Title: Fill the Empty
Rating/Warnings: R for language, themes of substance abuse, suicide, death, and sexual content, including rough sex between two consenting adults.
Summary: After his mother's suicide, Wheeler is headed down a road he swore he'd avoid.
Notes: Unbeta'd. The title is taken from the song "No More Cry" by the band The Corrs. Please heed the warnings! This fic is darker than anything I have posted here so far.
He felt sick.
Time had leaked everywhere since the phone call. The Phone Call. He tried to remember his steps between The Phone Call and the moment of here and now, sitting in the geo-cruiser, but he couldn't. Memories were like water in his mind – deep, raging rivers of worry and love and grief, and thin puddles of the past few hours – packing his bags and trying to force air into his lungs because his body insisted it was too painful to keep pushing on.
It's gonna get worse.
He tried to shut his mind off again. It was both a blessing and a curse to have it in this state. He could remember the details of The Phone Call with achingly accurate detail.
Pills.
Overdose.
In her sleep.
A note addressed to you, sir.
We are sorry for your loss.
But since then everything was hazy and he wondered if perhaps he should be grateful for it.
He burrowed into his seat and leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, willing sleep to come and sooth him into blissful unconsciousness. Unfortunately, his mind had no intention of letting that happen.
It's all your fault, Wheeler. It's all your fault. If you had stayed with her after Dad died, she'd have been happier and she wouldn't have done this...
He felt the ache in his throat again – the one that signalled tears, and he clenched his jaw and his fists and fought it as fiercely as he could.
Linka glanced back at him over her shoulder, worriedly. She wished the others had come. She felt a little angry and betrayed, not sure their reasoning had been accurate.
"We should all be there for him," she had argued, tears still tracking down her face. "We should all be there to lend him support."
"Ordinarily I would agree," Kwame had said gently. "But Linka, this is different. This is..." He had trailed off and tried to find the right words.
"Sensitive," Gi had whispered for him.
"Why me?" Linka had asked, scrubbing the tears on her cheeks away.
"Because you are the one he would choose," Kwame had said calmly.
She had looked to Ma-Ti for help, but he had agreed with the others.
She was to go with Wheeler and the others would lend their support from a gracious distance – unwilling to intrude upon the Fire Planeteer as he faced such a mountain of grief and difficulty.
She glanced down at the control panel in front of her. The entire trip had been silent. She wasn't sure what to say to him and he didn't seem to want to talk anyway. She had noticed him clenching and unclenching his fists, and she knew he was fighting some deep internal battle – but how to calm it was beyond her.
She directed her thoughts to Ma-Ti. I do not think I can do this alone, Ma-Ti.
You're not alone, Linka, we're here.
She didn't find his response comforting. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and spoke for the first time since they'd left. "Wheeler? Are you asleep?"
"No." His voice was barely a whisper, but she heard it.
"Well, we will be there soon," she said, a little nervous. "Where is the best place for me to land the geo-cruiser?"
She heard him sigh, though she didn't think it had anything to do with her. It was more the fact that he suddenly had to deal with something instead of sit there and curl into a ball. She wished she could let him stay there as he was.
"The roof of Mom's apartment building, I guess," he said, taking the seat next to her and running a limp hand over the controls. "Want me to take over?"
"Nyet, I am fine. Unless you think you would like to fly for a little while?"
He shook his head and stared out at the New York City skyline ahead.
He hadn't even noticed they'd landed. His eyes had glazed over and his inner monologue was running wild, his thoughts a spiralling whirlwind of guilt and grief.
I should never have left here. Never.
"Wheeler?"
He jumped when Linka touched his arm. She was looking at him with a fearful sort of concern, as though he was going to disappear at any minute with a loud pop and she'd never see him again.
Oh, he wished he could disappear.
He wanted to smile at her and tell her he was okay, but he got to his feet a little unsteadily and grabbed his bag. His heart fluttered crazily in his chest and he wondered if it was going to stop.
Please stop. Please just stop and let everything go away.
He led Linka from the roof down the narrow stairs and along the dark, narrow corridor to his mother's apartment. He stopped at the door and clenched his key in his palm.
Ma, I'm home!
No one to greet him, this time.
Panic struck him. Would everything be the same, in there? What if her coffee mug was still draining on the sink? And her bed... had someone made it? What had they done with the sheets? Had they taken them away with his mother's body? Had they simply stripped the bed and washed the sheets and remade it all again? Or was it going to be just as it had been after they'd carried her away? Would the sheets and blankets be kicked back, cold and tainted with the smell of death?
