find the energy to move. He tilted sideways instead, Donald's robe still in his grip, and curled his legs up onto the bed. Still sniffling, Timothy had though rest would be a long time - if ever - in coming, however exhaustion trumped all, and soon he was aware of no more.
| ( Part Two )
Author: kaly
Rating: PG
Word Count:
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy, Bailey, Kelly
Category: angst, holiday, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: extremely minor for On the Other Hand, Death and Ice Blues
Summary: A close call at Christmas shakes Tim's world.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: I would like to preface this fic by saying I'm not a doctor, nor do I know any doctors. I was recently burned pretty badly in another fandom because of this, among other things, so I'm a little gunshy atm.
Notes 2: For the Christmas tim_don_a_thon.
Thanks to bronwynferchdai for reading it over for me.
If The Fates Allow
Soft music filled the house, an instrumental carol giving it a festive air. It matched well with the tall fir tree that sat in front of the window, draped in baubles and lights. Tim paused to straighten one of the stockings on the mantle - a sentimental gift from his mother years before - and smiled.
The previous Christmas, Donald had been wrapped up in a case. He had been so busy that Timothy hadn't even seen him on either Christmas Eve or Christmas day itself. This year, however, they had managed to make it as far as the 23rd, and thus far, Donald was case-free. Donald had even gone so far as to give Kenny the week off.
With hopes for a better holiday this year than last, Timothy had taken several days off of work - with the Senator's blessing, of course. He was happily ensconced at home, wrapping presents, and nursing a mug of cider. When Donald got home he would probably insist on eggnog, but Timothy despised the concoction and avoided it whenever possible. Cider, however, was a Callahan family tradition around the holidays. One he kept close, especially since his family had become painfully estranged.
Tim tied the ribbon around one of Donald's gifts, and carried it to the tree, dancing slightly along with the music. And even though the holiday was so close, Timothy was careful to push the gift to the very back, hidden among the others.
Donald was as notorious when it came to shaking presents, as bad as any twelve-year-old. In fact, it had gotten to the point a few years earlier that Timothy had resorting to adding pebbles to some of his gifts, just to keep him guessing. It had been worth it, just to see Donald's confounded expression that first year.
Tim glanced at the clock, it was nearly dark, and snow had been falling since midday. It wasn't so much the cold that concerned him - they could build a fire easily enough - however, Donald had gone up to Hollis at Dorothy's request. He had asked Timothy to tag along, but Tim had opted to stay home and finish up the Christmas preparations.
Successfully fighting the urge to call and ask Donald how close he was to home, Timothy returned to the kitchen table, and the still-to-be-wrapped gifts that waited for him. He paused to top off his cider from the pot, and selected the next gift to be wrapped. Luckily, he was finished with Donald's presents, so it didn't matter how early he arrived home. All that remained were a couple of gifts for Kelly, and he would be done.
He was in the middle of taping a particularly difficult corner when the phone rang. With a sigh, he let go of the paper, resigned to starting over, and picked up the phone. Thumbing the power button, he asked, "Hello?"
"Tim? Bub Bailey."
Timothy held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, taking another piece of tape. "Ah! Hello, Detective! Merry Christmas." He paused, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he finally secured the paper. "I hate to say it, but Donald's not home at the moment."
Picking up his cider, Tim took a sip and heard Bailey sigh. "Yeah, about that... That's why I'm calling, actually." Timothy frowned, wondering absently why else he would be calling, since Donald wasn't on a case. He didn't have to wait long. "There's been an accident. Just outside of town."
The sound of shattering ceramic registered before Timothy even realized he had dropped the mug. Collapsing back onto a stool, his mouth opened and closed. Finding his voice, he asked in a whisper, "Is he..."
"He's alive," Bailey reassured him. "I wouldn't do that to you over the phone."
Closing his eyes, Timothy took a shuddering breath. "Thank God." Timothy gripped the phone so tightly the thought it might break. "How is he?"
There was the sound of a horn honking, followed by Bailey muttering under his breath. A moment later he said, "I'm not sure. They were on the way to the hospital when someone thought to call me, of all people." More honking. "Look, I'm almost to your place. Be ready to go, and I'll take you to him."
"I'll be ready."
Tim disconnected the call, dropping the phone on the table by the forgotten presents. Struggling to stay calm, Timothy hurried to turn off the music and the tree's lights. Satisfied everything was off, he moved to the hall closet on auto-pilot and retrieved his coat and scarf.
Checking that he had his wallet - complete with his Power of Attorney for Donald - Timothy picked up his cell phone, and went outside. He was just locking the door behind him when Bailey pulled into the drive.
Not wasting any time, Tim crossed the walk and was opening the car door almost before Bailey came to a complete stop. He climbed inside, putting on his seatbelt without thinking.
Heart in his throat, unable to look at Bailey, he asked, "Any news?"
"Not in the last three minutes."
Bailey put the car in reverse, and soon - not quickly enough, a small voice insisted - they were on the road. Digging his fingers into his scarf, Tim focused on the feeling of wool, as though something so mundane could keep him from flying apart.
