A/N: Alright, I decided to start this because it's slowly eating at my soul. Now, I know what you're all saying, what about WSL? FINISH THAT DAMNIT! Well, maybe not all of you. I promise, I will finish it, and soon too. I plan on working on this and WSL alongside one another, and since this one isn't going to be too long, I hope to finish them around the same time. Now that that's settled.
This is going to be very, very angsty, but that's not all that it will be. It's a...hm...I would like to believe that perhaps it is different than any of the other angst filled, TJ has to learn to live without Spinelli, painfully sad, and unsettling, bawl your eyes out deathfics. But, I don't know, that's up to you. There's going to be romance in this yes, and really, it's a...hm...it's about the lives of these people that have to deal with this horrible tragedy and perhaps the biggest tragedy of all, watching the first really horrible tragedy tear their best friend apart.
Summary: TJ loses the love of his life unexpectedly. When everyone is telling him to let go, can he hold on to what he has left of her. Can he move on without losing her? Yes, this will be extremely sad, and very, very miserable in places. It will be switching point of views, from first person to third person, so I hope it doesn't get confusing. There will also be a little, hm...foul language, sexuality, mention of suicide, drugs, alcohol abuse (You know, nothing out of the ordinary from my stories), oh, and also a questioning of the existence of God...(I'm "atheist" (sort of...), for a heads up, so God won't be a big part in the story, but I hope that I won't take an "atheist's" pov on the part where He is important, because I do respect those that do believe in Him.)
Alright, pull out the box of tissues and...ENJOY!
Chapter 1: Bleak Start
It was 4:12 when I was startled awake that dark morning. I remember because I glanced at the digital clock beside my bed. Somehow it seemed important that I know the time. I was absolutely convinced that I was dead, as there could be no other explanation for that cold and empty feeling that had settled on me like a dark cloud. Of course, that was four hours before I learned that the love of my life, my soul mate, my dream girl, my everything, my significant other, my wife, was dead.
I received a phone call, which, I might add is the worst way to tell someone that the person he or she loved more than life is gone. I'm terrified of phones now, probably why for the first year or so after her death I didn't have one. I recall the conversation distinctly; it would always be clear and vivid in my mind even if everything else that day wasn't.
"Mr. Dettweiler?" the man on the end of the phone had said, and while it was supposed to be an adult way of addressing me I felt very much like a child. He told me my wife, one Ashley Funicello Dettweiler was in a horrible accident and presumed dead. Presumed. That's they're way of saying, she's undoubtedly dead but since we have no body we'll let you lie awake every night for the rest of your life wondering if it's really true. I asked all the questions you're supposed to ask and still find it impressive that I was able to form coherent sentences at all. How? Plane went down. When? That morning, around 4:10 to 4:20. I wanted to scream "it was 4:12 you inaccurate assholes," but I didn't. Where? On the flight from San Diego. She was on her way home. They answered all of my questions except for, perhaps, the most important one; why? No one seemed capable of giving me even a partially satisfactory answer to that one simple question.
The man told me it was probably a quick and painless death, as though somehow the knowledge would comfort me. I thanked him, though it seemed inappropriate. Where you supposed to thank the person who practically ripped your heart out?
For a long time after the call I sat staring blankly into space. I don't think I cried. I should have cried. But I couldn't. Somehow I thought if I cried, it would make it real, it would make it all real. And surely, surely, it had to be a bad dream. Didn't it?
-0-0-0-0--------May 2000--------0-0-0-0-
I stared at my front door anxiously feeling the knot in my stomach twist once more before I entered the small blue house with the white picket fence around the perfect green yard, and the pretty wooden mailbox that read Dettweiler across the side in shiny gold letters. My house.
"I'm home," I called and waited for an answer. I'd been gone for the weekend, on a camping trip with a few friends as far as my parents knew. I was supposed to be back four hours before, but things got off schedule. To be honest, we didn't even go to the forest.
