"So."
George stares out of the familiar window, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. Maybe then he could force his smile to go away. If he pressed hard enough, maybe it would disappear. Unlikely. A certain curly haired blonde with eyes the color of change was making it increasingly hard to be upset with the universe.
"So," George says plainly, hoping his voice doesn't give him away. He reluctantly looks away from the window and meets those owl eyes hidden magnified by horn rimmed glasses. Bugger. He definitely knew. Conor O'Connor is grinning, a full and knowing smile that causes George to grunt, "What?"
"Aren't you going to tell me about your witch?"
Merlin, that shouldn't please him so much. His witch. To hear O'Connor say it made it more real. George shrugs a little, muttering, "Well I'm not going to give you all of the sordid details, you bloody pervert."
The healer chuckles and shakes his head, setting down his quill, "I thought we established that the details I want to know are the emotional ones, you bloody fool. Now, spill it. You're on the edge of your seat."
George glances down, and finds that his healer isn't lying. His legs are bouncing up and down, body perched just on the edge of the sofa he was used to sinking into to attempt to hide. He reaches for a pillow and sets it in his lap, replying vaguely, "It's been good."
"Good," O'Connor repeats, quirking a brow. George glances at the hourglass. This time it isn't to see how fast he can escape to hide at the shop. The slow dripping sand counts down how long until he sees Ollie. He'd asked her to dinner two days before and had watched with far too much interest as she scribbled it down in her lemon colored planner. His lips twitch, "She called me her boyfriend."
The healer leans forward, nodding his head, "And how did that make you feel?"
"Good," George confesses before he can stop it, looking out of the window to keep himself from smiling. He swallows, chewing slightly on the inside of his cheek, "Really good. A little nervous too."
George was certain that he hadn't felt that level of emotion since....he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember it at all. Because when he thought of those feelings, the ones that filled him up with warmth and chased away the ghosts of screams and grief, he could only picture Ollie's rosy cheeks and full grin. She had a smile that painters would rue not capturing, a smile that operas were written about. Her smile made him feel. George wasn't sure the last time he'd allowed himself to feel. But with that came a horrible sense of dread. He'd fucked up most things A.F.D. and it felt like the hourglass was taunting him with the amount of time he had left until he fucked this up too.
"I bet she's nervous too."
He glances up, intrigued by the healer's words. George hesitates for a long, silent moment. He reluctantly asks, pulling at the edges of the pillow in his lap, "Because of me?"
"No," Conor O'Connor smiles, "I reckon she has a lot to be nervous about George. And I doubt you're one of those things."
He slowly nods, "I know she's nervous about that dick head Wolpert. Or at least I think she is. I think she's scared to lose him as a friend, but she told me--" He nearly chokes on the information he's about to impart, closing his eyes for a brief moment, "She doesn't feel that way about him anymore. It was not the most pleasant thing to hear about, but I think she's the only person that is really honest with me. Besides you of course."
The healer looks taken aback, and George fights tooth and nail to not get defensive. He'd paid O'Connor a compliment, acknowledged his help. But George wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it, and he was beginning to feel quite a bit of gratitude for the appointments with the healer. He was beginning to trust him. Maybe more than he had anyone A.F.D.
George looks past the healer, and manages to hint at a grin when that final grain of sand settles on the bottom of the hourglass, "Sorry, Doctor O'Doctor. I have plans."
O'Connor shakes his head, standing and gesturing towards the door. George jumps to his feet and reaches for the knob, throwing the door open while the healer says, "I'd like to--"
George looks away while Conor O'Connor speaks, the noise going flat when he sees familiar flaxen curls. George's face immediately heats up, and he nearly turns to sprint back into the room when a familiar set of green eyes lands on him. Olive blinks, as if she too is stunned to see her boyfriend. Her mouth opens and closes, and while George would normally focus on how cute she looks when flustered, his eyes zero in on her scar. Puffy and red, a thinner line on her chin just below her pouty lower lip. He takes in the rings under her eyes, the weakness of her smile. His eyes narrow, but then a voice clears behind him and he's momentarily distracted from his concern.
O'Connor stands in the doorway, his brows raised high over his glasses. George can't really decipher what he's feeling, certainly a little panic in addition to that low simmer of worry for the girl standing in front of him. But then Ollie looks over George's shoulder and waves to the silent healer. She smiles slightly despite the seeming sensitiveness of her scar today. Her voice is cheerful, "Hello! I'm Olive."
Conor O'Connor glances back and forth between the short, sunshiny witch and the brooding wizard that towers over him. George swallows as best he can pass the indecipherable lump of emotions at the base of his throat, saying in a voice that is far too soft to belong to him, "Hi, Ollie."
Her chin tilts up so that she can look into his eyes, so he can see the fields of green in hers. Her smile changes, softening at the edges and easing the stretch of her scar, "Hi, George. Sorry to interrupt, I was just--"
"I'm done," George says hurriedly, glancing back at the healer still grinning like he's in on some joke. Conor O'Connor finally settles his eyes on Olive, saying warmly, "Pleasure to finally meet you, Olive." He turns, saying as nonchalantly as he can with the mischievous look on his face, "Same time next week, George. Enjoy your evening."
