Disclaimer: All characters, places and events are property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and Alliance-Atlantis. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made. For entertainment only.
"Bad Moon Risin'" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?" are property of John Fogerty and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
A/N: This fic contains spoilers for S1 and S2, but it is also unadulterated crack!angst. If you are a stickler for canon or abhor OFCs, this may not be for you. If, however, you're not picky about your angst, enjoy.
He was at Sullivan's again for the third time that week, bellied up to the bar with a straight vodka in his hand. It was cold and wet, but he wasn't really tasting it. His tongue still burned with the aftertaste of the argument he'd had with Rebecca, a sour, muddy mixture of resentment and shame.
He had thought that the worst was over. His rehab was winding down, and though there was still an occasional twinge if he turned the wrong way, the small, rabid animal that sank its hot, diseased claws into his gut with every breath was dying. The department shrink had cleared him for duty two weeks ago, and just last week, the captain had returned his gun and shield and put him on active duty. It was only half-time right now, but it beat the shit out of sitting at home and staring at the TV while Rebecca worked her ass off to pay the rent.
He'd told her the news of his reinstatement to active duty fully expecting her to be elated for him and proud of him for making it back and proving that that Lessing bastard hadn't beaten him. But the smile she'd offered him had been strained and fragile, and she hadn't met his gaze when she'd congratulated him.
"You okay, doll?" he'd asked, confused and hurt by her lack of enthusiasm.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she'd answered, but it had been too quick, and strangled. "Why wouldn't I be? I mean, you worked hard for this, right?" She'd picked up a dishtowel and begun to scrub furiously at a spot on the counter.
"Honey, what-?"
"Listen, I have papers to grade, so I'm going to be in the bedroom, all right?" She'd wadded up the towel and thrown it into the sink. She'd rolled up to him and pecked his cheek with dry lips. "I love you," she'd said.
She'd closeted herself in the bedroom for the rest of the night, and she'd still been awake when he'd come to bed at one in the morning, propped on her pillows and squinting blearily at the paper in front of her. He'd crawled into bed and taken her hand, which was smeared with red ink, as if she'd written her fingers raw.
"Hey," he'd murmured, and brushed his lips across her knuckles, "Why don't you get some sleep, huh? You look beat, and that ain't nothin' that can't wait 'til tomorrow, is it?"
She'd looked at him then, and for a moment, her eyes had been so raw and haunted that he'd been startled, but then her expression had cleared. "You're right," she'd said, and capped her pen with unsteady fingers.
That ain't quite right, kid, Gavin corrected. If we're gonna tell this story, we might as well get the facts straight. That's what a good cop does. First off, her eyes weren't so much haunted as fuckin' hunted. She reminded you of an animal crouchin' in the shadows of a thicket, a fieldmouse fleein' the ever-spiralin' shadow of a hawk.
Second off, her expression didn't clear. It fuckin' disappeared, like she was slippin' on a mask. One second, it was naked fear and misery, and the next, it was bland as porcelain. It was her poker face, the one she wears when you start sniffin' around her past too closely or bringin' up subjects she don't like touched.
And let's talk about the way she tasted when you kissed her, overripe and sickly sweet. The taste of puke and mint toothpaste. You recognized that taste because you tasted it for three months solid after your sister's funeral, and it still makes an appearance on March 12th and December 25th. It's mortified sorrow, and it was on her teeth and tongue in a thick film. You thought to ask her about it, but then she was curling into you, and it felt so good, so normal that you didn't want to ruin it. So you buried your face in her hair and went to sleep.
She woke you in the middle of the night to make love to you, cool hands a tantalizin' shock against bare skin. She kissed you and mouthed you and flickered her tongue over your scar tissue in a way that made your balls ache, and when you were pantin' like a dog, she crawled on top and sank you deep between her legs.
And that's when it all started to go wrong. Usually, Rebecca's gentle when she fucks you. She doesn't have the physical strength to ride you like a porn star, and anyway, she's admitted more than once that goin' to your bed is more than just a chance to get her rocks off. It's intimate and sacred, a ritual as much as a romp.
