CONFETTI
by Rach
RATING:
PG
SUMMARY: He can always hope. Will Futurefic.
SPOILERS: None.
AN: Here's
the birthday present for Jenai. Will Fic. Enjoy, sweetie, and happy birthday!
And thanks to the lovely Diana for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing in the Alias
universe belongs to me.
FEEDBACK: aliasrlm@yahoo.com
The Styrofoam of the coffee cup crumbles easily in his hand, chunky white particles floating slowly to the ground like feathers. The destroyed cup is tossed into a nearby garbage container - and he's on his feet and back to pacing.
The tiles of the waiting room are a light, boring beige, speckles of blue and pink haphazardly dotted throughout, instantly reminding Will of confetti.
Confetti. A word he's always liked for some reason. Liked the way it felt so hard and determined before turning a bit more punchy, more fun. Like a partylike Pop Rocks.
He can't help but fight the smallest of grins at that memory - of Jimmy Dorton's eighth birthday - and the way he and his friends each spilled a packet of Pop Rocks into open mouths, their heads tilted heavenward. How some of the candy bounced from tongues and lodged into the dark tangerine shag carpet of Jimmy's bedroom, to be buried in masses of synthetic fiber and never seen again. That was also the day he tore the knees of his favorite jeans on hard pavement, his skin cut and bleeding, turning gray to crimson and pale peach to pink, then red, and finally a crusty brown. He had run home, tears spilling down his cheeks, both legs hurting enough to cause a limp on each side. The kids didn't call him names, though - they had been there before. They had felt the sharp pains of injury caused by taking a spill from a bike or an intense game of street hockey. They, even at age eight, knew better than to mock another boy's pain.
Funny how things change with age.
He stops at the door, hand resting on the cool metal handle, eyes scanning the hallway through the square window. The cuffs of his casual blue plaid button-down are undone, the buttons clicking hollowly against the doorknob. He knows it's silly and paranoid of him to feel this afraid. Like his life could be snatched away at any moment. Like an emotionally void assistant will would throw open the door, hand him a white plastic bag of belongings and gently usher him to his car, telling him that everything would eventually be fine. They'd recommend sleep, perhaps some Valium to settle his frayed nerves. He'd return to an empty, dark house and cry hysterically, weeping for yet another loss. This one, though, this oneit would be different than the rest. Because without her, he'd fumble around in soiled gray sweats, dark plaid slippers shuffling along the kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about how life is unfair. About how the cats have taken to hiding all day, stubbornly hoping for her return. About how he sadly sniffs the clothing once housed in the white plastic bag, hoping to inhale her familiar scent.
Always hoping.
He knows he's getting carried away, and from the curious stares of the other people in the room, he knows they agree. Sighing, he pries his hand from the doorknob and slowly lowers himself into a semi-cushiony chair, upholstered in a worn blue diamond patterned fabric. The chair isn't comfortable enough to sleep in, but is just enough to get you through an hour.or a few more. Hopefully not much more. The past five hours have been painful beyond belief - the not knowing is like a twist of sharp metal in his gut. So much up in the air and only a few possible outcomes. And only one outcome that is acceptable to him. The others, well, he dares not think of them. They are the orange-horned monsters lurking in the shadows he hid from as a child.
Acceptable.unacceptable. Odd words, at least to him. Some people could pull it off with firmly pressed lips and a steady, powerful tone -- 'This is unacceptable'-- and the world would change its rotation to accommodate the demand. Will is not one of those people. He can be forceful, but only on his termsonly if teetering carefully on the edge of politeness. He'll hastily add a 'please' or 'if possible' - turning a hard demand into a mere request. He simply lacks the weight of authority or intimidation in his voice and posture -- hell, even in his own thoughts. It's just not in him. But he knows - knew - people that could definitely use the word 'unacceptable.' People like Jack Bristow. Like Sydney Bristow.