George is quick to nod and place a gentle hand on Olive's arm, guiding her away from the healer and down the corridor. He stops once they've rounded a corner, ignoring Olive's curious stare and setting his hands gently on her shoulders. He turns her, brows already furrowed with worry. He bends his knees, hunching his shoulders until they are eye to eye. Olive however has other plans, her eyes focused on the wall behind him. Her smile looks more strained, her eyes look tired. Something horrible burns through his veins, something worse than worry or panic. He takes a deep breath before asking lowly, "Will you please tell me what happened?"
"It's nothing!" Her eyes slide to his forehead, and George only realizes it because he used to be unable to meet her gaze. He used to be unable to look at anyone in the eye for fear of what they would see. Now he's scared of what he'll see in hers. "Just dry skin is all--"
"Ollie," His voice is tight, muscles straining. He's not sure how to handle this, how to ask the right questions. He wants to demand answers, to insist that she give him insight to her past, to the things that hurt her and continue to do so. His hands shake slightly as they skate up the sides of her neck, palming her jaw so that he can ever so gently brush his thumbs over her lips and chin. Her mouth quivers below his fingers, so he asks as soft as he can manage, "Please? Why are you at St. Mungos?"
"Same as you, George," Her shoulders slump, making her look smaller. She still won't look at him, "Just had an appointment."
He leaves one thumb to caress her scar, the other sweeping under her eyes all the way to her temple. He carefully guides her head so that he can finally see into her eyes. Olive blinks rapidly, and George has to steel his voice so she won't hear his panic, "What's going on in your head, crazy girl?"
She doesn't answer, still eyeing him uncertainly. A month ago he would have been offended, a week ago even. Two years ago he wouldn't have stuck around long enough to care. Now? Now he would wait as long as it took, he would wait patiently. He understood better than most the vulnerability he was asking for. He just hoped he was doing an okay job at showing her he wouldn't let her drown in whatever misery she'd been swimming in behind the mask of vibrant colors and dancing and crazy hair.
Olive inhales sharply, as if the tiniest admission of struggle causes her physical pain. But George just waits, slowly stroking her soft skin and keeping his breathing even to show her it was okay. She'd waited for him, continued to wait with him while he broke down the walls he'd built around himself. He would return the favor no matter the cost.
"I...I remembered something bad, and I don't want to remember it ever again."
Her frame shakes from the force of the confession, like her body has been so focused on containing it that it's recoiling at the act of finally letting it go. The question is on the tip of his tongue, one that insists on details. He wants to know everything there is to know about this person standing in front of him, but he'll take this. He'll take it without asking anything more.
"We're gonna be late for dinner," Olive's voice is mangled, choked and hollow. Her smile matches too well, a horrible forced attempt at contentment, "I even wrote it down in my planner so I wouldn't forget."
A nondescript noise of complete, sappy affection sounds softly from the back of his throat. He leans down and gently presses his lips to her cheek, murmuring, "Want to get takeaway instead? I'm always tired after my appointments. Please?" It was a good lie, one that he was certain Ollie would tell if the roles were reversed. He presses his smile against the soft skin of her jaw when she shrugs slightly and mutters, "I suppose. Since you asked so nicely."
"Atta girl," He mumbles, leaning back to feather a few gentle kisses across the bridge of her nose and her other cheek before tentatively pressing his lips to hers. Her scar was more raised than usual, warmer than the rest of her pink lips. He's careful, terrified to hurt her in more ways than one. But Olive doesn't move away, she lifts her chin and timidly pecks his top lip before pulling away.
George twines their fingers together, continuing on their path out of the hospital. They are silent, bodies staying close enough that every few steps his hip bumps her side. It's only when they leave the confines of the building and stand below the sunset that Olive says quietly, "Your healer seems nice."
His lips twitch slightly, and in the spirit of giving pieces of themselves to one another, he says as nonchalantly as possible, "I've said some horrible things to him. The worst things a person could think of. And he continues to be the second kindest person I've ever met."
Olive smiles a little, turning her head to look at him, "Are you closely related to the first? He seems rather kind from what I'd heard. "
He knows what she's asking, and fuck if the way she does it doesn't obliterate him. She may not remember the date, she might remember horrible things she couldn't bare to speak of. Whatever she did or didn't remember, she never forgot to not say Fred's name. Though, standing there with her under the orange and pink sky, looking at her gold hair and blue dungarees, he wonders if it wouldn't be so bad to hear her say it. Maybe someday.
"No, Ollie," He says, chuckling quietly and brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She leans her head to the side, settling her cheek in his palm and lighting him up with pure sunshine. Merlin, he would take whatever this girl could give. He would wait until she trusted him to give more. And the next time she remembered something bad, the next time she looked this lost and weary, he would tell her something good. Something that would chase away the darkness and leave her bathed in the glow that she gifted to everyone else.
"You would be the first."
{{Sorry for the wait! Exams and some other chaotic life stuff--hope you enjoyed!}}