"How is he?" Donald demanded as he rushed into the curtained off area in the E.R.
The doctor looked up and smiled tiredly. "The bullet grazed his skull. Another centimeter to the left and you'd be planning his funeral. As it is he'll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up... but he's going to be okay."
Donald stared down at Timmy, feeling exhausted now the adrenaline and fear were subsiding. When he heard the news of shots fired at the Senator, and of a senior legislative aide being shot he had fumbled his cell phone into his hand and dialled but couldn't get hold of Timmy. No one was answering the phone at the Senator's office either. He managed to find a TV playing in a bar and had switched channels from the sports to the news, ignoring the angry cries from people watching, and there it was, in color. His worst nightmare had come true as he watched Timmy's head snap back and his body fall to the ground.
His cell rang and he debated taking the call because he needed answers rather than sympathy. He needed to know where they had taken Timmy.
He needed to know if he was alive.
"Yes, this is Donald Strachey. I'm on my way."
Now he was here he wasn't certain what to do with himself. The doctor had told him Timmy would recover but head wounds were a bitch. Donald knew of someone who had suffered severe head trauma, losing all their memories for the past few decades, and the thought of Timmy not knowing who he was or what they meant to each other was terrifying. A hospital porter and nurse came into the room, forcing Donald to drop Timmy's hand and move aside. He watched as they carefully detached the monitor leads attached to Timmy and ensured the saline I.V. was firmly attached before moving the bed. Donald followed them all the way to a private room several floor up but the nurse stopped him at the door.
"Sir, I need you to wait here for a few minutes while we get Mr. Callahan settled."
Donald hovered on the threshold even after the nurse and porter left, nodding his thanks as they gave him a reassuring smile. Finally he moved into the room, taking a seat beside Timmy and reaching out to hold his husband's hand. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch but a slight move of his fingers let the tips rest on the pulse point. This was the second time he had sat waiting for Timmy to wake up from a head injury, barely able to breath from the fear of losing him, or of losing everything they shared. As he waited he recalled his resolve the previous time. Timmy had fallen in love with him once so if the worst happened then Donald would simply have to make him fall in love with him all over again.
Hours later movement and a soft groan pulled his attention to his husband's face and he watched his eyes flutter open, only truly breathing again when Timmy smiled up at him weakly.