It had been a long few days for some people in the room. For George, it had been filled with horrific dreams of pain and darkness. He was not coherent after the fall; the mediwitches on hand at the game had stabilized him before they apparated to St. Mungo’s with Waker in tow. The only thing that had stopped him from a crushing fall was a saving spell cast by a couple emergency personal. Bones were still broken, his lung punctured from a bludger-handled rib, and he wasn’t able to breathe on his own at first.

That had been day one: a ventilator apparatus to help him breathe, a tube in his chest to cause negative pressure in his thoracic cavity to allow his lung to re-expand (and to help his trachea stay in its nice midline position), and a lot of spells and bone setting. They tried to keep down potions, but the tube to his stomach from his nose could only deliver so much.

The next day had been a recovery of sorts; he was still sedated and attempts had been made to keep him fairly pain free. The ventilator continued to breathe for him as his chest tube drained slowly and steadily.

By day three they were trying to force him to breathe on his own. They backed off on the sedation a little, started to give him pain potions through the tube in his nose, and the chest tube had stopped draining. His parents took turns with Waker’s folks watching Amelia; his mum came in and sat with Waker for a few hours each day. They helped to make sure she was eating and taking care of herself. As Penelope said, it wouldn’t do to have two sick parents with little Amelia.

Day four was the day of successful weaning from the ventilator. The chest and stomach tube stayed in place, bones had been mended, and bruises adorned George’s fair skin. He continued to sleep, sedatives helping to lessen his tossing and turning and crying out.

The pain was the most intense thing he had ever encountered, and he wasn’t even aware enough to remember! By the end of the fourth day, he was on the least amount of oxygen they were going to give him, breathing on his own, his chest tube was still in place, and they started to back off the sedatives bit by bit.

George’s hell began when he coughed. The muscles required to complete that simple action woke him up with a start, a sharp intake of air, and a contortion of pain on his face. He instantly regretting everything: he was very sorry to his body for coughing, to start, and he was even more sorry that he had to breathe. His was afraid to, though, because he could feel the cough at the back of his throat threatening to continue.

Eyes were tightly shut as he held his breath a little longer. And then that hurt too! A groan of a breath escaped before he took in another stuttered inhale. The dream that he had been having that had been so vivid at first was gone far, far away. “Fuck.” It was a whisper of pain, a prayer, and the only thing he could think of at the moment.

Waker usually kept to a strict schedule, knew what time it was without having to look at a clock, and would spout off days of the week and which day of the month it was as if it were offensive that anyone should forget. It was ingrained in her, to keep time— and knowing where she should be at any given moment helped to keep the clock in her head ticking.

But now was a wasteland, as far as clocks were concerned. Waker only looked to renew the feeling of doom; the longer George stayed hooked up to machines and pumped full of pain killers, the worse Waker felt and the more she forgot about what she should have been doing on any normal day. The days weren’t normal. It was a blur of sitting by his bed, and yet she remembered vividly each little change, the nurses coming in, healers doing their rounds. Her hair was flat, tucked behind her ears and a little messy. Her face seemed drained of color, and her usually wide, babyish cheeks were unenthused, a permanent but lackluster frown sitting between them. Her eyes had long since dried, had been out of tears for a good five hours, but they were due for another round… Waker was too tired to cry, though.

A bottle of water and some soda crackers sat near her, hardly touched. She had done her best to take meals when their parents stopped in to fret over her, to rest curled by his side, but Waker felt guilty for stealing their concern from George. Didn’t they see him? Why should anyone care about her, when she was standing, pacing, breathing, wringing her hands, asking the nurses to explain every little thing in detail? Even when her parents, who marveled over the magic of wizarding medicine, assured her that he would pull through, Waker felt nothing but a mix of pounding heartbeat, twisting stomach, and an overly eager mind subsisting on negative energy.

She hadn’t met a rule she didn’t follow obediently, but if the rows upon rows of hourglasses that had been destroyed in the Department of the Mysteries so long ago might have helped, Waker would have felt a strong inclination to steal one.

