A/N: First of all, almost TWENTY reviews last chapter?! You guys are so phenomenal! Thank you! I loved hearing your angry reactions, bwahaha! Sorry this one took a little longer than I thought it would, but here it is!

As an aside, I've decided not to include Ganondorf for now, and you can read my reasoning (and also the direction I would've taken his character) on my new tumblr, embyrinitalics dot tumblr dot com. I'll be posting progress updates between chapters and scrapped scenes there, too, so check it out if you're so inclined!

Alllllllrighty! Time to make Link miserable! YAAAAAAAAAAY!

Not My First Hospital Visit

This isn't my first time driving to the hospital, and that just makes it so much worse.

It's a miserable haze as I make my way from the garage to the boulevard, past the building where she should be but isn't, through too many intersections and too many landmarks where there are too many memories, and all I can think is, Not again.

Not again, not again, not again. Gods, not again. Goddesses, goddesses above please, please, please, not again. Please, not again.

I replay the message over and over in my mind between frantic prayers, chanting the words stable condition to myself like a mantra. I don't stop reciting as I manage to find an unlabeled parking space, or when I stop at the desk to find out where in Nayru's name they're keeping her, or as I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor when it would've been so much less painful to just take the stairs.

I hate hospitals. I hate the smell, the sterile, unventilated, chemical-laden air that reeks of plastic and cheap soap. I hate the colors that are never soothing and always too bright, whites and off-whites and off-yellows and off-grays smeared on the walls and tessellating the linoleum floors. I hate how all the corridors look the same, endless and repetitious, like a tangible manifestation of the maze our grief and our anxiety builds for us that we can't seem to escape.

524, 526, 528…

I hate how all the corridors look the same. Because every time you go down one, it makes you think of all the other corridors you've been down that look just like it. It reminds you of every other hospital visit, every other abysmal memory, every other loss, every other time you or someone you care about has suffered. It reminds you that someone is suffering right now. It reminds you that you're suffering.

560. The door is ajar.

All that walking, all the searching, and suddenly I'm afraid to even go in.

I push it open before I can think about it too much. The room is nice; it isn't one of those shared, two-bed rooms with the awkward curtain cutting it in half. It's just hers, painted in soothing browns. There are already balloons and flowers on the table beneath the window. I'm glad someone was here for her while I was blissfully ignorant.

I step back from the foot of her bed until my back touches the wall, and I exhale as I take her in. Her hair is tangled over her shoulders and partly obscuring the bandage covering part of her forehead. A gradient red and purple bruise is swelling over her cheek and brow on one side. Wires and tubes are sprawling everywhere. She's wearing one of those god awful hospital gowns. The paper bracelet is wrinkled and turned up at the end, which isn't terribly surprising since she's been here since Friday.

I don't know how long I stayed like that, propped up against the wall across from her bed, wishing I could look at anything besides her but unable to tear my eyes away. Her lips are too pale, like the life is draining right out of her. Her eyelids are pallid. From here, it doesn't even look like she's breathing.

I let myself slide to the floor and drop my head in my hands. My mouth has gone dry. It's all too real, too similar. Too familiar.

It's probably an hour before one of the nurses comes in to check on her and notices me. She's a fairy, no surprise there. They're natural healers, genetically wired to care and maternal to a fault. It helps that they can literally sense pain. I must be hurting something fierce, because she comes to check on me before she gets to Zelda. She kneels next to me, watching with those infamous fairy eyes that seem to know it all your worst fears and all the solutions, too.

"Are you Link?" she asks, giving me one of those comforting smiles that makes me feel like a kid again. I hate that. Kind of. There were a lot of those around when I was a newly orphaned 16-year-old. But I'm not sure how I would've survived without them back then, so I guess I don't hate them that much. "I'm Navi. Zelda's doing great. We've given her a sedative to help her sleep, but she'll be back on her feet in no time."

Her wings flutter gently, sounding like tiny chimes, and she brushes her feathery blue bangs out of her eyes. She gets to her feet when I don't reply, unbothered, moving to check the vitals visible on the monitor. She takes the chart and scribbles a bit on the clipboard.

"Will you be spending the night?"

"Yeah," I murmur, a little panicked at the thought of spending it anywhere else, and her wings twitch again.

"I'm glad," she sighs ephemerally. "She'll be happy. You're all she talks about." She puts the chart back where it belongs and turns just before she goes out into the hall. "There's extra blankets in the wardrobe, if you're cold."

If I'm cold, as though she doesn't know. Sly fairy. But she's already gone, and I get to my feet slowly, gravitating towards the bed.

There's an armchair beside it with dark blue cushions the color of Navi's hair. I take Zelda's hand in mine when I sit. Her heartrate monitor is getting in the way a little, and it's just the last, tiny straw that sends me careening over the brink that divides upset from devastated. I lean forward, closing my eyes tight as I press a kiss to her forehead.

A sigh shudders out of me as I lean my elbows on the edge of the bed, my hand still wrapped around hers. I'll be here when she wakes up, and I'll keep watch until she does. I'll protect her all night if I have to.

I whisper, hoarsely, "I'm really glad you're ok."

