She looked so peaceful when she slept. As mornings like this were a rarity
in recent weeks, he was content to remain beside her, soaking in the warmth
of her body nestled beside him, watching as the early light highlighted the
curves his hands knew by heart, listening to the soft sound of her
breathing. Most days, she'd have awoken before him, leaping from the bed
and racing to the loo, slamming the door behind her before the sounds of
her retching filled the room. He hated the sound, hated it for the pain it
caused her, for knowing that he was the cause of it and there was nothing
he could do to stop it.
On those mornings, since the day they first learned it was not some dire, contagious illness making her sick, he'd developed a pattern. Before she could even realize he was gone, he'd Apparate to the kitchen and back, returning with dry toast and, once the nausea had passed, a small pot of herbal tea. He'd knock quietly on the bathroom door then push it open, pausing to wet a cloth, then sink down beside her and gently wipe her flushed face as she caught her breath and regained her strength.
But on this morning, she was still, peaceful, quiet and he was free to watch her sleep. It never ceased to amaze him that she loved him, had married him, and now was carrying his child. She was everything he ever wanted but was too afraid to hope for.
It wasn't her ever-changing eyes, hair, or smile, though they did provide endless amusement in an otherwise bleak world, it was something more, something intangible and difficult to put into words. He felt as if he'd always loved her, always known her and just didn't realize it until that first time she stumbled and he helped her to her feet. There was just something in that instant, a feeling of no longer being incomplete, no longer being alone, no longer having to search for that which was missing. Maybe it was magic, maybe it was fate, maybe it was just sheer dumb luck.
Whatever it was, it was unexpected.
On those mornings, since the day they first learned it was not some dire, contagious illness making her sick, he'd developed a pattern. Before she could even realize he was gone, he'd Apparate to the kitchen and back, returning with dry toast and, once the nausea had passed, a small pot of herbal tea. He'd knock quietly on the bathroom door then push it open, pausing to wet a cloth, then sink down beside her and gently wipe her flushed face as she caught her breath and regained her strength.
But on this morning, she was still, peaceful, quiet and he was free to watch her sleep. It never ceased to amaze him that she loved him, had married him, and now was carrying his child. She was everything he ever wanted but was too afraid to hope for.
It wasn't her ever-changing eyes, hair, or smile, though they did provide endless amusement in an otherwise bleak world, it was something more, something intangible and difficult to put into words. He felt as if he'd always loved her, always known her and just didn't realize it until that first time she stumbled and he helped her to her feet. There was just something in that instant, a feeling of no longer being incomplete, no longer being alone, no longer having to search for that which was missing. Maybe it was magic, maybe it was fate, maybe it was just sheer dumb luck.
Whatever it was, it was unexpected.