Forcing himself to stay calm - Donald was fine - Timothy glanced at the other man. "Sorry. Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your assistance."
He was somewhat surprised when Bailey smirked. "Your boyfriend would make my life a living hell, otherwise. So it's purely selfish on my part, I assure you." He glanced over at Tim quickly, before turning his full attention back to the slick roads. "And my name's Bub."
"Well, thank you anyway," he paused, almost - but not quite - smiling at the obvious line the detective was feeding him. "Bub."
Bailey rolled his eyes. "Though how I got appointed his babysitter I'll never understand."
"It can be a full time job, yes." He was too worried to fully appreciate the attempts at humor, but he did his best to play along, even as his mind ran in more and more depressing circles. Polite to the end. However, it was with a wave of sadness he stared out the window and added, "I know the feeling."
"I'm sure he's fine."
Tim turned to look at Bailey, somewhat surprised by the usually gruff man's attempt at comfort. It was obvious to see that Bailey was out of his element, but Tim appreciated the effort, none the less.
He opened his mouth to reply, before closing it. Turning his attention back to the scenery as it passed by quickly, Timothy shivered at how wrong Bailey might be. Closing his eyes, praying silently, Tim fought back the urge to throw up.
Eventually, he whispered, "He has to be."
The longer it took to reach the hospital, the more nervous Timothy became. Bailey's assurances, even when coupled with Tim's own denials, could only work for so long. He needed to see Donald, to hear from his doctor that everything was going to be okay.
His eyes burned with tears, and when he tried to blink them back, one managed to escape. Timothy didn't bother wiping it away. Taking a stuttering breath, his chest tight with worry, Timothy prayed harder.
After all, it was Christmas...
The car came to a sudden halt, shaking Timothy from his prayers. He looked around, momentarily confused. When realization broke through his mental fog, Timothy scrabbled to unhook his seatbelt. He paused, looking up when Bailey said, "I'll park and come find you."
Tim nodded, but didn't otherwise reply as he exited the car, attention focused only on finding Donald. He hurried through the Emergency Room doors, barely waiting long enough for the doors to open before sliding through. Reaching the desk, he slumped against it, breathing heavily.
"Donald Strachey? He should've just been brought in..."
The nurse glanced up at him, clearly assessing his physical state. When it was obvious Timothy wasn't a patient, she glanced at the computer monitor and typed a few keys. Instead of speaking, much to Timothy's mounting frustration, she then handed him a clipboard of paperwork.
"Fill these out, and return them, please."
Flustered, he looked at the papers, and back to the nurse. He slammed the clipboard down on the counter. "But how is he?" he demanded. "Where is he?"
"Sir, if you don't calm down, I'll be forced to call security." She picked up the phone, but didn't dial. "Just please fill that out."
Furious, he opened his mouth to reply but was cut off when a hand grasped his elbow. Spinning around, he ripped his arm free only to stop, mouth gaping, when he found Bailey standing there.
The detective just picked up the clipboard and handed it to Tim, before smiling at the nurse. Pulling out his badge, he showed it to her. "Anything you can tell us?"
She glanced at Timothy once more, but shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. The doctor will come find you when he can." Softly, she added, "And I really do need those forms."
"Not now," Bailey muttered in Timothy's ear when he began to protest, clutching the clipboard against this chest. To the nurse, he merely said, "Thank you."
Anger and fear and adrenaline combined, almost overloading him, and Timothy began to shake. He distantly felt Bailey's hand on his back, choking back a sob at how badly he wished it were Donald's instead. "Come on." Bailey gestured toward an empty corner with his free hand. "Let's sit down and you can take care of those."
As he sat, Timothy couldn't help rolling his eyes. Holding up the clipboard, he gestured toward the forms. "I fill these out so often, I should just make copies." The joke nearly caught in his throat, gallows humor was always more Donald's forte.
"And put them in his wallet?"
Eyes watering, Tim managed an anemic smile, before turning his attention to the questions he could - and quite possibly had - answered in his sleep. "Indeed."
They fell silent as Timothy completed the paperwork. It was moments like these that Tim was absurdly grateful he had finally finagled getting Donald on his insurance. He couldn't even imagine what might happen if Donald were still uninsured, as he had been when they had met.
He was grateful when Bailey took the completed papers from him, and carried them up to the desk. Rather than watch the detective deal with the nurse again, Timothy stared at the doorway he knew the doctor would walk through. If willpower alone could summon someone, well, Donald would be there with him. But lacking him, the doctor certainly would have already appeared.
The longer they sat there, a television droning in the background, the more horrible Timothy's thoughts became. He was stunned then, when he looked at the yellowed clock on the wall and discovered they had only been there for ten minutes. It had felt like an eternity.
He had been focused so intently on conjuring Donald - or the doctor - that when one finally appeared Timothy froze, unable to breathe. The dark-haired woman wore scrubs splattered with blood, and had a steely look on her face.
"Strachey?"
Timothy jumped up, staggering when the blood rushed out of his head, only Bailey's quick grab saving him from the floor. They met her halfway across the room, Timothy nearly strangling his scarf in an effort to keep from wringing his hands.