"TJ? You're late for dinner," my mother called from the kitchen and I could hear the sink faucet running.
"We've already cleaned up, son," my dad put in from the family room that was joined to the kitchen. I could also hear the television playing; it was tuned in on a football game and from the sounds of the crowd the home team was winning.
"That's alright," I replied, tossing my coat on the rack, "I already ate. I have something to tell you guys."
"Can it wait 'till after the game?" my dad asked as I joined him.
"No," I muttered, "It's important." I tried to force a smile, present the news happily. It was good news, after all, at least to me it was. My mother leaned on the counter that looked out into the living room in the kitchen, dishtowel in hand. She placed her hand on her hip and frowned slightly.
"What is it?" she inquired in the drawn out exasperated tone only a mother can achieve.
"First things first," I told them, "You have to promise not to get mad, yell, or overreact." It was a promise that, despite my confidence, I doubted they could keep. My father straightened in his reclining chair, muting the television.
"Oh Christ, Theodore, you're not in trouble at school again, are you? At the end of the weekend you tell us too, figures," my mother moaned.
"There's only a month left, son," my father started in, "You didn't pull another laxative in the principle's coffee again, did you?"
"Hey, I had to do that dad," I argued, riled up by the reminder of that innocent, little 'prank', "He was going to give all us guys the 'Wet Dream Lecture' again. I've heard it like, a hundred times already..." Besides, they still couldn't prove that one was me; I thought to add, but then of course...
"Young man, if the next words out of your mouth are 'they can't actually prove it was me, yet' or 'it was really supposed to be just a harmless joke', you are so..."
"Mom, would you please," I interrupted.
"Do we have to call the principle, again? Poor Monty, maybe I should bake him one of my famous Triple layer Chocolate cakes," my mother mused.
"It's your turn to go down there for a talk, honey," my father told her tersely.
"Oh, honestly, should we ground him this time? Maybe we should leave punishment ideas up to Monty, like he offered last time..."
"Me and Spinelli eloped," I said quietly. Not quietly enough though, as both my parents fell silent. I braced myself against that unusual hush.
"That's not a funny joke," my mother finally stated, her face particularly blanched, her lips pursed together, splotchy white.
"It's not a joke, mom," I mumbled, occupying myself with procuring all lint from my cotton sweater. I couldn't look them in the face, I didn't want to. I could feel their anger and that was enough.
"What do you mean you eloped?" my father boiled over.
"We...um...drove to the town over...there's a nice little chapel there...and no one knew us so...we were married," I shrugged, "I mean, it wasn't that hard. We're both adults, so..."
"Adults? You're only eighteen, still in highschool! You are too young!" my mom screeched. With the realization that what I was saying was not, by any means a joke, the yelling began. I could only make out a few of the things they were hollering, and I tried to answer what questions I could, but they weren't making it easy.
"Why would you do this?" my father demanded, "To humiliate us?"
"Is Ashley pregnant?" my mother gasped.
"No, mom," I cried.
"Do you have any idea how stupid you are being?" my father hissed, "Marriage is not a game, it's a commitment that you are not ready to enter!"
"You're just a kid, TJ, with a great deal of potential! How could you screw up your life like this?" my mother screamed, "Are you sure she isn't pregnant? You're not lying? Because we know the family she comes from, there's no certainty that if she's pregnant it's yours!"
"Mom!" I snapped. That was enough. As far as I was concerned, they had no say in this, and I especially didn't appreciate the way they were talking about Spinelli, "First of all, you've known her since kindergarten, and you know she's not like that! Second of all, I don't see this as screwing up my life. I didn't do this to hurt you guys; I did this for her and me. We did this for her and me. We're in love, and it felt right. We've been in love our entire lives, it's not like we're going to up and change our minds!"
"Then why? If you're going to be in love for the rest of your lives, why couldn't this wait?" my mother demanded, her voice hoarse from the yelling she'd been doing.