As it were, time turners were out of their reach. So Waker sat, letting go of the clocks and then frantically remembering them at turns. When Amelia was brought around every so often, Waker held her close and fed her, feeling comforted and as if she had to cling to the baby for George, as if the pair of them would help him heal faster. And then the feeling would change, and Waker would become acutely aware that the pair of them were waiting, waiting, waiting for the other part of their family to come around. Every bit of comfort the others brought her came with reminders of how lucky and unlucky they were. Waker wasn’t superstitious, but the healthy and growing baby was the biggest reminder of all of her father’s very serious situation. As if George there in front of her weren’t enough. And then, of course, she’d feel exceptionally guilty and silly for thinking so, and it would all start over again.

Amelia was home with one of their mothers, who were keeping each other company, when Waker was stirred from a page of her planner that she’d been reading over and over for five minutes. It was rare for her to read something and not take it in; she had managed to get a lot done that morning, really, but now she was becoming agitated and unable to concentrate. So when George coughed, it was like someone pulling her out of sleep. Waker’s head snapped up, her lips parted, she stared.

She leaned toward him, her eyes on his, and for a moment she forgot to breathe as he gave signs of doing so on his own. It looked quite painful, and Waker felt like she was plummeting on a roller-coaster, thrill and fear chasing her down a steep incline.

The first word he’d uttered in four days wasn’t what she had expected, but Waker Nolan had never been happier to hear it.

A shaky whine of an exhale left her mouth as it melted into a smile, a tear-threatening, hand-grabbing smile. And she did grab his hand before the usually careful Ravenclaw alum could even stop to carefully think that it might bring him more pain. “George? George!"

Despite being lost in his movements, in that first word, Waker was still Waker. And she remembered herself almost instantly, with this new development unfolding. She began let go of his hand, looked over her shoulder, then looked back, squeezed it again, became annoyed that she couldn't do two things at once. She let go again, reluctantly and stood, half faced the door way, and called out. "Is there a nurse? He's woken up, we need a nurse, please!" Waker looked back and sat down again, grabbing his hand as if to let him know that she wouldn't be going anywhere. Then, for good measure, and because protocol was coming to mind, she reached for the little old-fashioned radio looking device that served as a magical intercom, and tapped it with her wand to signal that they needed someone.

Pain was the overbearing emotion he felt. It was numbing to other senses, dulling the ache of a sore throat, a tender nostril, a hungry gut. His body felt like it was going to break from the inside out, fold over on itself, and be swallowed whole. Fists gripped tight onto air, white knuckled as he tried to unsuccessfully hold his breath again. It still hurt like a bitch.

The familiar voice cut through his pain. It was a beacon of hope in the darkness of despair he’d woken up to. George willed himself to take another breath, hissing it out between gritted teeth before daring to open his eyes. He turned his gaze towards where the voice was coming from. His fingers opened up long enough to grab her hand, gripping it tighter than he would normally, clinging to something familiar.

Nurse? He felt nauseous. He was dizzy. George closed his eyes again and held tight to her hand. With each breath he renewed the pain in his side, the almost grating feeling of his ribs. It rubbed wrong against his muscle, a reminder of healing still yet to accomplish. Sometimes there was only so much magic could do; the body still needed time after an injury to recuperate.

By the time a nurse made it to the bedside, George had his eyes open again, looking to Waker. He forced a tiny smile, an itsy bitsy uptilt of his lips, a slight pull of his cheeks and the area around his eyes, to try and give her comfort. Plus it was a great feeling to be able to see her, even if her eyes were puffy and she looked exhausted.

His other hand moved up to rub at his nose, finding the tube there. His eyes crossed and his mouth opened before he started to tug on it.

The nurse made a jump and a dash with a strong shout of “No!” before stopping him, prying his fingers away from the tube carefully. She explained to him why it was important; he didn’t listen, focusing instead on the art of breathing. He’d never really appreciated how intricate it all was until it was hard to perform.

After she made sure he wasn’t going to try again, she backed up long enough to call out for another nurse; she needed something for pain. George ran his tongue over his cracked lips and glanced to Waker, face still grimacing with pain. “Waker.” He squeezed her hand gently before forcing himself to swallow. “Am- Meli?”

