Title: Water Red
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 Edwin McCain.
Summary: "And then he told her, the hardest part to tell, what had just happened: what had torn his heart out and shredded the pieces, burned it all, and then defaced what was left, or not." He came to the one person he had left. 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 third, maybe not chronologically, but artistically. Call it a prequel, if you will to the other two pieces ("An Empty Bed and Calendar Pages" and "Lonely Sheets and the Dead of Night"). It came from deep within, about the kind of loss that leaves you without words that rots inside of you. And being able to have someone to lean against throughout it all. There are fewer relationships stronger and more powerful than that of mother and child.
"Cry my eyes out, in my private little war" –Edwin McCain; 'Take Me'
It doesn't escape her, how his eyes have turned red. They're large and puffy and redder then she ever thought possible. He's wet, she only notices now. It had poured all night and she worries how long he's been out in the rain tonight. He's desperate, like she hasn't seen him before—not even with his father.
Then, he had been upset because his father wouldn't come to see him play his game that week. And only much later, when he did not see that game, or the next, or tuck him in bed, or call, or walk into the front door, did he ever show anything else. He had asked her quietly what he had feared. 'He hasn't come home. He isn't going to, is he?' And she had to cling to him, this brave little boy, who would have to grow up too soon, and hold him with everything she possessed—afraid of loosing him as well; all that she had left. He sobbed into her shoulder, clinging to her as well. And the moments that passed tore a little bit of each of their hearts out. But the presence of the other had mended the tears a bit—the bond of a mother and son was unlike any other, even that of son and father. He never was exactly the same again.
She can remember that day, those moments, his face, his sobs, and she fears what has caused his expression now. He had never been like that before. This time, however, he was different—she sees something else in him, in his eyes, his heart.
She had to calm down the fear that would not leave her alone now. She would be in pain if he was. And his pain was so great, then, she didn't know if she could handle it, or what to do.
He had stood in the doorway, motionless and quiet. But then their eyes met and he clung to her like she had to him all those years before. And she feared for him, and her heart broke for him. Because the loss of a father was great, but she did not want to contemplate, not again, the loss that would cause him to be like this.
He had sobbed and clung to her, and he became unsteady on his own feet. His unruly feet, and heart, and lungs, and tears forced them to sit down. And the pain in his eyes scared her more every moment that passed and he remained silent.
She finally made him look at her. And then she had promptly forced him into the bathroom. She had grabbed a towel and forcefully instructed him to try and dry himself; she was going to get him something dry to wear. But when she had come back with clothes in hand, he was staring at the mirror, unaware of anything else. She shook him slightly and broke his stupor. She placed the clothes on the counter and bent his head, took the towel and patted his head dry. She took his clothes off and forced him into dry ones. And then she got him into the safety of her bedroom.
And finally, after all of that, he looked at her again and she almost fell to her knees with what she saw in his eyes. He could barely get a word out before sobs overtook him. Achingly painful, he got out each word, between the sobs, and told her—everything. He told her about the incredible things that had happened recently, the good and the bad. He explained why he'd been how he'd been—even though he hadn't told her at the time why, he did now. And then he told her, the hardest part to tell, what had just happened: what had torn his heart out and shredded the pieces, burned it all, and then defaced what was left, or not.
And all she could do was comfort him. Though there was to be no comfort found for a broken heart like his. And if anyone knew that, it was her. So she tried to soothe him. She did her best to be there, next to him, as he cried over everything that had happened, everything he lost, and everything he now knew he would never have. She placed a blanket over him after he'd cried himself to the point of exhaustion and collapsed on the bed. She turned the lights off and slept on the couch. And in the morning she kept the windows closed, enclosed his sleeping figure with the cocoon of darkness—that might just make the least bit of difference, but she could try all the same.
She checked on him every ten minutes, until she no longer could wait that long, and then she just sat in the corner, watching him. She kept her watch for hours, exhaustion, physical and emotional, taking its toll on his body—as he slept on.
And hours later, when she came back from getting a glass of water, she saw the dark spots on his pillow. And she frowned, knowing their origin. She slumped with pain for her baby, for the excruciating pain he was in, and her inability to help him. But he woke soon enough.
And they sat together, in silence, and the strength she provided him gave him enough energy to live for the next few minutes. And the next minute passed, and it still hurt, but he had her—to sit next to him. And they sat there, for hours. And the night came and went. And they set up a routine.
In a few days he didn't cry himself to sleep, at first; it took him waking up from his sleep to start the tears that come from deep within. And he'd shed those until there were none left, and his body would shut down. And in the morning, she'd come back. And he'd sit with her. And the night would come; and then the day. And in time he was able to talk, about things that didn't matter. And he clung to her when it became too much. But he thanked all he didn't believe in for at least leaving him her.
And he grew to be able to love the pain he felt, because it was all that he had left of her. At least he had that.