"I...I can't tell you..." I mumbled. I'd gotten a full scholarship to pretty much any college I wanted but I couldn't leave Spinelli behind. The only thing I could think of was marrying her, and then they'd have to accommodate for the both of us, right? There were schools with dorms for married couples. I just couldn't tell my parents that, because they'd use it against me. Spinelli and I had known we were going to get married someday. I'd already had plans to propose to her on our graduation day, but then, I received the scholarship letter in the mail and everything seemed to happen so fast, and it all seemed so right. We'd been planning things for weeks.
"Where is Ashley?" my mother finally asked, exasperated.
"Telling her parents," I replied, my eyes downcast. Moments ago I'd never been happier. Leave it to my parents to crush that feeling and tarnish what we'd done.
"I think we'd better call Bob and Flo and get them over here," I'm not certain which of my parents said this, but my father left the room to do just that.
"What were you two thinking?" my mother snarled with my father gone, and the disappointment in her voice clouded over me and I'd never felt worse in my life, "This has got to be the worst plan you've ever concocted. But we will fix this. We can have this thing annulled."
"We're not going to, mom," I said steadily, scared to death that they could actually erase that day. It wasn't fair. We were adults; it was our choice. And shouldn't our parents be happy for us?
A few hours later I found myself sitting up in my old tree house Fort Tender, my legs dangling out the entrance. Spinelli, my wife, which are words I love saying in regards to her, sat beside me, her head resting against my shoulder, our fingers laced within one another's.
"You know, it's funny how 'adults only' conversations still exclude us," she muttered. Our parents were shouting, as far as we could tell, arguing and more often then not they were loud enough for us to hear quite clearly what they were saying.
"This is all that tramp daughter of yours fault. My baby boy would never do anything this ridiculously stupid," that would be my mother.
"You're blaming Ashley for this? This sort of seedy event has your boy's name written all over it! That perverted little bastard son of yours couldn't pass up the opportunity to snake his way into our little girl's life and tarnish her reputation and innocence!" And that would be Spinelli's father, now my father-in-law, though I'm in no rush to call him pop to his face.
"Are you...are you sure we did the right thing?" Spinelli asked, her voice low. I took a deep breath. I needed her on my side in this or I couldn't do it.
"Do you love me?" I whispered, staring intently at her. She met my eyes and I knew, the way my heart fluttered under that gaze that I could do anything for her.
"You know I do," she sighed, "I just...I don't want my parents to hate you. Some of the things they said...why can't they just be happy for us?"
"Because they don't understand," I told her. I lifted our hands, intertwined so that she could see, the small ring on her finger was sparkling in the moonlight, "This is how it's supposed to be. This is the only way. I'm not going to some university for four years without you. Maybe I'm being selfish, but I can't settle for only seeing you on holidays and weekends. I want you all the time." She smiled a crooked smile, and I really can't describe the elated joy that pounded in my chest.
"This has to be one of the worst plans you've ever come up with," she said ironically, chuckling softly.
"I know," I admitted, "But it's easily my favorite." I caught her lips in a soft kiss, that deepened into one of more passion and we only broke apart when her phone went off. She pulled it from her jacket, glancing the screen over, before answering and putting it to her ear.
"Gretchen?" she greeted, confusion crossing her face, "Where are you? What? Yeah, we're together? The school? All right, I guess. Wait a minute." She covered the mouthpiece of her small cell and looked to me, "She wants us to meet her and the gang at Third Street right now. That okay?" I looked down to the house.
"I want your son to stay the hell away from my daughter!" Bob was shouting. I looked back to her and kissed her again.
"Unless you had your heart set on sticking around here for the show," I said cheekily. She grinned, telling Gretchen we'd be five minutes, and stuffing her cell back into her jacket.
