Characters: Miranda (OC), Harry
Rating/Warnings: PG/ brief mention of vomiting
Word count: Approx. 1200
Summary: Harry receives some happy news as a result of his breakfast food choice.
Author's notes: Written for the 'love' prompt on my occhallenge table. Set in my mini!Dresdens 'verse, pre-series.
This has been written forever, but I found it in my files and decided to polish for my table prompt.
I'm usually up before Harry, but today he's downstairs already when I stumble down. My stomach is lurching violently and I think I know why. So does Bob, who confronted me yesterday about it. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure your husband is supposed to be more attuned to your health than his ghost. But then, we are talking about Harry. He's been working hard on a case lately – waking up early and going to bed late. So he has a lot more to worry about than why I'm in the bathroom so much. Besides, what he lacks in observation he makes up for in caring. And the smile he gives me when he sees me on the stairs. Sort of tired and affectionate and maybe even shy, like he's expecting me to come down and tell him I've decided to run off with a Spanish count and the divorce papers are in the mail.
“Hi,” he says.
“Morning,” I reply.
I take an unsteady seat at the kitchen table and my stomach lurches at the sight of his toast. It's burnt, as usual, but he never seems to care. Right now I want to pick it up and throw it out the window, because it smells terrible. I guess it doesn't smell any different than it does every other morning, but this morning my stomach has strong objections to it.
“You're up early, again,” I say, averting my eyes from the toast.
“You were snoring like a freight train,” he replies.
He's grinning down at the newspaper in his hands, but still manages to dodge the packets of artificial sweetener I throw at him.
“Lies!” I say. “Slander!”
He laughs and turns the page, bringing his eyes up briefly to wink at me. My stomach lurches again, but this time pleasantly. Sometimes when I look at him, all I want to do is cock my head to one side and sigh. It's extremely annoying, especially when I'm trying to yell at him. He's a very hard person to yell at.
The kettle starts to whistle and Harry's already up on his feet and removing it, intercepting it before I can even begin to glare. I hate the sound of the kettle whistling. It is the most unmusical sound in the world and one day, I intend to invent a kettle that whistles some pretty, elegant note. I can't stand ugly noise.
He places a cup of steeping tea in front of me and stares at my face.
“You look pale,” he says.
“I'm fine,” I lie, in what I hope is an airy fashion. I dunk my tea bag in the water a few times.
He crouches beside me and puts a hand on my forehead. “You're sweaty.”
“I'm fine, Harry.”
He's fussing. “Are you sure?”
I force a smile at him and nod. He gives me a skeptical look, but then gives me a quick kiss and stands up again. He rolls his tongue over his lips.
“You taste like mint.”
He says things like that sometimes. Things like 'you taste like mint' or 'I went out to buy cheetah hair and I brought you back a fruit salad' or 'have you seen my jar of mouse squeaks?'. Little things that don't really have any significance, or are out of the ordinary, yet still make my heart flutter and make me want to jump on him. I grin at him genuinely now and pull him back down. I kiss him and he nearly loses his balance, quickly grabbing the back of my chair to keep himself upright.
“Okay, now I'm awake,” he teases, after we part. He comes back in to kiss me again.
I press my smile to his, but it dies quickly as a particularly nasty lurch of my stomach forces me to push him away.
“Move,” I order.
“What?” He says, confused.
“Now!” I say.
But there's no time for a response. I spin the opposite way and get up on that side. I rush away from the table and down the hall to the bathroom. His bewildered call of my name is drowned out by the sound of my own gagging. When I'm finished, I drop to the floor next to the sink, feeling exhausted and miserable. He's already there, wetting a cloth in the sink and pressing it to my sweaty brow. There is something oddly comforting about having a husband who will unflinchingly look after you after you've just thrown up right in front of him. After kissing him, no less.
“You lied,” he says, gently scolding. “You said you were fine.”
“I am fine,” I say. I do my best to look fine, but apparently fail.
“Maybe you should go to the doctor,” he insists, mopping at my brow.
I always find it funny that whenever I'm sick, even just a little bit sick, he wants to rush me off to the doctor. Whenever he's sick, though, even when he's on death's door, I practically have to throw him over my shoulder and carry him myself. It's sweet, I suppose.
“I don't need to go to the doctor,” I say, trying to calm him. He looks so worried for me. “I mean...I suppose I probably should but...I know what's wrong.” He's looking panicked now and so I just blurt it out. “I think I'm just pregnant.”
His hand stops mopping my face and his eyebrows shoot upwards. He thunks down on the floor next to me, looking shocked. He stares ahead blankly and I'm silent, giving him time to process.
“You're –” he begins, then stops.
“Yep,” I say, hoping to help things along. “I mean, I think so. I'm pretty sure.”
He's silent for a long time, so long I start to get nervous. What if he's upset? I'm mentally planning an excellent argument for how this is great, when he suddenly breaks out in his big, goofy grin and I relax with a sigh of relief. He pulls me over and I snuggle up to him, putting my head in that spot it fits perfectly into under his chin. He brushes some hair behind my ear and kisses my temple.
“So, this is okay?” I ask, to make sure.
“Oh! Yes, this is awesome!” He says, enthusiastically.
“Good,” I say.
We stay there for a while, letting the information soak in. More for his sake than mine, I've obviously known for a few days. Or at least, suspected. He plays with my wedding/engagement ring, twisting it on my finger, silently cradling me.
“I love you,” he says, suddenly.
“I know,” I assure him. I twitch a little. “Now move, I need to brush my teeth again.”
“I should tell Bob,” Harry says. How cute is that? He wants to tell his ghost. Gah. I hope Bob acts surprised for him. He probably will. Bob is good like that. “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” I assure him. “Just don't make any more toast for the next nine months and we should be fine.”