A/N: Jumping in time! This chapter starts way back at Gilbert and Anne's wedding night, and leaps forward several times from there. Thank you so much to all you readers, reviewers, one-time viewers and recurrent lurkers. Feeling the love!
Warning: contains sexual violence, abuse, death and severe depression.
His Joy
The groom carried his bride up the stairs to her childhood room. Not the most romantic setting, but the bride had assured him she didn't mind. And frankly, at this point, neither did he. Her mellifluous voice floated above the buzz coming from outside, but he was deaf to both: all he could hear was his own ragged breathing. He was holding her - she was his at last. His wildest dreams had come true.
No, not quite - his very wildest were about to come true. He set her on her feet and stared down at his treasure: the woman he would spend the rest of his life worshipping. It might have been immoral, should have been illegal to love someone as much as he loved her. Tonight, he would show her the extent of his feelings for her, if such a thing was possible.
Freeing the bride from her dress was no mean feat, but the groom worked at it with knightly dligence, delivering the maiden fair from the confines of fabric. Each tiny button popped was a lock picked, each ribbon pulled a door kicked in, until finally she stood in a puddle of ivory silk, wearing wedding finery meant his eyes only.
A delicious illness took over him: his heart hammered painfully hard, and his pulse throbbed in his temples; sweat beaded on his brow, and heat crept from his loins up to his stomach. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the buttons of his finest shirt - impatience and need prevailed, and he gave up in favor of undoing his trousers.
Free at last from their garments, the groom deposited his fair bride on the bed and braced himself over her for a reassuring kiss, shielding her protectively with his body. She trembled with anticipation that matched his own, until at last they became one. He apologized for the pain inevitably caused by the breach with a tender kiss to her cheek, and gave in to the bliss of their union...
x-x-x
Her Joy
The bride found herself being carried away from the party and up the stairs. She'd talked her husband-to-be out of spending a fortune on a hotel, though now she regretted it: her bedroom at Green Gables had been a sanctuary, a place to run when all the world was falling apart. Where would she run to now?
There was no need to run, of course. Her husband's arms would be her sanctuary from now on. Still, it was childish fear which made her ask: "You will be gentle, won't you?"
He said nothing, just leered over her with a predacious gleam in his eyes: love, she assured herself. A deep, passionate kind of love that made her quiver nervously as he crawled on top of her.
"Darling," she gulped, "didn't you want to remove your shirt?"
He didn't bother responding to her ridiculous request. Of course, he could keep his shirt on if he so wished... but lying on her back in the immodest lace corset and translucent chemise, and nothing but the thinnest drawers to cover her bottom half, the bride couldn't help but feeling overpowered by the nearly fully clothed groom on top of her.
Her trepidation bubbled up, boiling into fear when he reached wordlessly between her legs and pushed himself inside her.
Overwhelmed with shock, she couldn't breathe. She tried to tell him to stop, to scream for help, but no sound came from within. He bent to kiss her cheek, and she tried to force words out: his ear was right there, an inch from her mouth, but not even a whisper passed her lips.
He shoved in deeper, so deep that she felt him at the back of her throat. Her whole body was invaded: robbed of her breath, of her voice, of her chastity, she never felt more powerless. She lay like a rag doll, motionless, helpless tears leaking from her eyes. One final thrust, and a demented groan, and it was all over: the beast changed back into the charming groom who kissed the tears from her face, whispered words of love in her hair, and fell asleep cradling her in his arms.
But for her, sleep never came.
Making Jem: him
The young Doctor stirred and groaned. He felt stiff and sore everywhere, and there was an especially painful crick in his neck. He'd always hated sleeping anywhere but in his own bed, even as a young child: for as much as he loved the outdoors, he wouldn't attend the summer hay sleepovers hosted on the Wright's barn, or partake in Moody and Charlie's nighttime escapades. His father used to tease him for his lack of an adventurous spirit. If his father could see him now…
The Doctor shuddered at the thought. If his father could see him now, he'd likely tan his hide. And he'd deserve no less. His father was a formidable man, with a simple set of morals to which he adhered diligently. How the Doctor had admired him, wanted to emulate him, now more than ever.