But she wasn't gentle that night. She was fierce and clawin' and desperate. She bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, and then she lapped the beads that stippled on your bottom lip. She ground herself against you hard enough to hurt, and her fingers gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. She tugged your hair when she came, and it hurt so bad that you'da lost your hard-on if you weren't so far gone. She was cryin' when she came, too, shuddering and hitchin' and gulpin' air. She didn't wanna look at you while she was ridin' it out; she kept turnin' her face away. You finally cupped her burnin' cheeks in your hands and made her look at you. She closed her eyes and let the tears drip down her chin. They looked like blood in the moonlight.
I'm sorry, she whispered, and her breath tickled your palm. It was small and sad and broken, so unlike your strong girl with her spine of steel that you shivered in spite of the commingled body heat. 'M so, so sorry, babe. I didn't mean to hurt you. She sank into your befuddled embrace and let her hair fan over your chest.
What is it, doll? you crooned into her ear. Talk to me.
But she wouldn't. She couldn't. She just shook her head and cried with her face buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and miserable against your skin. I can't. I can't, she whispered, and ran her palms over your shoulders as if soothin' you would ease her pain.
She cried herself to sleep. You should have shaken her awake, should have made her tell you what was wrong, but you were tired and confused and scared, and you didn't wanna hurt her any more, so you let her sleep. Now you wonder what would have happened if you'd forced the issue. Maybe if you'd been a bit of an asshole then, you wouldn't be sittin' in this sorry joint, lickin' your wounds now.
He swallowed vodka and grimaced. Maybe. Before Lessing, maybe had been a word for pussies and hand-wringing housewives distraught over which laundry detergent would get the most shitstains out of their husbands' underwear. It had never held a place in his vocabulary. He would, or he would not. He did, or he did not. He could, or he could not. No in-betweens. Cops who existed on the plane of in-betweens did not exist long in this world. They hesitated to consider possibilities and consequences of pulling the trigger and wound up a sorry statistic on the coroner's slab. Maybe got you killed.
But ever since Lessing and the load of C-4 that had dropped a copier onto his stomach and lodged bits of masonry and his cellphone in his abdominal cavity, his entire world had been predicated on maybes. Maybe he would live. Maybe he would wake up. Maybe he would regain normal bowel function and eat solid food again. Maybe he could go home. Maybe he could fuck his wife. Maybe he wasn't too fucked-up to be a cop, and maybe one day, he'd be able to sleep and not have nightmares about spilling his guts into her disbelieving hands when she took off his shirt. Maybe he'd be able to go to bed without checking underneath it for explosives, convinced Lessing had found his way inside and planted C-4 there to blow him and Rebecca to quivering bits while they slept.
Most of those maybes had become absolutes, but the nightmare still found him three times a week, woke him from sleep and left him retching soundlessly over the side of the bed and fisting his fingers in the bedsheets. If he was lucky, Rebecca slept through his feverish night terrors, but sometimes, he wasn't quiet enough, and she would roll over and curl her arm around his waist and belly, unwittingly touching the diseased flesh that had let the nightmare in. She'd tighten her grip and murmur hoarsely against his back, her sleepy voice a soothing, low vibrato against the base of his spine.
Bad dreams, baby? she'd say. It was never a question. It's okay, babe. I'm right here. C'mere now, and she'd pull him backwards into her arms and mutter nonsense into his ear until his muscles relaxed and his frantic mind finally dimmed the lights. She knew that he had dreams, but she didn't know of what, and he had no intention of telling her.
'Course not, his father grunted. How the hell do you tell your wife that you dream of dyin' in her arms? That the dream always ends the same way-with your guts spillin' from between your bloody, clutchin' fingers onto her hands and feet like raw sausage casings? Sometimes, it's when you're about to make love, and sometimes you dream that it happens at the weddin' reception. You're dancin' with her, twirlin' her around and around on that smooth, hardwood floor, and you're so goddamned happy that your chest hurts. Suddenly, you realize why your chest hurts; it's because your guts have unzipped, and you can feel 'em slidin against your dress coat and vest, wet and squelchin'.
You can't say anything because if you open your mouth, you know that blood will come out in a splatterin' gout all over her face and pretty weddin' gown. So you keep your mouth shut and swallow blood like wine and pray that your guts will return themselves to their proper cavity, but they don't. They just keep sloshin' under your clothes, and you wonder why she can't feel them when she presses against you on a turn, why she can't smell the rotten-meat reek of it on your breath as she smiles obliviously at you. But she doesn't, and she's so radiantly beautiful that you can't bring yourself to tell her.
