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James awoke to the taste of antiseptic in the back of his throat. It was bitter and slightly metallic, and he wanted it gone.
Blinking his eyes open, he attempted to bring up a hand to rub the bleariness from his eyes, but found his limbs abnormally heavy. There was also the irritating presence of a plastic contraption that seemed to be attached to his arm. Annoyed, he shook his wrist, trying to knock the bothersome thing loose.
A hand covered his own, then, warm and solid. “Don’t do that, James, you’ll hurt yourself,” a voice scolded. Blinking slowly, James followed the arm up to its owner, a red-haired girl dressed in a slightly-wrinkled blouse of kingfisher blue that sat by his bedside. She was looking down at him, gaze stern but fond at the same time.
James narrowed his eyes. “Why,” he said, shaping the word awkwardly in his cottony mouth, “has someone inserted a…” he searched for the word, eyes sweeping the room as he swept his memory for the correct term. “A tomb into my arm?”
The girl, her hand still laid firmly over his, coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “You—you mean your IV, James? The tube?”
“Yes, yes,” he said crossly. Why was she laughing? That was quite rude. He’d asked a very sensible question.
“Good lord, he’s losing his vocabulary,” remarked another voice, a different one, dryly. This one issued from the other side of him, and James swung his head around clumsily to see a boy reclining lazily in one of the plastic chairs arranged neatly by the wall. He was dressed in a violently purple vest that hurt James’s head just to look at it, and so he promptly closed his eyes. There. Problem solved. “Jamie? Are you going mad? Well, madder than you already were, I suppose.”
James furrowed his brow, eyes still resolutely closed. “No,” he replied distastefully. “Your waistcoat is making me nauseous.”
At this, the girl to his right let out a real laugh. It was warm and rich, like spiced hot chocolate on a rainy winter night, and he basked in it, turning his face towards her almost unconsciously.
“Alright, that’s it,” announced the boy with the terrible fashion sense. “Call the nurse, Cordelia, have them put him back under.”
James scoffed indignantly. He couldn’t see the boy, but he turned back in his general direction, holding up his non-intubated hand to show his index and middle fingers. It seemed to achieve the opposite of his intended effect, to his frustration—both the girl and the boy burst into giggles.
Begrudgingly, he peeled his eyes open again to look at the girl again. A thought had come to him, clear as a tolling bell through the fog of his brain, and he leaned toward her conspiratorially, shooting a sideways glance at the blond boy in the chair across the room. He didn’t seem to be paying attention—he was holding a rectangle up in front of his face, something thin and small…oh, a phone—so James felt it safe to confide in his companion. “I have a secret to tell you,” he whispered to her, a pleased glow lighting in his chest when she grinned down at him.
“Yes?” she replied, matching his tone. “Do tell.”
“You’re not allowed to tell her,” he prefaced sternly, and waited for a nod of assent before continuing. “But. I think Daisy is…very pretty.” He watched for her reaction. When she didn’t say anything, he amended himself. “I mean Cordelia. You know her, don’t you? I call her Daisy,” he said. “It’s my nickname for her.” He puffed his chest out proudly. Daisy was his name for her, and she liked it. She’d told him so, once. He couldn’t quite remember when, though. No matter.
He returned his gaze to the red-haired girl, waiting for her response. She seemed to be blinking in shock. A strange, aborted choking sound came from the boy in the chair a meter or so away. James glanced over at him, but he was still holding up his phone, shoulders shaking slightly. “Is he quite alright?” James asked, looking between the two of them.
The girl beside him took a deep, steadying breath, clearing her throat. Really, he didn’t see what was so funny. “Matthew is fine,” she told him, biting her lip. She had nice lips, James noticed. Red and full. “I think you need to rest, James. Let me get you a glass of water.”
She moved to stand, but James’s arm shot out and caught at her wrist. “Wait!” he said urgently. She turned back to him in surprise. “Will you see Daisy—Cordelia, I mean?” he asked. “You cannot tell her my secret. I would die if she knew.” He poured all his sincerity into the words, hanging off her arm.