Recent revelations had put John Blythe into new perspective. The young Doctor had once thought him a king. He'd been wrong, of course: the man was nothing short of divinity incarnate. Infinitely patient, kind to the point of embarrassment, self-sacrificing enough not to claim his rights as a husband, when they might put his wife in danger.
His father had recently admitted as much with the intent of giving him hope. "I loved your mother too much to risk her life, but she wanted a child more than anything else in the world - even more than me. I can't say that I blame her: it would have been a lonely life, just the two of us. Still, to watch her go through all that again was torture, the likes of which I'd gladly never know again. But I couldn't regret it, not then, not now - not when it gave us YOU. "
That lecture had been of no comfort at all. The young Doctor had stayed awake that night, wondering exactly what the moral of the story had been. Was he meant to risk her life once again for to bring to the world a new being, born with the curse of loneliness only children were to bear? Or was it that he ought to save his wife from a young death, and go through life without progeny?
He didn't mind that so much, though some animalistic need within him to reproduce might have contributed to his frustration at feeling helplessly impotent. No, what really hurt was being the only working doctor in town. Uncle Dave had emerged from his well-earned retirement long enough to give him time to grieve, but the young Doctor hadn't been permitted to wallow. While his wife was given free rein to loose herself in selfish misery, he had to carry on. Someone needed to put food on the table for Susan to cook, and the bills wouldn't pay themselves.
The inhabitants of the Glen had warmed up to him, and weren't shy in calling him for anything, ranging from minor sprains to blazing fevers. Work had been a pleasant enough refuge, that is until Louisette McNathers had gone into labor, his first delivery since Joy had come and gone so quietly. It had been more difficult for the young Doctor than it had for the even younger parents to be: after no small amount of pushing and tugging, he found himself holding a live, kicking baby, howling indignantly at being propelled out of her warm liquid home in utero.
"Is she alright?" her mother had inquired at the young Doctor's worrisome silence.
"She's perfect," he'd croaked reverently, clearing his throat. The McNathers had been embarrassingly understanding then, allowing the Doctor to hold their second born a moment longer under the guise of an extensive examination. Two days later, Mrs. Samson gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and then the Gordy's twins arrived, and though Gilbert learned to school his reaction, it was still excruciating every time. He knew then that this career would be the end of him: he'd have to join a practice, a clinic perhaps, and recuse himself of pregnancies.
He'd said as much to his wife: she'd nodded, and said that he would do what he must. He'd taken her in his arms then, desperate to feel warmth, tenderness, anything - but he might have been hugging a porcelain doll, for all the detached cool which emanated from her. Still, his desire won out over his sorrows, and he'd sought comfort in his wife's body. Her lack of participation troubled him, but the young Doctor was used to shouldering the brunt of the work by now: what was a little bit more?
That night, similarly to the handful of other nights he'd bedded her, the pleasure had dissipated, and the enormous wave of self-loathing took over. How could he even think of putting her in that situation again? What if she became pregnant again?
But worse than that was the fear: what if she didn't? Would they live out the rest of their lives like this, sharing a house of few words and minimal civility? Working all day, eating their meals separately and waiting to die?
No: they could not... they would not. They needed a child, and this time, the young Doctor would take all the care in the world so that no harm would come to his wife and baby.
x-x-x
Making Jem: her
The young doctor's wife stared at the side of the room where the crib had stood, until the maid had finally removed it. Oh, what a fit she'd thrown that day - but neither her screaming, nor her tears would persuade Susan to bring back the piece of furniture. It had been Doctor Dear's orders, and far be it from her to speak against the Doctor Dear. Anyhow, it was for Mrs. Doctor's own good: she would see, grief would fade in time. She'd asked Susan whether she spoke from personal experience, to which the maid had pointedly insisted that one personally experienced Providence on a daily basis.
