When Olive pries her eyes open, met with cool dark cloth blocking the light from reaching her, she inhales deeply and waits.
Her body feels weak, her limbs heavy and back sore. She waits, waits for her mind to betray her. But she nearly weeps like a baby when she realizes that her head no longer feels like it's going to explode. No sharp pains, no burning sensation.
She doesn't attempt to sift through the memories that had waged war on her healing mind. She just knows they're there.
Olive reaches up, slowly pulling the cloth from her eyes and squinting at her bedroom. She has a faint recollection of George whispering to her, his arm supporting her as the pain in her head forced her to vomit up any remnants of the little food she'd forced down in the last few days. But the blankets beside her are neat and free of wrinkles besides the way it's tucked in around by her feet.
Olive sighs, a tired smile curling her lips. George. Her eyes close, but she quickly snaps them open when her mind throws an image at her like it's pitching a tantrum, an image of a frantic boy with golden skin and hazel eyes and a face that reminds her of pain.
Nope. She wouldn't think of him today. She hadn't thought of him much in the last two years, and she wouldn't start to now.
She groans as she sits up, eyes sore as they take in her room. Her lips part in surprise, taking in the way her floor is free of scattered clothes and the way her pink trainers are tucked neatly by the door. Her cheeks warm. Then they turn to flames when she spies a note on her bedside table.
Ollie,
Your bed is a lot more comfortable than your sofa. It's a shame that you snore. Go ahead and take your time waking up, try to relax. I've got everything under control.
P.s. I hope you don't mind—I used your shower and your girlie soaps. I will accept three jokes about it before I get offended.
-George
Merlin. Olive smothers her face in her blankets, trying to ward away her smile and embarrassment. She very slowly sits up and swings her legs over the bed, her stomach turning slightly at the movement. She grimaces as she stands, head hurting for only a moment as she becomes accustomed to the floor under her feet once again.
The shuffle to the bathroom is slow, her time in the shower is even slower. She pours her ruby colored shampoo in her hands, takes time to carefully suds her hair until she feels certain it's clean. Her conditioner stays on as she studies the 'girlie' soaps George apparently used, bottles lined up neatly in a row and still dappled with water droplets from the last person that had showered.
Her eyes linger on the lavender colored liquid, hands reaching out for it before she can stop herself. It doesn't smell like much, but it shimmers and shines as she soaps up her hands.
And when she's done, she watches as the soap and bubbles circle the drain like her memories so often do. Her chest feels heavier at the thought, but she refrains from digging into it. When she shoves her shower curtain aside and steps into the bathroom, she freezes in front of her steam clouded mirror.
There, drawn exactly where her face would be if she could see her reflection, is a round depiction of a sun in the steam, rays sprouting off in chaotic directions. It's not a famous painting, but when she sees her name drawn in far more beautiful scrawl than she is capable of, she feels like she's looking at something that she be framed in a gallery. And she pictures George standing in front of the mirror after his shower, a blank canvas for him to do anything to. Everything to.
And he chose this.
Ignoring her body telling her to slow down, she rushes from the bathroom and throws on sweats and a shirt with a rather cute embroidered ice cream cone on it. Her hair is still dripping with water when she pads out of her room and down the hall, chasing the smell of something that makes her stomach rumble.
Olive pauses in the hall, nearly tripping over her own feet at the bizarre sight that greets her so early in the morning. The different panels of colored glass glow and bathe George Weasley in shades of purple and blue and yellow that cause her to lose her breath.
That, and the fact that he's shirtless.
His muscled back faces her, trousers slung low on his hips as he whistles quietly to himself in front of her stove. Olive blinks, certain that this isn't real. That her head had actually hurt so bad that she'd just slipped into eternal sleep and this was what had been waiting to greet her. Her eyes begin to water, and when George lifts his head, peers over his shoulder at her with kind eyes that look like warm coffee, she loses her grip on reality.
Big, obnoxious tears slip from her eyes, and George's face falls in a hurry, voice worried and still soft like it had been in her memories, "Ollie, what's wrong? Is it your head?"
Sobs, slobbery and blubbering cries that shake her shoulders. Her cheeks are on fire with embarrassment, her subconscious telling her hurriedly to not make a complete tool out of herself in front of George Weasley with his ridiculously chiseled torso and messy auburn hair. Jackie would roll her eyes and grab a hanky for her, probably embarrassed by her employer's willingness to cry like a baby. Usually over something that didn't actually warrant tears.
Her hands fly up to her face, head shaking as she blurts, "No, I just—you're just—" Another embarrassing and loud sob sounds from her chest before she wails, "This is the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me, George Weasley."
His brows are raised, eyes wide with shock. And Olive watches as his surprise turns to an expression she isn't quite sure how to identify. He lifts whatever it is he's cooking off of the stove and walks over to her, his hands gently wrapping around hers and pulling them away from her face. She sniffles when his palms replace hers, warm and dry on her wet cheeks. He's trying very hard to not smile, but it doesn't seem to work very well. She lets out a hiccuping laugh, her smile wobbling as he lifts her chin and asks lowly, "Is there a proper way for me to handle this?"
