A/N: I don't want to give too much away, but warning for mentioned coma/head truma. Fun fact this was originally part of a much larger fanfic that I won't be finishing. I also have another chapter from that fic that im making it's own fic called 'The Invincible Ocean' which is the same storyline featuring Blake so keep an eye out. As always, leave a review if you liked it :-) (A Field Below is by Regina Spektor, and Burnt Norton (Interlude) is by Lana Del Rey, if you're wondering)
The Field Below – I am awake, I feel the ache.
There is a clock ticking in the hallway, a continuous pitter patter of pathetic noises that Rose has become accustomed to. Moonlight streams in through the window, the open blinds revealing the unreachable world and all of it's glory. The room is cool with winter air, and the curtains hang still in the stagnant oxygen of the room. Rose is as still and as silent as a statue, presiding over her charge with her head held high.
Blake had long since gone home, his hands shaking with held back grief, the knowledge he refused to divulge regarding the future that they had ahead of them. She had seen him to the door, but allowed him to see himself out, unable to bear leaving him alone for even that long, in case he woke up, in case he thought he was alone.
Charlie was, arguably, the quietest thing in the room. His chest rose and fell, but he remained silent. At first, his breathing had been labored, a great rattling in his chest with every gasp of air that had her on the edge of her seat, lest he stop breathing and she need to bring him back. That was so long ago, he was breathing easier now. Rose felt better knowing that he wasn't suffering. But the next step was for him to wake up.
In her chest, there was a massive gaping maw where he should be. A space in her bed, where his form usually occupied, her palm bare of his holding it tightly, like she might suddenly vanish, the couch free of his reading pose, book remaining closed, bookmarks still in the places where he had left them. His tea cup from that last day was still in the kitchen, his singlet still draped over the back of the chair at her desk, his running shoes untouched by his hands.
Blake comforted her, as well he could when he told her that she might never hear his voice again. She might never walk through town clutching his hand, or take his picture against his wishes. She might never argue with him, might never see that competitive glint in his eyes or watch him argue his point with such passion that even if he was wrong, she almost believed him.
She leant forward, and gently took his hand between her own, his long fingers still, like a lifesized doll. She tries to fold them around her own, but they don't stay. She weaves their fingers together, and clasps his hands between both her own, and draws them up to her forehead, and breaks.
The tears spill hot and fast down her face, she might be talking but she isn't sure. The grief of losing him fills her anew. Swelling on the brain, Blake had said, may never wake up, he'd told her, eyes filled with a sort of pain that only a father feels. She holds their hands up to her forehead, and then kisses his fingers, over and over and over, begging silently for him to wake up, to wipe the tears away and tell her that she will be fine, that everything will be good, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. How can he? He's asleep. She won't call it a coma, she can't. She just cant, it seems to final, to finished. He still had business amongst the living, with her.
She looks at the hand she's been kissing, and realizes that his nails are long again. Someone will need to cut them, her, probably. He'd be horrified to wake up and see them so long. She realizes, startlingly, that her visits are becoming fewer. Blake's aren't, he still comes every day, but her, she has to work. Mrs Beazley (Well, Mrs Blake, now) has started asking him to spend more time with his patients, but she wishes he would stay, two lone ice bergs they are. Floating in their ocean of shared grief. She would never have imagined Charlie effecting her in such a way, and she doesn't think Blake did either.
She sets the hands down, and rifles though the draw to her left, decidedly not looking at the ring she still wears. She'd be a liar if she said she didn't lie awake some nights and wonder what it would really be like to be Mrs Davis. She thinks she could even enjoy it. She finds the nail kit, and needing something to do, to occupy herself from the grief, decides to cut his nails down.
She doesn't think while she does it, Charlie's soft, doll like fingers are malleable in her grip. She doesn't want to cut him, so she keeps focused on her job, but even then, she still finds her thoughts drifting to her future. Should she move on? Is that what Charlie would want for her? She knows it is, but she can't make herself stomach it. She wants so badly for this to just be some horrible nightmare but she knows that it's not. It can't be. She wants to be happy, but with Charlie tethering her here she wonders can she be? Can she move on from him, when she'd loved him so much? When his love had spilled over from his walls and filled her with the excess? He had loved her so much, she knows that.
Charlie Davis never did anything half way and love was just one of those things. She realizes, then, she has cut a nail down too far, and a small drop of blood is welling up on his finger. Frustrated, she pushes everything onto the floor and crawls up onto the bed, drawing the arm around her, the way he used to. She curled up by his side, too scared to put pressure on his chest, and wept until she fell asleep, his arm, soft and sad, holding her close to him. She realizes, as she drifts off, hopefully to some place better, some place where Charlie is, that he doesn't even smell like he used to.