His gaze on hers and the feel of his hand gripping back was like being able to breathe again. Waker hadn’t known how hard it was for her to breathe until now. Her face continued to break, a mix of emotions that were boiling over now. Underneath the overwhelmingness of everything, joy and relief were the most evident. Her cheeks bunched for the first time in days.

When the nurse came, Waker could feel the warning in the woman’s voice, a bubbling panic that would have made her hair stand on end if she were a cat. He would try to take a tube out before he even asked what it was for.

That he was still himself brought relief even as he brought anxiety. Waker was already beginning to word a diplomatic apology to the woman, going through the niceties and formalities in her head— and telling herself to wrangle a promise out of him so that he didn’t get locked in the hospital for an extra week.

It was still early to take that promise at face value, though.

George could get up to a lot with medical instruments.

Deciding she’d let him try to get a word out first, Waker sat still, but seemed to have straightened in posture, somehow, in an eye’s blink. She willed herself to calmness as George stopped trying to pull the tube out, and smiled again, her hand gentle in his. When the nurse finished explaining— Waker had actually been listening— the Nolan girl thanked her in a less panicked voice than with which she’d beckoned her. Not that she hadn’t been polite!

The word, her name, elicited an even broader smile, and a kind of laugh behind it. However bad he looked laying there, she knew he still had the same head and heart. The same ridiculous, overly bold, brash, brilliant head that had landed him on the floor of the stadium… the same heart that had kept going for her. “Amelia is fine,” she promised. “She’s huge since you saw her four days ago, probably,” she said, thinking of how fast babies grew. It was really incredible, scientific logic aside. Bones healed at a much slower pace… Waker didn’t want to think about that. “How are you?” She asked, stupidly.

It was a rare thing for her to ask stupid questions, but not thing for George to make her frazzled and anxious, to threaten to tongue-tie her with one sweet gaze. Or half of their daughter’s name. She shook her head at her own ridiculousness, but everything else that came to mind was equally outrageous: Are you hungry? Does it hurt? Could you hear us all this time? “Why did you have to pick professional quidditch for your career?” She sounded exasperated.

The comfort he took in hearing Waker’s voice was indescribable. He still hurt in places he’d never hurt before, but he could focus on her. It helped take his mind off the constant ache in his side. Her laugh made him want to join, but remembering how much coughing had hurt... George kept just a smile on his face, focusing on breathing and trying to ignore the pestering tube in his nose. He ran his tongue over his lips to try and wet them.

“Four-” The force with which that came out of him caused a cough and instant regret. He gripped her hand and rolled slightly to the side, groaning as he fought back tears. Once the coughing fit was over, he shook his head and let go of her hand so he wasn’t gripping her quite so hard. He sighed softly and looked up at her. “Never better.” Four days?! He tried to come to terms with that; it felt like the game was forever ago and at the same time, just like it was a few minutes before he woke up.

George tried to piece it all together in his head. He disliked not having those days in his memory.

“Ah...” He grinned and fought to not laugh, closing his eyes as he rested into the pillow. “Why did-” George fought to catch his breath, still smiling as he took in another breath. “It wasn’t as if-” Another breath. “-I had any-” A couple breaths. “-thing else going for... for...” George shook his head and sighed. “Me.” Finally. He felt weak and broken, but he lifted his hand a little with hers still in it, trying to tempt her to bring her hand up to his lips. George even made the pouty lips, puckering them out to show what he wanted.

Then the nurse was back and he had to stop what he was doing, watching as she administered the potion via the tube going down his nose. “What’s-” She started to explain what it was and why they were using it before George could catch his breath long enough to ask. He finally nodded a little, grimacing as the tube moved with him. His free hand itched around it before moving over the thick stubble on his face.

Within a few minutes, he was starting to feel better. He blinked lazily and grinned easier as he looked up at Waker. “Hey baby.” This time he was able to lift her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles before resting her hand against his face. “Tell me what happened.”

That he continued to smile and listen was a relief; even if he was in a lot of pain, he was still aware. Waker was glad the fall hadn’t done any damage to his head. Not any that she had encountered so far.

