Title: In Sickness and in Health
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 6413
References/Spoilers: References to story elements in STTS. This story takes place before the time line of the movies.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: Sometimes the most amazing expressions of love aren't romantic at all. Sequel to the story "The Right Moment"

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IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH

by

Candy Apple

When I woke up, I was starving. It took a moment for everything to come back to me - sometimes I can be a little fuzzy when I first wake up. I was in Tim's bed, and I smiled when I realized that wonderful feeling was him spooned around my body, holding me in his arms. I could kind of see now why he'd been able to give Thor a bit of a thumping before he lost the battle. With a little training, Timothy would be dangerous. He's strong, sturdy, and he's got a solid build with powerful arms. He's also smart, which is just as meaningful a weapon in a fight as physical prowess. If he'd let me teach him a few moves, he could probably wipe the floor with anyone who gave him trouble. Part of me liked that idea, but the other part liked to come to his rescue. He was a little big and a bit too hairy for a damsel in distress, but it didn't hurt my ego to be his hero, anyway.

He was as beautiful naked as I thought he'd be. He was an even better lover than I imagined. I didn't really plan for things to happen the way they did - either with us just going for it unexpectedly on a Wednesday evening at his place or with me bottoming for him. I only bottomed for one other man in my life, and when I did, I gave up more than my ass. I gave him my heart and I let myself believe that we were going to be a forever thing.

I don't think it's a cause to make fun of Timothy because he wants to be loved, because he's a romantic, because he wanted his sex partner to care about him, to love him. Before my whole life fell apart and Kyle committed suicide, I was a romantic, too. I believed in love and forever and sex meaning something. Kyle was the first man I ever had sex with. I don't count a few fumbling experimental hand jobs. I mean real, naked, horizontal, sex using all the working parts. And Kyle was a top. And that was the end of that discussion. I loved him, so I was on the bottom. It felt good, and he was a good lover. He was considerate and caring with me when we were together, and he gave great blow jobs, so not topping him wasn't the end of the world.

Every man I've been with since Kyle bottomed for me. And that was the end of that discussion. Nobody else was ever going to hurt me the way he did, nobody else was going to have that power over me again. Not letting them have control in bed was some feeble attempt to keep them from having control anywhere else. I think I did pretty well. I'd managed not to really connect on a deep, emotional level with any of them. When they left me, I didn't care, and when I left them, I didn't feel any remorse.

And then I fell in love with Timothy and I wanted to give him everything. I trusted him to give him something I'd sheltered and protected from other guys. Not my ass in the physical sense, but surrendering physically and emotionally and putting everything I had in someone else's hands. Giving him the power to hurt me on so many different levels.

Now there I was, nestled in Timothy's arms, feeling safe and cherished and happy.

And hungry.

A warm hand rubbed my belly, and soft lips kissed my shoulder.

"We missed dinner," he said, his voice a little rough with the remains of sleep.

"Did you make something? I know I was late," I said.

"I had a pasta dish put together. Just needs to go in the oven for a while. I figured you might run late, and we'd want time for a martini first."

I rolled on my back so I could look at him. His hair was mussed, and he looked different without his glasses. I hadn't seen him very much without them. He was just as handsome one way as another, but I enjoyed the chance to look into those deep blue eyes of his with those dark lashes when I didn't have to look at them through lenses. I loved him so much at that moment, I'd have cut off my right arm just to amuse him. Fortunately, less gruesome displays of affection were enough. I pulled him down for a kiss.

"This beats the hell out of a martini," I said, and he laughed.

"Where would you like the olive?"

"Anyplace you want to suck it out of."

We indulged in being silly, kissing some more, and he settled in my arms, with his head on my shoulder. I could have died happy right then.

"You must sunburn fast," he said, running his fingers lightly over my chest. My cock liked the motion of those fingers. I wasn't sure what to make of the comment - either he thought I looked pale and anemic, or he liked my fair, not-so-hairy skin. "My fair-skinned blond knight in shining armor," he added, kissing my chest. Well, that answered that. He liked it. I ran my fingers through his hair, enjoying that. His hair was soft and thick. He always looked so nice, so put together, that it hadn't occurred to me to mess him up a little. Now I was loving the feel of his hair slipping between my fingers as I moved my hand around a little.

"I guess I'll need someone to rub sun screen on me when we go to the beach."

"I'll rub anything you want."

"Best offer I've had in years," I replied, kissing the top of his head.

"I'll heat us up some dinner if you want to mix martinis," he said.

