Disclaimer: I don't own War Horse, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to their respective owners. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
Give Me A Reason
A/N: Post-War Horse; alternate events; follow up to "They Never Go Away."
He has the nightmares often, has long since taken to sleeping in the shoddy little guest room upstairs for, on more than one occasion, James has shot out of bed with bullets blazing in his skull, screaming that Charlie and Jamie can't be dead. It's all because he doesn't know, has heard no word in regards to his friends in the four months he's been home, little more than a shell of a man and a worthless invalid.
Emma doesn't say much to him anymore. At least, not if she can help it. James imagines that he scares her now, and gives no thought to the fact that she's still caring for a fussy infant what keeps her awake at night almost as often as he does. If she's not in Johanna's room, hushing her and holding her close, she's at his bedside, talking quietly to herself about how much he's changed as she runs her fingers through his hair.
That sweet baby girl of his is about five months now, and with those wide green eyes of hers, he's reminded of how much he and Emma used to smile before all this. Before his call to serve his countrymen, before the hellish acts of war that, far too easily, swept James away from everything familiar. She squirms about the floor, and he barely hears Emma from the other room, a smile in her tone as she says that Johanna looks like him, has that beautiful hit of ginger in her thin baby locks. Perhaps, had he not been a witness to the hands of death, James would smile now, ignore the fact that he's missing crucial pieces and dare to hold her, the little angel he'd dreamed of so very often in the field.
She comes to him, cooing gently and shoving the tiny fingers of one hand into her mouth, round cheeks glistening with drool as she stares up at him. Johanna beams and clings to the fabric of his trousers, bobs her little head and makes a sound of annoyance when he doesn't move. He's been afraid to be close to her, to touch her, terrified that he'll end up like those soldiers in the stories, have the visions as she clings to him and end up hurting his little baby girl. James doesn't want to drive her and Emma away. But sitting here, unable to do a damn thing with himself, no longer making an effort to return to an average life, that's exactly what he's doing.
Johanna makes that sound again, scrunches up her face the way she does when she's hungry, when she's about to cry, and he panics. Even with that fear fresh in mind, James bends over and pulls her into his lap, steadies her with his hand as she bounces gently on his knee. His father had done the same with him when he'd been young, had held him close and told him stories until James had fallen fast asleep. His father had been a happy man. Of course, he hadn't been a damaged invalid spared by the horrors of war.
"She likes horses," Emma says, standing in the doorway.
James looks up. "What?"
Her apron and sleeves are covered in powder, some of it even a bit damp and sticking to the side of her face and hair. She moves fluidly through the room, sits down on the piano bench and slides her fingers across the keys. James frowns. One more thing he can't provide for them anymore. Music.
"Anna and I took her for a ride in the carriages the other day," she says, and smiles. "All she wanted to do when we got out was touch them, the great old things. And they didn't seem to mind at all."
It should be something for him to laugh about, to be proud of, knowing that his Johanna knows what horses are at so young an age, and before she can even pronounce the word, to boot. But it's damning, reminds him of that which he had nearly forgotten. That beautiful brown horse crafted only by the hand of God, the one he'd lost to the Germans as he fell, lost for a young farm boy with little else to live for. It all makes James wonder why in the living hell he's sitting here in his living room rather than six feet under in a shoddy coffin.
Johanna coos, takes to gnawing on his sleeve with her empty little mouth, and James remembers with a pang of guilt.
He pulls his baby close, swallows as she holds tight to him, tiny fingers curling into the empty sleeve of his left, and he cries.
This is why.