"How is he?" he asked, desperation tingeing his voice.
She appraised them both critically, dispassionately, and Tim found himself wishing Donald's case had fallen to one of the doctors they knew. "Are you family?"
Preparing himself for a fight - it wouldn't be the first time - Timothy nodded. After the first time Donald had been hurt when they were dating, Tim had spent endless weeks ensuring neither of them would be left in the dark again. Those few hours until Donald had woken had nearly killed Timothy.
He merely blinked when she didn't press. "That's good. We need to hurry." Timothy opened his mouth to question, but felt Bailey squeeze his arm to keep quiet. "It took us this long just to stabilize him, but we have to get into surgery right away."
"Surgery?" Tim asked, barely words and not mere breath. Terrified, he could only stare at her. "What...? He'll be all right, right?"
Face softening just a bit, the doctor - whose name tag said Reid - shrugged. "I hope so, but he's bleeding and time is critical if we're going to save him. We have to get in there and find the source and get it stopped. We've already paged a surgeon, and he's scrubbing up now."
Somehow swallowing past the lump in his throat, Timothy nodded. Tears brimming in his eyes, despair nearly rendering him mute, Tim choked out, "Go."
"Wait for me in the surgical waiting area. I'll come find you once we're done." With that, the doctor turned and jogged away.
Timothy turned and looked at Bailey with haunted eyes. He didn't think he would ever be able to repay the detective for being there. His voice only barely shook when he asked, "What if...?"
Bailey squared his shoulders, replying without a hint of doubt, "He'll be fine. He's a stubborn son of a bitch. Drives me nuts by it."
"Oh, God." Tim sagged against Bailey, his legs not wanting to keep him upright. He couldn't contain his fear, his dread. Voice little more than a whisper, he asked, "But what if he's not?"
Squeezing Timothy's shoulder briefly, Bailey shook his head. "He will be. You just have to focus on that."
"I want to, but..." He straightened to his full height - he had to be strong, for Donald. Timothy couldn't afford to fall apart when Donald needed him. Chin wavering, he sniffed loudly and blinked his eyes clear. "You're right." Timothy gave the detective a watery smile.
Bailey smirked at him. "I always am." He pointed toward the nurse. "Want me to ask her where the waiting room is?"
"No need," Timothy replied with a quick headshake. "I've been there before."
Eyebrows high, Bailey questioned, "Strachey?"
"Who else?" Timothy shrugged, his eyes tracking back to the swinging doors that hid Donald from him. "What can I say? I married a trouble magnet."
Bailey snorted. "Ain't that the truth." Gesturing toward a door on the opposite side of the room, he added, "Lead the way then."
Surprised, but touched, Timothy just stared at him for a moment. "You're staying?"
"At least until you hear something, yeah," he replied with an understanding trace of sympathy in his eyes. "Unless you don't want me to?"
Shaking his head, Timothy turned absently toward the door. "No, no, that's fine."
"Is there anyone I can call for you?" Bailey asked, after he caught up to Tim.
As he pushed the door open, Timothy looked at Bailey and shook his head. "No, my family is out of town for the holiday. Kelly and our parents are taking the chance to reconnect." He didn't mention that he hadn't been invited, much to his sister's very loud annoyance. Tim had merely put on a brave face - the last thing he wanted to do was cause strife between them after so many years apart.
"And Donald's..." He shrugged, a familiar hopeless feeling filling him, as it always did when their families were mentioned. "Donald doesn't talk to his family."
Bailey looked surprised, Tim noted distantly, grateful when the detective didn't press. "Oh."
Reaching the elevator, Tim pressed the up arrow and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Yeah." He tried to smile, but gave up on the idea quickly. Unable to look at the other man, Timothy stared at his shoes and said in a small voice, "So, thank you for staying."
Although he couldn't see him, Timothy couldn't help noticing how Bailey shifted back and forth uncomfortably for a moment. The other man cleared his throat roughly. "It's no problem."
The dinging noise, announcing the elevator's arrival at their floor, caused Tim to jump. He glanced up at the numbers, noting they were indeed on the surgical floor before exiting. Two right hand turns, and Tim found himself facing a far too familiar room. He wished he had only been exaggerating when he said he had been there before.
Taking a deep breath, Timothy stared at the worn couches and chairs, and the tables littered with magazines and papers. It was several moments before he was ready to enter. Foolishly, each time he visited Timothy had hoped not to return.
He must have stared off into space long enough to worry Bailey, because he asked quietly, "Tim?"
Shaking his head, he tried to find a smile, but failed miserably. Instead, he shrugged. "This is one of the last places I want to be."
"Understandable." The detective gestured toward the seating area. "I guess we should get comfortable."
Tim wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself tightly. He glanced toward the nearby nurse's station, wanting nothing more to start demanding information. However he had learned the hard way his first time there how little that actually gained. It hadn't even really made him feel better in the end.
