PARADE'S END (BBC ADAPTATION OF FORD M. FORD'S BOOK)
MISSING SCENE (IN MY HEAD) AT THE END OF EPISODE III
Title: A restart.
Ship: Christopher / Sylvia
POV: Sylvia
You're enraged. Damn him and his damn annoyingly strong will, impossible self-control and infuriating ever perfectness! You can't bear the sight of him any longer. On a whim, you throw your St Anthony to the ground, intending to head to your room.
You don't.
That little voice in your head, the one you never like to listen to, is screaming at you. He's to leave to war in the morning, not for a walk in the park! And he's already been lucky once!
You turn back to him and your anger just disappears, melts away at the mere sight of him. For Heaven's sake! His collar is loose, and it doesn't seem to bother him at all! You've never seen him like this; like a man at the very end of his roll. It breaks you apart. You just can't let him go back to the front like this; he wouldn't last a day.
He might despise you later for it, but you're going to have him. He's tired, he's heartbroken, he's a ball of years of spent-up denial, he evidently just turned her down, and he needs some release. He's still a man, deep under all his rules and notions of good and decent and what should be.
You sigh, loud. He then realises that you're still here and your eyes meet. He's surprised, you can see. You head back towards him and sit on the sofa facing him.
"You DO infuriate me as no else can, that's true. But you were wrong, earlier. I do NOT dislike you Christopher. Not at all."
Now, he's astonished. You don't know whether you should be proud at provoking some reaction on his known-to-be-so-stiffed features, or cry because it seems to be so hard for him to believe that you might like him.
"Well," he finally says, "I do not dislike you either."
You smile at each other. Sad smiles, but they are there — undeniable. Finally, you're sharing something, if only this bittersweet yet peaceful silence. Finally, you're allowed a restart.
You rearrange yourself — replaying in your head your first meeting, in that train. You straighten your back; tilt your head up; you return to your common fierce and confident self. You search his eyes and hold his gaze, flashing him your trademark smile, the one no one can resist — not even him, even if long ago.
"I'm Sylvia." You pause, just like back then. You wait a bit, until you see that he's recognised the exact way you said the words. "Tjetjens."
His eyebrows go up — he has no idea about where you're headed with that change; he can be so innocent, really — but he plays along, either indulging you as a proof of his good will, or because he'd rather be in the past than in the now, even if for an instant.
"I know."
You smile, victoriously, kind of ferociously even maybe. "Good." You hold his gaze as you get up and walk to him. "So act according to that knowledge", you finally say while straddling him.
"Sylvia," he starts; but you take his mouth, stopping him from kindly but firmly refusing you.
"Yes. Sylvia Tjetjens." You proudly insist on the last part. "Your wife."
Now he looks like a cornered deer, but you ignore it. You're going for the kill. Because he needs it, and damn, if he couldn't let her help him, then you're going to be the one giving him what he needs. You're his wife. He can let you, and so he will.
You turn softer, trailing kisses along his face, moving slowly against him. "Woman against man, you said? It doesn't have to be that way. Let's be husband and wife instead." He's still not touching you, but he's reacting to your touch — bodies have both a memory and a will of their own, so you have two allies undermining his resistance from inside. "Those last years… I've been giving you space. I've been waiting. And you thought… We really should learn to communicate." You meet his eyes and whisper, half pleading, half commanding — you can't tell, he can't tell; but it doesn't really matter. "I'm not her, I know. But I'm your wife. And I'm here. So let me be here for you, Christopher. Let me take care of you." You place one of his hand on your breast and take his mouth again, pressing yourself against him. One second. And finally, finally, he kisses you back.
It's glorious, even though technically you're both desperate and it's all over pretty soon, and even though mentally you're both on the verge of breaking apart — him from shame and guilt, towards himself, towards you, towards her; and you because you realise that this is the first time that you're not simply having sex with him, but that you're making love to him, and it feels soul-shattering, and it feels sublime — both the sweetest and the most bitter experience at once.
It's quiet when you're done. Your breathes slow down, synchronised, keeping you oddly linked together now that you find yourself apart once more. You don't look at him as you get up. You fetch your medal on the ground on your way. Your voice doesn't tremble.
"I'm expecting you to come to my room. Don't make me come back to fetch you; you need to sleep."
There. It's an order this time, and you both hear it. But you're giving him the time and the privacy to deal with what just happened. He has a glass to drink, right. And he might shed a tear or two, over her. Your blood boils at that very thought, but you don't hate him for it. You're the one to blame anyway, and you know it. If you hadn't try to get more out of him than what there simply was, if you were able to control the fury his self-control awakes in you, who knows how things would have turned out.
He enters your room about fifteen minutes later. He disrobes and lies down at your side. His eyes look red even in the dark. "I'm sor—", he starts, but you stop him, "Let's just go to sleep", pressing a finger against his lips. If you allow him to apologise, then you'll have to apologise, and just let's say that this has never been your forte. Besides, you don't want that moment spoiled.
You lay your head on his shoulder and let your hand wander slowly above his heart, then settle down. And after a while, he takes your hand in his, just before sleep takes him.
He's holding your hand. It used to be such a simple, normal gesture. You hadn't realised before now that you've missed it. And you've never relished on the rightness of it, on the satisfaction it gives you. You sure do now.
Your hand is in his. And right now, it is enough. It is everything.
THE END
(He's not in bed when you awake. You hear him, preparing in his room. He gives you Michael back. You wait for him to be gone before allowing your tears to fall.)