And she doesn't respond, because she's out like a light. Of course that's for the best. But a selfish part of me wishes she would open her eyes, just for a second, to reassure me herself that she will be.

I do go to the wardrobe and get a blanket eventually, because even though the thermostat is set reasonably I just can't seem to warm up.

Somewhere in the midst of my emotionally drained vigil, I fall into a restless sleep and dream of twisted metal and discolored tarmac.

When I finally tumble back into the hospital room, she's watching me with those unending, crystalline eyes. A tiny smile splits her face.

"Hey," she whispers.

Her voice is like a crack of lightning, and consciousness shunts vividly into the forefront of my mind.

"Hey," I reply eagerly, clumsily scooping her hand back up in mine. I search her face, her eyes, her bandages, for signs of discomfort. I'm a livewire, half expecting her to start hemorrhaging right there and then. "How are you feeling?" When she opens her mouth to reply, I add, quietly, viscerally, bitterly, "Please don't say you're fine."

That mutes her smile a little, but it's still there. "I'm ok," she promises. "A little banged up, but nothing that won't heal with bedrest. You should see the other guy."

She meant it as a joke, but I couldn't smile. I could only feel a foul, burning bile boiling in my stomach and clawing up my esophagus. She should see the other guy when I get through with him.

I press the back of her hand to my lips, and I murmur, "I'm glad."

An unnerving, penetrating understanding glistens in her eyes, and I don't know whether I want to shrink out from under it or pull her closer.

"I was really worried about you," she says quietly, squeezing my hand.

I scoff once, humorlessly. "You were worried about me?"

But then she gives me that knowing look again, and the rest of my argument melts in my mouth. "I would've had someone call sooner, but my phone was—well, it wasn't working, and the sedatives had me pretty out of it for the first day or so, so..."

I frown against her hand as my mind automatically fills in the blanks, ending her adjusted sentence for her with awful, grisly words, like mangled. Crushed. Shattered. I hate that she's trying to protect me. I hate that she won't tell me how bad it was. I hate that I wasn't there for her when it happened, or for two days afterwards. But I can tell my misery is eating her up, so I try to bury it.

"That's all right. I'm glad you had other visitors keeping you company until I got the message," I add as lightly as I can muster, glancing at the flowers.

"From my parents," she admits, smirking crookedly. "They had lunch with me yesterday."

"Hospital food," I mutter, repulsed. "How bad is it?"

She smiles wider, happy that I'm playing along. "Pretty bad."

"Well, that's something I can fix, at least," I sigh. "What do you want? I can get you anything."

"Anything?" she echoes, and I love the excited gleam in her eyes. Her gaze shifts about as she thinks, and when she finally answers she only whispers, like she's afraid of being overheard, and her smile is beautiful. "I want a burger. With avocado and steak sauce. And I want fruitcake."

That brings a smile to my face in earnest.

"Grease, fat, and sugar," I mutter. I meant to sound disapproving but it really didn't shine through. "I'll bring it for you this afternoon."

"Thanks," she smirks, but then it fades a little, turning morose. "When it happened, I… I was really glad that I had told you."

My heart constricts painfully, but I manage to nod once. I can only think of her, bleeding, scared, covered in shrapnel, adrenaline flying through her arteries, not knowing whether she would live or die, thinking of me, thinking that she was glad she had found the courage to tell me she loved me. My smile is gone again.

I whisper, "Zelda."

The door opens slowly before either of us can say anymore and Navi flutters in again.

"Hey, sleepyheads," she says soothingly, and the muscles in my shoulders relax against their will. The crease on Zelda's forehead eases, too. All in all, it's hard to resent the interruption. "Link, can I send you to the waiting room for a bit?"

"Yeah," I say, a little breathless, and lift myself out of the chair.

Zelda smiles for me. I return it, weakly, and see myself out before I do something really stupid, like throw myself at Navi's feet and beg her not to make me go.

There's a carpeted alcove tucked into the hall not far from her door and I wander towards it. There's a single potted rubber plant in the corner, trying its best to make this place less dreary and failing pretty miserably, and the carpet and upholstery are too orange. I take one of the seats arranged neatly in the space and numbly scan the nondescript coffee table. It's cluttered with old magazines and watermark rings from a thousand Styrofoam coffee cups drunk over a thousand harrowing, sleepless nights.

I hate hospitals.

Another fairy passes my alcove in the direction of Zelda's room, and my ears perk when I overhear, "Good morning, Mr. Nohansen. Zelda's in the middle of her morning assessment, can I ask you to sit in the waiting area for a bit?"

I'm too overtired to panic properly, but I have wits about me enough to take a quick inventory as the father of the love of my life stalks to the chair across from me and eases into it with a preoccupied sigh. My shirt is untucked, my hair is probably an untamed mess and I haven't shaved, and if the way I feel is any indication, my rest of face isn't looking so great either. He's a little more rotund than I imagined, but no less dignified, with a regal posture that bespeaks a man who hasn't had the luxury of relaxing in the presence of others, ever. His nose, hands, and beard are large, too large, it seems, to have produced someone as willowy and elegant as his daughter. But his grey eyes are gentle and calculating, like hers.