A loss of days was understandable, though. Waker offered a look of sympathy and seemed to cringe forward as if he might fall out of bed despite the very stable arrangement. “Four days isn’t bad when you’re falling out of the sky,” she pointed out. The squeeze of his hand was hard, but it comforted Waker— like his smile, like his stupid desire to pull tubes out of his nose upon waking up in a hospital bed. She smiled down at him, lacing her fingers in and out of his as he loosened his grip. “You’ve looked better,” she admitted, doubt in her voice. He’d taken her question in stride; the least she could do was tease him.

As he struggled to relay sentences without pausing, Waker listened like an apt pupil in a lecture. All that was missing was the notebook. Or a free hand, because both of hers were on George, one gripping his forearm while the other rested in his hand. As he finished his explanation, Waker knitted her brows, and shook her head once, strands of hair that had been neglected for days sweeping limply past her ears. “Don’t you dare say that. It’s not true!”

Perhaps threatening her boyfriend and the father of her child while he lay in a hospital bed was not the best way to greet him when he woke.

Waker looked over her shoulder briefly, to keep the paranoia at bay.

When she looked back, she couldn’t help but be swayed by his lips. Her frown eased up. “You could do anything. You’re brilliant. And you picked the most dangerous, ridiculous, unpredictable career imaginable because of it,” she admitted, any indignation simply coming out as a resigned sigh. There were different kinds of brilliant. She raised her hand, but past his pouty lips, and began to gingerly stroke his cheek.  It was good for George to flex his muscles, to try things himself— the logical, non-fretting part of Waker’s brain knew that. “Just, please, next time look in both directions when you’re flying.” It was common sense safety! “Why don’t they make helmets mandatory? Someone should really argue for helmets.”

They took a break from talking as the nurse returned. Waker paid close attention, and was sure to keep a calm face and composed posture as the woman explained things to George. It was important for her to know, too… especially if he got handsy with his tubes again.

She could see the effect of the potion and felt relief wash over her for a different reason. Seeing him in pain was hard. It wasn’t as bad seeing him lay there unconscious, but at least then she thought he might be resting.

“Do you remember any of it?” She asked, momentarily pushing against the anxiety that was building like a thunder cloud inside of her. Maybe his memories weren’t all in tact. But then he seemed perfectly coherent— even on the pain potion. She supposed anyone who went through that wouldn’t remember most of it, not the actual event. He had been unconscious for quite a while, and… “It was so fast. One minute you were there in front of the goal hoops and then…” She shook her head. Waker was thorough, but this. This was hard to talk about. “The bludger really came out of nowhere,” she explained, sounding accusatory. “You were on the ground before I could scream.” She was glad for face against the back of his hand. It stopped her from shaking. “You broke your ribs and punctured a lung. You broke several other bones, too. They had you on all kinds of mending potions… on top of the ones you’re still on... That’s why you were out for so long.”

George supposed if you looked at it that way... then four days was still four days. That he didn’t remember it at all bothered him more than he could pin point. At least in the past, if he was sick and off his feet and waiting for the moment he felt better, he could recall the days passing. This was like a time traveling mess where he didn’t have the benefit of feeling great and ready to walk out the door.

He had to fight to keep the laugh from bubbling out, merely giving her a spoken “Ah-hah” at her playful jab. George smiled and gently rubbed his thumb against what part of her hand he could reach. If they were both honest (and George would never be because that was a stupid man who was), they both had looked better. She was still a ray of sunshine in the dark fog that was his brain right then, though, and George was thankful she was there with him while he woke up.

An eye roll was the easiest response he could give to her declaration. George hadn’t meant it as anything more than an honest joke. A personal jab. “Coulda... been a janitor... I guess.” He stuck his tongue out at her. Prior to pouting. With her hand on his face, George closed his eyes and took it in. She helped calm him, that was for sure. Her instruction caused a chuckle to escape; it was followed by a cough and a grimace of pain as he fought to keep it from escaping his mouth in the form of a curse. “That w- would mess up th...” His hand waved absentmindedly towards his head, as if trying to easily point out his hair.

Which probably looked worse than it would under a helmet. George understood the use of pads, and would probably consider the chest one for a while, anyway, he still preferred as little as possible in his way for the game. It was just easier to play when he wasn’t burdened with heavy, thick leather pads that slowed his movement and made fancy tricks on the broom nearly impossible. Helmets were a whole other discussion, and one that when he could, he would get very heated about.