With a resigned sigh, he forced himself to cross the room, taking a seat near Bailey. He selected the same chair he always did, when it was available. It granted him a view of both the hallway the staff would use, and the window. Sitting ramrod straight, he laced his fingers together on top of his lap.
"And now we wait." Absently he hoped he didn't sound as despondent as he felt.
He must have, because Bailey paused, leaning halfway across another chair where he had been reaching for a discarded newspaper. The other man nodded briefly, before grabbing the paper. Settling in his seat, he gave Timothy a feeble smile. "It'll be okay."
Sadly, Tim didn't trust the words anymore this time that the last. His faith was one of his most precious traits, his faith in Donald doubly so. But sitting in a deserted waiting room two days before Christmas, Timothy feared what if their luck had run out. What if this time his faith wasn't enough?
"I need to go make some calls. You want a coffee while I'm out?"
Startled, Tim looked at the detective as though he had lost his mind. After a moment, though, he recognized the knowing look on Bailey's face. Obviously he wasn't hiding his fears as well as he'd hoped, or even at all.
Even though the thought of anything to eat or drink made him queasy, Timothy nodded anyway. "That would be quite nice."
Bailey stood, dropping the paper into his chair. "I'll be right back."
Timothy's attention drifted out through the window, and he nodded absently. In a whisper, he replied, "I'll be here." He had no where else to be.
It felt like no time at all, and an eternity, when he looked up to find the detective standing in front of him, a large coffee in each hand. Offering one to Tim, he grimaced, "I wasn't sure how you took yours."
"Black's fine." He accepted the offering from Bailey, bringing it to his lips before pulling it away as his stomach roiled at the thought. No, that was definitely a bad idea. Knowing it was a futile hope, he had to ask, "Did you see anyone?" his eyes tracking to the empty hall.
"No. All's quiet." Bailey shook his head, taking a sip of his drink and then wincing. "Wow, that's bad."
Timothy smirked, if only just. He merely played with his own, spinning the cup between his hands, relishing the warmth if nothing else. "It is terrible here."
Bailey shrugged out of his leather coat, folding it across a seat. He glanced at Timothy, who in turn shrunk into his own coat. At the detective's raised eyebrow, Tim shrugged. "I can never get warm here. Donald," he paused, swallowing hard. "Donald gives me no end of grief about refusing to take off my coat. Says it's my security blanket."
"Ah." Tim counted himself grateful when Bailey didn't say anything more.
A clock on the far wall ticked off the seconds. Tim couldn't stop himself from looking at it every few minutes, making the night feel longer than it was. Every little noise made him jump; the sight of two nurses walking down the hallway had him on his feet only to be disappointed when they didn't stop.
He collapsed back on the chair, all pretense of posture gone. Slumping forward, Timothy rested his head in his hands, shoving his fingers into his hair. Exhaling loudly, he ground the heels of his hands against his eyes, ignoring how his hands shook.
The noise of a tray falling to the floor, somewhere out of view, scared him so badly he jumped out of his chair. He was two steps toward the hallway before he turned and paced over to the windows instead. Timothy was grateful Bailey didn't comment, but instead kept hidden behind his paper.
It was odd - or oddly fitting - that even with a small television droning on in the corner it was the ticking of the clock that filled Timothy's ears. For the first time since they had arrived, Tim looked at the screen and saw what was airing. He was just in time to see Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed dancing, chaos imminent.
Tears burned Timothy's eyes, and he wiped a tired hand over his them. "We watch this every year." He didn't know if he was speaking to Bailey, to himself, or to no one at all; however, he absently noted Bailey looking at him.
"Our first Christmas we ended up snowed in together. I had a small apartment, and a tiny black and white television that only picked up three channels." As the swimming pool started to appear, Tim felt his chest tighten, but the story continued to pour out of him. "The only thing on those three channels that we could agree on was It's A Wonderful Life."
"Traditions start in funny ways."
Tim startled, his eyes torn away from the television to stare at the detective. "I guess they do." He paused, staring off into space, his eyes unfocused. "We haven't had a chance this year."
"You will."
The other man sounded so certain that Timothy couldn't bring himself to voice doubt. In its place, he clung to that certainty. It might be their New Year's celebration this year - or even after that - but hell or high water they would be curled on the couch, watching as bells rang and angels got their wings.
Moving to the window, he pressed his hands against the glass, longing to be out there, in the world. He wanted so badly to be at home, wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire with Donald. Instead, he stared at the slowly drifting snow, and the small thatch of covered woods beyond, mesmerized by how it sparkled in the hospital's lights.
It seemed so peaceful, so perfect for a winter's night.
And so horribly wrong.
Suddenly unable to stand the idyllic view, Timothy spun around to face the detective. "You mentioned a phone call. Was it about the accident?"
"Yeah," Bailey said, lowering the paper so he could see Timothy. "I called a buddy down at the station, see if the report had come in."
Practically vibrating, Tim gestured with his hands for the other man to continue. "And?"
Bailey glanced out the window. "Black ice, it looks like. Happened in a curve, was probably going a little too fast and lost control." A pensive look crossed his face, and Timothy worried he might not continue. "Went down an incline, into some trees."