He's doing just fine without any guidance. She hopes he can tell that he is. His smile deepens, thumbs swiping her tears before his hands slip down to her shoulders so he can pull her into his warm chest for a hug that she accepts greedily.
Olive bands her arms around him as best she can, pressing her cheek against his chest and fighting a smile when a laugh causes him to move against her.
"You're so short it's hard for me to hug you properly,"
Olive nearly chokes, mumbling quickly, "You're doing well I promise. Even though you smell like a girl."
Another laugh, quiet and as careful as his hand cupping the back of her neck, "Alright, that's one joke. You've got two left, Ollie."
Her lips curl into a real smile, her face turning and hiding in his chest. Her voice sound muffled when she teases, "It's like hugging Professor McGonagall."
"That's it," George huffs, letting go of her and peering down at her through narrowed eyes. Olive smiles sheepishly, using the backs of her hands to wipe away the last of her tears. George's eyes glint with amusement, swirled in the depths of brown like caramel. Her heart pounds uncomfortably when his face grows serious, those eyes searching her for any signs of pain before he asks quietly, "How do you feel?"
Olive swallows past the lump in her throat before managing a whisper, "Better. Thanks to you."
His brow lifts slightly, and Olive cherishes his slight surprise. She remembers. Him fixing the cooling charm so that it didn't freeze her while bodt, him refilling her water glass, moving her carefully into the safety of his arms where she finally fell asleep. It had been blurry when she first woke, but now she remembers. She remembers it all and he didn't think she would. But she does, because it's him.
His jaw ticks slightly, and she knows he wants to ask questions. She would want to as well. But a gusty sigh leaves him instead, his voice holding warmth as he gestures towards the stove, "I was going to bring this to you in bed."
"George," Olive chokes out, tears immediately returning to her eyes. Yep. She was dead. This has to be heaven. Jackie would make fun of her forever if she knew that Olive had blubbered over how nice her not-boyfriend was. "You have to stop or I'm never going to let you leave."
His smile turns shy, eyes glancing away. George turns before she can get a good read on his expression, calling over his shoulder, "Get back in bed, Ollie."
She scurries away before something wakes her up from this dream, clamping her hands down by her sides to fight her weirdo urges to race back and squeeze his biceps with her fingers just to see if they feel as strong as they look. She launches herself into her bed, rolling up in the blankets before a burning sensation behind her eyes causes her to freeze.
Fear grips her, fear that her headache is back with a vengeance. But as she lays still, the burn fades and she releases a shaky sigh that sounds once again like she's on the verge of tears. Fucking hell. She presses her thumbs to the hollows of her eyes, just under her brows. Pressing like she can physically push the pain and memories away, like she can force herself to forget the things that unfortunately chose to resurface at what seemed like the worst times.
"Ollie?"
"Sorry," She forces open her eyes and finds George standing at the side of her bed, his mouth twisted with what looks like worry. But Olive can't help but focus on the plate in his hands. She sits up, bringing her blankets with her, and stares at the food he's brandishing like a weapon. A knife that stabs into her heart and carves out his initials in a way that almost makes her cry out.
She accepts the plate from him, peering at the french toast. Her mouth waters nearly as much as her eyes. Olive stares at that plate and tries to remember the last time someone had made her something like this. It wasn't her granddad's fault that he couldn't anymore. It wasn't anyone's fault. She'd just been doing things like that alone for a long time.
She balances the plate carefully in one hand, shoving back some of the covers wrapped around her. She glances up shyly, feeling her ears burn under George's coffee gaze. Warm. He looks warm. His lips twitch slightly and then he lifts the covers a bit more before sitting down and scooting in next to her. Olive smiles, reaching back behind him to pull the blankets up over his shoulders, cocooning them in that warmth and the smell of raspberries. She nearly makes another joke about him using her soap, but decides instead to take a bite of breakfast.
And fuck. It's amazing.
Her lower lip wobbles and George laughs, rusty and raspy in the morning air, "Merlin, Ollie. It's just food—"
"It's not."
He pauses, looking down at her with another expression she wishes she could remember how to identify. But then again, she wasn't sure anyone had ever looked at her like that. She licks the sticky syrup from her lips, mumbling quietly, "It's not just food, George."
Olive's heart feels like it's going to explode when George reaches out and touches her still damp hair. His lips quirk, shifting into a half smile that makes her syrup taste that much sweeter. He slowly curls a strand of her hair around his pointer finger, rubbing his thumb over it and tugging gently, like he's seeing something for the very first time. She wants to ask what it is.
"You're right," George says, and her own lips spread until her scar hurts when he lowers his head with his finger still playing with her curls. He takes a bite of her French toast—his French toast—from Olive's fork.
He chews thoughtfully, the two of them smiling like equally crazy, equally loopy, people that aren't sure what it is that is going on. Her heart almost stops when he chuckles,
"It's not just food, Ollie."
{{my heart just can't take it.}}