Eventually, your guts fall out, first in a discreet dribble down your pant leg and then in a cascadin' torrent from underneath your coat. The blood pools underneath your feet and the ropes of your guts tangle in your feet, but you keep dancin'. You can't stop. You foxtrot and spin even as the other guests notice what's happenin'. It hurts so bad, and you can't breathe, but you can't stop. You have to make it a good dance for her 'cause it's the only one she's ever gonna get.
People are screamin' and slidin' in the mess. Messer John Travoltas through the slick and drops his glasses in a puddle of blood. Mac is there, too, and for some damn reason, he's holdin' up a dirty shoelace in one hand and tellin' you he can fix it if you'll just come here a minute. You want him to-oh, God, how you want him to-but the dance only carries you further away from him.
You waltz past me and your ma, and blood splashes onto her readin' glasses while she stands there with her glass of chablis. She watches you with a frozen smile that's really a scream, and Rebecca is still smiling. I love you, she says.
The paralysis finally breaks, and the dance lurches to a graceless halt. She's confused; she was havin' fun dancin' and doesn't want to stop, but it's hard for you to even stand now. You reach down to grab your insides and stuff them back in, but they're too heavy and slippery and just fall through your fumblin' fingers.
She just stares. She understands now, and you can see the horror creepin' into her eyes, the revulsion. She backs away from you, and as she does, she catches sight of her dress. It was flawless white when she put it on that mornin' in the church, but it is a deep, ugly red now, sticky and clingin' to her skin. You are all over her arms and throat and the ends of her hair.
You want to tell her how sorry you are for ruinin' her day, that you never meant for it to turn out this way, but when you open your mouth, all that comes out is blood. You're so sorry, so, so sorry. All you wanted was to make her happy, make it good for her, but just like everything else, you fucked it up. Instead of bein' Cinderella, she's standin' there like Carrie White, all blooded-up and no revenge to take.
You take a step towards her. You don't know why; maybe you want to resume the dance, or maybe you just want her to help you pick yourself off the floor. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter because she won't do either. She just backs away from you, pretty, slippered feet slopping noisily in the blood. Then she raises her hands to her face and begins to scream, and when she opens her mouth, there's a ball of fire in place of her tongue. Sometimes when she screams, a bright light comes out, like the light from a photocopier. That's when you wake up with your heart poundin' outta your chest and your balls high and tight against your scarred belly.
You stare at the ceilin' with a scream lodged in your throat, and then you turn your head, convinced that Rebecca's gonna be covered in blood. But she's always sleepin' peacefully, burrowed into her covers on her side of the bed. You watch her until your heartrate slows, and then you brush her hair from her face and kiss her. You always tell her you love her, over and over against her mouth. Sometimes it wakes her up, and she shifts and stirs beneath her blankets and pulls you close.
On the nights she doesn't wake up, you get outta bed and wander aimlessly through the apartment. You go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet and let the cool, plastic seat burn your ass and the back of your thighs. You go into the kitchen, fix yourself a glass of water, and pour it down the sink without drinkin' it. You stare out the livin' room windows.
On the really bad nights, you go out to the roof and stand there in your boxers under the moonlight. You close your eyes and tilt your head and take a deep breath. It tastes like exhaust and sweat and burnt oil, but it's still a million times sweeter than the cloud of ash and dust that was almost your last breath. You take it in and thank God for it, and then you pad over to the edge of the roof and look at the street below.
You crouch there and ask what might have happened if things had turned out differently, if you had been three steps slower and the bomb had killed you instead of just guttin' you. You try to imagine Rebecca lyin' alone in a bed meant for two, holdin' your pillow 'cause it's the only thing left that smells like you. You picture her just tryin' to get through the days with nothin' for comfort but your badge and a tri-cornered flag in a tasteful shadowbox. You imagine spendin' eternity starin' through the glass wall that separates the livin' from the dead and not bein' able to hold her when she wakes up cryin' for you in the middle of the night.
You think of that, and suddenly the life insurance policy you took out on yourself when you got married doesn't seem like enough. Sure, she'll never have to worry about payin' for your funeral or the bills dyin' always leaves, but it won't make her happy or keep her warm in the winter or make her laugh when all she wants to do is cry. Not like you can.