George thought about her question longer than he really needed to. The pain potion made him feel good. His head lulled to one side and then the next. Well, at least until the room started to tilt and spin. His stomach clenched up and George promptly stopped that. He still kept her hand against his face, taking slow and measured breaths while he listened.

He’d really mucked himself up, hadn’t he? His tongue moved out lazily and wet his chapped lips before slinking back behind his teeth. “Ah... yes. I rem- member the uh... bludger.” His limbs were feeling heavy. His hand slacked on hers, dropping slowly off to the side of his head. “Love you.” He blew her a kiss and smiled before eyes blinked lazily, growing heavier as he tried to focus longer. “Gotta risk it to... to get the biscuit.”

“You could have been an inventor,” Waker countered. “Or an engineer. I guess I should be thankful you aren’t exploring the ocean in a Durmstrang ship and having tea with sharks.” Any one of those things was something George could do; but quidditch was his love, she knew… well, his other love. Or other, other love now that Amelia was in the picture. And Waker did love it for him, in some way, even if she didn’t love the game or the fact that it put him in danger. It made George happy, and that made both of them happy. He was always supportive of her, wasn’t it?

But then Waker’s job did not include doing stunts on a stick of wood fifty feet in the sky.

A pout was firmly in place as he tried to suggest it would mess up the game to be a little more cautious. Or not even the game, but his hair. She seemed to dare him to finish that sentence… and yet, the other part of her didn’t want him to stop speaking, wanted to sit there with him and listen to him all day. Even when he drove her crazy, he was brilliant, and most importantly, he was ok. “That’s what brushes are for. You get off the broom, on the ground, remove your helmet, and then you can brush your hair and score your big… hair campaign or whatever it is you’re aiming for.” Best face. Best abs. George could sell anything to anyone. Waker almost blushed thinking, despite the ridiculous situation they were in. “By the time Amelia’s anywhere near old enough to get near a broom, I’m sure it will be the law,” she added, trying to reason with and comfort herself.

Waker felt both relief and a roller-coaster-plunging heart as George remembered the bludger. She didn’t know which way she preferred it, but she didn’t think she could remember on her own, shoulder all of that, so she was glad he recalled it, even if it bound to be a painful memory for him— for different reasons. She seemed to hold her breath, forget to breathe for a moment.

Then his words brought sense. Waker relaxed, exhaled, smiled. “Love you, too.” The potions continued to seem to work well— maybe a little too well. Waker’s brows lifted, her lips parted again. “You have to what?” She asked, her voice obviously accusing him of ridiculousness. “Do you mean biscuit as in your quidditch win or—” Her gaze appealed to him further. She thought she knew where he was going, but they were in a hospital with people hovering and he'd only just woken up!

George’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Where was th... that on career... day?” Could he still sign up for it? Tea with sharks... such a clever woman. He wet his lips; they felt cracked and chapped, but right then there were bigger things to deal with. He smiled. Maybe they could go on a boat for their next vacation. Not very many museums then!

Next vacation... in eleven years. George sighed and closed his eyes for a moment; he had to take things slower and safer for Amelia. It wasn’t just the two of them anymore. There was an actual baby that couldn’t support her own head, let alone rent and groceries. He opened his eyes and moved on, vowing in his head to get up and out of the hospital as soon as possible. Luckily they were talking nonsense about hair. He shook his head slightly. “Then you’d-” He was getting tired of being out of breath. “-have to carry... a brush.”

He wasn’t sure why he felt sudden guilt. Perhaps it was because Amelia had already been up on a broom, unbeknownst to her mother, and without a helmet. His cheeks flushed as he glanced away from her, shrugging a little. “Maybe.”

It was relieving to hear her say those words back, even if he knew how she felt. Even if she didn’t need to say them. It still put a grin on his face that spoke of ease and relaxation. George wasn’t the biggest fan of the lightheaded feeling that accompanied the potion, but the relief of pain... the dulling of it... that was much appreciated.

Eyebrows rose and his grin turned cheeky as he reached out for her, hand resting on her side. “I mean bisc... biscuit like... no, not like the... win. Did we win?” His eyes closed and his voice grew softer.

