Chapter 8
A week after he is released from the hospital, Christopher sits in one of the big overstuffed armchairs in the Wannop living room staring out the big bay window at the unhurriedly waning sun. He knows it should be tangerine, turquoise and saffron, but to him, it is charcoal, ash and coal. He closes his eyes against what should be a beautiful sight and instead focuses on the quiet of the house around him, silently offering his gratitude to any deities that happen to be listening that Valentine pushed him to come here rather than to his brother's home.
He most likely would have killed Mark in cold blood by now. Christopher shakes his head against that thought then leans back against the chair and closes his eyes. Mark tries too hard, always to prove to the world that he's the 'big brother' but sometimes it all feels hollow to Christopher—like they both have some prescribed hierarchy to follow, each position coming with its own rules: the whole thing is stupid and Christopher hates it; therefore it is better for him to be here, where the only thing he has to do, he has been reliably informed by both Wannop ladies, is get better.
Of course, he's also supposed to be looking forward to his and Valentine's wedding. Right now, though, autumn seems almost as far away as a useless war on the other side of the world. The idea that he has been a total fool does not sit well in Christopher's mind. He opens his eyes in an effort to ground himself back into the present.
Mrs. Wannop is upstairs in her study, presumably working on her latest manuscript; the rhythmic click-click of her nimble fingers flying over the keyboard is almost a balm to his chaotic soul. She must have left the study door open; he contemplates it as a metaphor for her heart.
The night he and Valentine came home, Christopher had tried to hold a conversation with her. She smiled and patted his hand, all the while wearing the perpetually slightly far-away expression of the writer of fiction, present in the moment in body but only partially ever in mind. Even he could see how she is always thinking about the plot structure and characters of whichever story she happens to be currently working on. He has never held her oddness against her, and she has always repaid him in kind. Mrs. Wannop knows Valentine loves him, she knows he returns the sentiment; she also seems to know that asking Christopher too many questions would be a mistake. He appreciates this—and more—about her.
Christopher understands the way she views life because it is very similar to seeing the entire world in shades of grey—really, his mind is sometimes so far away that he is unsure that he is ever going to be able to move on. He crosses his legs at the ankles then decides that his shoes are bothering him. Stripping off his trainers and socks, he is vaguely aware of the front door opening and closing quietly.
Someone bent over the chair doing something as simple as removing their shoes and socks is normally not considered to be in a compromising position, so Valentine thinks nothing about it as she glides up to the chair and embraces Christopher's shoulders. For a few seconds, it seems like it is going to be fine. Her hands settle comfortingly on his biceps and she leans down to place a soft kiss on the nape of his neck.
The grey world inside Christopher's mind explodes in fiery reds and oranges.
He rolls forward onto the floor, dragging Valentine with him over the back of the chair; in seconds she finds herself pinned beneath him, rolled over onto her stomach by his strong arms as easily as if she were a ragdoll and him a child. One hand grasps the collar of her shirt, the other one holds both of her hands behind her back; his knee just above the curve of her butt, pressing her down into the floor. She stills, all of her muscles going slack.
"Christopher, it's me." Valentine says to the floor.
When he comes to, Christopher is horrified at his actions. He's panting hard as if he just jogged ten miles with all of his gear on his back. "Oh my god." He gasps, letting her go all at once and backing away from her, scuttling on hands and knees until the wall beneath the bay window stops him from going any further. When his back hits the wall, the muscles in his thigh spasm and he clutches his leg; now everything that was calm and peaceful a few short moments ago is a storm of pain. He takes deep breathes in an effort to center himself, gulping as his lungs try desperately to take in enough oxygen as his mind begins to shut down in panic mode.
As if the horror of seeing the world practically in monochrome isn't enough…now this?
"Christopher." He opens his eyes to see Valentine kneeling in front of him, one hand outstretched as if calming an injured animal.
In that second, it's all too much. He shakes his head and pushes up against the wall, holding both hands out towards her.
"No." Is all he can say, the sound broken and weak like he is. "No." He moves fast, fighting against the pain in his leg, dragging it with his body. He needs to get away before he does anymore damage. He detests the half-frightened expression on Valentine's face; he notes with even more sadness that right now her clothing just looks pale and washed out…but her eyes.
