Fire. It burns so bright. It burns his eyes; his throat is closing up. Fire. It burns brighter than life. Flames dancing; like undreamt dreams; scattered behind a veil of smoke – there, but not really; a possibility, not immediate reality. Smoke is what really gets him. Not the brightness, or the heat; not the flames; not the obvious danger; no, this he can't guard against, avoid. It's the smoke. His lungs giving up; it's too much. It's air, but not oxygen; breathing in is killing him. He's stumbling. And then he's crawling. Then he's falling. Falling down; he's Alice, but there's no Wonderland, no Land – it's endless falling, never reaching the ground.
"Fitz! Fitz!" She's calling him. There's no fire; no heat; just a thunderous heartbeat and a cool hand on his cheek. "You're burning up." He can hear her getting up, and then the bathroom light is poking holes in the cloak of the night. She walks out, wobbling; overwhelmed by her belly. She sits down on the side of the bed and puts the wet towel to his forehead, her other hand cooling his neck. "It's OK. You're OK." He lets his head fall back, and he breathes out, all out; every ounce of worry, of anger, of guilt. Oh, the guilt. The guilt he lived; the guilt that he's back; the guilt that He isn't. The guilt that she's there, sitting on his side of the bed at 3am trying to take his worry, his anger, his guilt away. The guilt because she'll fail. The guilt that they'll be there, again tomorrow; same time, same place; her worried face, his shaky hands. The guilt. He tries to bury it, every morning, every evening; but it follows him, it's a noose tightening.
Neither of them sleeps until the morning. He's afraid of the dreams and she's terrified of his screams. Neither sleeps. No, instead they move to the nursery – he puts on the wall appliques and she sits in the rocking chair. They don't speak, they just exchange glances, occasionally – making sure the other one's still there, still fighting; checking to see if the demons are still haunting. They shower as the red of the sun seeps into the sky; together; it's not sex or passion, it's tenderness – a brush against her cheek a soft kiss; it's eyes meeting – his pools of guilt, her of worry; the water running, not washing away. Blood runs thicker, this can't be fixed – not by soaked towels, love and nurseries. He can't be fixed; not like this. The damn guilt.
"Maybe you should go stay with your mom." He wraps his arms around her, pulling her back into his chest, his hands on her belly; as she puts on a put of coffee.
"No." That's all she says; it's all she plans to say.
"Liv. You can't sleep next to me."
"Yes, I can." She's on the defensive instantly. She can't abandon him.
"You haven't been sleeping." He kisses her temple; gently, trying to convey that it's OK; that she could leave and it would be fine; he would survive.
"Well neither have you. You want to go stay with my mom?" She's not backing down. He turns her around – eyes to eyes.
"I'm not nine months pregnant. You haven't slept properly in months. You're exhausted and the baby's coming and you just need to take it easy. For a little bit."
"Fitz, I'm not an invalid. I'm fine. The baby is fine. We're fine. I never slept much."
"No. See, that's not the same. You – "
"Morning." She smiles weakly as she rubs her eyes. She looks up to realize she's interrupted something, something big again. It's been like this, mornings; heavy and hushed; a grey cloud; lightness and fun long gone. They try to pretend, they do; they try to shelter her; but she can see – the guilt and the fear; she can see it in their eyes, hers no longer eyes of a child. The veil of innocence long gone.
"Morning baby." Liv steps around him and walks over to her, laying a soft kiss on her head; running her hand through her unruly hair.
"The baby OK?" She asks, worried.
A smile, weak and worn out, "The baby's fine. Let's get you some breakfast." She walks to the counter and sits down, her eyes darting around, on Her, on Him – the guilt in his now joined by fear.
"Sorry I'm late." She breathes it out, as she collapses into the chair; dropping the shopping bags onto the floor, "Everything's just taking longer than…" She doesn't finish it. She doesn't say longer than we hoped, longer than I thought, longer than anyone thought; she just says longer, because in truth it's all of the above and so much more. Her mother lets it hang, she can feel it's a loaded statement said in vain, more for the orator than the spectator. Her eyes inspect her daughter's features as she feigns interest in the menu; but the mother knows, she's just avoiding her glance; the inquiring, the worried one. She's thinner than she should be; too thin for a mother-to-be; the dark circles under her eyes can no longer be covered by makeup; her iris is surrounded by a web of capillaries, a web of red.
"You haven't been sleeping." It's not a question, but she is questioning. "The baby's still kicking?" There's something in her tone, something telling Liv she knows, she knows it's not the baby; she knows it's not the kicking that keeps her up at night; not the kicking, but the screaming – the cries of fire and blood.
"Yeah, still kicking." She says it without looking up, burning a hole in the menu with her eyes.
"Is he seeing someone?"
"He's fine."
"I have a friend. Trauma special-"
"I think I'll have pasta, Bolognese." She finally lifts her gaze. She keeps the tears at bay. "Can we just talk about something else?"
