A/N: This assumes that the time between 7.14 and 7.15 in the Castleverse is in real time.
Will most likely be a two-parter.
Thanks for reading!
A Valentine
Weary fingers trail over the items hidden at the very back of his bedside table drawer. The pads of his digits snag on the velvet of the small box and he removes this first, prying open the lid gingerly, more afraid of his reaction to the contents than the contents themselves. Inside is a pair of earrings, the stones catching the light and changing from green to amber to yellow within their settings. He had been browsing aimlessly before these caught his attention. They immediately reminded him of his wife's shinning eyes. It still catches him off guard sometimes when she turns to him, her lips curved into a perfect curve, and her eyes bright and fixed on him. A beautiful smile. A smile for him.
He swipes a tear from under his own eye when he thinks of her. He's sure her eyes aren't alight with happiness anymore. It's more likely they are dull with pain and fear. Or worse –
He snaps the box lid shut as if the action can close off the thoughts which are haunting him all too often.
The next items he retrieves are clearly a set of books. Their covers are beautifully embossed in swirling gilt and the words etched in cursive calligraphy. He flips the cover on one to see the lines of unreadable script; the shapes of the letters so unfamiliar he can't even being to fathom the words. But he knows, he knows, that his talented, bright, extraordinary wife would be able to drink from the page, the story flowing through her as she translates with ease.
She had bemoaned the fact that her Russian was slipping. So he purchased a full set of Tolstoy's works in their original language, including the obvious 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina', and the lesser known 'The Cossacks' and comedy 'The First Distiller'. He has to admit, the gift wasn't chosen entirely selflessly. He loves when Beckett speaks in Russian, shivers as the hard sounds are formed and released, watches with devoted awe as her lips form around the words. He had fully planned on encouraging her to read to him.
And now…
Now he'd give anything to hear her voice again, in any language. He doesn't care if he's pillowed in her lap as she reads aloud to him, or if she's poking him in chest in the midst of an argument.
He wonders if she's speaking now. If she calling, crying, desperately for him, for anyone to find her. For anyone to bring her home.
He scrubs his palms over his face, but quickly gives up as the tears fall steadily faster. Shoulders slumped and hands dangling uselessly between his knees, he is the picture of desolation. At this moment, he curses his writer's brain, curses the vivid imagination he possesses. With seemingly every blink of his aching eyes, he pictures his wife: curled alone on dusty concrete, her body bruised and trembling; bound to a chair and breathing harsh, frightened pants while Tyson stalks around her; lying prone on an operating table, watching with terror as Neiman lowers a scalpel towards her beautiful face.
But despite how bad those images are, worst are the visions that come to him unbidden during his too brief snatches of sleep.
The most heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly devastating scenes play on a repeating, maddening loop. Scenes when she's not moving, when her eyes are unfocussed and dull, when her lips are pale and slack, when her chest is still, when her veins no longer thrum. Those are the images which startle him awake, his sweat-soaked form heaving with distraught sobs.
Rousing himself, he places the gifts back, sliding the drawer closed. The symbolism of the action is not lost on him.
Valentine's Day and his wife is not here to share the day with him.
He doesn't even know if she'll be here for the next one.