"Okay, but let's wait a few minutes," I said, tilting his chin up so I could kiss him properly.

We made out a while longer, and after listening to our stomachs growl like two dogs having a turf war, we finally did get up and fixed dinner together. Well, he put the dinner he'd made in the oven and made a salad while I mixed martinis. I did set the table.

My body was starting to figure out what Thor had done to it, and it wasn't happy. Still, it was worth it. I never once regretted kicking his ass. Timothy was a bit unreadable as to what he really thought of the whole thing, but I knew he understood that I loved him and it was something primal I had to get out of my system. He might have been able to take blackmailing the asshole with DVD's as a win, but I wanted more. I wanted him on the ground, defeated. I wanted him to bleed, literally, for laying one unwelcome hand on Tim. For kicking him? I probably could have killed the bastard, or at least broken the leg that did the kicking, if not for the fear of what Timothy would think of me if I did.

As we ate dinner, I wondered when I was going to discover the one thing about Tim that I just couldn't stand. So far he was sweet, understanding, beautiful, smart, good in bed, and he could cook. The chicken pasta dish he'd "thrown together" tasted better than the last one I'd had at some fancy restaurant when I was tailing a rich client. For me, a "tossed salad" is some lettuce, a few stale croutons left in the bottom of the box, and whatever salad dressing is fresh enough not to kill me if I eat it. For him, it was neatly torn lettuce tossed (yes, he actually tossed it like the name implies) with an assortment of vegetables, a sprinkling of some tasty sort of cheese, and dressing that was most likely much fresher than what I had on hand at my place.

If this was a quick post-sex meal, I couldn't wait to see what he made when he spent some time on it. I was probably going to weigh 300 pounds after our first year together.

Our first year together. Where the hell did that come from? Nobody had a ring on anybody's finger yet. And with Timothy, that troubled me a little. It meant that as free as I was to walk away from him, he was just as free to do the same to me.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said, cheery. He's so fucking cute when he's cheery. Sitting there in nothing but his robe and his glasses, his hair still messy from me playing with it.

"I was just thinking," I said, taking his hand, looking him right in the eyes, "about how much I love you," I concluded, kissing his hand. The only thing better than his cute, cheery expression, is his moved, sentimental, completely sappy in love with me expression.

"I love you, too," he responded, holding onto my hand like he'd never let go. I never wanted him to.

"I have a confession to make," I said, and my tone was obviously non-threatening enough that it didn't make him nervous. Maybe he was finally trusting me enough not to think I was going to dump him or find one of the many invented faults Steve had accused him of, just too much to stand. "I don't have any big plans for us this weekend. I ran into some budget problems, and I had to cancel our reservations. I'm sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you."

"What could have been more beautiful about what we just shared if it had happened in a $200 a night bed and breakfast somewhere?"

"Nothing could have made that any better than it was."

"Are you still free Friday and Saturday?"

"Unless I get a new client. If I do, I might have to work one or the other."

"Whatever time we have, we'll do something together. We could just spend another really nice evening in together," he said, giving me a smile and a look that went straight to my cock, which was already stirring and ready for action, just looking at him.

After dinner, we decided to take a shower together. I'm not sure if Timothy really thought I'd pay attention to mundane things like washing ourselves when we were both wet, naked, and trapped in a steamy confined space. I didn't want the first time I was inside him to be a few quick thrusts while I had him pinned to the tiles - well, actually, I did want that, but he deserved better.

So I marshaled all my self-control and every single feeling of love I had for him, and focused on making love to him in every other way, both of us using our soapy hands to "wash" each other, though it was more like full-body caressing when soap and water just happened to be involved. We rubbed off on each other, getting excited, kissing like we'd never get another chance to again. When he came, I was sucking his nipple and playing with his balls. When I came, it was because Tim had me pinned against the tiles, one hand in my hair and the other stroking my cock while he was sucking on my earlobe. His mouth seemed like it was all over me, but it happened to be on my earlobe when I lost it. If Thor seriously thought sex with this man wasn't good, I wasted my time kicking him in nonexistent balls or he was the first straight guy I ever met closeting himself as gay.

I suppose there are more romantic or passionate follow-ups to hot shower sex than cuddling on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and an old movie, but that's what we did. Our bodies were happily sated for a while, it was a chilly night, and there were some good classic horror movies on in the final days nearing Halloween. Tim kind of shyly offered to clear out a drawer for me, and some space in the closet, if I'd like to bring some things over. So I spent the next several minutes kissing him and making out with him just so he was clear that I liked the idea. We fell asleep on the couch, and slept in each other's arms, snuggled under the throw, until he came to about seven, and began flying through the apartment in a panic getting ready for work.

