Latch

She had no desire to talk about it, she'd told him right after it had happened and he was sat by her bed, looking at her with watery eyes. She had known him, known him more than half her life, and she knew that even if his English bringing up would otherwise not allow him to want to talk about it, he did want to, if only to make her say something, to stop the bleeding inside of her. But she could not talk about it, had no desire to, and could not bring herself to even mention it, him. It hurt too much.

She knew he was hurting too, and if she knew him—and she was sure that she did, does—he wouldn't push her. After all, no matter how much he loved her, he was still an Englishman. And Englishmen preferred to be left alone to their thoughts and emotions.

So it was a surprise when he strolled in her bedroom a week after it had happened, looking at her determinedly. But when he had spotted her in bed, a mess of tangled sheets, uncombed hair, and red rimmed eyes, his own softened and he walked toward her cautiously. She didn't look at him, only continued to stare at the view outside, watching as the leaves changed colors, signaling that Fall was near. He would have liked it, had he been given a chance to…no, enough. She didn't want to keep thinking about it, couldn't keep thinking about it. It was torture. Robert took a seat on the bed, facing her, and took her hand in his. Still, she refused to look at him, lest she cried and actually have a breakdown that was sure to embarrass both of them.

"Love," he said as his thumb made circles on the back of her hand, rubbing it in a comforting manner. But she really did not feel like being comforted at the moment. "O'brien said that you haven't eaten in two days."

She closed her eyes and sighed then open them again, only to look past him, through him, as if he wasn't even there.

"I'm not hungry." She granted him an answer, anyway. Honestly, she'd lost her appetite. She could not eat, could not find herself to do so. She had been pretty much the same for a week now, ignoring food, refusing it. The only time she had even come as close to eating was when O'Brien served her tea and brought toast along with it. She'd nibbled a little bit, but that was the extent of it.

"Darling, if you continue on like this, your body would not be able to…you're going to be sick," he told her softly. So far, he had not attempted to tilt her head to get her to look at him, for which she was grateful.

She could never live with herself if she had to face him and see the look of anger in his eyes, and even worse, the disappointment in them. She had failed, yet again.

"I deserve it, probably," she murmured, but she knew Robert heard it, because the next thing she knew, he was squeezing her hand and he was making her look at him.

"No," he said forcefully. "You don't deserve anything but to be taken care of. I know how much…I know Cora, I really do. What you're going through, you don't have to be alone in this."

But that was just the point. She was alone. She knew how much Robert had anticipated this baby, no matter how surprised they both were at finding out about it. And she knew, that he'd cried to himself about it. She didn't need anyone to tell her that. But as much pain as he was going through, he did not understand hers, could not possibly even begin to.

Her hand went to the bump that once housed their child, now it felt hollow, empty. It felt like a bitter disappointment.

And so it was: a bitter disappointment.

"I don't wish to talk about this, Robert," she said, almost plaintively, but her voice cracked, and she was close to tears—tears she did not want him to see.

"When I married you," Robert said softly, and it startled her that he'd wanted to talk about their marriage, or the beginning of it, as he had really taken pains in trying not to dwell in it anymore. "When I married you, I promised to love and cherish you, to be here for you always, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health." He sighed, as though the next few words were hard for him to get out. And it really was. "Granted that the first year, I wasn't really the best husband, I had promised myself that I would try, try very hard to be there for you and share with you your happiness and sadness. And for the years after that, it was no longer a vow made out of a guilty conscience, out of obligation, it was a vow made out of love. Because, Cora, darling, I always want to be here, sharing your happiness and your pain, and all the things that…I want to be here, Cora. So please, let me be."

This made her finally look at him, and she stared at him with tears blurring her vision. He might not understand her pain, could not possibly understand the feeling of hollowness left to her by the loss of her child, feeling as though it was her fault…but he was there. And he wanted to be there.

"It was all my fault," she sobbed against his chest as he had gathered her in his arms, letting her cry it all out.

"Listen to me, Cora," he said, his hands gripping her shoulder, pushing her away softly to make her look at him. "This, none of this is your fault. It happens. It happened. And I don't want you to blame yourself for something you had no control over."

"But, if I had only…" but she was cut off.

"No," he insisted. "You couldn't have done anything more. You have done all you can. Accidents happen, it happened to you. And you shouldn't blame yourself for it. You didn't want this to happen."

"It was a boy, Robert," she said, even if Robert knew that already, and it had intensified the burn in his chest when he'd found out. "It was a boy."

"He was, indeed," he said softly, looking like he was about to weep about it, but surely trying not to, if only for Cora's sake.

"I didn't know it could be like this," she whispered as she pushed herself closer to his embrace. At that moment, it was him, and his gentle caresses, his tight embrace that anchored her away from depression, from complete desolation. "I didn't know it could hurt like this. It feels like every bit of me, it's being ripped into sheds, and I feel like…I sometimes wish I had been the one to die in his place, because living with this pain, it's too much."

"Don't say that Cora," he said. "I would not know how to go on without you."

Once, he'd admitted to her that behind all his strength was her, and he would not know where to find it would he ever lose her. She felt the same.

"I just wish the pain would stop," she admitted in a soft whisper as she heard her voice quiver, a new wave of hurt coming on to her, hitting her.

"And it would," he said. "Someday, the pain would stop, recede and our son would be but a beautiful memory. I know it does not feel like it now, but together, we'll find a way, Cora. Like we always do."

She looked up at him then and pressed her lips against his. She didn't know it could be like this, the pain, the comfort—everything. None of this were anything she had wanted to have or happen. And as Robert pressed kisses on her head, softly and slowly lulling her to the sleep that had eluded her for days now, she knew, she knew that once again he had saved her, he'd anchored her out of the emotions that drowned her, and once again, she latched onto him and he kept her afloat, safe, and home.

Fin.

4/28/15

I apparently uploaded there L's. Oh well. Let me know if you liked it or not!