Heart (Quinn, Flynn)

[quinntaessentia.livejournal.com]

It had been a rough couple of weeks. Quinn was still suffering from his traumatic brain injury, and therefore he still struggled to find the correct words when speaking. Sometimes it got so bad he simply refused to say anything at all, and for someone as used to talking at rapid speeds as Quinn, that was a big deal. Worse was the almost unending nausea. Quinn didn't think he'd gone more than two days without throwing up since he had awoken from his coma. He was getting thinner and thinner, and he didn't look healthy, nor did he feel it. That was probably normal after being in a coma for three weeks, but that didn't mean Quinn was pleased about it.

After an entire day spent in bed because he felt terribly ill, Quinn was feeling a little better. He lit up considerably when his husband, Malachy Flynn, walked into their bedroom. He was returning from a session with Spectre. He had been helping the other man re-learn to play his guitar. Flynn gave Quinn a tired smile and he put his hand on his stomach. "Hi, Bub? Feel like some dinner? My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Quinn shook his head; unwilling to jinx his less nauseated state by eating quite yet. "But yourself should get something," Quinn said slowly, concentrating on every word. He hated that it made him sound exceedingly stupid. At least he knew Flynn would never judge him. Quinn had received a traumatic head injury and he had managed to survive with his massive intellect in tact. It was lucky.

Flynn smiled and before he dashed off to get something to eat, he moved to kiss Quinn full on the lips, making Quinn feel so incredibly loved.

When Flynn returned, he was carrying a tray of things, which he set down on the bedside table beside table. He handed Quinn a steaming cup of tea with a smile and he said softly, "this should make you feel better. Abby gave it to me. Says it helps settle the stomach."

Quinn accepted the tea gratefully and he breathed it in. It smelled aromatic and wonderful and a smile spread on his face. He took a sip and the tea warmed him from within. "Thank you," Quinn said with a grin after he had swallowed.

"You're welcome," Flynn said, only taking his bowl of soup into his hands to eat after he was sure Quinn was set with his tea.

Quinn watched his husband in silence, sipping his tea. Flynn spooned large amounts of soup into his mouth, swallowing the chunks basically hole before continuing with another spoonful. He looked absolutely content there, sitting at the edge of their mattress, spooning soup into his mouth with such gusto he couldn't have eaten very much at all that day. Quinn waited until Flynn had started to slow down before he dared interrupt. "Hungry?" he finally asked, a wry grin on his face.

"Yeah. I was with Deirdre and then I was at the shelter, and then Spectre and I were in the studio and we just forgot, and then I came back here-"

Quinn didn't mean to say it, nor did he mean it to sound like a dispairaging remark in any way when he said, "don't you ever get tired of taking care of everyone else?"

Flynn, who luckily could read Quinn's intentions without having to first get offended because Quinn's words weren't as carefully chosen as they might have been, simply shrugged. Then he looked thoughtful, as he was never one to answer without carefully considering what he was being asked. And then he said, very simply, "no."

"Never?" Quinn placed his empty mug back on the bedside table and he leaned forward so he was closer to Flynn.

"Is that really what I do?" Flynn asked softly. He placed his bowl aside as well and then he crawled onto the bed so they could sit side by side against the headboard. Flynn took Quinn's hand in his and he kissed it. "Why do you think that?"

"You just..." Quinn took a deep breath, because he could feel himself starting to have to search for words. And what he wanted to express was not all that complex. "You spend all this twine...no. No. time. Argh. You spend time taking care of people and you are so selfless. Does it not get...try...tir...tr..old?"

Flynn turned his head sideways so he could kiss Quinn's nose. "Not even a little. Are you worried about me?"

"Only that you might wear yourself...thin." Quinn frowned and he turned onto his side, cuddling into Flynn's warmth. "I don't want to take up too much of you."

"Bub." Flynn's voice was calm and reassuring and then there were the arms that wrapped around Quinn. So strong and gentle. Quinn smiled against Flynn's chest. "All of me is yours, so you can't possibly take up too much."

Quinn lifted his head a little so he was peeking up at his husband. "I think I vomited on you three times this world. ....week."

"That's okay," Flynn said quickly. "I'd rather you do it on me than go through it alone. I love being there for Deirdre. She's my best friend. I love that I'm helping Spectre get his music back since he helped me get my life back. I love our work at the shelter. And what I love most of all, is coming home to you. It doesn't matter what happens after that. We can watch telly or talk or write music or-"

"Or I can vomit on you?"

Flynn chuckled. "Or you can vomit on me. All that matters is that I'm with you." Flynn pulled Quinn close again, and Quinn knew Flynn meant it.

"You really are something, you know?" Quinn said, muffled against his husband's chest. It wasn't often you found someone so willing to give so much of themselves to others. But Flynn had always been extraordinary. And it was possible he felt he had some things to make up for, as he had been a violent person until the age of fifteen. But it was more likely that it was just because he was Flynn. Flynn had such a capacity for love, that sometimes Quinn felt dwarfed by it.

"I hope that's a good something. Does your stomach feel better, Quinn? There's enough soup for you too."

Quinn sat up again then, giving his husband a wry smile. "I might risk it, but if I v..v..."

"If you vomit, I'll help you," Flynn soothed. "Eat." And a bowl of soup was uncerimoniously shoved into his hands. Quinn smiled inwardly and he began to eat.

If Flynn wanted to take care of it, there was little argument against him needing it. So Quinn would let him. For surely if the situation was reversed, Quinn would do the same thing for his husband. He knew that with certainty.