After heeding the call of nature, I sat on the couch and stayed out of his way. I had some work to do, but he had to be in his office at a certain time for a morning meeting. It was an exercise in self control, because the only thing almost as sexy as naked Timothy is freshly groomed, business-suited Timothy. I wanted to shove him against the nearest wall and undo all the grooming he'd just done and dive into him like a stack of blueberry pancakes. With whipped cream on top.

Instead, I gratefully latched onto the opportunity for a prolonged goodbye kiss, and a hug that let me nuzzle his sweet-smelling neck and get a little of his cologne on me. And then he was out the door and I was standing there in one of his robes and my socks, scratching my still uncombed hair, trying to figure out what the hell I was gonna do to find some more clients.

********

I was happy for Donald when he called me and said he had two new clients, but a little selfishly disappointed because I knew that meant he'd be busier, and the chances of us having a lot of time together in the coming evenings was probably not so great. He was out all night Thursday, meaning he worked around the clock from Wednesday morning when we parted until Friday evening, when he called me, all apologetic and asking me if I wanted to go out. He was calling from his home phone, and as much as it made me almost physically ache not to see him, I told him to go to bed and get some sleep and call me when he got up on Saturday.

He seemed disappointed in one way, but a little relieved in another. He admitted he was exhausted, and we exchanged some gooey little love words, and he promised to call when he woke up. He did call me at noon on Saturday, but when he did, I immediately knew something was wrong before he told me. He sounded awful.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you before, but I've been throwing up all morning."

"What's the matter? Do you think it's something you ate? Do you have a fever?" I tried to refrain from shooting more questions at him, but I was worried.

"I don't know. I'm just lying on the side of the bed that doesn't have a puddle of puke on it and waiting for it to pass. It could be bad food. If I talk about food, I'm gonna puke again."

"Just sit tight. I'll be right there."

"Do you know where I live?" he asked, and I paused a moment, surprised. I already thought of him as my significant other, my boyfriend, the man I hoped to be with the rest of my life. It hit me at that moment we'd only been out on one date and I didn't know his address.

"Give me the address," I said, grabbing a pen and holding it poised.

"You really don't want to see me right now, honey. I might be contagious."

"And you think I care about that when you're so sick you're lying in a bed next to a puddle of your own vomit?" I waited through a brief silence, and for a moment I was afraid he'd passed out. Then he mumbled his address, and I wrote it down.

"My place is a mess," he said weakly.

"I'm sure it'll look better once the bed's changed."

"I don't have any clean sheets. I didn't do the laundry. You better just leave me be, and when I feel better, I'll clean things up."

"What size bed do you have?" I asked. A stop in a store to buy a set of sheets would solve it, or I'd take some of mine with me if we both had king beds.

"I think it's a queen. It's not as big as yours."

"But it's bigger than a double, right?"

"Yeah, it's a queen." He laughed, weakly. "Guess it's not the only queen in the apartment," he added, and I had to laugh. Even deathly sick, my Donald had a sense of humor.

I called a taxi, figuring it was worth the money to get there quickly, rather than trying to figure out bus schedules and which stores were on the bus route. I asked the driver to stop by a department store that was on the way between his place and mine, and bought a set of sheets and pillowcases. I also picked up some towels and pajamas, along with boxer shorts and undershirts. If he hadn't done laundry and he was throwing up, chances were most of his other things were dirty. I would have preferred to launder everything, but I was going there to take care of him, not spend the afternoon in a laundry room while he writhed in misery by himself.

His apartment was in a complex with four identical large, brick, three-floor buildings. Fortunately, the taxi driver knew which building the address was for, and drove me up to the door. When I arrived at the front door, I was surprised when an elderly woman opened it for me.

"Donald asked me to let you in. Are you Tim?" she asked, after I was already inside. Well, she'd never make it in security work, but she was a sweet little lady in a flowered house dress who reminded me of my maternal grandmother. My father's mother would have never been caught dead in a house dress and even at nearly ninety had a professional manicure and flawless makeup to go with her expensive designer dresses.

"Yes, I'm Tim. Thank you for letting me in. Can you point me toward Donald's apartment?" I asked.

"It's on the second floor. You can come with me. He lives right next door to me. I'm glad you came over. He sounds awfully sick and he won't let me in - he said he didn't want me to catch it."

"If he has the flu, that's probably a good idea."

"He's always so nice to me. Last winter, he used to go get my groceries when the weather was bad. I hope he's all right."

I could see him doing that. Despite his tough exterior, Don had a heart made of solid marshmallow.

"I think he's pretty special, too," I said, smiling. When I reached his door, she toddled to her own door. "I'll take good care of him," I added, and she smiled before she went into her apartment.

I tapped on the door, and then tried the knob. It was unlocked. The apartment was smaller than mine, and sparsely furnished. It looked like a typical bachelor's crash pad, with little thought given to decorating and newspapers, magazines, and a few pieces of clothing scattered on the furniture. The living room was home to a couch, a small entertainment center, and a weight bench and weights

"Don?" I called. I went to the bedroom doorway, feeling even sorrier for him when I saw the rat's nest condition his bed was in and the telltale odor tweaked my nose. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from down the hall. I followed it to the bathroom and found Don sitting slumped on the floor of the bathroom near the toilet, clad in only his boxers, his skin not much more colorful than the white wall behind him. I dropped my bag of supplies on the floor and followed my instinct and just knelt next to him and pulled him into my arms. "It's okay, baby, I'm here," I said, taking off my jacket and wrapping it around him. I'd get him into something clean and warm in a minute, but for now, he was shivering on the floor, and I couldn't stand to see him in that state another second.

His arms slid around my middle, but the embrace was weak. I patted his back.

"Oh, God, don't do that," he mumbled. "If you pat me again I'm gonna throw up on your shoulder," he added.

"Okay, I'll stop patting," I agreed, smiling, kissing his temple.

"My gun's in the holster in the bedroom. Go get it and kill me now." I could feel his body relax and slump against me, but he was still conscious, much to my relief. I knew then my just sitting there and holding him was helping. There would be plenty of time to move him, clean him up, change the bed, and everything else.

"I know it sucks to be this sick, honey," I said gently, stroking his hair. That didn't seem to nauseate him the way the patting had. "How many times have you thrown up?" I asked. I didn't want him to get dehydrated, and I could feel that he had a fever. I wasn't sure if the little tremors I felt were chills, or if he was getting ready to throw up on me.

"I don't know. A lot."

"Have you had any fluids at all?"

"What do you think I just threw up? I tried to drink some water."

"It's okay. You're in the worst of it now, but we'll start gradually nursing you through a little bit of fluid to keep you hydrated."

"I'm sorry to make you spend your Saturday like this."

"I'm sorry you're sick, but since you are, there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than right here," I said, almost rocking him but then deciding motion probably wasn't very soothing. My heart broke for him, for how awful he felt. I was glad we'd met, glad he wasn't alone when he felt so sick.

"Saint Timothy," he mumbled, right before he pulled away and hung over the toilet, retching helplessly, though there was almost nothing coming of it. I was no saint, but I probably looked like one right about then. I hated to embarrass him, but we'd both have to get over that if I was going to take care of him. "Are your shorts clean and dry?" I asked. I wasn't about to tell him that I knew they weren't. It's pretty hard to vomit violently and hold your water at the same time.

"I didn't get to the laundry. I was gonna do it this morning," he said, hanging over the toilet, as if he expected another wave of retching. And it came. I held his head, knowing how it can feel like your eyeballs and your brain are going to fall in the toilet when you're vomiting that violently, that often.

"I brought some things with me in case you needed them," I said, waiting until he sat back on his heels. "If I help you, can you stand in the bathtub for a minute? I can get you cleaned up and into shorts and pajamas."

"I don't have pajamas."

"I thought you might say that, so I got you some. Are you cold, baby?" I asked, keeping my arm around him while I flushed the toilet.

"I have chills," he admitted. I already knew that, but I was glad he was telling me.

"Okay. Let's get you warmed up," I suggested, and I got him on his feet, though he looked a little like a newborn fawn for a moment or two, wobbling on legs that didn't seem very steady. I stood there and held onto him until he seemed to get his land legs again, and he stepped into the tub, still gripping my arm.

I moved as quickly as I could washing him up with a warm soapy cloth, cleaning some dried stuff I didn't want to think too much about off his chest, and washing him where he'd been sitting in wet shorts before I got there. I got him into a pair of the new boxers and a fresh undershirt, and then into the pajamas I thought might make him feel less shivery.

At one point, he looked at me with so much love, with tears in his eyes, and my heart just melted. I had a feeling it had been a long time since someone had taken care of him, babied him a little, fussed over him when he was sick.

