Title: An Empty Bed and Calendar Pages
Author: mblab
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Any and all comments to: mblab@bellsouth.net
Timeframe: General Season Three
Category: Angst/Romance
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard. The characters belong to JJ Abrams and ABC; the music belongs to BT.
Summary: "She had woken up to an empty and cold bed." She was his wife, but she didn't feel like it that day. Vaughn angst.
Credit: Thanks to Kat and Jade, who twist wrists and claim to be the voice of reason and truth.
Author's Notes: This wrote itself, with fury and insistence. Its style is different, so bare with me. This piece came first. To me, it's still up for grabs just who the female is, whomever Vaughn's wife is. But I prefer not to clarify.
"Time keeps/ taking/ her time" –BT; 'Dark Heart Dawning'
She had woken up to an empty and cold bed. She had turned over, after turning off the alarm clock, to wake him up. His side had been vacant, and when her hand reached the cold pillow, she felt something deep inside her stomach.
She had gone through her usual morning routine. And all the while he had been missing. There was nothing in their house to indicate that he was still there, or had been, in hours. She had finally left the house, driven to work, and cleared her head of any lingering thoughts from that morning.
She had heard from him hours later, sorry about being gone already—he had gone to work early. Early, she could understand. But his 'early' been before anything was open or possible to be there 'early'. And she felt the feeling in her stomach once more. But she smiled and replied that it was fine, she had been sure that's what he'd done. She hung up a few moments later, and resigned herself to continue what she needed to get done. She looked around her, saw her calendar still on the day before, turned the page and threw it into the trash. Concentration was crucial and there was no reason for her to be distracted. She continued at work and came home when it was appropriate.
She came home and looked for his car. She took her keys out and opened the door; it creaked as it let her in. She went to the office and set her things down. She went to the bedroom and took her shoes off and placed them next to each other in the closet. She got undressed and folded her clothes and placed them in the laundry basket, inside the bathroom closet. She turned the water on in the shower. As she let the water run, and heat, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. It soon became fogged and blurred and she turned around and entered the water. She left the water later, much later, and wrapped a towel around herself. After brushing her hair and hanging the towel to dry, she padded into the bedroom and changed. She passes him in the hallway, and if she didn't know any better, it'd have seemed like a bump into a passing stranger on the street.
She keeps going then, but he stops walking and turns around. She doesn't hear the door shut so she turns around. Their eyes lock and his head makes a small gesture. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, barely passes her lips. He doesn't say anything. And she moves, uncomfortable, standing in the middle of their hallway, looking at each other, and saying nothing.
She asks him how his day was. He shrugs and makes a noise that may have been a response. She asks him a few other questions and his responses are more or less the same—with little enthusiasm but not harsh. She asks him if he's drunk and he laughs at her, shakes his head 'no', but says nothing. She waits another minute and they stand, in their own hallway, saying nothing. She asks him if he's feeling okay. She says he's been off the whole day, she's worried. He starts to give his non-answer shrug but stops. He looks at her, his shoulders drop, and something in his eyes settle differently. His head crooks to the right slightly and he takes a deep breath. He starts to say something, she's not sure where he's going, but then stops and makes a face—he's thinking about what he's going to say. He's really trying to form the right words and say the right thing. And she tries not to brace herself, thinking that what she's felt deep in her stomach all day is nothing—but she doesn't know why she is bracing herself for what he's about to say. He's just probably exhausted and not able to think clearly.
His eyes change again and he goes to talk. He says something about how today was different and he's sorry if he's been weird, he didn't mean to be. He straightens his back and flicks his eyes down at the watch on his wrist and he looks at her like his thoughts are spilling from his mind straight to hers. She shakes her head, confused by this entire thing, and prompts him to continue. He goes on again about being sorry for acting weird and she interrupts him when he just repeats what he'd said before. He stares at the floor beneath them. He focuses on his feet. And he says, sounding defeated, that it is October first. And when a few minutes pass and his eyes haven't left his shoes and she hasn't said anything, hasn't moved, hasn't left he doesn't know what to do. He forces his eyes up and looks at her. She has confusion written all over her face and he asks if she knows what today's date was. She responds easily, of course she does, she's not a child, an infant—what kind of question was that? It grows silent again and he looks just past her, to the left slightly, and rambles on faster than she can understand him. He's talking faster than she can comprehend and saying things she doesn't understand even when she can make out the words he's saying.
It grows quiet, again, and it becomes too much. He turns around and enters the bedroom, closes the door, and she hears the water turn on.