"Oh," Tim said, dropping back into his chair. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse for knowing. In a shaking voice, he asked, "Was anyone else involved?" Timothy knew Donald wouldn't forgive himself if there had been.
He didn't breathe until Bailey shook his head. "No. Just Strachey." His mouth quirked, the grin in stark contrast to the somber conversation preceding it. "Car's a goner, though."
Lets hope Donald isn't crossed Timothy's mind in a flash, but his bit the words back. He couldn't give voice to something so broken. He couldn't bring himself to tempt fate worse than he already had. Instead, he merely stared at his hands. "Oh."
"Thought you might not mind that part."
It was on the tip of his tongue to snap at the other man, but dignity and gratitude for all Bailey had done held the sharp words at bay. Timothy glanced at him, blinking back renewed tears. "Ask me again in a couple of days if..." He choked. "When Donald's better. Then I most likely won't mind that part."
"Sorry," Bailey said, looking embarrassed.
Timothy took a deep breath, holding it, before exhaling slowly, hoping it would take some of the inescapable tension with it. "No, I'm sorry. I just... I can't think..."
Bailey but a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Really. Lash out all you want if it makes you feel better. Lord knows I'd be a basket case by now if I were in your shoes."
Still not quite sure what to make of this new side to the other man - one whom he had never seen him anything but gruff and annoyed - Tim gave him a considering look.
"Detective..." At Bailey's glare, Tim amended, "Bub. Won't your family be wondering where you are? It's two days until Christmas." He glanced at the clock. It gave proof time was indeed moving, even if Timothy felt trapped - it had passed midnight. "Make that Christmas Eve."
Picking up his coffee, Bailey shook his head before taking a drink. "That was one of the phone calls I had to make. They understand."
Surprised, he raised his eyebrows. Even though he tried, Timothy could never truly understand when Donald was away or busy over the holidays. "Really?"
"I told you, I'll stay till they come tell you what's going on." Bailey rolled his eyes. "And I thought your boyfriend was stubborn."
Of its own volition, the corner of Tim's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Oh, Donald would argue otherwise. To hear him tell it, he's nothing compared to me."
"Well, then," Bailey replied, a knowing light in his eye. "Sounds like something to focus on right about how, huh?"
Caught, Timothy sighed and slouched back in his chair. "You're right. It's just..."
"Hard."
Nodding, Tim looked at the clock - two minutes later than the last time - and rested his head against the wall. "Very."
Timothy turned his attention to the ceiling, counting the familiar marks there and cataloging new ones. In the back of his mind, he was reciting every prayer he could remember, even possibly making up some new ones. He was so focused, Timothy jumped when Bailey said quietly, "It's a time of miracles right about now. Or so they say."
Unable to look at Bailey for the tears in his eyes - Tim knew if he dared move, or even blink, they would fall - he stared even harder at the ceiling. He felt broken, hollow. When he spoke, it was in a rough, whispered voice. "I'm counting on that."
"Are you here for Donald Strachey?"
Timothy jumped as though he had been shot, standing so quickly he almost fell. Steadied by a hand on his arm, he nodded frantically. "How is he? Is he okay?"
"I'm Doctor Silverman," the doctor said, so calm Timothy wanted to claw at his own skin, and possibly the doctor's as well. "I performed the surgery."
Shaking, Timothy swallowed roughly. "And?"
"Why don't we have a seat?" he asked, gesturing toward the chairs.
"Why don't you tell me how my husband is?" Timothy snapped, losing patience.
Silverman sighed, but nodded in understanding. "I'm cautiously optimistic."
Timothy swayed when relief washed over him. Distractedly, he felt Bailey standing beside him, anchoring him. "He'll be okay."
"He should be," the doctor replied, but held out a hand. "I'll be happier when he's through the next twelve to twenty-four hours, however."
It was a phrase that Timothy had heard before. He would've preferred a more certain answer, but Donald had survived the surgery and in some of his darkest moments he had feared for even that. "Can I see him?"
"At the moment, he's in Recovery. And it's well past visiting hours."
Wanting to scream, Timothy clenched his teeth. "I need to see him." He was willing to beg, plead or even cry. Whatever it took to let him see Donald, touch him, as soon as humanly possible. He had to see him with his own eyes.
The doctor's eyes darkened with understanding, and he nodded. "Once he's out of Recovery, and in ICU, I'll arrange for you to see him." He held up a hand, one finger pointing at Timothy. "But only for five minutes. I'm afraid those are rules I can't break."
Timothy's heart fell at the mention of ICU, although he had known it was a likely next step. And to think, once upon a time he knew nothing about emergency medicine. His spirits were buoyed, however, by the promise of visitation.
"Thank you, Doctor."
For the first time since arriving, the doctor smiled. "I need to prepare you, though. We've put him on a ventilator." Tim's mouth dropped open, panicking - Donald had never needed intubated before. "It's purely precautionary, I assure you." Silverman's words were rushed, clearly trying to calm Timothy.
"Precautionary?" Timothy asked, not understanding.
