Verity had no idea what she was going to do or say. She’d been invited to the hospital by Oliver’s mother, a woman she’d been avoiding for the last... well. For almost as long as she’d been here. For the first forty-eight hours or so after the accident, Verity was by Oliver’s side. She didn’t eat or sleep, and only drank when that surgeon, Dr. McCoy, threatened to have her removed if she didn’t take care of herself. (Actually, he was a nice guy. He brought her some tea and a scone from the coffee cart.)
When Oliver’s mother showed up, the guilt and fear that Verity had been feeling re-doubled, and she fled. She was getting really, really good at running away. Since then she’d been coming to the hospital before and after work to poke her head around and see how Oliver was doing. If his mother was there, though, she would turn tail and bolt. She didn’t want more guilt, didn’t want to have to explain herself. It was all her fault, and she didn’t want to see the look on Oliver’s mother’s face when she told her just that.
But now she would likely see it. She was dressed nicely today, in dark jeans and a light pink sweater. It was very cold out, but she left her coat in the car. The hospital was nearly always warm enough that she didn’t need it. She headed to Oliver’s room, greeting a few of the nurses and interns that she knew personally along the way, and then knocked on the door. She stood in the hallway, feeling nervous, waiting for them to invite her in.
A nurse answered the door, opening it barely a crack. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked flatly. But before Verity could respond, Margaret’s gentle voice interrupted from inside. ‘Who is it, Sarah?’
Verity shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Her voice was soft, unassuming. “...it’s Verity Ashford. I’m looking for Oliver Wood?”
‘Are you family?’ the nurse asked, but then Margaret was at the door with her soft smile and gentle ways.
‘It’s alright. Let her in, please.’
‘But I’m really-’
Laying a hand on her shoulder, Margaret reassured the nurse, who was still in her first year. ‘It’s alright. I take full responsibility.’ She winked at Verity, and thanked the nurse as she excused herself, threatening to return in fifteen minutes to tend to her patient. Margaret watched the nurse leave, turning her attention to Verity once they were alone in the hallway.
‘Hello dear,’ she said, still smiling. ‘We have not properly met yet. I’m Margaret Wood, Oliver’s mother.’
Verity gave a little nod, feeling awkward. Family only? She really shouldn’t be here. “Hello, Mrs. Wood.” She said, holding her hand out to the kindly woman. “I’m so sorry to meet you under such circumstances.”
‘Likewise,’ replied Margaret, taking Verity’s hand and shaking it gently. ‘But I’m so glad you’re here.’ Since Oliver first woke up, he’d been in and out of consciousness, heavily sedated at times, groggy from pain killers and anger. Some of what he’d said made perfect sense, the rest had been aimless babbling, but amid all of it, Verity’s name (as well as Alice, and football and a few other words) had continually cropped up. Margaret was familiar with the rest, but Verity was an entirely new term.
Curiosity had gotten the best of her.
‘He’s asleep right now, but if you’d like to come in and wait, he tends to wake up every few hours. And he’s been asleep since nine this morning, I suspect he’ll grace us with his presence momentarily.’
After shaking Mrs. Wood’s hand, Verity hesitated at the invitation. She’d come all this way, turning back now would be cowardly and a waste of time. But Verity was a complete coward when it came to Oliver. Over and over again she’d run away, and over and over again she’d come back. She was bound and determined this time to get the better of her fears.
“If you’re sure it’s all right,” she said, softly. “I wouldn’t want to... overstep.”
‘Oh nonsense!’ Turning towards the room, Margaret pushed open the door and hustled Verity inside. The woman was unused to taking no for an answer.
Inside the room, Oliver’s father Kirk was seated by the window, spectacles at the tip of his nose and eyes in a magazine. He was reading aloud to Oliver, an article on Celtic’s new season, the keeper they’d lost and the keeper they’d replaced him with. It boded both well and ill, speaking highly of the novice’s potential but pining for their previous talent. When the women entered the room, Kirk paused, closing the magazine.
‘Hullo,’ he called, standing from the chair politely.
Verity went a little pink. She could tell right away that this was Oliver’s father, they looked so much alike. He was very handsome, too, just like Oliver was. Verity unwrapped one arm from around her waist where it was resting to give him a small wave. She felt completely out of place.
And then her eyes turned to Oliver laying on the bed, and she frowned deeply. He looked... guilt bubbled up within her. Mrs. Wood wouldn’t be treating her so kindly if she knew that this was all her fault.
‘Well donnae just let her stand there, Margaret,’ chided Kirk, getting up from his chair. He dragged it back against the wall beneath the window and set the magazine aside. Margaret scowled lovingly at her husband because couldn’t he see the look on the poor girl’s face? Kirk took no notice and instead crossed to Verity, ‘Would you like a seat, lass?’
“Oh... Sure.” Verity said, quite a bit more than a little distracted by the look on Oliver’s face. She didn’t take her eyes off of him the whole time as she moved over a little. She had no idea where the chairs were, no idea where anything was besides Oliver. Her heart felt like it was in a vice.