Tears sting the corners of his eyes and his front teeth rub harshly on his bottom lip. He tries to shove the imagery away, but it is no use. He's used to this now, the way the images - tinted with a dull rose, strangely enough - play against the back of his mind at the most inopportune times. He's learned it futile to fight them. He's discovered that like the imagined monsters he feared as a child, they leave faster if left alone.
Grotesque angles of broken limbs. A slit throat resembling a twisted, toothless, heavily-lipsticked smirk. Shards of broken glass reflecting Will's expression of horror, all wide eyes and knitted brows. Dirt from a shattered flowerpot tainted a deep burgundy from the rivers of blood snaking through the beige carpeting. Tables and chairs overturned carelessly - the only witnesses to the final stand of the Bristow family.
And it was all left for Will to discover. The only thing for which he was thankful was that Francie was late returning from work. If she'd left on time, if she had been the first to happen upon the grisly, violent scene - he shudders at the thought.
Thank God for small miracles.
Small miracles. He glances at his watch, then at the clock mounted high on the wall of the waiting room to ensure his time is accurate. It is. The pounding of his heart, however, doesn't slow. It just keeps on at that deafening pace, thumping in his ears until the fake blondes on Days of Our Lives seem to be dancing to the rhythm in their skin-tight transparent blouses and slick leather pants.
Boom boom chicka boom boom. His head is quickly turning into the soundtrack from a bad 70s porno. He tries to steady his heartbeat, to take deep breaths, to stretch his fingers and yawn and extend his legs and smile and breathe and don'tcryWill.
And then there's a voice on the television that stops everything. It draws his attention and sharpens his focus in slow-motion until the beat in his mind is drowned out. Until all he can see, all he can hear, is the doctor's voice on the yellowed screen of an aged monitor.
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing that can be done."
Sorry. British accent, curt but cultured. Sorry. The voice wasn't apologetic in the least, though. It was bored, mocking. Familiar - like black rubber squealing on pavement. Sorry, Mr. Tippin, there's nothing I can do. Nothing I ever could do. I want you to know that. That's all he saida thirty-second phone call that ended with Will in tears, clutching the receiver like it was the man's neck. Sobbing. Sorry. Like he had accidentally put a ding in the bumper of Will's Jeep. Carelessly swiped Will's Saturday paper. Cut in line. Snatched the last hot dog at 7-11.
And that's when Will's hand - attached to the receiver - plunged through a layer of drywall, sending a white cloud of dust into the living room. The fine particles mixed with his tears, turning his face pale and sticky like the beginnings of a papier mache mix. He fell to the floor, receiver thrown against the opposite wall with a dull thud, crying like that eight-year-old boy with two badly scraped knees, the taste of grape Pop Rocks fresh on his tongue.
His savior, then, emerged from the bedroom, her dark fleece pajamas comforting him as he wept. Her long, graceful fingers stroked his hair, ignoring the dust she unsettledand with his head resting on her chest, she swallowed hard in an effort to silence her own sobs. They stayed like that, huddled on the floor of the living room, until the next morning - having cried themselves to sleep.
Grief. A painful ghost of a word that he will never understand. Just when you think you've conquered it, an actor with a familiar voice on the television can bring you back into its complicated web. He knows grief isn't something to be conquered, but rather, something to which you must adapt. It's always there, a part of you. Some days it flares up and knocks you down; other days it just helps you smile with the knowledge you're alive. Always remember, though. And always hope.
Hope is why he jumps to his feet at the sight of the doctor, who is just outside the door, holding a clipboard and smiling at a passer-by. Will can't move fast enough - his hand a mere apricot-tinted blur as it reaches for the door handle.
"Whoa, Mr. Tippin -" the doctor starts, his voice that of a matinee idol. Husky and confident; always right. He shoots Will a glossy smile, but stops when he sees Will's pained expression, the watery eyes rimmed in red.