"He needs to rest, to heal. The ventilator will help take the strain off of his body. It should only be until the critical period has passed. This time tomorrow, he should be breathing on his own."
Timothy looked skyward, whispering thanks, before letting his chin fall against his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, his knees shaking. "I think I need to..." He gestured toward the chairs, before collapsing gratefully onto one.
After taking several deep breaths, the emotional rollercoaster leaving him lightheaded, he looked at the doctor once more. "Could you tell me his injuries?"
Silverman sat in the seat next to Timothy, Bailey sitting on the table across from them. "Based on the bruising, it appears as though he wasn't wearing his seatbelt." Tim filed that piece of information away for later. They had talked about that! "This allowed for two things to happen."
The doctor gestured toward the left side of Timothy's chest. "This rib right here, snapped, scraping against his lung."
"It punctured his lung?"
"No, very luckily for him, it didn't. It was very fortunate, because it meant we weren't dealing with a pnuemothorax, too. The broken rib and bruised lung will be painful for a while, but not debilitatingly so."
They had been in surgery far too long for that to be all, Timothy was certain of it. Sitting up straighter, his mother's voice in his head saying a gentlemen didn't slouch, he took a deep breath. "What else?"
Silverman glanced between the two of them, not replying immediately. His voice was low, and quite serious, as he explained, "The blunt force trauma from the steering wheel caused massive bleeding from the spleen. We nearly lost him twice on the table."
Timothy's vision grayed and he choked, swallowing back bile. "Lost?"
"It happens, with injuries like this. It sounds horrible, and it is, but we were able to contain it and get him back." Silverman rested a hand on Timothy's arm, no doubt seeking to comfort him, though not succeeding. "He fought his way back both times, and by the time we closed, his vitals were steady. I truly do believe he'll be fine, eventually."
Relief poured over him at those words, so profound Timothy felt deflated. "Thank you," he whispered.
The doctor smiled and nodded. "Like I said, officially his condition is guarded. But based on what I saw in there, with the right care, and the right support..." He paused, squeezing Timothy's arm. "I think he'll make a full recovery. It will just take time."
Smiling, the first truly happy emotion he had felt since Bailey's call, Tim nodded. "Support I can do."
"I figured as much." Standing, the doctor held out his hand, shaking Timothy's. "I'll have a nurse come and find you once he's been moved."
When Timothy couldn't find his voice, it was Bailey who replied, "Thank you, doctor."
"You're welcome," he said with a nod, before turning and disappearing around the corner. They watched him leave, a much more comfortable silence settling between them.
It was several minutes later when Bailey snickered. Timothy glanced at him, curious, in time to hear, "Knew he was a stubborn SOB."
Timothy giggled, exhaustion and relief making him silly, before slapping a hand over his mouth. Bailey just grinned at him. Calmer, Tim nodded. "Yes, you're quite right about that."
"After they let you see him, I'll give you a lift home." Timothy opened his mouth to argue - he was staying, damn it - but Bailey cut him off with a wave. "You heard the doctor. It'll be a day or so before he wakes up. Go home, get some sleep, and eat something."
What if's slammed into him, all earlier good humor evaporating. "I need to be here."
"You have to take care of yourself, too, Tim." There was understanding in Bailey's eyes that was oddly compelling. "I've been there, well, sorta. Partner of mine was hurt a few years back, was touch and go for a while. Other guys from the precinct were there, and yet, even with that, I know what it's like to wait and worry, feeling totally alone."
Surprised by the confession, Tim stared. "I'm sorry."
Bailey waved the condolence away. "It was a long time ago, and he's still kicking." The detective grinned. "I still kick his ass at poker every chance I get." More seriously he said, "But I understand the waiting, even if it wasn't my wife." Timothy winced at the wording, and Bailey noticed. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know. Honest," Tim said quickly, seeking to reassure him. The last thing he wanted to do was offend someone who had done so much for both of them. "And I appreciate the offer, but..."
"No buts," Bailey interrupted. "You're no good to him when you collapse and end up down the hall."
Timothy winced, hearing the truth in the words, but hating them all the same. The thought of going home - alone - and leaving Donald was almost too much to bear. Softly, he admitted, "I don't want to leave him."
The other man nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "He knows that."
Resigned - if quite unhappy about it - Timothy acquiesced. "Okay. I'll go. But I'm coming back first thing in the morning."
"Wouldn't have dreamt otherwise," Bailey replied, rolling his eyes. He fell silent, before looking around briefly. "I need coffee."
"At two AM?" Timothy wasn't sure if he should be amused or alarmed. Neither was an emotion he would've been capable of, thirty minutes earlier, but it was amazing what the words I truly do believe he'll be fine could do for one's heart.
The detective flushed, but shrugged. "I'm a cop."
"Ah yes. Something else you and Donald have in common." Bailey looked at him, a mixture of amused and annoyed. Timothy clarified, "An unhealthy addiction to coffee. I replaced his with decaf once." Grimacing, Timothy mock shuddered. "It was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Mostly Hyde."
Bailey grinned, standing. "You don't mess with a man's coffee."