I shuffle mindlessly in my seat, trying to figure out how to break the ice. He's looking through his folded hands into memory, or maybe imaginary paperwork. Given how unpresentable I am, I briefly entertain the idea of not confronting him just yet. He can go in and see Zelda first, and I can come back in an hour or so. He'll probably have left by then. She might mention that I was just there, and he might put two and two together, but I won't be around by then, and I'll give myself a shot at a better impression. It seems like the smarter option. I hate to leave her, though.

"So. You're the Link my Zelda won't stop talking about."

Crap.

Our eyes link, and his betray nothing, inveterately conditioned to be passionless and unreadable. That probably comes in handy when he's sitting across from some hardnosed businessman, negotiating a contract, or cross-examining a belligerent witness during his prosecution, or interrogating a suspect in some homeland security case—Farore above, I don't even know what he does for a living.

I chance a glance down at my disheveled clothes. I'm a complete wreck.

A breathy, humorless laugh forces its way out, and I run a hand through my ridiculous hair. "Yeah."

Or maybe I should've gone with 'Yes, sir'? Or would that've seemed too juvenile? I don't know if he would've considered that a sign I lacked confidence or a sign of respect, but either way I've said what I've said so it's too late to backpedal now.

He doesn't extend his hand, so I don't extend mine. He scrutinizes me for a while, and I resist the urge to fidget. Hopefully he recognizes that I don't normally look this bedraggled, and I only do now because I spent the night sleeping at his daughter's bedside.

"She never mentioned you before," he murmurs, and my heart sinks a little. Not that I necessarily expected anything different, but it still stings.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say wearily, because I am.

"The signs were all there, I suppose. We saw less of her, and when we were together she always seemed somewhere else."

I almost apologize for that, too. But I wouldn't have meant it. Even if my chances at a good first impression are completely shot, I don't want to start our relationship with a lie. I want to start it with the truth.

I hold his gaze for a moment, and then I tell him, quietly, "I love your daughter."

"I know."

I purse my lips and nod, staring absently at my hands. I mutter humorlessly, "She'll probably panic when she realizes we've met."

He grunts knowingly. "She thinks I won't approve of you."

"I know I don't measure up to your expectations," I murmur, resigned, meeting his gaze again. "But I love her. I'll support her in everything she does. I'll put her happiness before my own. I'll take care of her, no matter what. I—" I sigh once. I should be telling Zelda all of this, instead of keeping it to myself, or using it in some sad attempt to appeal to her father. "I hope that counts for something."

"It counts."

My eyes drift to the clock hanging on the far wall. It's ticking loudly, counting the moments of silence passing between us like some sentinel invading our privacy. This isn't going terribly. Not really. But this isn't how I wanted it to happen. It shouldn't have happened in this awkward orange alcove. It shouldn't have happened without her. It shouldn't have happened here at all.

I hate hospitals.

"She loves you," he says suddenly, unexpectedly, quietly, lost in some private thought, staring through the floor. "I can see it in her eyes."

He doesn't seem particularly pleased about that. I'd even go so far as to say he looks disturbed. But my heart swells. I already knew, of course. I'd known for a while. But hearing it out loud—from her, from her father, from anyone—makes it more real. It means it isn't just an abstract concept. It's valid. It's visible. It's tangible. The world can see it.

Maybe that's what bothers him. It means that, even without his good favor, there's a good chance Zelda and I would choose to be together. Maybe it makes him feel powerless. Powerless to direct the most important decision the most important person in his world will probably ever make.

I can't really blame him for that.

Navi flutters over from out of nowhere, her soothing, happy smile making the room several shades brighter.

"She's all set," she beams before she takes off down the hall.

I can't help smiling at her. Even he breaks into a small smirk that touches his eyes.

"I think I'll go get her breakfast," I decide as we get to our feet. "I'll just pop in and tell her I'm leaving."

He nods in acquiescence, accepting the gesture, and I scurry into her room to say goodbye.

She smiles at me. She looks better; she's sitting up, her bandages are freshened, and she's pulled the tangles out of her hair. But before she can say anything, I cross the room and take her face in my hands, and kiss her with every ounce of sweetness I can muster.

"Have I told you today that I love you?"

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "Not today."

"I love you," I whisper, leaning in for another kiss. "So much."

She lets me kiss her as much as I want, and I probably indulge a little too long. But when I pull away I feel renewed. I know we'll be all right. We'll make it through this, just like we've made it through everything else, and like we'll make it through whatever comes.

"I'm going to go get us some real food for breakfast," I smirk wryly, and while her smile fades a tiny bit, she nods. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Ok," she says, and I head towards the door.

I pop my head back in just as I'm crossing the threshold, and add, "By the way, your dad is here."

I pass her father in the hallway, and he gives me a subdued smirk as her delayed, horrified shriek sounds from the other side of the wall. "What?!"

I glance back, and he's watching me from her doorway. Our eyes meet, and there's something brief in that exchange. Part of it was understanding. Part of it was resignation.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but I could've sworn part of it was respect.