We slipped down from the tree house and left the backyard, running hand in hand to the small Elementary school we'd attended not six years before. We could see their silhouettes before we made it to the chain-linked fence of the playground. Mikey and Gus were climbing over the jungle gym, and we could hear their laughter echoing through the empty street. Gretchen was sitting atop the cheese box bundled in layers of clothes, and Vince was leaning next to it, a beer bottle evident in his hand. Spinelli and me climbed the fence with ease, me lifting the barbed wire for her to maneuver under, then making my way carefully over it. We dropped to the ground, which alerted our friends to our arrival with the plop of our sneakers hitting the pavement.
"Well if it isn't the happily married couple," Vince greeted, rushing over followed by the others. They surrounded us in moments.
"I want all the details, Spinelli," Gretchen threw her arms around my wife, leading her away for their girl talk. She lifted her eyebrows suggestively, "All the details." The men promptly surrounded me, ready with pats on the back and jubilant bouts of congratulations.
"Did you write your own vows?" Mikey exclaimed. I shook my head.
"No, we're not that creative," I shrugged. Vince laughed, having been the only one present at the wedding, as the witness. I knew that the rest of the gang was disappointed, but none of them could get away that weekend. They'd all been informed, and Vince had taped the whole thing for their viewing pleasure.
"Oh man," Gus wailed, "I can't believe you guys are actually husband and wife," he burst into tears, "It's just so beautiful." I laughed, as did Vince, while Mikey consoled Gus. There was something pleasant about being around them, about having someone not frown on what Spinelli and I did, that brought back all the wonderful feelings from earlier that day. Gretchen and Spinelli returned shortly and the gang sat smiling at us.
"Alright, guys," I began, catching on to their slyness, "Why are we here?"
"Well," Gretchen smiled, pulling from her back pocket blindfolds, "Do you trust us?"
"To keep a secret, yes," Spinelli chuckled, "To lead me blindfolded, no. Especially not Gus!"
"Hey!" Gus cried, offended.
"Come on, guys," Vince prodded, "You have to." I rolled my eyes, kissing Spinelli on the cheek.
"Humor them," I whispered and with a resonated sigh, she nodded as they slipped the blindfolds over our eyes and took our hands in their own.
We were put into a car, Mikey's from the size and smell, and it seemed a while that we drove until the car came to a stop and we were lead away from it. We entered a building, stepped onto an elevator, heard the ding as we reached our floor and were carefully guided off, and then lead down a hall. I was beginning to think that the trip had no end, and I wouldn't put it past my good friends to pull a prank on my new wife and me.
"Oh god," I heard Spinelli muttering peevishly, and I squeezed her hand, which I held in my own. Then they came to an unpredicted stop, our guides that is.
"All right," Gretchen announced, "You may remove your blindfolds." And we did just that, and were surprised to find ourselves facing a door with a golden number drilled into it, 4.
"Are we...are we at the Regal Hotel?" Spinelli asked, glancing around the fancily decorated hallway, which was impeccably spick and span.
"This would be the honeymoon suite," Vince explained, pulling a keycard from his back pocket and swiping it along the door's computerized lock. The light turned green and he swung the door open to reveal the lavish interior. I think I would have been sick from the frilly pink décor and heart shaped bed, if it weren't for the thought that was put behind this room.
"We didn't want you guys to be staying at some sleaze ball motel," Gus clarified, "So we saved up our money, and put everything we had into this."
"I worked double shifts at my job," Vince puffed out his chest, the proud assistant manager at a small burger joint on Main St. and Fifth.
"And you have no idea how many lawns I mowed," Gus shook his head and I noticed for the first time that night the sunburn he was sporting. A small gasp escaped Spinelli's throat and I looked to her with concern, noticing the tears brimming her eyes.
"Are you alright, Spinelli?" I asked. She nodded, as the gang gathered around, Gretchen rubbing her back, Vince squeezing her shoulder, Gus's brow furrowed together in worry, and Mikey rubbing the hand I wasn't holding.
