Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

46. where she leads

Author's Note: Hi everyone! Thank you to all of you for all the love for the last chapter, I giggled going through the comments and your reactions! Onto the next chapter -- apologies for the delay, I find that I am super busy these days no matter how hard I try not to be!

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The morning crept into the hospital room with a kind of shy gentleness, the pale gold of it stretching long fingers across the walls, softening the sharp lines of monitors and IV poles. The air was still, touched only by the muted hum of machines and the rhythmic shush of passing footsteps out in the hall. It was a quieter room now. Less frantic. Less sterile. More lived-in. As if time itself had sighed and settled into the corners.

Murtasim sat propped against a fortress of pillows, his legs stretched out before him, the brown shalwar-kameez that replaced his hospital gown rumpled and twisted around his frame. His hair was a wild thing, flattened on one side from sleep and curling rebelliously on the other. A bandage peeked from the edge of his kurta where his collarbone met his shoulder, the bruises on his skin fading from angry purples to gentler yellows.

He looked utterly exhausted.

He looked heartbreakingly alive.

Meerab sat perched at his side, cross-legged atop the second bed that had long since become her own. The two beds were pressed together all the time now, side by side, the wheels locked so she could reach him easily. In her hand was a small bowl filled with pieces of melon, their colors pale and watery in the sterile light.

She plucked a piece delicately between her fingers and offered it to him.

He accepted it with slow, careful movements, his lips parting obediently. His jaw worked, chewing with an effort that made her chest ache. She could see how each movement pulled faint lines of pain across his brow, how he paused slightly between bites as if gathering strength just to swallow.

She brushed the back of her hand lightly across his jaw after he finished, as if erasing the memory of struggle. As if her touch could soften the sharpness of his recovery.

He turned his head slightly, the ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

She offered him another piece of melon, watching the slow, careful way he chewed, the crease of his brow deepening with each motion. He blinked at her, half-lidded, lazy in a way that was new, born of exhaustion rather than confidence, but his eyes gleamed with a familiar glint of mischief.

His lips, dry and pale, quirked at the corner.

"You should be the one eating," he rasped, voice still scratchy with sleep and healing, "since you are carrying my child and all."

Meerab blinked at him, nonplussed, before rolling her eyes so hard she thought she might see her own brain.

She cursed Arsalan viciously in her head, recalling how he had given Murtasim an utterly ridiculous, very Arsalan-esque play-by-play of the panchayat drama. Complete with exaggerated impressions of her standing in front of the village, declaring her so-called pregnancy.

She could still see Murtasim's face as Arsalan finished the story – one amused arch of his brow, a smirk tugging at his mouth, his eyes alight with wicked humor even from his hospital bed.

And he had not stopped teasing her since – she would not tell him how much his teasing pleased her.

"Shut up," she muttered under her breath, thrusting another piece of melon toward his mouth with more force than necessary.

He accepted it lazily, chewing with mock innocence.

"I can't believe you told everyone you were pregnant," he murmured, soundingl far too pleased with himself.