Chapter 7
Christopher is lying on his bed with his arms crossed over his chest, contemplating the ceiling. His thoughts are moving sluggishly through his brain like smoke on a hazy mid-summer day. Today, they are releasing him from the hospital. Only a small part of him is looking forward to leaving, because he knows that it will be the beginning of the end: as soon as Valentine realizes how difficult things will be, she won't stay. Granted, she was waiting for him in his room after his little melt-down in the physical therapy room a few days ago and she said nothing about it, merely wrapped her arms around him once he was settled in his bed again. For a few scant moments, he allowed himself the luxury of comfort.
That kind of unwavering support cannot last forever. He really wants to shout and scream and shake the walls of this place, maybe shake it to the ground. All the therapists and specialists keep telling him that he is doing fine, that he's on the mend, but it certainly does not feel that way.
What it feels like is torture: being trapped in a body that no longer responds to the orders of his brain. It is hateful and he wants everyone to feel like he does. The sheer greyness of it all is killing him too slowly. If he was meant to die there, blood pouring out of him and cooking into sticky puddles on the sand, he sure cocked it up. In the same sense, if he is meant to be alive and be here with Valentine…no.
For Valentine, then why does he have to do it this way?
Invalidated.
Christopher saw his paperwork. He's been invalidated as a soldier and invalidated as a man. He was gunned down before he could put up much of a fight—so much for all that combat training, yeah? He actually had to sign that he had accepted it. Accepted it? Which part? What a bloody joke. He can admit that part of his life is over—and really, it is better that way because he is sure that no one else would ever accept him as a comrade the way the men and women in camp did. They were all special, each and every one of them. He has told Valentine a little about them, because some days he needs her to understand; yet he never waits to hear her responses, always pushes forward into another story, another anecdote about a past that has been horribly mangled in the worst way possible.
An electric shock of pain suddenly travels from his foot up his leg and lodges itself in his thigh, causing the muscle to contract and attempt to strangle itself.
He feels the hospital bed creaking beneath him, feels the shaking of his own body, the hot tears rushing over his cheeks after spilling from his eyes. Everything that has been grey up until this very moment is framed in black around the edges and it is that blackness that he is railing against, trying to keep it at bay—keep it from growing and taking over everything. This is his life now: a pathetic, wounded boy taking to crying in his bed.
Invalidated.
He pounds a fist into the mattress at his side, causing the rickety headboard to slam against the wall. A presence makes itself known in the corner of his eye and he turns his head slightly.
No color. He watches the nursing assistant set the tray of food she's holding down on the little table next to the bed. She seems nervous as she reaches for the heavy plastic lid covering the plate. Christopher notes the way she stands, only half turning away from him the way you would do an unfamiliar dog—untrusting of it, but unwilling to let your fear show so as to not to provoke it. Like you are afraid it will year your throat out if given half the chance.
"Leave it." He snarls at the ceiling. More and more, he can stand no one else near him except Valentine. The assistant pulls her hand back from the tray as if she's been burned and practically leaps for the door, yanking it open and fleeing into the corridor. He is hard pressed to come up with a way to apologize that wouldn't sound like blame so he returns his concentration to the grey plaster of the ceiling.
After a few minutes the pain begins to grow dull and he considers sitting up. Though the smell of what can only be scrambled eggs on the tray threatens to make him nauseous, thirst is something else entirely. His stomach voices its own opinion on the matter once he is upright, trying to ignore the pain in his leg as he leans over and reaches for a grey ceramic mug with a tag hanging over the side of it. He curls his fingers around it and allows himself a few seconds to enjoy the feeling of the smooth, warm cup against his palm. Christopher raises the mug to his lips, preparing himself for that first sip which may or may not burn a little. In doing so, he looks down into it and it changes into a tiny, clear plastic bottle.
Sergeant Tietjens is staring down into an empty water bottle that he drops to the raked sand floor of his commanding officer's tent. There is a ruckus outside and he is jumping to his feet and turning to Mugsy who has been stretched out on his bunk reading a magazine. The trio of net walls that make up the tent are shot full of huge holes; the material hangs by a thread in most places like old spider webs that have been roughly torn down in the woods to make room for people to walk between them.
"Mugsy, what…?" Tietjens finds himself at a loss for words, because gunfire has begun and Mugsy has turned his head to look up at him and his eyes are empty sockets. There is blood on his cheeks and his mouth is moving like a fish out of water, gasping to pull air into lungs that no longer move. Christopher can hear an echo of a dying heartbeat.
There's a whistling sound overhead then another loud report and heat in his lap. Sure he has been shot again, Christopher screams and attempts to push himself away from the pain only to find that he is stopped by a wall at his back. He claws at the pajamas he's wearing, ripping a tear across his thigh but the material refuses to budge further. New pain is blooming on his skin and he can't get away from it.