Finally, she looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Wood, then to Mr. Wood, and opened her mouth to say something. But there really wasn’t anything to say, was there? The pain in her gut was making her feel nauseous. Her nose was burning, as if she might burst into tears, so she closed her mouth again and turned her attention back to Oliver.
Watching and frowning, Kirk looked to Margaret for help. All the other girls whom visited had shouted at Oliver for being daft enough to ride his motorcycle through the snow. One lass had even smacked him. None, aside from Alice who had been there even more than the Woods, had gone silent and introverted.
This was beyond his area of expertise. ‘I’m going to go see about a cuppa,’ he said politely, excusing himself from the room and leaving Margaret with Verity. After all, she’d been the one to invite her over. Farbeit for him to intervene with his wife’s busybody plans.
‘Ignore him,’ Margaret said by way of excuse once her husband had left. ‘He doesn’t handle emotions well. Quite like Oliver. Are you alright, my dear?’
Verity nodded, silently, for a moment. “I was with him that night,” she said, her voice quivering. “Just before he left his house. I shouldn’t have left, if I hadn’t then maybe...” Her voice cut out. She was staring at Oliver, as if memorizing his features. She was fairly sure this would be the last time she saw him. She was sure that Mrs. Wood was going to kick her out and never let her back.
But that wasn’t the case.
Instead, Margaret came and took the seat next to Verity, a motherly hand resting on her back between her shoulders. It didn’t matter that they’d only just officially met; Oliver had been talking about Verity to his mother for quite some time now. She didn’t know the whole story, or probably even half of it. She did know, though, that none of this was Verity’s fault.
‘Hush now, lass. This isn’t your fault. It was a stupid, arrogant, drunk driver,’ and for the first time, Margaret’s voice began to waver from her constant steady kindness. The reminder of how and who had caused her son’s accident; it wasn’t something she couldn’t think about without her temper rising. He’d barely escaped death and even now, Oliver’s leg was still in danger of amputation. Between the damage and infection, internal bleeding and further damage to his already injured arm, he’d lost at the very least any chance of returning to the pitch.
Though no one had been brave enough to admit that aloud quite yet. Especially Oliver.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she repeated.
“But if I’d stayed like I said I was going to, he wouldn’t have been on the road at all.” Verity argued. “It was only because I left that he got on that stupid bike.” She was mad at the bike, mad at the drunk driver mad at Oliver, mad at the ice on the road, mad at the world. But most of all she was mad at herself.
“I’m so sorry. It was so stupid, I shouldn’t have left the way I did.”
'Knowing Oliver he probably deserved it!' Margaret said with a punctuating nod. She loved her son dearly, and though she hated the man who'd caused the accident, there wasn't a bone in her body that blamed Verity nor made her blind to her son's own faults. 'So no more of this talk. It wasn't your fault and I'll hear nothing to contradict the truth.'
Verity had actually opened her mouth to argue, but Margaret had the final word on the matter. Ver gave a little nod, swallowed, and turned her attention back to Oliver. “We’d started something really special. I’ve been terrified that I messed everything up. Now I just want him to be all right.”
'Oh, I don't think you've ruined anything beyond repair,' Margaret said softly. Normally she would keep her nose out of her son's business but right now, any topic that avoided discussing his prognosis was a pleasant one. 'He keeps talking about you, though I'm sure he wouldn't want me to know it. It's all the drugs, you know.'
Verity paused. “...talking about me?” She asked, going rather pink along her nose and cheekbones.
The blush did not go past Margaret unnoticed. It was the same flush she knew rose over Oliver's collarbones whenever he mentioned Verity over the phone. Even 3000 miles away a mother knew.
'Aye, yes my dear. Like I told you yesterday, he keeps calling out your name. I think it would be good for him to see you're here.'
Verity had assumed he was just... remembering time before the accident. She may have been the last living person that he’d seen before the crash. She most likely was. She was trying not to think about that too much.
“Well, I’m here. I... I stayed with him after they brought him here. I was here until you arrived.” She said to Mrs. Wood, though her eyes were still on Oliver’s resting face.
'I know you were,' Margaret assured her. 'Alice told me. But he doesn't know that,' she said, pointing to her son in the bed. He looked so peaceful asleep and part of Margaret wished he would stay that way. 'I think it will do him a bit of good.'
Verity nodded. "Anything to get him better." She said, softly. She turned her attention to Margaret after a brief pause. "Can I get you anything?"
Margaret shook her head with a smile, observing the sweet girl before her. For a moment, Margaret sensed that this wasn't the first time she had reassured Verity, and how that very strange that sensation was! A little déjà vu, but welcomed in such an uncomfortable and uncertain time.
'You know what, Verity. I could do with a good stretch of the legs and some fresh air, actually. Do you mind horribly sitting with him while I go for a short walk?'
