Of Hospital Beds, and Other Injuries
by barelyamiable
to Becca, ofthoughtsinpjs: Happy Christmas!
from, your Secret Santa
lost, adjective, past-participle of the verb 'to lose':
without sense of direction, having wandered off the map of one's life, wishing for something in vain
see also, or it feels a lot like: 'alone', 'rejected' and/or 'abandonment'
He said it like it was no big deal, almost like he was proud of it. "But I'm not," he said.
"I'm not proud of what I did," he insisted, "but I'm not trying to hide it either—not from you. And I don't know what they're saying around school, but I only want to be honest with you.
"And I'm trying to be honest with myself. So you don't need to come to terms with it. I certainly haven't. But I'm asking you to let me try to move forward even with the all the weight of my past."
There was nothing else. Just a quiet that made him uneasy, and their respective breathing.
"Look, I hate to put you in this position, but don't say anything to anyone. Please."
When their eyes met, Lily's were wide and her voice, quiet. "I can't believe you're apologizing. James. You're laying in a hospital bed, and you're apologizing to me."
He waved his arm as if in annoyance. "I'm fine. This is just a formality." She was looking pointedly at his various scratches and bruises, but he looked away just as determinedly. "Besides, I'm not the one you should be worried about."
Lily followed his gaze towards Severus and Sirius, their hospital beds side by side. "They haven't woken up yet?"
To her surprise, James laughed, though not in humor. "Oh sure. But they make such a ruckus, that Poppy slipped them both a heavy dose of Sleeping Draught the last time."
Her look was thoughtful. "They'll be fine, James."
His eyes were fixated on her hand resting on his left wrist. "I'm not worried."
Lily pulled away, but repeated: "They'll be fine. Both of them."
"Sure."
She glanced at the other occupied bed, and inhaled sharply. "And how—?"
She trailed off at the look on James's face, and the two fell back into their silence.
"He won't say. He's not talking. I mean—he says … a word or two when it's Pomprey asking, but he's—you know."
"Yeah. Sure."
"Yeah."
"And Sirius, has he …"
"Apologized? Sure."
When he said nothing more, Lily stood up quickly. "I didn't mean to pry. Sorry, I just … wanted to make sure you were all right—all of you."
She made for the door, but paused for a moment. James held his breath, but she didn't look back, and he laid in bed for hours more, rubbing hard at his left wrist bone.
The next time James was in the Hospital Wing, it was Lily who was bedridden.
"I know you're taking this Head Girl thing seriously, Evans, but there's no need to work yourself to death."
"James, I'm sorry I—" She was in a daze as she struggled to sit up. "What happened?"
He rested his hand on the bed rail, his voice light as ever: "Well, word is that you fainted on your way to Runes." He frowned slightly. "And apparently fell down half a flight of stairs."
"Merlin." Lily took a breath. "Well. I guess that explains why I'm sore all over."
James managed a laugh, though it was halfhearted and he seemed suddenly interested in cleaning his glasses. "I meant what I said before, you know—about this being a two-person job. I know that you haven't been letting me do my share of Head duties, Lily. And I know I have Quidditch or whatever, but we've both got a lot on our plates, and I can do my fair share."
Lily made some noncommittal sound. At James's noise of protest, her eyes fluttered back open. "How very serious today, James. And over work you didn't get to do?"
James scowled. "I don't even know how you've been binging on work we're supposed to be splitting—But I can pull my own damn weight, Evans."
"Yeah, sure." Her slight smile still lingered infuriatingly. "You don't have to get so indignant. I'll probably be staying in bed all weekend, so you're welcome to work this week to your heart's content."
"Sure," he repeated, flatly.
His eyes stayed uncharacteristically dark. He felt that familiar rush of adrenaline, hitched up his satchel, and pressed his lips to her hair for one brief moment.
"Feel better, Evans," he called over his left shoulder.
He refused to read too much into it as he strode out the infirmary, but he couldn't stop the smirk from tugging gently at his mouth.
He was staring at the fire in their common room when she found him, and she wondered why she always had to learn where James was or what happened to him from someone else.
She sat down next to him. "Hey."
James shrugged.
"I still remember," Lily said. "What it feels like. It hurts: everything. And I hated … breathing. My own heartbeat."
He didn't meet her eyes.
"I still feel like that sometimes," she added quietly.
"It doesn't ever go away, does it? Not really."
She inhaled sharply. "No," she said. "It doesn't. But you wouldn't want it to, not completely."
"Yeah. I guess."
They sat in a tense silence. "Sirius's really … broken up. Uh, he's the one who told me."
"Yeah. He would be." He turned to look at her then. "It isn't fair. Not the war, and not this; that bad things happen to good people."
She said, very softly, "It was an accident. A terrible one, but an accident."
He gave a choked laugh. "That's the worst part. That she and Dad both stomped around all over the globe, and because they were older and doing what they love—" His head jerked back towards the fireplace, and Lily watched as he swallowed hard. "Merlin. I don't know how I'm going to grow old. I can't."
Her fingers found his shoulder blades, and she sat with her insides clenching painfully with every one of James's heavy breaths, for a man and a woman whose love left behind a boy with messy hair and a paper heart whom she wish she knew better.
"And now Dad's up in that house alone, with—I don't know, some mediwitch he won't ever remember the name of." Another laugh—he sounded like he was drowning. "A lifetime of breaking curses and runes, and what's at the end? A memory that he can't depend on anymore. Or death—" He tripped over the word, but continued, determined, "Death, by a plant that was harmless enough to keep near the house, almost nothing compared to every other plant and creature she fell in love with.
"God," he said. "Merlin."
