Cold Rain
by Miss Jazz
Category: angst/romance, GSR.
Spoilers: Season 8.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this. Escapade is still in the works! Thank-you for reading despite the slow updates!
The day was unlike the dreams he'd had, from dawn to dusk.
Instead of sun, there was rain. Steady. Hard. Cold. Chill you right to your bones and then back out again kind of rain. In his eyes, down his cheeks, mixing with the tears of frustration and loneliness, dripping with the icy sweat that accompanied his fear. Endless. Pounding. Rain.
Instead of warm eyes, there was nothing. They were blank, brown, unreadable. They stared, absorbing nothing, reflecting nothing, saying nothing. There was no story there: no happiness, no sadness. Just nothing. It was early morning then, and those eyes did not hold hope for the day. He didn't have to ask to know beyond doubt that somehow, life had stopped.
Instead of talk, there was silence. How could words come from lips that did not move? Cold, still, pale, blue lips; they had trembled in the rain, quietly, until it had become too much. They'd stilled, along with all other movements, and his heart. It stilled in his chest as the world disappeared from around him, leaving him frozen in place, eyes searching for reasons, answers, forgiveness.
Instead of open arms, he found a wall. What? You expected a welcome? His brain seemed to taunt him. You expected her to be okay? What a crock of bullshit. And you call yourself educated! A changed man! Ha! He'd spent years tearing down the walls that he'd put up, only to put up another—tougher, stronger—in only a month. It appeared as though she'd done the same.
This is your fault.
All of it.
You let her go.
You didn't do enough to stop her.
He felt guilty--because he was thankful when his brain screeched to a halt, ceasing the torture, numbing him completely. And that only happened when she fell into his arms. Eyes closed. Breathing slow and raspy. Unresponsive.
His stomach flipped violently, sending him into depths of darkness, fear. He hoisted her into his arms, his movements rushed and wild, but careful, precise. His feet moved as swiftly as she'd fallen against him, and yet they seemed to just not move fast enough.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late.
The words echoed in his steps, crunching every bone in his body, every inch of feeling. With every step of the stairs, with every creak, the words pounced on him, pushing him back, laughing at him.
It was like another dream he'd had.
No--not a dream. A reality.
A sickening reality.
She was under the car, she was walking through the desert, and he couldn't get to her. He couldn't get to her.
And now he couldn't get her up the stairs because the world was pushing him back. She needed warmth--blankets, warm water, dry clothes, his body. She needed him, and this dark, heavy guilt left him frozen on the stairs, with her in his arms, long body draped, a hand brushing limply against the wooden railing.
Take another step, you asshole!
How could you not realize that she needed you?
That she needed you to follow her?
To help her through this?
You bastard.
You failed her.
You knew you would.
Eventually.
"Stop it!" He cried out at his tortured conscience, his voice piercing the darkness of the small house, ringing out into the rainy day. The door was left wide open behind him and if she'd had any neighbours--if there was any sign of life at all within two miles--they would have heard the raw anger in his voice. And they would have done nothing. For it appeared--and it struck his heart painfully to notice--that no one had done anything for her in some time.
She didn't call.
But she'd always been independent.
A fighter.
Brave.
She didn't call.
Even though she'd been losing the battle.
"Sara, honey, open your eyes," he begged, as he finally arrived at the top of the stairs, both of them dripping with tears and rain. He searched frantically for the room she slept in--without him. A bedroom. A room with a bed and a dresser and a night table and a chair and her belongings--everything but him. She'd called him a few times from a room he had not seen until now, telling him that she was okay, that this was working for her, helping her...
She'd never lied to him before now, before this moment--the moment when he witnessed what her life without him looked and smelled like.
The bedroom that belonged only to her seemed to judge him harshly as he pulled the wet clothes from her body and dropped them quickly to the floor; as he searched the dresser drawers for warm pajamas, as he struggled to get them on her limp form, as he tucked her into sheets that he'd once joined her under. His hands shook as he pulled them up to her chin and felt her pale cheeks.