He felt Linka's hand slip gently into his.
"Wheeler?"
He looked down at her. She was gazing up at him in worry, dark circles under her eyes. She was bound to be exhausted from the flight, and the stress of the entire day leading up to this point.
She squeezed his hand gently. "Can you go in?" she asked gently. "Do you need to go somewhere else?"
I don't know.
His hand trembled as he lifted it to the lock – the key dancing and jumping before it slid home and turned easily; neatly.
Linka squeezed his hand again and he stepped inside. Everything looked tidied. Had she done it? Or had a neighbour or a friend done it, in preparation for his arrival? Magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table – detailing craft projects and interior designs that his mother would never have had the chance to explore herself. She had always been doomed to live here.
I should have come home. I should have worked here in New York and supported her and moved her out of this dump with all its bad memories.
He looked around at the various dents in the walls where his father had raged against them. Wheeler had patched the nasty ones, but he knew where each of them existed, and to his eyes they were all completely obvious.
He breathed. The place smelled of wood polish and potpourri and vacuum powder.
She tidied up before she did it. She tidied up the fucking apartment before she went to bed. Wash the dishes? Check. Vacuum the floor? Check. Write suicide note? Check. Swallow dozens of pills? Check, check, check...
"Linka?"
She looked up at the soft sound.
"Can you stay with me?" he asked softly. He was staring at the closed door of his mother's bedroom. As far as he was concerned, it would stay closed for the rest of time.
"Of course," she whispered back. "Of course I will."
He gripped her hand, then, crushing her fingers, and led her to his bedroom.
She had not hesitated about climbing into bed with him. His eyes were still blank and she knew there were no lustful or amorous thoughts running through his head tonight. She was there for comfort.
She cuddled against him. She was exhausted, but worry kept her awake. Wheeler's breathing was still shallow and rapid, as though he was fighting something deep within.
She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. "Do you want to talk?" she whispered.
I don't know. I'm scared to think. I don't want to think about anything. Just don't leave me, okay?
When he failed to answer her, she kissed his brow gently and placed a gentle palm over his heart. His breathing steadied somewhat; her nearness calming him for the first time she could ever recall. Usually whenever she got close to him it sent him into a frenzy of excitement that ended in some sort of argument.
"I don't understand," he croaked, and then he was sobbing, burying his face into the warm curve of her neck, his tears hot and wet on her skin. She clutched him to her, holding him as tightly as she could, and started crying herself.
"It is hard to understand," she whispered into his hair. "Maybe we will never understand. But you need to stop blaming yourself, Yankee."
"No," he mumbled into her skin, his body trembling with fatigue and grief. "I should never have left her here alone. I should have come back after Dad died and made sure she was okay. I should have been here and I should have gotten her out –"
"Shh," Linka soothed. "It is not your fault." She kissed the top of his head and hugged him, sinking with him into the pillows and mattress as one heavy, combined weight. She ached to take his pain away. To let him sleep solidly without worry or grief. She held him tightly, kissing the top of his head and stroking his hair until his breathing calmed and he fell into an exhausted but shallow sleep.
Wheeler gazed numbly down at the new grave in front of him. The funeral was over and the small crowd that had gathered to farewell his mother had drifted away. He had no idea where they'd gone – organising a gathering after the service had never even occurred to him. He wasn't even aware of Linka's hand slipping gently into his. All he seemed to be able to think about was the weather.
It was a hot day, sunshine spilling across the green lawns and grey headstones in the cemetery. Children played in parks and birds sang and the sky was wide and open over New York City, the breeze sending white clouds sailing across the blue.
It should have been black and stormy, with violent winds and rain beating and raging against everything – against the unfairness of everything. Inside him raged a storm of guilt and despair and heartache and he resented the weather for not reflecting it.
"Wheeler?" Linka whispered.
He half-turned to her, but his eyes never left the pile of earth in front of him.
"Do you want to be alone?"
He shook his head and felt her squeeze his hand gently.
His eyes shifted to the headstone next to the new grave.
I hope you're in Hell and she's in Heaven.
But the pain gripped his heart, fiercely.
If there is a Heaven, they're not going to let her in any more.
Linka leaned her head quietly against his arm, gazing down at the disturbed earth in front of her. She did not like cemeteries – even on sunshine-filled days like this. She had faced enough grief and death in her short lifetime – though those deaths had usually been a result of sickness.
She didn't think she would ever understand the feeling of losing someone as a result of their own actions, and she wasn't sure what she could do or say to ease Wheeler's mind.
She wished he would talk to her.