"Oddly enough," Tim said, raising an eyebrow defiantly. "I know many men who can cope without such copious quantities quite well."
"Amateurs." With that, Bailey disappeared down the hallway in search of caffeine.
Timothy laughed, and just for a moment he allowed himself to wallow in the joy and relief. He knew that Donald wasn't completely out of the woods, but he had rediscovered his faith after a little encouragement. And though he knew he would confess his doubt to Donald, once his partner was healed, it would hurt him to do so.
Bailey was still gone when a nurse came into the room. "Doctor Silverman asked me to show you to ICU."
Standing, Timothy smiled, but shook his head. "I know the way." As an afterthought, he asked, "Would you mind telling Detective Bailey that's where I am, should you see him?"
"I can do that," the young man agreed, before returning to the station.
Timothy steeled himself, taking a steadying breath. After so long spent waiting and wondering and worrying, he was suddenly terrified at what awaited him. He held his breath while waiting for the elevator, forcing himself to breathe when it arrived and he stepped inside.
Seconds later, the doors were opening on another floor, only distinguishable from the last by the country blue paint that lined the hall. To the right, Timothy saw the glass walls of ICU, and beyond them, the individual pockets that housed the patients. Even from outside he could hear the muted beeping of machines.
Forcing himself to stand up straight, Timothy approached the night duty nurse at the desk. "Doctor Silverman sent me? I'm here to see Donald Strachey."
"Right this way, sugar," she replied, smiling kindly. Timothy felt almost overwhelmed at the unreserved kindness. "I'm Emily, by the way."
Tim nodded, smiling politely. "Tim Callahan."
"Do you have a cell phone?" Tim nodded, pulling it from his coat pocket. "You'll need to turn it off while you're in ICU." Timothy did so without question, showing her the darkened face once he was done.
She gestured to a sink, which was in an alcove by the doors. "You'll need to wash your hands, please."
Surprised, but not willing to argue, Tim nodded and quickly accomplished the requested task. Done, he held his hands up for her to see. "All clean."
"And you'll need to wear this." Timothy's eyebrows - and nerves - rose, and Emily smiled to reassure him. "It's just a precaution, I assure you. We all follow it." To prove her point, she pulled a mask onto her own face. "Good. In we go, then."
Emily pressed a button on the wall, causing the door to slide open with a hiss. "You can stay for five minutes, but I'm sorry, you'll have to leave after that." When Timothy nodded, she gestured for him to precede her. "He's just over here."
There were others in the various cubicles which surrounded the main station, nurses and doctors here and there tending to them. However Tim only had eyes for the one Emily had indicated. "How is he?" he whispered, wincing when his voice carried in the quiet anyway.
As they approached, Emily smiled encouragingly, although he could only tell by her eyes. "He's steady. It's a good sign."
She pulled the curtain back, giving Timothy his first sight of Donald. Even though he thought he had been prepared, the air rushed out of his chest at the sight. While not a large man, Donald's personality always made him seem so. But lying in the bed, surrounded by more machines that Tim could name, he looked so achingly small.
At a touch on his back, he ripped his gaze away from Donald to stare at the nurse. "Breathe, sugar." She smiled, dropping her hand. "Talk to him. I bet he wants to hear you." Emily turned to leave, but paused, pointing at her watch. "Five minutes starts now."
He didn't watch her leave - he only had eyes for Donald. Trembling, heart in his throat, Timothy stepped forward unsteadily. Knowing what had awaited him, even having seen Donald surrounded by machines before... Neither truly prepared him for the sight.
"Oh, baby," he whispered, reaching forward hesitantly to touch Donald's cheek.
There was no chair in the room, so Timothy hovered. Donald's eye was swollen, and would no doubt be a spectacular shade of purple before all was said and done. There was a small line of sutures, just along the edge. Tim wondered absently what he might have hit to cause it.
Moving around the bed, Timothy picked up Donald's hand, thankful at least one was free of any tubes or monitors. He squeezed the cool flesh, pressing the lax fingers against his cheek before kissing them softly through the mask.
"I don't know if you can hear me. I guess probably not, since I say it every time you're here..." He paused, blinking away tears as he stared at his partner. "But I'm here. And I love you. Oh, God, how I love you, even when you scare me terribly."
He choked back a sob.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse approaching. Silently cursing how time could be so slow for so long, only to pass in an instant when he wanted to cling to it, Tim wiped a sleeve over his face. Leaning forward, he kissed Donald's forehead, though it wasn't the same due to the mask. Closing his eyes momentarily, Timothy prayed - to God, to Donald, to the spirit of Christmas miracles if it helped.
"Please come back to me soon."
"I'm sorry..." Emily said, standing at the entry. Tim glanced at her, and nodded. "There's a rotation during the day, you can see him then."
Although Timothy was aware of the rules, he didn't mind knowing that he could visit again tomorrow, even if he didn't want to leave in the first place. As it were, it took all of his will power to release Donald's hand, and cover it with the sheet.
Pressing his lips to Donald's ear, he whispered, "I love you." When he turned, Emily was still waiting. "Thank you," he said with a nod.
