Drowning

Thirty Nine;

If you had told me a year ago, that I'd not only have a boyfriend, but a fiancé, I'd have laughed in your face and told you to shut the fuck up. That there was no possible, conceivable way that I, Zahara Barton-Prifti, would ever agree to spending the rest of my life with one person. And yet, here I was, here he was, so completely and utterly madly in love.

"Home day!" I squeal, running back into Harry's hospital room with two cups of black coffee. The hospital coffee was an acquired taste- meaning, you were lucky if you had no tastebuds at all, because it sucked. But, after drinking it multiple times a day for weeks on end, it became the norm. I was almost certain that the moment our lips met a steaming mug of real coffee from a real cafe, we'd both have an orgasm there and then.

"Home day indeed," he chuckles, sitting up slowly on the bed.

It was 7am, crack of dawn, dead of winter. Well, not quite dead of winter, but near enough. The cold, grey halls of the hospital made everyday feel chillier than it was. But so soon, we'd be home and Harry would be safe and warm.

"How are you feeling?" I ask for the, probably, millionth time.

"I'm doing alright," he sighs. "Just can't wait to go home and sleep in my own bed,"

"I know, baby." I say. "Just a couple of more hours and you'll be in your own bed, in your own home." I smile.

"So much paperwork," he groans. "So much effort,"

"I'll do it all," I chuckle.

"Nah, it's fine," he smiles. "Love you, though."

"Love you, too," I say, walking over to him and standing between his legs. "Are you okay? You seem down," I ask, running a hand through his loose curls.

"I'm good, baby. I'm just a little bit nervous," he admits, looking up at me with tired green eyes.

"How come?" I ask.

"Returning to normal," he says.

"Well, it won't be 'normal' for a while," I say. "You're still recovering,"

"I know, I know," he sighs. "But all of the work calls, the press. I'm fucking dreading it," he says.

"Bill said he's covered most of it," I say, trying to comfort him.

"It's all the stuff that he hasn't covered, though, baby. There's so much to it all,"

"I know," I nod.

Bill had been in to visit Harry a few times over the past four weeks. He had, at first, come to express his concerns and show his sympathies. But, as the press continued to, well, press, he had to bring some work in. The nurses and doctors were heavily against it, but Harry didn't have much of a choice. The world couldn't just stop, though I'd wished many times that it would, just so that Harry could catch a break and recover peacefully.

A nurse came to do the 7am rounds; checking all of Harry's vitals and scribbling them down in her little notepad. I had grown to hate that notepad, somehow. It reminded me of the very first few days we were here; of the not knowing, of being paralysingly scared of losing the love of my life. The way they'd scribble down his declining health, but never telling me exactly what they'd noticed. Those first few days still haunted me every moment of every day.

Once the nurse had finished and was satisfied, she left without much word.

"Gonna be glad to be rid of the constant poking and prodding," Harry grumbles, taking a big stretch.

"Damn, there goes my plans, then." I say, faking a sigh.

"What do you mean?" he chuckles.

"Well, you don't want to be poked and prodded anymore. I understand, it's fine. I'm just going to think of something else I can do to you," I joke.