Could, he told his father morosely. Not like I could. I can't anymore.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile or heard her laugh. That night at Salvatore's, he supposed, when he'd though the worst was over. She'd laughed then-not the nervous laughter of a woman holding onto her hopes with both hands-real laughter that vibrated in his bones and made him forget the wattle of scar tissue under his bellybutton. She'd drunk wine with him and split a platter of steamed mussels and held his hand, and she'd been sweet in his mouth when he stole kisses in the candlelight.
They'd broken their three-month fast that night and feasted on each other, reacquainted themselves with delights of taste and texture and smell. Mrs. Petrinski had broken out her broom symphony and threatened to call the cops, but he hadn't cared. His girl was there, really there with him in a way she hadn't been since the bombing, vibrant and hot beneath his eager hands, and he'd savored it.
They'd talked that night between rounds of languid lovemaking, talked about the future, made idle plans while tracing patterns on each other's sweat-sticky skin. She'd even broached the topic of children in a way that made his stomach flutter with anticipation. Not in the abstract, but in a thoughtful, concrete manner, as if it were a real possibility somewhere down the line.
You'd talked about kids before you got married, Gavin said. Whether you wanted a family or not. You'd always told her that it didn't matter one way or the other, that you'd take 'em if they came and be glad to have 'em, but wouldn't actively plan for 'em. That way, there was no pressure and no disappointment. It was true, too, what you said. You weren't a dirty liar. But all the same, you wouldn't mind it if God erred on the side of a kid or two.
Not that you'd ever tell Rebecca that. She doesn't deserve that kind of pressure. She's a brilliant woman and a good wife and she's put up with the bullshit of your job-the long hours, the broken dates, and the missed anniversary dinners-with more grace than most women. Sure, she cried when you spent your third anniversary in an interrogation room with a perp instead with her, but she didn't browbeat you over the head with your shortcomin's and remind you of it for the next six months in every squabble you had. She didn't tell you she hated you. She just sniffled ruefully, told you she wished you coulda gone to the Rangers game with her like she'd planned, and got on with life. To her, proof of love wasn't found in the keepin' of dinner dates, but in all the ordinary hours after. So, if she couldn't or wouldn't go through the difficulty of bearing you a child, you were perfectly willin' to let it go.
So when she started talkin' about the possibility of a family one day, you couldn't believe it. You tried to play it casual, make jokes to show that it didn't have to be serious, but your mouth was dry, and in your mind's eye, you saw yourself playin' with a toddlin' little boy in Yankee shortpants. She whispered names into your ear and onto your skin, and you were only too happy to oblige her when she straddled you and set about the business of makin' it happen.
He snorted and crunched a piece of ice between his teeth. Maybe it was a sign from God when she hadn't caught pregnant that night. Three times in eight hours should have gotten the job done, but two weeks later, the pad had been in the trashcan just like always, and he'd been disappointed to see it as he shambled into the shower.
Then again, maybe it was for the best. The Rebecca that shared his bed now was not the same Rebecca that had taken his name in 2003. That Rebecca had been hard as steel, yes, but she had also been calm and gentle, fighting only when she saw no other choice and always with logic and tact.
But this Rebecca, the one after the explosion, was unrecognizable. She fought first and thought later, and she seemed to enjoy it. She was all teeth and claws and blind, flailing rage. An issue that would once had prompted a snide remark and a shrug now prompted screaming, smokescreens, and hurled insults. She'd even thrown a mug at him in the heat of battle over the credit card bill. She'd missed high and right, but he'd been so stunned by the unexpected violence that he'd simply stared at her.
To her credit, Gavin said, she was as shocked as you. The shatterin' of ceramic against plaster stopped the fight cold, and she stared at the wall and the fragments of dead mug like she couldn't place them. She blinked and then stared at her hand, which was still hovering dreamily in mid-air, fingers curled slackly over a phantom mug. She opened her mouth and let out a mortified squeak and ran her fingers through her hair. When she looked at you, her eyes were anguished and bleak.
Honey, I-, she began. Her mouth worked uselessly, fumblin' with the curves and edges of the words in her mouth. Open. Close. Open. Stretch. Suddenly, you knew what she was tryin' to say. Not I'm sorry, but Help me. But you couldn't. Fuck, you can't even help yourself anymore. So you grabbed your coat and headed for Sullivan's and pretended that you couldn't hear her cryin' when you slammed the door behind you.