So cold.
"Come on, Sara," he breathed, holding her face in his hands. "I need you here. I have so many unanswered why's."
Like why she'd roamed the beach last night, sobbing, wet, lost.
Like why she hadn't called him.
Like why he'd suddenly felt she needed him, last night as he sorted through evidence at the lab.
Like why he'd managed to get to the house she'd rented on the shores of the Pacific Ocean in a time that he was both proud and terrified of.
Like why she looked as if she was about to leave him, right here, right now, all over again.
He knew about hypothermia, about depression, about loneliness. What he didn't know anything about was the pain in his body--the way it struck every part of him, tearing, burning, stabbing, as he tried to rub warmth, life back into her. It had hurt when he'd left her for weeks; it had hurt when she'd been lost in the desert; it had hurt when she'd left him, but he knew she had to face her demons and win.
But she didn't win.
And that just added more pain to a recipe that was already unbearable.
It took a second, but he realized that the sobs in the room were his own. There was no shame as they echoed from wall to wall, into his ears. This was not how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to take the time she needed and come back to him. She wasn't supposed to wander in the cold rain, desperately searching for the answers she needed.
No.
He shook his head, refusing to let this be.
And with a deep breath, he surged on, warming her slowly, retrieving warm water and towels and tea. Rubbing her arms, he thought of the first time he touched her; rubbing her legs, he thought of the day she walked away from him; stroking her face, he thought only of beauty.
Beauty.
Baseball. Statistics. A beautiful game.
Beauty.
Life with Sara.
Soft heartbeats drummed under his anxious fingertips; soft breaths tickled his wet cheek. Softly, warmth crept back into her body. Time ticked by, fleeting moments as he watched her come back to him. With a gentle hand, he placed a cool cloth against her forehead, fighting the beginnings of a fever, the consequences of a rainy night. She fought him with shaky hands, turning away, thrashing, running from the past in the fog of semi-consciousness. He held her still with his own shaky hands, and he began to whisper.
"I'm here now, shhhh. You're okay. Everything will be okay."
She stilled immediately, as if she had finally found a familiar sight on a dark, winding trail. Something to guide her home.
"I'm here," he said again, using the tone of his voice as an anchor. He had to keep her with him. "Sara..."
She opened her eyes slowly.
"You're okay," he told her again, grasping her hands, holding them tightly. "Just stay with me. Don't leave me alone."
He begged and she searched his face, blank, half-open eyes roaming wildly but not finding.
"What do you need? What can I do?" High pitched, breathless. His voice sounded thin, hoarse.
Her eyes finally came to a rest on his, locking brown into blue. Dark into light. Lost becoming found. A tear escaped, trailing down her cheek and onto the hand that brushed gently along the skin there. She let her head fall against hand, giving him that little bit of weight, resting, relying on him. A raspy breath escaped her lips, which quivered...
She tried to speak, the lips moving, the sounds starting to form. "...here?"
He nodded, briskly, staring down at her, brushing the hair from her forehead. "Yes."
Her eyelids flickered, and a hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. The colour began to return to her face, casting her features into a warm glow. He rested his hand against her forehead, feeling the heat he saw in her cheeks, eyes.
"Just rest," he whispered.
She nodded-barely and her eyes started to clear. "...tried..."
"Hmm?"
"Tried to do it without you...away from you..."
"I know." He grasped her hand tightly. "Me too."
"...didn't work...need you..."
Her words sent warmth through his body, ridding the chill of the rain; her eyes now held the dream he'd dreamed: she'd come back to him, realization in her eyes...they were meant to be together. Not apart. He felt the tears of relief in his eyes as she continued to speak, slow, gentle, warm. She was coming back to him.
"...can't do it alone..."
"I know, I know. Shh."
She sighed softly. "...tried, but it's...
"Honey, I'm here."
"...impossible..."
The End.