“Where was th... that on career... day?”

“I don’t know. I’m glad we didn’t have tournament visitors when we were planning our careers.” All in all, a fall from a broom was probably the safest option.

“Well if you’re that worried about what a helmet will do to your looks, maybe you should carry a brush.” Waker knew it wasn’t just about the hair. There was some ridiculous masculine pride in it… and the overall coolness of not wearing a helmet. Quidditch players.

Her eyes narrowed a bit as he began to blush and avoid her, offering only a vague answer. “What are you hiding?” She asked, despite the fact that there wasn’t very much to hide here in the hospital. Did he know something about helmet laws? Was he part of some lobbying group to block them? Did he have plans for Amelia’s quidditch career? Waker was all for planning ahead, but their newborn did not need to be anywhere near a broom.

The interrogation wouldn’t last long, not with the potions setting in. Waker sighed, both out of relief and worry, and continued to try to comfort him (and herself) even as she went over every daring, daunting thing George could possibly do in the near future to top this.

“I think the biscuit will have to wait until you’re strong enough for solids,” she said softly. And until Waker was strong enough for solids, too. She rubbed the back of his hand with a bit more sympathy. She tried not to cringe at his next question, and was suddenly thankful for the drugs. “There will be plenty of opportunities to win…” Her face became somewhat unreadable— or perfectly readable. “They caught the snitch just after you—” She gestured. “But no one cared. They were all thinking about you.” Waker especially.

George couldn’t properly convey his dislike in so few words that he’d get his feelings out in anything shorter than a five minute speech. He sufficed to make a face and shake his head; he had talked to Waker about how insufferable it was to not be allowed in the tetrawizard tournament. Of course it would happen the year after they graduated. Of course he was bitter about that.

He merely rolled his eyes and smiled at her offer for a travel brush. He wasn’t really that concerned; they did get sweaty when they played, after all, and that tended to mess his hair up. It was merely the best argument he had right then.

When she questioned what he was hiding, however, he only further blushed, unable to meet her gaze as he laughed and then winced, instantly regretting that decision. Luckily it turned into a painful cough, with him attempting to hold his side and grimace. Hopefully she forgot all about her inquiry. The potions were a wonderful middle man.

Now, however, he was bound and determined to eat real food when he woke up. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t even had water yet. His eyes closed; he still heard the emotion in her voice. It hurt in a different way than the constant pain in his side. George swallowed and nodded slightly. Of course the Cannons didn’t win; they were down a player at that point. He still winced and pushed his head into the pillow more. “Thanks.” His hand reached out for hers, finding it and holding it lightly before he fell asleep.

---

It had been one hell of a day. All his determination had faltered when the tube had moved; the shout had brought his nurse in, and she quickly had him back in bed. It wasn’t until just before noon that they removed the chest tube, after assuring themselves that it could be removed. They told him he had to start with clear liquids and move slowly to full liquids. Something about not throwing up...

When his feet finally hit the cold tile floor, he felt instantly better. It didn’t matter how much his side hurt. If they hadn’t insisted he use a walker, after realizing how serious he was, George probably would’ve fallen over. As it was, the first few attempts were dismal.

His mum and dad had stopped by, giving Waker a break to get something to eat and clean up if she needed, trying to encourage him to take it slow. By dinner time, however, he was sucking down full liquids like it was a birthday dinner, asking for seconds, and then questioning if he could have regular food by breakfast. He had flashed Waker a grin, sipping down a less potent pain potion once his jello was gone.

The healers told him he had to get some rest. And so he’d taken their opinion and enjoyed a short nap. After that was done, however, he was back to trying to walk around the room. He needed to be home. He’d been away from Amelia too long, he had to start his recovery so he could hop back on his broom, he had... so many other things to do than sit in a hospital bed and rub his sore arse.

When he finally made a lap around the room, he grinned and looked to Waker. “I think I deserve... a kiss for every lap.” George quickly lost his smile as he looked at her solemnly. “For my health, obviously.” He leaned on the walker and waited.

