oh, william.

XXX

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,

I'm half crazy all for the love of you.

It won't be a stylish marriage -

I can't afford a carriage,

But you'd look sweet on the seat

Of a bicycle built for two.

It hurts to breathe, but he's never slept in a bed so soft, never felt so at peace. His father is here, and his girl, his Daisy. He wants to smile at her, to pat her hand, to let her know that he was all right, but he's so tired. Perhaps after he rests.

She's beautiful, his Daisy. Oh, Lady Mary and Lady Sybil, they have their fine airs and graces, their fancy dresses and such, but his Daisy, his Daisy, she outshines them all. She glows, his Daisy. His wife.

She's staring into space, and once more, he considers holding her hand, running a thumb along her palm like his father used to do with his mother, but his chest squeezes. He winces; the twinges are coming harder and faster now, and he can't help but think that it's coming, and soon. He hopes his mother is there to see him. She always was the first at the door when he visited home, and he knew that if she had her way, she'd be the first to greet him in heaven. The laugh gets tangled in his ribs and breathing becomes a struggle, but he can't help but chuckle to imagine his mother, demanding Jesus to let her stand at the gate to wait for her son. His eyes slip closed.

He'll wait for Daisy that way, when it's her time. He hopes it's not for many years to come.

He likes her hair done up that way, but he likes her usual bun better. She's prettiest when she doesn't try, when she's elbow deep in suds and sneaking a wink at Anna. Mrs. Patmore, all fuss and bluster, would catch her and swipe at her head with a spoon, and Daisy, bright red and giggly with embarrassment, would flash a sheepish grin at William. He felt some of her glow, then, like a mug of tea, like the smell of the summery barn cat at home. His Daisy.

He can feel that warmth flickering now, starting to ease itself out of his body. He sighs, and it doesn't hurt so much, not so much at all. He'd hoped to be married in a church, well and whole, with a happier Daisy at his side. A bicycle built for two, he thinks, and grins inwardly to imagine Daisy trying to pedal one of those gangly things. He's done what he can. And at least he can die knowing that she is provided for, that he can support her, even after he is gone.

Another flicker. Nearly there.

Daisy, Daisy.

Gone.

XXX

a normally cheerful song, written in the late 1800s. trust me to make into something horribly depressing.