Who Do You Love - Dean Ambrose

Chapter 12: Blue Christmas

In getting me from the car up the stairs to our bedroom, Dean cut out the middleman and simply carried me there, sweeping my wobbly legs out from under me and completing the distance in thirty seconds at the most. In hindsight, it was probably the right course of action, since – had I been left to walk it myself – we probably would have still been there nextChristmas and honestly, I was done with having to move myself.

Depositing me on the edge of our king size mattress, Dean set about ridding me of my tight and scratchy clothes, each fibre of which seemed to delight in grating over me and rubbing my tender skin like nails or wire wool.

Theoretically the act of my boyfriend undressing me should have been sexy.

It was anything but.

Instead it felt safe and loving and genuine although he swore and stepped back whenever I sneezed.

"Sorry," I murmured, hanging my head low, mostly because it was too heavy to hold up. I had no idea how it was actually possible but every last inch of my weary body hurt. There were aches and pains in joints and muscles that I hadn't even registered having before and it felt like there was some civil war happening and I was the poor country being torn apart. Sadly, the single sorry word of apology irritated my scratchy throat again and I promptly broke off both coughing and spluttering, which in turn made the pounding in my besieged head ramp up.

Dean, who had been across the room trying to find bed wear and clearly struggling to figure out what I slept in other than my birthday suit after we'd had sex, quickly came back over, clutching an old t-shirt with some spurious slogan on it that I slowly realized was one of his.

"Hey," he frowned, chiding me gently for letting me get myself into such a state, "Breathe, okay Princess? Just take it easy. Trust me, I don't want you throwin' up again. Not fuckin' sure we'll ever get the smell outta the front of the truck as it is – don't add the bedroom to the list as well."

"Sorry," I repeated and he rolled his eyes a little, then briskly dropped the t-shirt over my head.

"Stop fuckin' apologizin' as well. Not your fault, alright? Now put your arms up."

I did as instructed, wondering vaguely whether Dean had ever had to take care of someone before. None of his previous relationships – that I'd heard about – seemed to have been the lengthy or functional sort and so I figured that it was entirely possible I was seeing the live birth of his nursing career. Not that he was exactly Florence Nightingale, but he was trying – really trying – and that was enough.

As the folds of the t-shirt enveloped my head and surrounded me with a lingering trace of Dean's scent, I breathed it in deeply and felt my shoulders start to droop a little, dropping down from their position hunched up around my neck. I hummed a little and when Dean poked my head through, I gazed up at him with bleary but totally loving eyes.

"You're like a really sweary Doctor Zhivago,"

Dean raised a brow,

"That a good thing?"

"It really is. He's all kind of tortured and sexy and tragic. I like that."

"You realize you've kinda lost me here, right?"

"Oh," I blinked, "Well, Yuri Zhivago – ,"