A/N: A ficlet that hopped into my mind in that place between sleep and awake at 2am and begged to be written. Please review.
It may be a cliche but it's true.
She looks radiant.
Her strapless white dress is stiff around the front, and falls away at the back to reveal a creamy expanse of skin, dotted with light freckles, before sweeping together just above the small of her back; in a way that makes you want to grab your cane and tear it down a little further. It flows out with lighter material for the skirt which is trailing behind her, and a pearly headpiece sits on her wavy brown hair.
"Ready?" she asks. You grunt in reply, and push open the church doors with your cane, slipping an arm around her, uncomfortably aware that all eyes are on the pair of you.
You've always hated church music, but today, it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.
You still can't quite believe she's asked you to do this, after all your history together. And you don't know why you said yes. You must be mad; it's the only explanation. She trembles as you reach the top of the aisle that you're walking down, and you feel your hand shaking as you propel her forwards.
You know what's coming next. It's not a relief. It's never going to be a relief. Shit, it's always going to be hard. Her deep, deep eyes are shining- with happiness or with tears, you'll never know. You're too scared to look too deeply, too closely, too scared of what you might see. And all you want is to freeze this moment here, right now, with her warm body hovering next to yours, and pretend you don't know what you have to do.
But the clock keeps ticking relentlessly and you'll always know.
You give her hand to Chase.
The two of them continue up the aisle together, and it's wrong, because now she's glowing, and you want her to make her glow too. You want to make that flame inside her eyes light up like you used to be able to. But light can hurt the eyes and she blinded you for too long. You hear a quiet cough from the seats and you realise you are still standing there, lost in thought, in dreaming. You dream all the time and you know it. Once, just once, it would be nice to stay there.
The cough comes from Wilson. You feel like laughing and wonder what's wrong with you. Maybe it's because he'll never change. You limp back to your seat. The click of your cane is reassuring- it's a reminder that you live with pain, and it's okay, and you can handle it. You slouch down next to him, and he puts his hand gently on yours. It's a simple gesture, like when she sometimes touches your arm, but it means so much. It means I know how you feel, and you'll be okay, and, dryly, cheer up, it might never happen. You relish his warmth because the rest of you is so numb with some inexplicable emotion. It's wrong. You twist at his fingers as if your own digits are biting him. It means you have no idea how much pain I'm in, and let me show you, and it hurts, fix me, please.
Most people cry from happiness at weddings. You're probably the only one who cries from pain.
end
A/N: Well... tell me what you think. I was very tempted to write a Vicar-of-Dibley-esque "Shoulda Been Me" sort of sequel (a reference that will be lost on Americans, sadly) but I think I'm just going to leave it as it is.