"Mr. Tippin? Are you OK?" The doctor places a firm hand on Will's arm. Always right, always the proper motion gesture to convey the appropriate emotion.
"Yes, yesbut my - my wife," the phrase still feels odd to him, even after the past year, "I've been waiting for word on her condition?"
"Oh." The doctor doesn't elaborate and Will's heart plummets to the floor. Hope. Always hope. Damn him for hoping.
"What's wrong? Oh God-" Will's mind blanks instantly and he feels the coffee in his stomach burn upward, threatening to catapult past his tonsils. Nausea. But vomiting is the last thing on his mind. His wife - dear God - his wife -
The doctor flips a page on his clipboard and looks back to at Will. "She's fine, Mr. Tippin. Perfectly fine. I sent Nurse Herron to tell you the news, but apparently" the doctor pauses as the intercom blares above, "she was just called up to ICU. I apologize."
Relief floods through Will's body, starting at his clenched jaw, shooting through his abdomen, finally easing its way down to his curled, cramped toes.
"She's fine?" Will repeats the words, afraid to believe them, giving the doctor one last chance to retract his statement. This time, it's Will's hand that flies to squeeze the doctor's forearm.
The doctor's brow curves dramatically, as if he were playing a part - camping it up for a camera. "Why, of course she is. She's awake, coherentand most likely, if I have her pegged correctly, smiling."
And then everyone within sight of her is most likely smiling as well, Will added silently. Absolutely no one can resist that smile.
"I can see her, then?" Will's ear-to-ear grin is detectable even in his voice. He wipes at his eyes with the unbuttoned cuff of his shirt.
"Yes, of course." The doctor motions gracefully down the hallway. "Go to the nurses station at the end of the corridorthey'll point you in the right direction."
A full-out sprint and five seconds later, Will arrives at the white crescent-shaped desk, a rainbow of multi-colored patient files lining the tall shelves behind the area.
"My wifewhich room is she in?"
A rail-thin nurse turns, not bothering to look up, the excessive material of her pink scrubs draping from her arms resembling a kimono. "Last name?"
"Tippin. She just got out of surgery -"
"Room 237. Down the hallway here, last door on your left." The nurse states mechanically, her short fingers rifling through paperwork on the desk.
Will races to the room, his heart in his throat, an ache in his gut that can only described as such: an ache.
An ache for her, his wife, who he can see through a window on the closed door. Even clad in a powder blue hospital robe, covered by sterile white sheets, she's glowing. Her teeth are a brilliant white, making him grin in turn.
He throws the door open and rushes to the bed. "Hey," he breathes, reaching for her hand, careful to avoid the IV. "I'm so glad to see you."
She chuckles quietly, her eyebrows curving slightly. "You didn't think I'd make it? Ye of little faith, Will"
Stroking the soft skin of her hand, he cranes his neck to place a gentle kiss on her full lips.
"Faith is all I have," he replies quietly, his tone hinting at jest.
"Hey, now," her fingers brush against his, "you have me."
"I know, sweetie, I know." He kisses her again, inhaling her scent. "I know."
She smiles then, a gleaming, gorgeous expanse of teeth and parted lips, reminding Will again of a single word.
Confetti.
And this time, instead of picturing scenes of the past, his mind creates images from a future. Colorful balloons at an anniversary celebration, flashes from disposable cameras at a christening, blue streamers at a birthday party. Silver sparkles of confetti, delicate confetti, dotting the button nose of his son - his and Francie's son.
He grips her hand a little tighter, smiles a little wider. His heart is no longer pounding to a techno beat, but rather swaying gleefully - waltzing, even. Relief and love swirl and he beams, an expression of utmost devotion for his wife.
His beautiful Francie, who introduced him to true love. Who reminded him to look to the future, to learn from the past, and above all things, to hope.
He
can hope. He can always hope.
- "Electrical Storm" -- U2
- "Green Apples" -- Chantal Kreviazuk
- "Weapon" -- Matthew Good