Chapter song: Blinding by Florence + The Machine
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight
Sitting back in the office chair of his tiny office, his eyes closed, he has his head thrown back. His hand is in her hair as she bobs her head up and down on him at just the right pace.
He has always loved his wife's mouth.
Whether he's kissing it, or it's kissing him. Whether it's just a small smile, or a pout.
But right now? He's falling in love with it all over again. She knows just the right places to touch with her hands, just the right places to touch with her tongue. She knows when to go fast, when to slow down. No one's ever known his body like her.
He hears his office door open, and then a loud gasp is followed by a choked sob. He jerks his head up to see who failed to knock before entering.
His wife.
Confused, he looks down.
Grasped in his hand is the wrong color of hair. The eyes staring back at him are the wrong color of eyes. Those hands... that mouth. Everything is wrong.
He shoves her off of him and stands quickly while zipping himself up.
He looks over towards the door, but she's gone. The sounds of her cries are the only proof that she was ever there.
He runs out of his office, looking both ways to see where she went. Seeing that she is nowhere in sight, he follows the sound of her cries. He tries calling out for her, but no sound will come out. He runs down hall after hall, opening door after door, only to find dead end after dead end.
Stopping only to catch his breath, his pace is frantic, his heart is panicked. He opens another door and suddenly he's in their home. He listens for her cries again and runs up the stairs. Her sobs grow louder the closer he gets to their bedroom.
Relief runs through him as he opens the bedroom door and he sees her curled up under the covers in their bed. Her once desperate cries are now eerily silent.
As he approaches her, he notices she's sleeping and hugging something to her chest. Curious, he crouches down next to her to get a better look.
A picture frame.
He gently grabs her hand to get it out of her grasp, but something's not right.
She feels like ice.
He looks up at her face and loses his breath. Her face is pale, too pale. Her closed eyes are too dark against her pale skin. Her lips are tinted in a pale grey-blue, no longer his favorite shade of pink.
Panicked, he tries in vain to wake her up. She's stiff, too stiff.
He screams her name, shakes her, and yells to no one and anyone to help his wife. A loud shatter is heard over his pleas. The picture frame she was holding, a family portrait, is now shattered into pieces on the floor.
He jolts awake trembling and unable to catch his breath, sweat covering his body. He feels warm hands on his face and the sound of his wife's soft but strained voice telling him over and over again he's okay, that it was just a dream.
He grabs her and holds her as close to him as he can get her, but still not close enough. Never close enough.
She runs her hand through his hair, wet with sweat. Still trying to sooth him with her soft voice, repeating like a mantra that she's here, it was just a dream.
His thoughts scream at her that it wasn't just a dream. It wasn't. It was too close to reality. If their son came home a moment too late...
He swallows down the roll of nausea that hits him and holds her even tighter.
After several minutes, his breathing slows down and his trembles subside. His emotions are still all over the place, but there's one emotion that weighs heavily on him the most.
Guilt.
She's comforting him. She's comforting him.
He unwraps his arms from around her, unable to even look her in the eyes as he sits up. She asks him if he needs anything. Another stab of guilt. He shakes his head no and gets out of bed. She tries again, asking if he's sure. He looks at the clock. 5:58. He nods his head yes and tells her he's just going to take a shower and get an early start on the day.
He still can't look at her as he walks passed her to go into their en suite bathroom. He doesn't want her to see the fear that is still in his eyes. He could have lost her. That could have been what he came home to that night.
He can't shake the memories of his dream, the memories of what could have been, or what could still be.
Turning the shower temp to the highest, he attempts to wash away any remembrance of the dream. This becomes futile as flashes of his wife's lifeless body, cold as ice and the ugliest colors of blue run rampant through his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, but the image seems to be ingrained in his mind.
Resting his forehead on the cool tile of the shower, he can not help but think of how easy all this could have been prevented if he had just talked to her, paid more attention to her. Simple things a man does with his wife without even having to think about it. He's so lost in his thoughts that he does not even realize the water's turning cold until he's numb.
Walking to his closet to get ready for the day, he still can't bring himself to look at his wife. He does not know what will happen if he does. He's afraid that all it will take is just one look at her and he'll confess everything. The affair, the journal, even his dream. All the things he's not sure she even wants to know about right now. He's afraid that if he tells her, it will be the final nail in her coffin.
The only thing he can do now is show her that he loves her. Show her that she's wanted, needed. Show her that she and their son are his everything. Just show her that he can still be that man he used to be. The one she fell in love with.
Just before he leaves the bedroom, he finds the courage to finally look at her. She's asleep, but he can tell it's not restful. There's a crease in her brow, one she always wears when she's worried or thinking hard about something. He can't even begin to wonder what it is she's dreaming about.
Leaning down, he kisses her forehead, then her cheek, whispering I love you before leaving their bedroom and quietly shutting the door.
Once he starts to walk away from the door, he starts feeling a sense of anxiety. What if he comes home today and his nightmare becomes his reality? How is he supposed to go to work not knowing if she's okay?
As he starts his car, he realizes he won't be able to. He can't just not go to work, though. Not because it's more important than her, but because he knows she'll be suspicious and she'll worry even more. Especially the way he acted after she comforted him this morning.
Getting back out of his car, he re-enters his house and runs up the stairs to his son's bedroom.
A/N: Huge thanks to my pre readers for this chapter, Crackylu and my wifey, BittenIn Can.. also to my kick ass beta, Allison Cullen!