The red-haired girl just looked down at him, eyes sparkling. “I’m going to tell him,” she said abruptly. Confused, James squinted.
“No!” protested the blond boy. Apparently he knew what was going on. James huffed, put out by being excluded. “This is invaluable. We cannot let this opportunity be cut short!”
“Oh, look at him,” the girl argued, waving her free hand at James. He looked down at himself. “It’s not fair to leave him like this. He’s like…a confused puppy.”
“Puppies,” James mused. Those were the little soft things with the waggy tails. He liked those.
“Oh, very well,” sighed the blond boy. “Go ahead, then, Cordelia.”
“Cordelia?” gasped James, astounded. “That’s Daisy’s name.”
Also-Cordelia giggled again, a floaty sound that made James feel all warm. “James, darling,” she told him, taking one of his hands in both of her own, “I’m Daisy.”
The world dropped out from beneath him. “...What?” he whispered.
There was barely-stifled wheezing laughter from the blond boy. James barely heard it. He was staring up at the red-haired girl—Cordelia. Daisy. His Daisy. He blinked.
“James?” said Cordelia, looking a little worried. “Is everything alright?”
First was the joy, a pleased feeling rushing through his veins in her presence. Then came the mortification. “Oh my God,” he mouthed to himself, staring down at his hands. There was a gold band around the fourth finger of his left hand, he noticed faintly. It was very pretty.
“Jamie, love, tell me what’s wrong,” Cordelia soothed, running a thumb over his knuckles. “Should I call the nurse?”
James blinked up at her. “This is awful,” he told her earnestly. “Now you know that I think you’re pretty. How embarrassing.”
Cordelia’s entire expression softened. “Oh, darling,” she said, her mouth curving into a beautiful smile. “James.” She took his left hand in her right, holding it up in front of him next to her own. Matching golden bands glinted under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Honey, we’re married. I should hope you think I’m pretty, otherwise it would be quite awkward.”
James gaped at her. There was a scraping noise and a loud thwump, sounding suspiciously like a boy of about 177 centimeters dressed in a garish waistcoat falling to the tiled floor. James didn’t look away from Cordelia. “We’re…what?”
“Married,” Cordelia repeated patiently. “You know, with the fancy ceremonies and cake and vows and whatnot.”
James’s world was spinning. “We had cake?” he managed after a second or two. “...What kind?”
“Spice cake.”
“That’s my favorite,” James whispered, half to himself.
“I know,” Daisy said, smoothing his tousled hair back from his forehead. Her palm was smooth and warm against his skin.
“This is incredible,” James murmured, inspecting his ring—his wedding band. “We’re married. You’re Daisy. Daisy is my wife. You’re my wife.” He looked up, meeting Cordelia’s fathomless brown eyes. “Am I your husband?”
“Indeed,” Daisy replied indulgently.
“That’s wonderful,” James said again. He glanced down at his legs, draped in a thin hospital-grade blanket, then back up at her. Burgundy curls had fallen out of the hairdo piled messily atop her head, framing her face. “Daisy,” he said suddenly.
“Yes, my love?”
He patted the space beside him on the narrow hospital cot clumsily, the IV stand swaying with the movement. “Can you come down here?”
Cordelia pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I’ll fit,” she said uncertainly. Determined, James scooted over until his hip was pressed up against the rickety guardrail of the bed, widening the empty space by five centimeters or so.
“Come on, then,” he urged, patting the bedclothes again hopefully.
Sighing, Daisy maneuvered herself carefully over the bed, settling into the space James had made for her. Her body was a fluid, strong line along his, warm and comforting. He attempted to twine his fingers with hers between them, but curiously, his hand didn’t seem to be receiving the signals his brain was sending. The world was going fuzzy along the edges, his consciousness being drawn into sleep without his consent.
“G’night,” he managed to slur before he sank into the warm feeling of Daisy—his wife—beside him, her curves fitting perfectly into those of his own body.