A nod; a hand squeeze and a weak smile, "You're coming over after lunch. Zoey will drop by after her ballet class and we can finish her tutu."
"OK." It's simple, shimmer and sequin filled afternoon; but to her it's a getaway, it's something to look forward to.
"It's perfect! Thank you so, so, so, so much!" She can't get rid of her smile as she inspects the sequin-covered bodice; the feather-laced tulle. She spins around never taking her eyes off the mirror, admiring their handy-work. "It's so cool!" Liv can't remember the last time she felt this relaxed; but the sun is starting to come down and anxiety is creeping in, they should get going.
"Zo, get changed and we can head home." And she can see the girl's face fall.
"Can we stay to watch a movie. Please." She gives her a look that says no; her eyes speak instead of her voice; but before she opens her mouth the girl is already putting up a fight. "Once the baby comes…" They all know she's not playing fair; they know that she's banking on the parental insecurity, parental fear; but Liv lets it be, because the fear and insecurity, they're real. She needs Zoey to feel like she's still a priority; despite everything. And she fells like she's been slipping; so she lets her, lets it – allows the manipulating.
"One movie." And she sink back into her seat. It's comfortable and warm. It's safety, a home away from home; refuge, a calm in the storm. Zoey rushes to her room, to get out of the tutu and her mom walks over and sits next to her on the couch.
She pulls her in, "Come here." There's reluctance, there's fear – fear she might fall asleep, away from him; fear of what will happen if she abandons him. But her mom doesn't let go, no, she just holds her tighter, until finally she succumbs. She relaxes into her arms; her head eventually falling into her lap; her body stretching on the couch. Zoey comes out of her room slowly, quietly, looking at the couch smiling.
"She asleep?"
"Yeah. Well done with the baby card." They both smile; her mom still holding her head in her lap, Zoey throwing a soft blanket over them.
"I'll just call Fitz." He picks up after one ring. "It worked. She's asleep." She can hear the sigh of relief. "We'll see you tomorrow."
"Thanks Zoey. Kiss her goodnight for me." And she doesn't respond, there's a pregnant pause. "Zo?"
"Do you… I can come back if you want me to? You don't have to be alone." She sounds concerned, she didn't mean to. She sounds concerned, he hates it; hates that he's doing this to her.
"Zo, I'll be fine. I was actually just dozing off when you called." Lies, but he can hear her sigh. "Really. I'll be great." He can tell she's almost letting go, almost. "Look how about I promise to call you if I need to?" He struck the cord.
"You promise?" She's back to her chipper self.
"Promise." And with a couple of more promises and a soft goodbye they hang up. She goes back to them; and he, he pushes the phone across the floor; his back against the cool wall. He reaches for the glass next to the window and lifts it up; inspecting the way city lights fragment in the clinking ice. He lets the liquid burn his insides – it's a fire; fire without light, a fire he can fight. He doesn't sleep that night. He finishes the nursery. He paints stars in the dark. He paints stars. He's fine. As long as he doesn't close his eyes. He's fine. The morning sun breaks up the dark; puts out the stars. Daylight. He can't look into the past. But he still doesn't close his eyes.
She looks up at him before they go to bed; weighing whether to say it; once she does it cannot be unsaid. "I think you should go see someone." She brought it up once, he rejected the idea; insisted he'd be fine. She agreed, she didn't want to push him; didn't want to rush him. She wanted to support him; she could support him – for as long as he needed; she could do it; she could fix him. But she was failing and it was hurting him, so she tried again, encouraged by the last night's sleep.
"I slept fine last night." He smiles. She looks surprised.
"You have?" She wants to believe the lies.
"Yeah." He's not looking into her eyes and she's avoiding his. Liars. Lying. "I mean I woke up a couple of times, but it was fine." A weak smile. "Look, you'll see tonight." And she returns the smile. She'll see tonight. He'll be fine. She nods her head and then turns to her side, closing her eyes. He wraps his arms around her, their hands intertwined on her belly; the baby asleep – not kicking. Her breathing steadies, she's drifting, dreaming. He stays that way for a bit, just breathing her in, listening to her sleep. Then he gets up. He goes for a run. He comes back and showers. He reads. He writes. He writes about that night. The fire and light. He doesn't write about the blood. He writes, but nothing comes out. It's buried deep inside. It's all lies. And as the sun puts out the stars, the daylight taking away the past he crawls into bed. She shuffles slightly but doesn't awake. No, they stay like that. And it's well after dawn when she opens her eyes, for the second time in two days met by morning sun. She smiles. He is indeed fine. He's fine. She was enough. She fixed him.
She believes his lie. It's another one. Another lie to feel guilty about. Another guilt to add to the pack. The guilt he lived. The guilt he survived. The guild he came back. The guilt he didn't. The guilt he killed him.
The guilt he killed him.
So that was a twist huh?
I hope this chapter wasn't too scattered - I tried to write the way I thought their thoughts would whiz around; but the problem is they're both pretty messed up, and haven't slept in a while; so what was meant to be poetic could very easily become neurotic :)