You never know which Rebecca you're gonna come home to anymore. Sometimes you open the door, and it's like none of this ever happened. She meets you at the threshold with a kiss and a playful swat on the ass, and it's plain as day that she loves you more than life. She asks about your day and how you're feelin', and she plays with you while you cook dinner. She snuggles with you on the sofa to watch Letterman, and you go to sleep thinkin' it'll finally be okay.
But it never is. The next mornin', she's sullen and angry, hunched in her chair so she doesn't have to look at you when she talks. She barely returns your kiss goodbye, and when you come home, she sneers and retreats to the whiteboard in the small office next to the bedroom. The Rebecca you love makes love to you like she's tryin' to remember every touch you've ever shared, but this one fucks you, hard and brutally, like she's trying to forget that such a thing as gentleness exists in the world. It feels dirty and tainted, and you always want to puke afterwards.
Which one is gonna find you tonight?
He didn't know, but he supposed it was time to find out. He drained his glass with a final jerk of his wrist, tossed a crumpled ten on the bar, and slipped into the night. It was cool but not yet cold, and the faint September breeze was good on his face. His cop instincts wouldn't let him close his eyes-not this late at night-but he tilted his chin skyward and let the wind play through his hair.
The old Rebecca would have loved a night like this, he thought sadly. She'd've happily struggled into that goosedown coat I got her for her birthday a few years back and trundled with me around the block. She'd have held my hand and lingered to look for stars peekin' through the clouds, and when it got later and colder, she'd have burrowed close to me and let me hold her while we strolled. The image of Rebecca with her head resting in the curve just below his ribs made his chest ache, and he swore to dispel the cramp.
It wasn't fucking fair. He missed his wife. He missed her gentle hands and soft voice, smoothing away the grit and chafing hurt of another shitty day, missed her gentle optimism that tomorrow would be better, and even if it wasn't, she'd be there to dust him off again. He missed her clear-eyed equilibrium when he got too tangled in himself to know which way was up.
People thought he hated Lessing for what he'd done to him, and for the six lives he'd stolen despite his best efforts to get them out in time. And it was true; he did. He hated it any time a crook got one over on him on the scorecard, and he hated the fact that six people who had been alive that Sunday morning were dead before Sunday afternoon. That failure would stay with him forever, move in tandem with the scar on his abdomen.
But what he hated him for most, the indictment he hoped the Devil would read when Lessing woke up in Hell after a date with the needle, was the loss of his wife. She was still alive, but what he had done had irrevocably altered her. His fragile china doll of serenity and glass had become a creature with too many teeth and not enough skin. The one place in the city that had been his safe haven was now a place he was afraid to go.
The leaden apprehension had already settled into his calves and feet by the time he got home. He had just pulled his keys from his pants pocket when he realized he could hear music coming from inside, tinny and indistinct through the door. Rebecca had apparently hauled his boombox from the cramped hall closet. And then he heard shattering glass.
Adrenaline rose in his throat, bitter and stinging, and he slipped his sidearm from its holster. He pressed himself against the wall alongside his door, gun gripped in both hands.
"Rebecca? Doll?" he called. He reached out and tested the doorknob. Locked. "Rebecca?"
No answer. Just the music. There was another splintering crash. "Fuck," he swore, and shouldered the door.
The door flew open to reveal the hall, and broken glass glittered on the floor like stardust. Picture frames lay broken and twisted, and the pictures themselves were strewn like fallen leaves. He dimly registered that his wedding photo and the picture of his graduation from the police academy were untouched as he swept the area.
"NYPD," he called, acutely aware of how wrong it felt to be saying that in his own apartment.
Beyond the hall, the living room was in similar shambles. The coffee table lay on its side, legs thrust stiffly out like a dead dog in full rigor, and the TV had fallen from its stand and lay drunkenly on its blinded face. The couch was still upright, but the cushions had been thrown onto the floor, and the smaller throw pillows had been gutted. Their stuffing jutted from gaping wounds in the fabric, and for a moment, he was back in the rubble, cold and dying with his guts exposed to the dark and dust. He turned his head to look into Rebecca's office instead.
It hadn't fared any better. Her desk had overturned, and the whiteboard on which she worked her magic in the language of numbers was covered in indecipherable scrawls of black and red. A hairline crack spidered down the center of the board.