She gestured toward the sliding doors, waiting until Timothy began to move. "You're welcome."
Leaving ICU, Timothy removed his mask and dropped it into a bin. Looking up, he found Bailey waiting for him. "How'd he look?" the detective asked, pressing the button for the elevator.
The emotions of his visit - relief, fear - threatened to overwhelm him. Timothy shrugged, staring back through the glass doors, even though he couldn't see Donald's area. "Small."
Bailey blinked, clearly taken aback. "Huh."
The elevator doors opened, and Timothy entered, not stopping until his back was pressed against the wall. It was entirely possible it was all keeping him upright. "I can't decide if I won't be able to sleep at all, or won't be able to keep my eyes open."
"Adrenaline will do that to you."
Thinking back to the last time the topic had come up, and the evening that had followed, Tim's eyes watered. Staring at nothing, ignoring Bailey's concerned look, he merely whispered, "Yeah."
Neither spoke as they exited the elevator, crossed the lobby and made the short walk to Bailey's sedan. Timothy had never removed his jacket - never quite warming in the hospital - and wrapped it more tightly as a strong wind greeted them. He shivered, pressing his face into his scarf.
He didn't have any idea where Bailey had found to park, and followed the detective blindly. Part of him was grateful not to have to worry about it, but instead just follow the other man's lead. It left more of his focus on Donald.
Timothy stumbled to a stop, turning to look at the hospital entrance. He felt a tug in his chest, longing to draw him back inside. A logical voice in his mind argued that Donald would sleep the night through, and most of the next day - that the others were right in sending Tim home - but it was nearly drowned out by the voice railing at him for leaving.
With a stuttering breath, Tim hunched his shoulders against both the wind and the voice, willing them both to be quiet. He knew there would be no silencing the guilt, not until Donald woke.
"Almost there," Bailey called, having paused to check on Timothy.
Tim nodded, but didn't speak. Giving the hospital another glance before resuming walking once more, he clenched his hands into fists and felt his nails biting flesh. As he walked away, Timothy looked skyward, the snow still drifting down.
Once at the car, he opened the door and climbed inside on automatic pilot, clicking the seatbelt shut. Pressing his forehead against the glass, Timothy's eyes fell closed and exhaustion washed over him. It felt a lifetime since he had slept last, warm and safe with Donald's arms wrapped around him.
It was possible he dozed off, because one moment they were on the interstate, yellowed lights ticking by, and the next Bailey was shaking his shoulder. "We're here."
"What?" Timothy pried his eyes open, and shook his head against the cobwebs that had built within. "Ah. Yes." Unbuckling his seatbelt, he paused long enough to force a smile for the detective. Hand on the door handle, Timothy paused halfway through opening it. "Thank you."
Bailey shrugged. "Merry Christmas."
Tears burned Tim's eyes at the reminder - as though it were possible to forget - but he blinked them back. "You, too."
Slamming the door shut behind him, Timothy dug his keys out of a pocket and hurried up the walk. He nearly dropped them as he unlocked the door, his shaking hands making the mundane action a challenge. Frustration built until the key finally slid home, the tumblers moving as he turned it.
He stepped inside, turning to give Bailey - who was waiting - a wave. Inside, he pressed the door closed, throwing the lock, and falling heavily against the wood. Timothy could still smell the cider, and his chest cinched at how normal things had been, not so very long before.
Taking a deep breath, trying to focus on Donald's impending recovery, Timothy pulled off his scarf, hanging it on a peg. His coat followed, on top of the scarf, then his shoes, beneath both. Moving on instinct he wandered into the kitchen, and put his keys and wallet on the island beside the unwrapped gifts.
Logic dictated he should eat something, but his stomach felt upset even at the idea. He glimpsed the broken mug, the long-cold cider causing a cloying smell that had Tim swallowing roughly, forcing down bile.
Hating the mess, but too worn to care - and wouldn't Donald have a field day with that, Timothy noted - he turned away from the kitchen. He paused then, closing his eyes briefly, struggling to ignore the wave of melancholy the thought brought. Forcing himself forward, Tim slowly made his way upstairs to their bedroom. Upon reaching it, he flipped on the light switch and stared at the hastily made bed for several moments.
Donald's robe was thrown across the covers haphazardly. It never seemed to matter when Donald woke, he was eternally running late. Tim crossed the empty space, dropping onto the bed; he picked up the robe and clutched it to him. He lifted it to his face, smelling Donald's aftershave, and took a deep breath.
It was only here and now, surrounded by their room and Donald's scent, that Timothy felt his resolve crumble. Shoulders shaking, he knew composure was a doomed effort once the first tear broke free. He rocked back and forth, clenching his fingers in the flannel, and letting the pent-up fear and relief escape through the sobs.
And though he knew that he should get up, shower and change for bed, Tim couldn't find the energy to move. He tilted sideways instead, Donald's robe still in his grip, and curled his legs up onto the bed. Still sniffling, Timothy had though rest would be a long time - if ever - in coming, however exhaustion trumped all, and soon he was aware of no more.
| ( Part Two )