"I love you," I said, kissing a warm cheek. I didn't care if I caught the Bubonic Plague. I had to show him some affection.

"You must," he said, his voice a little hushed. I smiled and stroked his head carefully.

I found a pretty battered-looking quilt rolled up in the living room's sole easy chair, and got him situated on the couch with a pillow under his head and the quilt over him. I found a plastic mixing bowl in the kitchen and put it on the coffee table where he could reach it. I knew we had to work on getting fluids in him, but he looked so exhausted that I thought he might nap a minute or two while I changed the bed and opened the window in the bedroom to air it out a little.

Without probing what lurked beneath the bedding, I rolled it all up in a ball along with his shorts and an undershirt I found that bore some grotesque reminders of his morning mishaps. I put all the dirty laundry in a couple of trash bags, and figured I'd brave it to honey-dip through the bags when he felt better and was strong enough to be alone while I did the washing. Fresh air was starting to conquer the less-than-charming aromas in the bedroom, and I put the clean sheets on the bed. Fortunately, his blanket had escaped any damage, so the bed would be ready for him when he was ready for it.

Just as I was coming out of the bedroom, I was nearly bowled over by a staggering, wild-eyed Donald as he rushed into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him. I waited a moment, then tapped on the door.

"Are you okay?" I asked, not wanting to just burst in on him.

"It's coming the other way," he groaned.

"Did you make it?"

"Yeah, barely," he replied.

"I'm right here if you need me," I said.

"I think I can take care of this," he said after a brief pause.

"I've had diarrhea before, so the shock won't kill me if you need help." I smiled when I heard him chuckle weakly.

"The shock might not but the smell will."

Shortly after that, I heard the toilet flush and the water running while he washed his hands. Then he staggered out of the bathroom.

"I was serious about the gun," he said, forcing a tiny smile.

"I know, honey," I said, sympathetically. "Do you want to get back in bed? It's all changed."

"I might shit the bed. I better not."

"I thought of that. I bought an extra sheet to use across the middle of the mattress that should catch it if you have a mishap so the bed stays clean, just in case."

"God, you're a genius and an angel of mercy," he said, leaning into me as I guided him back to bed. I propped him up a little, because I wanted to get a few swallows of water down his throat, to see if he could keep it down. I was relieved but not really surprised that he had Gatorade in the fridge, since it was obvious from the weights that he worked out in his apartment.

I checked his temperature, and found it was just over 100 degrees. I no sooner had the thermometer out of his mouth than he fled with a sort of ungainly gait toward the bathroom again. I watched his progress to the other room just to be sure he didn't fall or end up head-first in the toilet instead of sitting on it. After hearing the telltale flush and the sound of water again, the door opened, and I was there to help him back to bed. He swayed a little this time, and put a hand over his stomach.

"Do you have to go again?" I asked.

"My stomach hurts," he muttered, crawling into the bed and knocking the extra pillows out of the way so he could curl on his side. I got a tepid cloth that was just slightly on the cool side and sat on the bed, bathing his face. He needed to catch his breath, and he wouldn't die without pills and water that instant. As I was moving the cloth over his skin, he latched onto my hand. "I'm glad you're here," he said. I kissed his forehead.

"So am I, honey. If I get you a little water, will you try swallowing some?"

"Yeah, I know I have to."

Most of the afternoon and evening passed between runs to the bathroom, and struggling to slowly increase the amount of fluid he could keep down. We finally progressed to some Tylenol and small, room temperature glasses of Gatorade by the wee hours of the morning. His stomach pains were a little less intense, and the vomiting stopped. Of course, that just meant everything ran out the other end instead, but it was a step in the right direction. His fever went down, and I got into bed with him near dawn and held him and talked to him about things I knew would probably bore him so he'd relax and go to sleep. I also figured we were probably in for another miserable day of running to the bathroom on Sunday, but I had enough precautions in place that he could have an accident without it being any big disaster.

By Sunday afternoon, he felt enough better to eat a few crackers and a tiny piece of banana with his Gatorade. We both rejoiced when it stayed put for a little while. He still felt crampy and weak, so we watched some old movies with his head in my lap on the couch. Now, he seemed to enjoy a back rub, so I rubbed his back while he lay there, and was glad that he could get some naps in between bathroom runs.

I know he was probably never in danger of dying, but in the first hours when he was so sick we could barely get two sips of water down his throat, I realized how utterly devastated I would be, and how empty my life, my world, and my heart would be without him. I almost physically ached with every retching session, and even though he said very little by way of complaining, I cringed each time his poor, worn out intestinal tract felt compelled to void the fluids we were giving it, knowing how sick he felt, and how miserable he was. When I could finally feed him a Sunday "dinner" of some rice mixed up with a little clear chicken broth, and he actually wanted it, I was happier than a child on Christmas morning.

