The Broken Children
-Teddy-
He's reclining in his favourite, well-worn armchair with his feet up, boots scuffing the coffee table but as always, he just doesn't care.
It's been a while since he's been able to care about anything.
His head lolls back, eyes shimmering as they shift, first red, then blue, then green, and so on, till the entire rainbow has come and gone. Closing his eyes in an attempt to regain control, the rapid morphing easily causing his vision to blur after a time, he sticks out his tongue and lets another drop of gold run down his throat.
A searing burn marks its passage, but he bears it as he bears everything else, with gritted teeth and tears stinging at his eyes. Finger clench, knuckles whitening as he claws at the armrests . . . and then it's gone and he's floating on a cloud of lullaby.
He finds himself staring down at a scene, one that he isn't familiar with and has never seen before. There he is, tall and strong as he once was, before he had let himself waste away. The younger version of him is grinning, hair coloured a brilliant turquoise as he grabs hold of a toddler and swings the child through the air.
Laughter brims warm and light from the child's mouth, neon-green hair tousling as he bats his little arms out. Then his eyes travel to the kitchen doorway, where a beautiful blonde woman is standing in an apron with a wooden spoon in her hand and a vibrant smile on her face.
Too soon, Teddy's torn back to cold reality, the vision dissolving like granules of sugar in a cup of tea, and he groans at the pounding in his skull.
"Why?" he whimpers, clutching at his temple and looking up at the ultrasound photo above his fireplace. The tiny black and white heart beats steadily, a half-formed leg kicking out and for a moment, he allows himself to grieve.
The tears never fall though, because another drop of liquid gold in running down his throat. At least, that's what he tells himself as he's licks at the empty vial in the hopes of gleaning a single moment more of relief.
It's easier this way, after all, to lose himself in drugs and Firewhiskey, rather than face the harsh truth that is his life. His head still pounding, he rises from the armchair and, clinging to a half-empty bottle of the burning, alcoholic substance, he staggers to his room and collapses into bed.
The woman stirs, her body bruised and undoubtedly sore, but nevertheless she responds to his roughly stolen kiss. His stubble scrapes at her delicate skin, and he isn't gentle in the slightest as he takes her, but they aren't about cuddling and spooning, not anymore.
Now they're as broken as the buried remains of their miscarried son.
"I'm tired, Teddy," she sighs against his ear, when they're both spent.
"So am I, Vic," he replies softly, allowing himself a moment of tenderness as he brings the bottle to his lips, bodily flinching as he curls up against him in a way that she hasn't since the miscarriage.
"Do you think we'll ever be the same?" she asks.
"No," he responds, spilling a mouthful of liquor across her breasts by accident. She cringes, but he simply holds her, setting the bottle aside and allowing himself to be honest with her for the first time in a long time.
"But we can try."