If yesterday had been the sigh of relief (one of the happiest days of Waker’s life, because she knew that George would be ok, longterm), today was the first normal day in nearly a week. Things were markedly better: George’s appetite, the effects of the pain potions, the bed rest situation. Even if the beginning of the end of that last one made her very, she had to admit (at least to herself, so that George wouldn’t know and do too much about it) that she was thrilled to see him up and walking.

Ish.

Walkingish. But everyone had to start somewhere. For someone who had had his lungs beat up, he was doing great. She was sure he would have pushed it and tried to eat a whole pizza if they’d let him. Emphasis on try, because Waker knew that even if he was walking and adjusting well to the pain meds, George probably felt a little… or a lot… stronger than he actually was right now. Hunger included. She was glad he’d stuck to what was allowed, and that no more pulling-out-the-tubes had occurred. She didn’t need a panic attack in a hospital (never mind that it was the best place to have one). And he didn’t need to end up on bed rest for the rest of the summer.

With George making such a promising recovery, both impressing and frazzling her with laps around the room, Waker had forgotten about the other conversation, the one concerning helmets and Amelia and whatever else he hadn’t told her when he was falling asleep. Or, rather, she’d let it slide for the moment. She never forgot things.

Leaning against the wall near the doorframe, she appraised him as he finished his lap. As soon as his flirty brazenness surfaced, Waker’s smile became a bit pursed, eyes narrowing a fraction. But mostly, she was still glowing. The look, which seemed almost teacherly, as if she were holding an exam, quickly broke back into the smile she’d been wearing most of the day. It was hard not to smile around him since he’d woken up. It was certainly the best part of her day, keeping him company here, knowing that things would only get better. That his family had done so much to make her more comfortable had also helped keep Waker in a good, energized mood.

Unable to help old habits, she grabbed the doorframe and swung briefly into the hall, looking both ways before straightening up rather quickly and tucking hair behind her ears. She whirled and looked at him for a second before she closed the distance between them, smiling. “Well, if it’s for your health…” Her own hands gingerly found the walker, pinky finger sliding over his skin, and she leaned into it. Her face found his, nuzzled softly, eyes still open. It was a weird and wonderful thing, to be this close to someone. Not just close, but close. To convey it silently, to understand it together. Then her grin renewed itself and her lids became a heavy flutter. Her lips met his with gentle triumph, before she raised one of her hands to his cheek and kissed him a bit more intensely. “But how many laps do you think you’re going to do?” She asked, pulling away, barely any space between them. She straightened up a bit more and raised both brows in (cheeky) earnest. "You don’t want to break your legs or end up here longer than you need to be. You can walk farther than Amelia. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

George watched her, amusedly, leaning on the walker to take the full brunt of his weight off his legs. The whole mended bones thing... he was still sore. He was bound and determined, however, to not let Waker know. He didn’t want to be shoved back in bed any longer than he needed to be. He had a feeling that if she did know, he’d have little argument against it. So he pulled a face while her back was to him, stretching his leg, before pushing his grin back on his face at the familiar look of naughtiness on his girlfriend’s face.

That was part of why he loved her, of course. Her hesitation to break rules or put on display something that might not be appropriate. It was a good balance to his recklessness. His grin turned huge at her words, nodding quickly. “I have a lot of potential health tips.” Eyes roamed over her, down to her hands, his smile softening as his thumb moved over her knuckles. Where her eyes were open, his closed, taking in a breath of her as they shared a moment of intimacy.

This was just what the healer had ordered. He grinned back against hers, pressing into the kiss as her hand came up. When she pulled back, he blinked and raised his eyebrows. His first thought was as many as possible, but he realized she didn’t want that.

Rebreak his legs. He smirked and sighed, shifting weight around before he stood up straight. “Amelia can’t even sit up on her own. How is that enough?” George looked her over and licked his lips, giving her an appreciative whistle before he started on his next lap. “I’ll go until I’m tired. Then you can sit on my lap and tell me about all the wonderful things she’s-” He took a few breaths as he leaned on the walker for a moment, surprised by the winded feeling. “Things that she’s gotten up to that I’ve missed.”

Once he felt enough air, he continued his lap, sticking his tongue out at her playfully as he neared her for the next lap. He stopped the walker, leaning on it casually as he tapped his cheek.

