Your POV
"Ow," I whine.
"I know, I know. Just lay down and try to fall asleep."
"But my knee hurts so bad."
"I know it does. I'm sorry," Timmy whispers, leaning over me and tucking me into the covers of our bed.
I just had a huge knee surgery, and I'm still out of it from the anesthesia. Getting home was strange and disorienting. I can't remember what time of day it is. All I know is that Timmy has been with me since I woke up.
"My knee..." I whisper. The last thing I see before I fall asleep again is his face leaning over mine. Then I'm out.
***
When I wake up again, the room is completely dark and my knee is throbbing with pain. It switches between aching and stabbing, and I try to sit up.
What time is it? Next to me, where Timmy would usually sleep, the bed is empty.
"Timmy?" I croak out into the darkness, barely sitting up. I feel like a child again, calling for my mother.
I hear him run through the hallway and he appears instantly in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and striding in quickly. Even through the pain and darkness I have to appreciate how cute he looks in his plaid pajama pants, hair all fluffed up around his head.
"Hey, Y/N. How are you feeling? You need to take your pain meds... you start the antibiotics tomorrow so we don't have to worry about that. How are you feeling?" he repeats himself, walking over to me and stands by the bed, petting my hair with his fingers.
"I'm still... tired." My voice sounds strange and weak. I can kind of feel the anesthesia still in my body, but I think it's mostly gone. I just feel disoriented.
"Okay. Here," he says. He reaches over to the bedside table and hands me two of my prescribed pills and a glass of water.
I take them gratefully and swallow them.
"How come you're sleeping in the living room?" I ask.
"I didn't want to accidentally touch you or anything. Sorry," he adds, seeing my face fall. "I think I'm gonna grab my sleeping bag and sleep on the floor so I can be closer to you," he says.
I feel so guilty that he's doing this for me. Judging by how quickly he came, I'm sure he wasn't actually sleeping in the living room.
He reaches up to the top of our closet and pulls down a sleeping bag, grabbing a pillow from the bed next to me.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" he asks me as he lays down the bag.
"Yeah... it really hurts," I complain. Usually I'm not so whiny and needy but I'm so tired and it really does hurt.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice thick with genuine sympathy. He stands and leans down, kissing the top of my head. "I wish I could take it away for you," he whispers. I smile. Just his words make me feel better.
I lay back down and try to get comfortable. I fall asleep very quickly, exhaustion and pain getting the best of me very easily.
***
The next time I wake up, the room is flooded with sunshine. I feel more clarity now, and definitely more pain. The numbing they did has officially worn off, and I can actually feel how deep the incision is.
I don't want to call for Timothèe though, because that seems ridiculous. I sit up and start to move my legs, but I accidentally cry out in pain when I try to move my right knee.
Tears well up in my eyes at the sudden pain, and I reach down and clutch my thigh as if that will somehow help.
I don't even hear Timmy come into the room.
"Did you try to move?" he asks, exasperated.
I just purse my lips and nod.
"Well, don't," he tells me.
I nod again and sit back against the headboard.
"I was making breakfast. You have to eat to take the antibiotics. Here, take more of these. It's time anyway," he says, holding out more painkillers. I take them gratefully.
"We need to change the gauze," he says.
"I'm scared to even see it," I admit quietly.
"Don't be scared. You're so brave for this. We can do this, and if we have any problems we'll just call the doctor. She gave really good instructions, remember?"
Honestly, I don't. I went to so many pre-op appointments but each of them stressed me out so much that it was hard to retain the information. I'm glad I took Timmy with me to absorb the information.
He leaves for a moment and comes back with everything to change the gauze.
He pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and gives me a reassuring smile.
"I know this sucks but we gotta do it," he tells me.
"Yeah. Just give it to me," I say. I reach for the gauze but he pulls it away, out of my reach.
"No. I'll do it," he says.
"No."
"Y/N, I listened to what the doctor said. She told us that someone else should do it, at least in the beginning. I promise I'll be gentle," he tells me.
I'm not worried about him being gentle.
"It's just... it's probably all bloody and gross... I don't want you to see it," I say sheepishly.
He smiles and shakes his head.
"That's seriously the last thing I care about. She said it's important that someone else changes it in the beginning so that it can be wrapped really well," he says.
I slump back against the headboard.
"Fine. Thanks," I say. The pain is making me irritable.
He flips the covers off of me and reveals my leg. I'm still wearing the loose tie-dye shorts that I put on before yesterday's surgery. I briefly remember sliding them back up after I took of the gown, but I was on so many drugs that it's all blurry.
The gauze wraps entirely around my leg, and it just needs to be changed twice a day.
"Okay. Ready?" he asks.
I nod and squeeze my eyes shut. I'd just rather not see all the stitches.
I feel his fingers graze the side of the gauze and inhale deeply as he starts slowly unwrapping it. This stings so badly.
"Sorry, sorry," he keeps saying. I can hear him wincing.
"Is it bad?" I ask, when I feel him take the gauze off completely.
"No. Just healing. Okay, I'm gonna put this new one on."
I sit and breathe, eyes shut the whole time, as he wraps the new gauze around me.
"Okay, done," he says. I finally open my eyes and look down at the new wrapping.
"Thanks," I say gratefully.
"Of course. You need to eat. The doctor said the anesthesia might make you nauseous but to take the antibiotics you have to eat," he says, putting the box of gauze on the floor.
"Okay."
He leaves to get whatever he cooked.
I'm so endlessly grateful for him. He's been so kind and concerned for me through this, and I know I can always trust him to take care of me.
He comes back with a plate of French toast and scrambled eggs, and a glass of grape juice.
"Here," he says, setting it on my lap.
"Ooo French toast. You're the best at making French toast."
"What can I say? It's the French in me," he says with a grin.
He reaches up and opens the curtains, letting the light into the room.
"Yum. Thanks," I say, digging in.
He sits next to me on the bed and turns on our TV, scrolling through Netflix until we find a movie we both want to watch. He slumps his head against my shoulder while I eat, letting his hand rest on the thigh of my good leg, slowly stroking my bare skin with his fingers.
"I love you," he says quietly. "I hope you feel better really soon."
"I love you too. Thanks for taking care of me," I say, my mouth full of French toast.
this is growing so fast I can't even keep up. thank you all so much (: