Disclaimer: One Tree Hill and its characters belong to Mark Schwahn, The CW, etc. I'm simply whoring them for my own amusement.
Spoilers/Warnings: Mostly this thing is futuristic, but I've borrowed a few things from Season 5. Namely Owen.
Summary: It wasn't his fault, but she couldn't see anything beyond her despair, beyond her loss. Well, he'd lost, too. He despaired, too. But he was the enemy, he didn't get to have feelings. LP NH BO
A/N: I tried to do fluff, honestly, I did (for a sequel to When All Are One and One Is All). I just don't think I'm cut out for it (really it's mostly smut anyway). But then I got the idea for this little diddy. My muse apparently likes to kill people, the sadist. So, are you ready for ten more chapters of angst? Really, are you sure? BTW, no one hate on Peyton (or Lucas, for that matter). She doesn't stay like this. Swear!
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01. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye
The bathroom had become his sanctuary over the past few days, where he went to get away from the crying and the yelling and the blame that was laid upon his shoulders. At times it felt as if the walls were closing in, like he was suffocating, but that was better than the alternative—being out there. In her vicinity.
He couldn't endure the way she looked at him any longer. The hurt in her eyes. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't anyone's fault, but she didn't understand that, she couldn't comprehend it. She couldn't see anything beyond her despair, beyond her loss. Well, he'd lost, too. He despaired, too. But he was the enemy, he didn't get to have feelings.
His eyes roamed over the pictures taped to the mirror: Peyton, their kids… He was trying to be brave, trying to remain standing but it was so damn hard. He needed… he needed her. He needed to take comfort in her, but she wanted nothing to do with him. Every word she spoke to him was like an accusation, every look a measuring of his next move.
That's why he was here, in the bathroom—he was hiding. A cowardly move, to be sure. He could've left the house altogether, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. They were all hurting and as soon as Peyton got through today, everything would be back to normal. She'd need her time to grieve and he'd give it to her, but they could bounce back from this—they had to.
With shaking hands, Lucas attempted to fasten his tie. It was a futile effort, however. After a few more attempts, he gave up altogether, throwing the piece of silk down on the countertop. Lifting his eyes to the mirror, he stared at his reflection, his bloodshot eyes, the dark circles that bespoke his restless nights.
Closing the toilet lid, he sat down, dropping his head into his hands. How was he going to get through the day? How was he going to stand beside Peyton, attempt to comfort her when she couldn't bear to talk to him, much less look at him? The tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away. He would not fall apart now, not yet. No, he had to be strong until the funeral. Then, he'd fall apart. Only then.
Hearing the bathroom door open, he lifted his head, finding Peyton standing in the doorway. She was dressed all in black, her hair pulled back from her face in one of those messy French twists, a few wisps hanging loosely around her face. She looked radiant, despite her sallow complexion, her own dark circles. "Are you ready?" she asked, her tone surprisingly pleasant. "Where's your tie?"
He pointed to the countertop and as he stood up, she swiped up the tie. Crossing to him, she bid him to lift his collar. "I couldn't do it myself," he told her as if it wasn't obvious. "How are you?" he asked, clasping his hands behind his back so that she didn't see them shake.
Her eyes met his, hard and cold. "I'm swell, Lucas," she snapped.
So much for his hope of today being better than yesterday. Sighing, he said, "Are we really going to do this today, of all days?"
Peyton finished fastening his tie, then stepped back, saying, "I have to go see to the kids." She left the bathroom without another word.
He left the bathroom, returning to his bedroom. He grabbed his coat off its hanger behind the door and pulled it on. As he made his way downstairs to join his family, he thought that he was losing his wife,—just as he'd lost his son.
She was simply going through the motions, had been for days. People kept calling and dropping by the house to offer their condolences on her loss and all she longed to do was tell them to fuck off and go away. Hell, she had done precisely that to her husband. If anyone deserved her animosity, it was Lucas. After all, they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. If it wasn't for him, their son would still be alive, they wouldn't be burying him. They wouldn't say to say goodbye.
"Are you alright?" She looked at Derek, glad that he'd been able to come for the funeral. As she began to shake her head to assure him that she was fine, her legs gave in and she fell into his arms. Efficiently, he set her in a chair, barking orders for a glass of water to whomever was closest to the kitchen. Moments later he was pressing a glass to her lips, insisting that she drink.
"I'm okay. Honest."
"Have you been eating?" At her averted gaze, he chastised, "Peyton!"
She pushed the glass of water into his hand, shuffling to her feet. As she walked away, she felt his scowl at her back. "I don't need your criticisms, Derek. I get them enough from Lucas, thank you very much."
Peyton weaved her way through the people milling about before the funeral service, some she recognized, others she didn't. All of them came to pay their respects. Why? She didn't understand. They didn't know or love Christopher. She didn't see the point. Yet, despite her grief, she appreciated it.
Entering the room where her son lay peaceful in his casket, she found her friends gathered, staring down at him. The funeral director had insisted on closing it, but she refused. She wanted to see his angelic face for as long as she could, caress his puffy little cheek, touch his soft blonde hair. They would be her last moments with him and she refused to squander them because some stuffy old broad told her that it wasn't proper.
She had hoped to have a few moments alone with him, but now that everyone else is here, that hope quickly dissipated. She noticed that Haley and Brooke were standing on either side of Lucas, giving him the consolation that she couldn't—wouldn't. She remained at the doors, watching the interaction between them all, how each woman hugged him, offered her condolences, reminded him that none of what had transpired was his fault. She yearned to say otherwise, but this wasn't the time or place. She was saying goodbye to her baby today, something that no mother should have to do.
She joined her friends and her husband, sidling up next to him to maintain the pretense that things were as they should be, that she didn't blame him for Christopher's death. "Hey everyone."
Brooke wiped her eyes, moving to her side, taking her hand. "He looks peaceful, Peyton. Like a little angel."
Peyton had to tamp down the urge to slap her best friend. She wanted to snap that he looked peaceful in his sleep, too, that he had died that way, of course he looked peaceful, but somehow managed to curb the impulse. Whatever comments anyone made were going to be the wrong ones. She didn't want to bury her son. She wanted to close her eyes and for this to be nothing more than a dream—a horrible, skin crawling nightmare. She pinched herself on the off chance that maybe… just maybe…
No. That was wishful thinking; this was her reality. Within the hour she'd be saying goodbye to her son, watching his body disappear six feet into the ground. She didn't know how she was going to bear it, how she was going to bear going home seeing reminders of him everywhere…
Around her they talked of Christopher's cute little outfit, the color of his casket, the artwork from his siblings—
"Where are the children?" she asked Lucas. Was he going to be neglectful of them as well? Was one not enough to lose?
Surprisingly, Lucas answered her himself. "My mother took them across the street for something to eat."
He stared at her, obviously waiting for her to say something cutting. "That was thoughtful of her." He flashed her a small smile that managed to squelch her anger for a few moments.
As people began to pour into the room to take their seats for the service, Peyton moved away from her husband's side, choosing to greet people, accept condolences and polite respects. It kept her far away from her husband since she wasn't ready to forgive and forget. She doubted she ever would be.
If it hadn't been for Haley's constant presence, Lucas would've lost his head as the funeral went on. She'd held him tightly as the casket was closed and his son was placed in the hearse. At the cemetery he'd stood with her hanging on his arm long after the crowd had dissipated. Even Peyton had disappeared, no doubt not wanting to share Christopher with him.
"He's in a better place now, Luke," Haley whispered, nudging his arm, trying to get him to move. He stayed precisely where he was, eyes locked on the casket, on his son.
"I should've checked up on him. I could've—"
"No," she said sternly. "Luke, you can't do this to yourself. There was nothing to do. You nor Peyton was to blame for his death."
He scoffed. "If you ask her, I'd bet she'd say differently."
She'd known Lucas her entire life, knew him better than anyone else so she knew when something was wrong with him. Wrong beyond him having just buried his seven-month old son. Haley gestured to the chairs behind them. "You've been so reserved these last few days. Tell me what's going on. How are things with you and Peyton? I picked up on a little hostility between the two of you."
Peyton was the last thing he wanted to discuss at the moment. However, Haley would not relent until she had the truth out of him. "It's not good, Haley. We haven't spoken two nice words to one another since this has happened. I know it's affected her more—after all she carried him for nine months. I just hate that all the blame is heaped upon me."
"You lost him, too. She'll remember that."
Lucas shook his head. "I don't think so. I really don't think we're going to come back from this."
"Of course you will. You're Lucas and Peyton for Pete's sake."
"At least someone's being optimistic," he said, attempting to be cavalier. "She just… the way she looks at me… it's like I'm this huge disappointment. A murderer. I don't think I'm strong enough to endure losing her, too."
Taking his hand in hers, she squeezed it softly, at a loss for words. There was nothing she could say to comfort him, she didn't know the intricacies of his marriage, what had happened since the death of Christopher. Lucas and Peyton were a little addled right now, but they loved one another. They would work things out. She had to believe that enough for the both of them.
The day after Christopher's funeral, Peyton took the kids and went to visit her dad. She told him that she needed to get out of the house, that there were far too many memories of Christopher, that the memories were suffocating her. But he knew the truth—she wanted to get away from him.
His first night alone, he drank. He sat on the back steps of the house, Christopher's favorite plush toy duck in his lap, and drank, not stopping until the bottle was empty and he was completely numb. The next day he spent it abed, recovering from his drunkenness, then he started the process all over.
After Peyton had been gone a week, he left, too. He drove up to Charlotte, seeking shelter with his mom. She told him to be patient with Peyton, that losing a child was not an easy thing to cope with, that she'd forgive him sooner or later. She gave him hope, something that had begun to slip from his grasp since the funeral.
She cooked and fussed over him and it was nice to see his mother nice and happy, settled in a comfortable life with Andy and Lily. Until recently they had traveled around, not eager to put down roots anywhere. But as Lily had gotten older, she had longed for some permanence. So, Andy had secured a job in Charlotte and they were content there.
Three days later, Peyton called him to inform him that she'd returned home. They didn't speak long, long enough for him to ask about the kids and if they enjoyed their visit with her dad. She seemed calmer, almost compliant. Maybe his mom was right, that she'd forgive him eventually. Then again there was still that niggling shred of doubt that he just couldn't concede with.
He waited two days before he returned home himself. As he parked in the driveway beside Peyton's SUV, he hoped that things would be different, that together they would deal with their loss—that she would stop blaming Christopher's death on him.
Inside the house, it was quiet. He found the kids settled in front of the television, watching Shrek. "Where's mom?" he asked, dropping kisses to the both of their blonde heads.
"Upstairs," the oldest, Becca, informed him. "Putting Dillon down for a nap."
"How was Grandpa's?"
"Boring," the two of them said in unison. Gillian turned around to face him. "Mom cried a lot while we were there."
Becca smacked her arm. "You weren't supposed to tell him!"
"Ow!" Gillian exclaimed, hitting her sister in kind. "Don't hit me!"
"Hey, hey," Lucas intervened. "That's enough." He looked from one daughter to the other. "Did your mom tell you to lie?" They hesitated and it was all the answer he needed. As he quit the room he said over his shoulder, "No more hitting."
"How does he do that?" Becca hissed to Gilly, arm suspended mid-air.
"He's Daddy," Gilly said as Becca dropped her hand to her lap and they resumed watching the movie.
Upstairs, Lucas stopped in the nursery to look in on Dillon before seeking Peyton out. He touched his hand to his son's head, placing his favorite monkey at his side. After leaning over the railing to kiss Dillon's cheek, he crossed the hall to his room, finding Peyton standing at the window. "You're back."
She turned to look at him then, looking much like the girl he had fallen in love with back in high school, her clothes splattered with dried paint, her hair gathered in a ponytail at the back of her head. It made her look so much younger, reminding him of earlier times, happier times.
He stayed where he was, his only movement to cross his arms and lean against the doorjamb. "You can't run away from your problems. They're still there when you get home." He didn't know what made him say it since the last thing he wanted to do was fight with her, but something made him want to strike back at her.
Peyton had no cunning reply, she just turned back to the window to stare outside. He wondered what she found so compelling out there. "I thought I would come back and it wouldn't hurt so much, that I wouldn't still hear him, see him, feel him. I'd hoped that I could come back and start picking up the pieces." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "All that's left is pieces, Lucas. I don't even feel like a whole person anymore. I feel… I feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest and I don't know… I just don't know."
Her voice broke and he took a step toward her, but she stopped him with a firm, "Don't." When she turned to him again, her face was streaked with tears. "You can't. I can't." Four words and yet they expressed so much, words that she couldn't say, words that he couldn't bear to hear.
"You know I would've saved him."
She nodded her head. "I know that. I do. I know that you loved him, Lucas. I know that if you could've saved him, you would have given your own life for his. I know that. My mind is telling me that it wasn't your fault, that neither one of us is to blame. But my heart? My heart is saying something else."
She loved him, she loved him with all her heart, but every time she looked at him, she remembered that morning that they'd discovered Christopher cold and lifeless in his crib. She'd been so distraught that she'd slapped him, right in front of her children. Becca and Gilly had run into the room, had watched with wide eyes as she'd taken her anguish out on their father. Her emotions had gotten the better of her that morning and she was so ashamed for reacting as she had. But then other emotions took over. Anger, resentment. Lucas had told Becca and Gilly about Christopher, like it was his loss alone. She'd hated him for that.
"What can I do?"
Peyton stared at him, wondering how he was being so calm. Why was he not crying? Why was he not fighting? If he loved her, if he wanted to save their marriage, he should be doing something other than standing there asking her what he could do. What he could do was tell her that he was sorry. What he could do was tell her that it would stop hurting, that her heart would mend in time. What he could do was bring their baby back. But she didn't tell him to do any of things. Instead she told him, "You can leave."
Lucas couldn't say he was surprised. He'd been anticipating something to that effect, though he couldn't really say that he was hoping for this exactly. What surprised him most was that she was crying as she was expressing her desire for him to get the hell out of dodge. He refused to beg her to let him stay—he would not grovel. If she wanted him out, there wasn't anything he could say to change her mind. "If that's what you want."
"It is." Walking to the closet, she opened the double doors, reaching for the suitcase that she had packed for him. She wheeled it to where he was standing. "That's pretty much everything."
"My, aren't we prepared." His words weren't accusing, just fact.
She merely inclined her head in agreement. "We'll work something out for you to spend time with the kids."
"At least you're not planning to keep them from me. I can be relieved for that."
Lucas grabbed the handle of his suitcase, turning for the door. Then, he paused. He didn't look her—he couldn't. "I'm sorry, Peyton. I'm sorry for Chris and I'm sorry for us. I wish… well anyway. Call me whenever I can see the kids."
She stood at the window, watching as he backed out of the driveway. She thought maybe she'd cry, yell, maybe even scream. But she did none of things. She just crossed into Dillon's room who had awoken when Lucas had slammed the door and abandoned their marriage.