No one could understand what she was going through. Not Susan, nor the Doctor, not even his own parents, who had still gotten a healthy son for all their troubles. Even her own parents had been fortunate enough to pass on before she did. What she wouldn't give, to switch places with her daughter, the young doctor's wife thought, not for the first time.
Well, she certainly deserved it. In the beginning, getting pregnant quickly had been a relief: respite from having to go through the painful process of pleasing the young doctor. He wouldn't dream of claiming his marital rights, in her condition. But as she expanded, so did her worries.
What kind of woman resented being with child? Even Mrs. Hammond hadn't carried on as shamefully as the young doctor's wife had: staying up at night pacing, pressing her stomach as if trying to push the it back inside, making herself ill until the baby itself might come out. She'd even wished the child away: gone to sleep, hoping that she might wake up to have the baby bump out of sight - disappeared.
She should have know better than to make such a bargain, because her wicked wish was granted: but not before the babe was born. At the first push, the young doctor's wife was graced with sudden strength and power: she heaved and roared, turned herself inside out until her daughter was born. Proud and powerful, the lioness had fallen in love with her cub - only to be told that the little being would have but a little life.
There had been tears, of course, and rage: at nature and its irreversible cruelty, at mankind and its warped sense of self-importance, at herself for being wretchedly selfish. Hysterical screams, agonized wails, wounded whimpering until none was left. Now, she felt nothing but emptiness.
The only moments in which she did feel anything were when the young Doctor took her to bed. She might have refused him, but he'd given her plenty of time to recover physically. It was her obligation as his wife, anyway... and besides, it made her feel: sharp pain sliced through the fog in which she spent her days. But the pain dulled every day... she wondered how she would cope once it stopped hurting.
Adding his Walter
Little Jem Blythe needed a brother.
It was this thought which had Dr. Blythe turning in his work and heading home at a decent hour; which made him converse with Mrs. Dr. and Susan over supper; which kept him up when Mrs. Dr. woke up to feed their boy in the middle of the night.
He dragged himself up in a sitting position and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, feeling old beyond his years. The strapping young lad with boundless energy had somehow become a serious, studious grump people called The Doctor (not even the Young Doctor anymore). Likewise, his Young Wife had gained twenty years in the past two: no sign of the firecracker she'd once been behind the bags under her flinty eyes.
He listened as Susan took over the sated babe, and touched his half-awake member. It wasn't as easy to stimulate its interest as it had previously been, but once there, the act of copulation was still satisfying.
Alright, that was a lie: Dr. Blythe loved losing himself in lovemaking. It was just that the opportunity seldom presented itself, and he suspected that once he succeeded in getting Mrs. Dr. pregnant again, he'd have to give up the notion altogether.
He would have to do without, find another pleasure. Losing himself in drink would render him a louse to society - and there were only so many books a man could read in one evening. Birdwatching would fit in his schedule when he was coming home from emergency calls. And what of winter, when the weather chased the finest wings to warmer places? He might as well take up crocheting, seeing as he would be stripped of occasions to prove his manliness.
Mrs. Dr. returned to the room; the faint light of her candle cast a gentle halo above her russet crown, her simple white nightgown billowing ethereally behind her. Dr. Blythe sat up straighter, and so did his virility.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she apologized.
"S'alright," a yawn interrupted his advances. Mrs. Dr. worried her lip.
"We ought to get some rest," she said. "It'll be light out soon."
"I'm not that tired," he tried in his best suggestive tone, the one that used to get him anything he wanted. For a brief moment, her silence led him to anticipate another excuse - but she blew out the candle and hitched her nightgown up without a fuss.