"Chrissie. Chrissie, stop. Stop!" Valentine is shouting at him from where she stands with one hand holding the door open, the other resting on the handles of a large grey suitcase he has never seen before. She is dressed today in a light pink t-shirt, blue jeans and black trainers. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck.
Valentine's shout is not very loud, but it does the trick; it gives his mind something else to grasp onto. A lifeline.
He hates it but follows it willingly until all of his immediate focus is on her. Vaguely, he realizes that the crotch of his pajamas is soaked.
"Christopher, it's me, alright?" She closes the door and there is a click as she locks it. Her expression is cautious, but not overly so. There is no fear in Valentine's blue eyes.
Christopher appreciates this and it serves to pull him completely back into the present. "I…" he starts and glances down at his lap.
"Alright." Valentine says as she crosses the room to the little en suite. She returns with a small flannel in her hand and leans over him, dabbing at the tea he has managed to spill all over himself.
The gentle pressure of her hand on his groin reminds him how long they have truly been apart. In an instant, the atmosphere in the room becomes less cloying and more comforting. He grabs her hand and carefully draws it away from him while at the same time turning himself around and pushing his body towards the pillows with his good leg. Christopher draws Valentine down against him and she complies, going soft against his chest. Once he is comfortable, he puts his fingers under her chin and tilts her head up to look at him. As always, Valentine is meeting him half-way. Her eyes are full of love as well as curiosity, wondering what he will do next.
He kisses her slowly, tenderly; trying to apologize for everything; to make up for the hurt and his ridiculousness. She returns the kiss, giving no less and taking no more than he has to offer. Valentine clutches at his shoulders as he rolls his hips upward then she gasps at his obvious arousal. Christopher smiles up at her when she pushes herself up on her palms as his hands skate beneath her tee and under her bra.
His mouth is in the perfect position here to nip at her breasts through the soft cotton shirt; his teeth close gently on the soft flesh as he unhooks her bra.
"Sit up." He demands in a low tone.
"Are you sure?" Valentine asks, already straddling his lap. Christopher holds her by the hips, even more aroused as she moves up onto her thighs as she removes her shirt and takes the bra off the rest of the way then drops her clothing onto the floor beside the bed.
"Yes. A thousand times, yes." Christopher announces firmly, voice still low as his hands fondle her breasts, thumbs slowly sweeping over dusky pink nipples. Let me show you that part of me still works, he thinks. Instead of saying anything else, however, he slides one palm to the center of her back and moves her towards his mouth, taking one nipple between his lips. He flicks it with his tongue and she hisses.
"Christopher." Valentine moans softly and leans down to kiss him.
He delves deeply into her mouth while at the same time stroking her through her jeans; thankful to feel her heat and dampness as well as his own hardness at the thought of being buried inside of her. He strokes her slowly, fingertips pressing against her but only enough to tease. Valentine's head falls back and he takes advantage of the position to unsnap and unzip her jeans. He gets one finger between the denim and her panties and she gasps.
"Hold on." Valentine climbs off of him and drops her jeans and panties. She bends over the bed and yanks his pajama bottoms down to his knees, allowing his cock to spring free. For a second they freeze that way and Valentine looks at him, smiles and plants a tender kiss right on the head of it. Christopher groans and reaches out towards her.
"You sure you want to do this here?" She asks, moving herself to straddle him again.
"Yes, Valentine, I am…" Christopher almost gets the entire sentence out just as she raises up and grabs the base of his cock, holding him still so that she can slowly sink down onto him. She is tight and wet and hot and he grabs her hips to hold on and tries a shallow thrust.
The pain in his leg returns and he almost shouts but does not let her go. She leans forward until her hands are balanced on his chest and waits for the spasm to pass, very slowly moving her hips. It works and he finds that his erection has barely flagged. She kisses him, moves back and touches the tip of her tongue to his lips and says, "Let me," and proceeds to set the tempo. Christopher arches his back the faster her movements become. After a few moments, he is close. He licks his index finger and slides it between her folds until he is rubbing her clit. In no time out all, she tightens around him and cries out his name. She stays where she is, wrapping her legs around his thighs as he thrusts into her. When his orgasm crashes over him, he pulls her downward into a sloppy but passionate kiss.
Valentine slowly lifts off of him and crawls to his side. He turns to her and buries his face in her neck and wraps his arms around her, holding her as tight as he dares without hurting her. They both ignore his tears in the aftermath of their lovemaking; they fall asleep, both of their bodies still trembling slightly from the aftershocks.