"Sweetheart, talk to me."
Still no answer, but the music was coming from the kitchen, and so he stepped gingerly over the shards of broken glass and bits of broken frame and crept inside. His sole crunched in shattered glass and ceramic, and when he looked down, he saw that the floor was covered in shards of various shades and textures. Dust from ruined plates and mugs danced in the air and drifted slowly to earth, and he was forcibly reminded of the fine rain of dust that had misted over his face just before his lights went out.
Rebecca's wheelchair was in the middle of the room, but its occupant was huddled in the far corner by the sink, legs splayed indelicately in front of her. His boombox was on one side of her, and now he recognized the music. It was Creedence Clearwater Revival. On her other side were the dishes-plates, bowls, and cups-and as he watched, she picked up a plate and hurled it across the room.
I see a bad moon risin', John Fogerty sang as the plate disintegrated against the refrigerator door.
Rebecca's face was blank and dead. She was weeping, but there was no sound, only slow, fat tears leaving tracks in the dust on her face. She picked up more tableware, a cup this time, and lobbed it. It exploded against the counter, and fragments skidded across the floor like shrapnel. He knew he should stop her, but he was morbidly fascinated, and he could only watch, rooted to the spot with his gun drooping in his slack grip.
She chose another dish from the dwindling pile and threw the dish like a Frisbee.
"Oh, God," he managed, and holstered his gun. He crossed the room on unsteady legs and knelt beside her. "Doll, what're you doin', baby?" He brushed her hair from her disturbingly expressionless face.
She just shook her head and reached for another dish. He grabbed her searching hand and was surprised at wetness on her palm. He examined his fingers and found them bloody. He turned over her palm and found it stippled with cuts.
"Oh, Jesus." It was brittle. "Why, doll?" He cupped her face and forced her to look at him. "Why are you hurtin' yourself?" Beseeching.
At first, the unsettling blankness remained, and then recognition flooded those beautiful, blue eyes, recognition and bone-deep misery. "Why not? Everything else does. Everybody needs a little equilibrium. Outside to match the inside." She turned up the boombox.
He sat heavily beside her and tucked her against his body. She rested her head on his shoulder.
"Why you hurtin', doll?" he asked.
She snorted. "Do you really have to ask?" It was soft and exhausted.
No. But he could hope. He was tired. Tired of laying open his wounds for public inspection every time some shrink got a wild hair. Tired of the X-rays and the ultrasounds and the barium swallows. He wanted his guts to stay sewn up and become his own business again, and he wanted to forget that David Lessing had ever entered his world, much less destroyed it.
He put an arm around her. Her bloody palm pressed his chest. "It's all right, doll. I promise."
She swallowed. "I always thought I was prepared for the possibility that you might not come home to me, that I understood the risk I was taking by giving my heart to a cop. But then your captain and Danny Messer showed up at the door, and Messer was so fucked-up, and I knew… And the bottom dropped out of my world. I couldn't breathe, couldn't feel my legs, couldn't see, and they were telling me I had to come now, right now."
He closed his eyes and rested his chin on the crown of her head. He had always meant to ask her what it had been like for her during his unscheduled absence from the world, but all his good intentions had been swept aside beneath the all-consuming pain that greeted him when he'd opened his gummy eyes eight days later. It had been his pitiless master, subdued only by massive amounts of morphine that made his mouth slow and stupid. It had been easier to drift, and so he had, leaving her to hold vigil over him while he slept.
She deserved better, said an accusatory voice inside his head. She was a rock while you were out and a long time after. She was there every time you opened your eyes, day and night, and she was always touchin' and talkin' and makin' sure you were warm. She told you you were handsome even with a nasogastric tube in your nose, and she did her best to distract you from the pain when the drugs wouldn't touch it. She'd hold her palm over your belly and murmur words that made no sense, and the pain would loosen its grip. Not much, but enough that you no longer wished the bomb had finished the job. Then the nurse would come in with your next dose, and just before you gave in to oblivion, Rebecca'd kiss your mouth and tell you you were beautiful.
She kept it up even after you came home. Yeah, she was a pain in the ass, followin' you everywhere, but she was only doin' the best she could in the nightmare-world you brought her home to. You had no right, yellin' at her like you did, blamin' her for one misstep after ten thousand flawless miles, but you were so wrapped up in playin' woe-is-me that you didn't care. It was only after, when she'd retreated into silence, that you realized how far you'd gone.