"Of course. " Verity said, gently. "No problem." She attempted to give Margaret a smile, but it was weak.
Rising from her chair, Margaret patted Verity's cheek, 'Now there's a sweet lass.' Then she left, and it was just Verity, Oliver and the bleep of the heart pulse monitors.
Verity watched Margaret go, then turned her attention to Oliver. She sat for a moment in silence, watching him and listening to the monitor. Then she stood from the chair, crossed to his side, and took his hand. "Oliver, I'm back. I'm here to sit with you, if that's all right. "
It was the touch which pulled Oliver out of hazy sleep and into a hazier waking state. Not an inch of his skin wasn't burning with fever, nor a single muscle devoid of stiff pain. Oliver's entire being felt swollen and tender, but the touch to his hand was comforting and gentle, well worth the torment of being awake.
With what little strength and awareness he had, Oliver squeezed Verity's fingers.
'Hullo, Creamy,' he said, his voice quiet and scratchy from tubes and disuse.
The nickname clenched around Verity's heart in a very good way, even though it made her feel even more guilty than before. The first time they'd met she helped him with his coffee. And she should have known then that he would be trouble.
"Hey, Oli, " Verity said, tears springing to her eyes. She lifted her free hand to reach forward and touch his temple very gently. He was burning hot, and she was afraid of hurting him. "I missed you. "
Verity's touch seared in a way the fever did not. Oliver turned his head slowly towards her fingers and blinked his eyes open, smiling at the sight of her. Just like an angel.
'You're beautiful,' he said drunkenly. But Oliver's state did not change the facts.
Verity blushed at the compliment, smiling warmly, but sadly. She was still convinced this was all her fault, and that Oliver was finished with her, after what she pulled at his place on Christmas eve.
"You sound drunk," she teased playfully. "You look handsome. A sight for sore eyes, really."
'I look like I got hit by a truck,' Oliver retorted, far too happy and giddy for the situation. But it was true; there was a four inch incision along his rib cage where Dr. McCoy had repaired his punctured lung. His collar bone was broken again, shoulder swollen from dislocation. Along Oliver's abdomen a six inch incision had been made to repair tears to his liver and control mass internal bleeding. The contusion to his chest had been patched but added to the visual of his bandages.
By far the worst was his leg, partially severed in the accident. It was what caused his infection, and with every day that past, Oliver ran the risk of losing the leg. For now though, things were stable. And beneath the bruises and aches, Oliver was happy to simply be alive.
'Are you really here?' he asked, his smile fading slightly. He'd imagined her so many times since the accident, he'd dreamed of her too. Of so many strange things. 'I... You left. And I dinnae want to be alone.'
A fresh wave of tears sprung up into her eyes when he mentioned how she'd left, and that he didn't want to be alone. She swallowed back a sob, thinking this might be the end. "Oh, Oli," she said, softly, looking deep into his amazing, blue eyes. "I'm so sorry I left. I shouldn't have. I wish I could take it back. It's all my fault."
There was no pause, no beat. 'No, no, no, lass...' Oliver cooed, reaching up with his one good limb to wipe a tear from Verity's cheek. 'Nae your fault. Donnae cry, love. Please.'
Verity leaned in, pressing her face into his hand. She brought her own hand up to pin his against her cheek, her eyes closing. “I wish I could take it back,” she repeated. There were no words that were more true. “I’ve been so... scared.'
'Take what back?' Oliver asked. They were only a few sentences in to their conversation but already he was growing weak from exhaustion. Oliver's frail state was very present in the sound on his voice, in how gently he cupped Verity's cheek, relying on her strength to keep his hand in place. But she was worth the effort. How had he not seen that before?
“Take back leaving.” Verity said. She could tell that he was exhausted, and she really wanted him to rest. But he had to know the truth. She owed him that much. “Every time I’ve run away from you I’ve regretted it. But never more than I do now. I should have stayed with you on Christmas eve. I want to stay with you now.”
Letting his eyes shut and his hand come down to rest against his side again, Oliver nodded almost imperceptibly. Every movement was a terrible struggle. 'Please,' he said quietly, clearing his throat and opening his eyes again. With as big a breath he could muster, Oliver repeated, 'Please. Stay with me?'
“Of course I’ll stay.” Verity said. She moved closer to the bed, took his hand in hers by his side, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. It was as if an entire lifetime of stress, worry and fret had been lifted off of her shoulders. Well, perhaps not an entire one, but almost. She was still worried about his recovery. “I’m not going anywhere. Especially now I know your mother doesn’t hate me.”
'She donnae hate anyone,' Oliver coughed, his whole body twitching with the effort. His muscles tensed, the heart rate monitor deviated from its monotonous bleep, and then he settled, exhausted and groaning. 'Need sleep... You'll stay?' he asked again, unwilling to let her leave. When she left, bad things happened.
"Sleep. I'll stay." She wasn't going anywhere. She held onto his hand and stayed with him, watching his face carefully and listening to the monitors.