"It's just," she whispered, fighting her sobs, "I wish...you guys are the best. I mean...I was beginning to regret going through with it...thinking nobody but me and Teej wanted us to be together and..." She lost the fight, burying herself in my chest, arms wrapping tightly around my waist, "I wish our parents could take it like this."
"Parentals didn't handle the news so well, huh?" Vince surmised. I nodded to him, stroking Spinelli's back gently.
"They probably haven't even realized we left yet, still yelling at one another," I told them.
"Well," Gretchen said grinning, having disappeared into the hallway and returned with a trolley up a cake, "We're here to take your mind off of that nonsense." Spinelli peeked out at the cake, only two layers high and dripping with sugary white frosting. A bride and groom topped it.
"What is this?" she asked childishly.
"You see," Mikey stepped in, probably feeling it was his turn to explain something, "We thought since we missed the ceremony, we would have our own party here."
"Now, if I recall correctly from anthropology, the proper tradition of the cake is that the newlyweds cut the first piece and feed it to one another," Gretchen stepped in pushing the trolley into the room and kicking the door shut behind her. She produced a knife and handed it over, "Sorry, we couldn't find a little bride wearing biker boots or a groom wearing a red baseball cap, but that's not to say we didn't try."
"Thanks guys," I mumbled, aware that my cheeks were flushed and my eyes studying my sneakers, "This is...I don't what to say."
"Dare I say it," Vince gasped mockingly, "Our great leader is at a loss for words?" I grinned broadly.
"We're your friends," Gus spoke up, shrugging, "It's what we do." And I suppose no one could have said it better.
With our hands covering the black handle of the knife, Spinelli and I cut into the cake, plopping it on a paper plate. She took a piece and placed it in my mouth, licking the frosting from her fingers, and I did the same for her. Our friends broke into laughter at the ludicrousness of the whole situation, but I don't imagine anything could have made things go from wonderful to horrible back to cloud nine like that small gift imparted on us by our good friends. In a way, it was the entire gang's wedding, Spinelli and I were just the one's who got lucky at the end of the night. And they did, eventually, leave us to be together in marital bliss, as it were.
-0-0-0-0---------------Present Time----------------0-0-0-0-
I hadn't even realized the doorbell rang when Gretchen and Vince entered my kitchen. We stared at one another a long time, tears streaming down Gretchen's face and Vince looking as though he were ready to cry as well, and that he maybe had cried a little before coming.
"Tell us it isn't true," Gretchen whispered, "That the name on the television...on the news...that it wasn't Spinelli's...please."
"Sorry," I murmured, "But I cannot tell a lie." Gretchen's arms were thrust about me but I made no move to accept or return the embrace. Vince left the room, trying to settle the emotions I could see stirring within him. I wanted to break then, to cry, and I did. Because it was real now, with Gretchen sobbing against my shoulder and Vince in the other room bawling, it was all so real. I was only slightly aware that my phone was ringing, only slightly aware that Gus and Mikey were arriving, and bursting into tears upon seeing all of us in the manner we were, confirming their worst fears, only slightly aware that time was still moving, only slightly aware that I was still, partially, alive. The only thing that was really clear, that I was really completely aware of, was that Spinelli, my wife, my love, my life, was gone. And that, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how hard I cried or pleaded or begged, she wasn't coming back. And to be honest, that was all I needed to be aware of at that moment.
Hell, someone else could be in charge; someone else could be the leader, the strong one, the backbone of the group. Me? I just wanted to curl up and go back to sleep and never, ever, wake up again.
END A/N: Just so you are all aware, this is not a one-shot. There will be more chapters (just in case you're not clear on that). Updates may take a bit of time, as I'm working in conjunction with WSL. I know what you're wondering, how can we get a happy ending from this? Well, no one said it would be a happy ending, and no one said it wouldn't.
Oh, and pertaining to the title, Killing the Daisies. Why did I chose that title, you wonder. Well, ever hear the expression "pushing up daisies", yeah...that's where it comes from.
Thanks for reading people, and please REVIEW.
Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.
I'll see ya' around.