Even after the retreat, she took care of you, made it as easy for you as she could. She studied recipe books and supplemented your puddin' with flavored slurries-mint and peach and mango. She combined flavors, and whatever she put in them eased your crampin' stomach. Even if you didn't see her, there was a slurry waitin' for you on your way out the door to rehab. You never took the time to thank her. After all, you were too busy getting back to the job that nearly killed you.
The longer you went without talkin' about it, the easier it was, and besides, why bring it up when things were getting better? That's what you told yourself. 'Cept it wasn't better. She was just stuffin' it all down inside, hidin' it so you wouldn't have to deal with her pain on top of everything else. She was your perfect little Sineater, chokin' on the darkness so you could pretend you'd rediscovered the light.
But she can't swallow it anymore. Honestly, it's a miracle she's kept it down this long. The effort has wasted her from the inside out. She's too thin. You can feel that now that you've taken the blinders off. She needs to eat, and God knows when she slept last.
Help me. That was what she was trying to say the night she first discovered her love of crockery mutilation. You turned away then because you didn't want to see your pain on her face, but you can't turn away now. You can't afford to. If you do, the next cut won't be just a superficial scrape on her palm.
Let it go, doll, he thought, and began to rock her. Let it out. Let it all out.
"I thought you'd been shot," she was saying. "And then I got there, and I saw you, and oh, God." She groaned and began to cry. "I wanted to be with you. Normally, it's allowed, but they wouldn't let me because- Your wound was open, and they couldn't figure out how to sterilize my chair. They tried…but-," She trailed off. "I offered to crawl on my hands and knees, but they wouldn't let me, so I had to stay outside the room."
His stomach rolled at the image of his proud wife begging the doctors to let her crawl across the floor like a drunk just to be with him. "Son of a bitch," he groaned.
One more indictment to lay at that bastard's fuckin' feet, he thought savagely. If I ever get the chance, I'm gonna blow that motherfucker's head off, but before I do, I'm gonna make him crawl on his hands and knees and beg her for forgiveness.
"It's probably best that you didn't. I wouldn'ta wanted you to see me like that," he said softly.
"I could see you," she corrected miserably. "I just couldn't touch you or tell you how much I loved you, and I was so scared, so afraid that if the worst happened, you'd never know how much I loved you." She gulped for air against his chest.
"That is the one thing I do know," he assured her. "Don't you ever think I don't, you hear me? You done good. You done so fuckin' good by me in alla this, and I love you."
She began to sob. "B-but she said it was all my fault."
"Who?" he said sharply. "Who said that to you?"
"Your m-m-mother," she wailed. "She said it was all m-my fault, that you were too tired from looking after me to get out fast enough. That maybe if I wasn't-,"
He rearranged her so that she was straddling him as he sat with his back against the cabinets. He cupped her face in his hands. "Rebecca, you listen to me now. None of this was your fault. None."
"But-," she protested.
"No," he said firmly, and kissed her. "No buts. This is not your fault. You were what got me through this. You. Nobody else. All I want is for us to get back to normal, get back to buildin' a life together. My mother had no business sayin' that to you when she shoulda been lookin' out for you, and by God, she'll never say it again. We're gonna get through this, you and me, I promise. It's gonna be okay."
"It is not okay," she shrieked suddenly. ""He fucking blew you up," she shouted, and he could see the cords in her neck. "He blew you up to prove a stupid point, and the only thing between you and a funeral was a dirty goddamn shoelace. He blew you up, my baby, and you almost died, almost left me, and four months later, everyone pretends like it's all okay, but it's not. It's not, and it's not never going to be completely okay ever again."
Then his china doll shattered in his hand, and he could only hold her and rock in silence as her pieces ground and shifted in his embrace. There was no comfort that he could offer her because she was right. He had been blown up, and it was not okay, and he wasn't sure if it ever would be for either one of them.
And I wonder. Oh, I wonder. Who'll stop the rain? John Fogerty sang as he held his sobbing, hysterical wife in his arms, and sitting on the kitchen floor in the ruins of his dinnerware, he thought that was a very good question.
"I love you, Rebecca. I love you. Stay with me. Please?" he begged, and prayed it would be enough.