After his next lap, he eyed the door and shifted the walker towards it, moving himself over to the edge of it. “I need another kiss.” He leaned his head out, not unlike Waker’s previous action, before stepping over the threshold. It was time to test his sea legs on something bigger than his room. “Race you to the end.” He grinned and looked back at her, continuing his slow pace so she wouldn't have a heart attack.

“I have a lot of potential health tips.”

“Do they involve keeping hands and… knees… where they should be?” She inquired. She knew him well.

“I do think she’s a bit smarter than most babies, though,” Waker said, suddenly sounding enthusiastic. She was quick to clarify: “I know every parent thinks that, but she looks like she’s smiling sometimes. She has very smart eyes.” And someone’s giant head. And apparently someone else’s everything else, if she hadn’t burst into tears right away on a certain broom excursion Waker knew nothing about. “But… you’re exactly right, really, so you’re beating her still. That’s progress. You couldn’t do this yesterday.” She gestured at the walker, and if some of her old tutoring habits were returning, she couldn’t help it.

But George had his own benchmarks. Waker knew it was the quidditch player in him. Going from flying nearly as fast as a muggle airplane to being relegated to a walker in less than a week had probably taken its toll even more than she knew. Which was why she had to make him comfortable.

“Do you think me sitting on your lap is smart?” She asked, with slight hesitation and softness both. “What if I… crush something?” More likely she would bring something up, but… Waker didn’t even know if it would work properly with his lungs healing and… well, it was a miraculous appendage. And George seemed eager. Waker frowned as he paused to breathe. Her hand found his shoulder and her face seemed to ask if he was alright. “She grows fast, so she might look bigger, even though it’s been only week, but you really haven’t missed much. Besides a lot of diapers and crying.” Waker looked between them, at Amelia’s primary source of food. "I tried to bring her, but they won't let her in."

But if it hurt to talk, George started on the lap again and proved her wrong about how much was too much. When he neared her, for a moment she was sure he was going to close the door and try to a more private kiss. But he didn’t. Waker made good on it right in the door frame, not minding as much now if someone walked by. They weren’t doing anything below the belt.

Her eyes widened a little at his next goal— which she felt was more than he had signed up for. But if he insisted…

“Alright, I’ll give you a five minute head start,” she said, rather earnestly, but then stepped into the hall after him, smiling. As they walked, Waker kept a slow pace and smiled and nodded at anyone who passed by them. “Amelia won’t even know you’ve been injured at this rate. You’ll be able to take on a second career in broom racing. Or power-walking...”

“If by where they should be, you mean where I want them, then yes.” What fun would it be if they stood straight and kept their hands behind their backs? Well ok, maybe there was potential in that situation. If one really thought it out. But Waker knew him too well.

George couldn’t help but grin as she talked about Amelia; he missed her more than he could explain. It was weird, to love something just because it was there. Just because she was born. He swallowed and nodded. “She gets those from you.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and settled for a deep sigh. He had to keep moving, didn’t she understand? He could not sit still. It was going to drive him insane. Especially when he found out he’d lost nearly 4 full days!

Her worries about crushing something had him laughing. Which hurt. He winced and laughed, grimaced and chuckled, wheezed and laughed. “I think-” He leaned on one arm and held his side with the other, making a face. “You won’t crush anything... in my lap.” He smiled at her hand, but didn’t linger on it any longer than he had to. His own eyes looked to Amelia’s food source, if a little longingly. “Well. We’ll just have to get me better quicker. I miss her.”

Head shook at her head start. “I only need two minutes. You’ll see.” Their slow pace was as fast as he was going to get up to, after lapping the room and insisting on standing probably a lot sooner than he should have. George knew he was pushing his luck, but he wanted to get sent home as soon as possible. Surely if he showed he had improved so much in twenty-four hours, they would let him go home, right?

Chuckling hadn’t hurt his side very much. He stuck with that. George eyed her for a moment before focusing on the course in front of him. “Walker racing. Maybe with burlap sacks. And blindfolds. It could be hilarious.” He paused in his walk to catch his breath, closing his eyes momentarily to encourage himself. “I deserve all the kisses when we make it back.” He grinned and winked at her before pushing himself forward once again.