Into The Rose Garden –Remaining a perpetual possibility, only in a world of speculation
Though he's not sure why, Charlie feels an ache deep in his chest. A craving for something, though he's not really sure what. A hole in his heart that needs filling, collecting, fixing, but with what? He doesn't know. He gazes around at the rose garden, and feels a warmth deep in his chest.
Flowers grow and bloom, petaled flowers each orange in colour grow from green vines, seemingly reaching for him even now, as he walks past them. He strokes one as he passes but he does not stop, he must be somewhere, he is not sure where he must be, but it is not here with the flowers, he is sure. The path leads him on, and he follows. Footfalls each around him, as a tunnel expands into a world of warm light and pollen.
The sunlight warms his cold nose, and he tries to seek out the source of it. There she is, in all her fluttering beauty. Rose is standing there, waiting for him. She looks so young and happy that he can't help but put aside his own emptiness to reach for her. She smiles at him, and then runs to the side, her dress flying behind her, fluttering gently in the warm air.
Charlie can't help it, he leaves the path to chase after her. Running feels good, his muscles ache in a nice way and his hands strain at his side as he chases her, following her towards where she wanted him to go. Footfalls increase, grass is trampled, hair flies. It is happiness, a joyous change from his monotonous walk down the path until now.
He admires her as they run, he can't help it. He's always admired her. Even more so, with the distance between them, missing her even though she was so close by. When he catches up, she takes his hand, and stands close to him so they can face one another, and so he can see her, really, really see her. She feels so real, so right, here in his arms, that he can't even remember why he was walking when what he really wanted was to be here with her. He slides a hand to her hip in a practiced motion and the spins her around, her white dress billows around them in a way that reminds him of a wedding, their wedding, the one that they wanted to have.
He lifts her off the ground, and gazes loving up at her from the field below. She laughs to him, puts her hands on his shoulders and puts one leg out behind her like a ballerina.
"If you drop me you'll be sorry." She warns, but the threat is breathless and he pays it little heed. He does put her back on the ground after a few moments however. She leans up to him, and he leans down, kissing her firmly on the lips, as she slings her arms around his neck, the weight a comfortable familiarity.
He's not sure why but suddenly kissing Rose makes him feel like a lost man in a desert finding water. A drowning man finding air. They lean back and they gaze into each others eyes. He looks around for a place to sit and talk, because it feels like they haven't spoken in so long and he notices what he was walking towards.
A huge hallway that leads into a dark and gloomy building. He has no idea why he wanted to come here so badly, the building is about as enticing as polio and besides, he's much rather be out here with Rose in the sunlight and the warmth. Maybe it would be better if she came with him, then. He glances back to her, expecting her to be looking the same way, but she's not.
She's looking at him, instead, and pulls him down to the grass, where they sit. She puts her head on his chest, listening, he assumes, to the thud, thud, thud of his heart. She turns her back on the building, instead turning to look at him still.
"You can stay with me." She whispers, "We could run away." He's not sure how to put it in words that he can't, he has to go in the building, it's written in the sky and in the flowers. She placed one of her small hands on his heart and he puts his over the top. "Don't leave me here. I'm scared." Who was this Rose? Certainly not his. His Rose never spoke like that, so...Vulnerable. She didn't need him. She wanted him, yes, but it wasn't a need, not in the way he needed her.
Because he did need her. Not in the sense that he needed her to be complete, because he was complete, everyone is, but rather, to warm him. To help him understand the complex emotions and the subtext. To kiss him and tell him she loved him anyway. To make him happy, because he can't imagine ever being happy again without her by his side, it's not possible. He was so happy with here that he feels ashamed he hadn't even known he was sad.
"Please." It's a soft plea, one that cuts him to the bone and leaves marrow spilling out all over the grass. "Just stay with me, just a little longer." He presses his face into her hair, trying to figure out what it was that he wanted to say, but is unable to force his voice to work in tandem with his mouth, as he closes his eyes.
He opens them again and it's so cold. Rose is still here, he hasn't lost her again, thankfully, curled up against his side, face pressed into blankets, tears still wet on her face. Just waking up makes him feel so tired that his eyes begin to fall shut again. He tries to reach for her, but can only manage a twitch and a soft, broken plea of his own. "Rose?"