Encouraged by very kind reviews I have endeavoured one more chapter this evening.
When Harry woke he was alone.
He lay in the bed trying desperately hard to recall what was dream and what was reality; though for so many years his reality of her was only made of dreams.
He turned over with a sigh and when he inhaled he could smell her scent in the bed; too subtle for perfume, too delicate for deodorant; some kind of face cream, hair product, something she used that he would always associate with her. There it was on the pillow next to him.
Perhaps it was his dream after all.
He climbed out of bed and wondered towards the bathroom. She was coming up the stairs.
"Morning," she smiled that smile at him, "Dressings?"
He nodded and followed her into the bathroom, dropping his dressing gown onto the bath.
Twice a day they had to go through this routine and even though the only wound Harry could not reach was that on his back, Ruth continued to treat them all.
The awkwardness was becoming less marked, yet the silence remained as she ministered to him with such reverence and with such tenderness, that he wondered if she had actually done what was needed.
Neither mentioned the night before.
He thanked her and she left him to get dressed with the now customary, "Tea?"
She knew he wanted coffee but for some reason she always said tea.
It made him smile.
"I called the doctor," she said, preparing him a piece of toast.
He looked at her hopefully.
She layered on more butter, disliking herself for the lie she had just told and the road she was about to embark upon.
"He thinks it's far too soon for you to go anywhere."
Harry's face was filled with frustration and worry. More than anything he feared a repeat of yesterday; he needed distraction.
He opened his mouth to protest.
"Hold your horses, I haven't finished" she said, thrusting the toast at him, "Eat this."
She waited until he reluctantly did as he was told.
"But he has agreed that you can go through some paperwork at home."
She saw the light in his eyes, his mouth being too full to answer.
"I presume that'll help?" she asked.
He nodded, chewing as quickly as he could.
"You said 'at home'?" he managed eventually.
"Well, here," she clarified, "you still shouldn't be on your own. If that's alright?"
"Yes, Ruth, working at home is fine. Thank you."
He smiled and poured some more coffee.
She mused on how 'right' he looked, sat here at her table, in her kitchen, in her house. He fitted like she had always imagined he would.
For now here he would stay. All she had to do was arrange the rest of the lie and hope that by the time she told him the truth he would be well enough, recovered enough to hear it.
Satisfied by the morning's news, he had a good day.
She made sure of it.
She dragged him out into the garden, giving him a series of light jobs to do, as she told him the tale of Persephone and the pomegranate seeds and regaled him with a raft of other plant related mythologies, she thought were all most marvellous.
When the weather turned she somehow persuaded him to help her bake, which he did with an aptitude she didn't expect. After a couple of hours they were covered in flour and had eaten far too much.
What was left of the day was filled with debate about what colour paint would best suit the lounge and if there was room for another bookcase anywhere in the house. There wasn't.
The moment she saw him drifting away she pulled him back with enthusiasm and care.
By the end of the day he was exhausted. Recuperation had never been so busy.
As he pulled back the duvet she appeared at his door.
"My bed's bigger."
He looked up, puzzled.
"I'll probably only just end up in here, anyway. And maybe in there you might not have any nightmare's at all."
He lay back the duvet.
Said nothing.
And followed her.