He was slumped up against her now, his head on her right shoulder. She made sure to keep her voice soft, to keep it from shaking, and she wished her heart weren't racing.
"My mum's death was … sudden. She ran a fever one day, and started having bad headaches. She wouldn't go to the hospital at first, but she just never felt any better. My sister and I begged her to see a doctor, and it turned out to be a sort of cancer." Lily took a breath. "It was too late, though, and she died while I was at school. I couldn't go—I decided not to go home, and I think my father resented me for it. I know Petunia does. And he was—just heartbroken. My mum and him had separated a couple years earlier, but I saw him at Petunia's wedding last summer, and he couldn't look at me." She could feel pressure behind her eyes, and she blinked. "He died a month later. I got Mum's old wedding dress in the mail, with my name pinned to it. No-one else wanted it."
She suddenly had to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. She didn't notice that she had been crying until James pulled away from her, his eyes filled with that pained sort of earnest understanding. He made no move to wipe her tears, and instead pressed his lips gently to her shoulder. He left a trail of kisses along her clavicle, moving to the curve of her neck, then her throat and along her jawline and then a cheekbone. He pulled away, his eyes still dark, and Lily felt her breath catch—and release, one time and then another—and realized her anxiety was that he could feel her pulse racing erratically. He pressed one final kiss onto her lips; soft, but absolute. It felt like forgiveness.
He shifted her into his arms, and Lily wondered how the position of their bodies was so easily reversed. Her head against his right shoulder, he thread his fingers through her hair like a comb. He murmured to her, "What a sad pair we are," his hold on her waist steady. He was unwilling to let her fall, and she cried silently into his embrace—enough for both of them.
The next day, they couldn't help watching each other all day in classes. And the next few weeks were filled with inexplicable glances, followed by nights where their bodies were flush against each other, hidden in shadows.
He laughed when he found her. "So this is what you're doing instead of dinner? Aren't you cold?"
"I like it."
"Looking for stars you can barely see? Or possibly freezing to death?"
"I like watching them move across the sky." She paused. "But sometimes, it's not about the stars. I like the stillness, of being out here. I like the cold air filling my lungs." Her eyes were closed. "Some people are scared of space. It's so open and endless, it makes them feel empty. But out here, laying on the grass, I can actually feel the planet turn under me—and I feel more alive than I can anywhere else."
He watched her, so closely that she could feel his breath mixing with hers.
He laid down next to her. "Flying's like that, for me. This terrifying suspension, the ground drops out from under you, so close but too far. Mum—she hated me flying—you can't really control the movement of your broom sometimes, no more than you can control the paths of the stars. You're just where the game needs you."
She could feel herself smiling at being able to sense where he was in relation to her. "Then do you ever think that," she took a breath, "I don't know, that we're meant to be here? Meant to go through everything that makes our hearts toss and turn? Or not, you know."
"Yeah." He made some noncommittal sound. "I believe in free will, I guess. I have to. You have situations where your choices feel boxed in, limited beyond limited. I have to do this during a game, or I have to fight in this war. But if I can't choose at least a little of where I am or what I'm doing—then what is all this anyway, right? Why train at all, if it's all predetermined, why fight in this war anyway? And why—"
He stopped short, and then said in earnest, "So what are we doing? What is this?"
She flushed. "I don't know." She tried to look away, but:
"Good." His lips twisted before meeting hers again—and again. "Me neither."
Their kisses grew long, deep and hungry. Their hipbones met in a dance that was familiar now, and she felt her sides burn from the pressure of his hands running parallel to her body; her own, brushing against the entire length of his spine cord, notch by notch—and she thought, maybe it isn't such a bad thing to sometimes be unsure or unfettered. A low guttural noise vibrated through the limbs of their entanglement and a pulse of pleasure shot up her spine. She relished in the wave of chills that tumbled through her body. And she thought again, yes, this isn't bad at all.
But she was hit with a flash of clarity, and she pulled back first, her forearms bracing his face. "What are you doing this Saturday?"
His face turned thoughtful. "Last Hogsmeade trip before the holidays? Going on a date with you, I reckon."
"Perfect," she said.
He could feel her smiling against his lips as she found him again in the dark.
"Wait."
He had walked her to her room, just as he did every night. But her hand grabbed at his sweater tonight, and she flushed. "I know I'm asking too much. But I just—I need you."
She rushed on. "I need to feel your heart beat next to mine and your breathing seep through my skin, and I need to know that I'm not imagining this, like I imagine so many other things. I need to know that there is a world that is good beyond what is in my head, but everything is so real when I'm with you that nothing might as well be, because you're who I am comfortable with, and this is the moment that my entire life has been moving towards. And I don't care where it goes from now on, as long as I can have this one moment, as long as this one moment bleeds into this one night. Nothing else matters, knowing with all of my senses that I have you right beside me. And I just need you to—"
He had laughed, and she stared back at him with wide eyes. He threaded his fingers through her hair. "Lily," he said, his voice as soft as his touch. "Yes. Of course yes. Or whatever it is that I'm supposed to be saying, whatever it is that you need—Yes, and always yes."
"You'll stay?" she said, her voice but a murmur.
But she was already pulling him into her bed, and she could feel his laugh deep in his chest, a resonance.
Holding her, he thought, I love you—of course I love you. I've loved you since I woke up to you next to my hospital bed and you told me I'm a good person, I've loved you every time you steal one of my quills and I have to pretend not to notice, every time we argue and my insides feel like they're on fire, or when you know exactly how I take my tea, and you leave it by my bedside every morning I sleep in …
(He fell asleep making the list.)
found, adjective, past-participle of the verb 'to find':
having been stumbled upon by chance, by fate and determination
see also, or it feels a lot like: 'loved', 'understood' and/or 'companionship'