Sapphire gems swim with tears as she backs away from him, her hands held up, mimicking his former posture. His mind calms a little at the sight. She never takes her eyes from him until she steps back and turns around so. Christopher studies her back, the forward hunch of her shoulders.
He could kill her right now and she would not fight him.
This thought disturbs him greatly and he moves away, as far away as he can get in that moment. Some weird half-choked words come from his mouth, though he is unaware of what he is trying to say as he opens the door and rushes headlong into a rapidly darkening night.
Christopher is vaguely aware of the cool grass beneath his bare feet as he runs. A constant litany of 'must get away before I hurt her' streams through his mind. He runs until he is double-over from both the pain in his leg and the pain scorching his side, his breathing shallow and rapid and his head swimming from lack of oxygen. Christopher runs until he drops, paying no attention to his surroundings whatsoever. He lets himself fall to the ground, flat on his back. Somewhere in the back of his mind he tries to parse the pieces together of what just happened yet he gets no farther than watching the replay of his ridiculous body yanking Valentine over the back of the chair. Next to him, she always looks so small and he could have…
He could have killed her.
All she would have to do is land the wrong way or struggle against him and his instincts would have kicked in even harder than they had. It never occurs to him to question the way she went limp beneath him, the way her voice was soft but stern or the way she never made any move to stop him from leaving.
He is too wound up to think clearly about any of those things. Christopher is so deep in his mind that as full darkness blankets the world, he loses two full hours.
The next time he is aware, Valentine is standing next to him. She is speaking and for a few minutes he cannot understand her words. What now? He thinks. Now I will lose my hearing, too? Panic never sets in however, because Valentine is beside him now, one hand on his shoulder. Christopher does not move off the ground but he does open his eyes.
Long strands of blonde hair that is ghostly white against the darkness fall over Valentine's face that is tipped towards him, her expression one of concern. He reaches out towards her as if moving through space and nothing now, nothing is going to stop him from touching her, from grabbing her and hauling her down to him until she is crushed against his chest and crying softly into his neck. Christopher holds her tightly, arms wrapped around her in the most soothing gesture he knows. He is a big, stupid lump most of the time where she is concerned but she always loves him, always comes to him when he is failing himself and that grounds him, holds him pinned to the earth the way scientists pin insects to boards for closer study.
"I'm so, so sorry. I never meant…" Christopher's lips feel heavy like an ammo box stuffed full, just waiting for the next skirmish to begin.
"I know, Chrissie, I know." Valentine mumbles into his collarbone.
It is the soft use of her pet name for him that causes a wall to break in his mind and he holds her to him, thankful to feel each breath she takes, each thud of her heartbeat against his chest and the warmth that tells him she is still here, still alive. Still with him. He knows, though, he knows he's got to appreciate these moments while he has them, because he is incapable of controlling his reactions at the present time and he knows that someday he will screw up so much that she will walk away and never look back.
How long can she stay strong? My god, she is so strong! "Did I hurt you?" He manages with rubber lips drenched in tears. She starts to pull away but he tightens his hold. He does not want her to see his face.
After a few seconds of that, she settles back against him, sliding her hand between them to spread her palm over his heart. "No." The soft fleece jacket she is wearing reminds him of the blanket on their bed, her warmth, her touch, her scent pervades all of his senses.
Her answer takes him off guard but he does not spiral away from her this time, because that warm hand over his heart is enough to hold him. There is nothing else he can say.
"I'm sorry. Valentine, you have to believe me. I would never…" He sniffs into her hair.
Under his chin, she shakes her head. "I know, Chrissie. I understand. That was my fault. I should know better than to surprise you like that."
He nods, still weeping, still holding her, crushing her tightly to him and finds that he is at a loss for words. How long? How long before it is all too much? How many times will she follow him? How long before she begins to detest even the sight of him because his demons have grown, fed by the guilt of surviving? How long before she realizes that he will never be unbroken or strong enough to fight the chaos in his head?
How long can she possibly hang on?
A/N: In all the fics I've written and been part of, I've never had one make me question my sanity as this one has. Thank you for hanging in there with me, and please don't be afraid to tell me what you think.