After he ate, he seemed to feel better, and I slipped down to the laundry room in his building and ran a couple loads of washing so he'd have more fresh, clean things as he needed them. When I returned to the apartment, he was asleep again on the couch, but his face felt cool to the touch, and he was sleeping so deeply he didn't even stir when I felt his forehead. So I sat on the edge of the coffee table and watched him sleep, wondering how I could possibly love him like I did when we'd only known each other such a short time. I knew I'd walk through fire for him, die for him if it came to that, because living without him wasn't an option. That scared me a little, because we weren't committed to each other officially, though I couldn't picture Don just walking away from me. I knew he loved me.

My beautiful love who would slay dragons for me, be my hero, fight for me to the death... who, at the same time, I wanted to protect, take care of, soothe, love, and shelter from all the bad things in the world. Donald was such a sweet, good soul that I never wanted to see him hurting for any reason.

I called in to work, and told them I was caring for a friend who was sick with the flu. He was still weak, and I didn't want to jeopardize his recovery by leaving him to his own devices. That would mean he'd let replenishing his fluids slide, might not eat properly, and definitely wouldn't get enough rest once he started feeling stronger.

When he woke up Monday morning, and I was still there, he looked at me as if he didn't quite understand what was going on. The good news was, he had no fever, he'd slept all night without running to the bathroom, and he looked more like himself again, instead of the pallid, zombie-like creature he'd been since Saturday.

"What time is it?" It was already light outside, sun streaming in the window. He knew I should be gone, at work by now.

"I'm staying with my patient another day to make sure you're better." I hugged him closer, spooned around him. I was so happy to see him feeling more like his old self.

"Thanks, but I've got to go to work. I have to - "

"Don, you just held onto your first solid food last night. You need to take it easy today, try a little more mild food, get some rest. Your body has to recover."

"Yeah, well, my body's gonna be out in the alley if I don't go to work. My rent's due and I have to pay my secretary Friday, and the business account is empty. Well, there's about fifty bucks in there, but once I fill up the car and go to the office supply store, it'll be overdrawn."

"You'll get back on your feet. I can help you - "

"No way. I'm not going to start taking money from you."

"Why not?" I sort of knew, and somewhat understood, but in another way, it seemed like if we were close enough to share the love and intimacy we had with each other, we were close enough for him to accept a few dollars until he got back on his feet.

"Because I don't want to leech off you. I already made you miss work and probably gave you the plague."

"You didn't make me do anything, and if I catch your flu, you'll have to take care of me. I remember you blowing off your work with one of your clients to take care of me after Steve beat me up. You didn't just walk out and leave me there because it was going to cost you money."

"And I'd do it again, but that doesn't mean I want you to pay for that."

"That's not what I'm doing. Honey, it's called being there for each other. I couldn't put a price on how it felt to have you stay with me, or put some ice on my sore spots, and give in to my whining."

"You didn't whine."

"I wanted to, and you knew it, and you stayed with me because you knew I wanted you to."

"I love you." He smiled at me, touching my cheek.

"And I love you. So what difference does it make if I help you pay a few bills? I'm not rich, either. It's not like you fell in love with me just to get your hands on my vast wealth."

"You mean you're not independently wealthy?" he asked.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Gee, Timothy, I don't know about this, then," he joked, giving me a big smile. I hadn't see that since the last time we were together, before he got sick. I hugged him. That smile lights up my world.

"Tell me what you need, and then when I run short in a few weeks, you'll have another client and be back on your feet, and you can help me if I need it."

"Why are you so good to me?" he asked, taking my hand.

"Because I love you," I replied, confused, because the answer seemed so obvious.

"I know, but...you love me so much," he said, lacing our fingers together. It was an odd comment, like he was confused that love could make me clean up vomit and share my money, I guess. "What if I'm not...what if I don't turn out to be all you think I am?" he asked, looking at me with a strange, melancholy expression.

"You're already more than I ever dreamed of, Donald, so you have nothing to worry about." I took him in my arms and kissed him, our first real kiss since he'd been sick. I held him close to me, and I wanted to make that uncertainty go away.

We cuddled for a while, and I served him breakfast in bed. It made me happy to think he'd never have to be sick alone again, that I would always be there when he needed me.

*********