Hating himself for doing this to her when she was tired, despising himself for having no control, wanting this more than anything, Dr. Blythe leaned in to kiss his wife gently on the lips. She twitched when he caressed her breasts through the cotton of her collar, so he did not linger there.
He touched himself instead, ensuring with a single stroke that he was hard as could be before inserting himself into her, a key in a tight fitting lock: the heavenly squeeze sent his eyes rolling back, and a moan snaked out from his throat. Two thrusts in, he already felt on the cusp: his herculean efforts to prolong the sensations longer were somewhat rewarded, and when he did arrive, it was with a stifled shout.
This was the part he loved the least: the bit when he came back down to Earth, to find his wife staring impassively at the ceiling. Oh, he knew she was faking it: later, when she thought he'd fallen asleep, she would muffle horrible sobs in her pillow. He would listen like a coward, unable to comfort his wife, unwilling to apologize for being her husband, and fall asleep calling himself every name in the book.
x-x-x
Adding her Walter
Mrs. Dr. wanted a third chance.
She'd messed up the first one terribly: that was her fault, and she'd take the blame.
She'd tried the second time - really, she had, but it couldn't be helped. Holding her son was like holding a viper, only scarier and slipperier. His shrieks terrified her, his silence petrified her; his greedy appetite had done a pretty number on her breasts, and his frustrated little fists had caught her chin, her throat, her arms - any part of her within reach - abuse, the likes of which she hadn't been subject to since her own earliest childhood memories.
She wanted to love him: on some level, she must, or why would she be upset that he didn't love her? Susan, the Doctor - her son preferred anyone's company to hers, to the point where she believed he was as uncomfortable with the family ties between the two of them as she was.
Still, Mrs. Dr. wasn't willing to give up: she and the Doctor both agreed that Jem needed a brother. Growing up an only child, smothered by three adults jumping at every one of his cries, would spoil him terribly: without a sibling, he would get lonely, and when he came of age, the crushing responsibility of being everything to his parents would do him in.
And so, when the Doctor propositioned her, she complied: grit her teeth and allowed herself to be penetrated, hoping that each thrust would be the last. Having done his part, the Doctor would roll onto his side and drift into an easy sleep, and Mrs. Dr. would weep privately into her pillow, praying for another chance, vowing that she would do better this time.
The Two Together
"Darling?"
"Yes, dear?" called Anne without looking up from the spackle she was spreading on the wall.
"Would you come over here? There's something I'd like to show you."
She grinned at Gilbert's breezy tone. His attempts to conceal his enthusiasm were futile: reluctant though he'd been at first to engage in such a time and energy consuming project, her husband was now fully invested in the renovations of the new Blythe Manor. This had been prompted in part by his realization that rebuilding a house meant playing with an array of what she'd come to call his 'grown up toys' - something which earned Gilbert endless ribbing from his wife.
"Just a minute!" she called back, and quickly patched the hole before setting the scraper down and exiting the room, bringing a cloth with her to wipe the white substance from her fingers.
Gilbert, as usual, was trying to do a two person job singlehanded: he'd managed so far, holding the plank against the wall in his left hand, while the right hand wielded the hammer that was nailing it in place. Of course, being right-handed meant that the perfectly perpendicular slant of the plank was hard to keep with the left, and one-handed hammering without free fingers to drive the nail in place meant a lot of cursing at inanimate objects, and inevitably starting from scratch.
"Awmosh done," he articulated around the extra nails between his teeth when Anne appeared in the doorway. Perspiring from concentration and physical effort, he sunk the nail into the wall and stood up in triumph.
"There!" he beamed at his wife, proudly displaying his work. Anne tilted her head, puzzled.
"I surrender," she looked back at him. "What is it? The beginnings of a staircase? A very low shelf?"
Her teasing made him scowl. "You honestly couldn't tell?"
"I'm sorry, Gil," she shrugged helplessly, and he nearly grinned at the spot of spackle decorating her delicate nose. "What is it?"
"A window seat," he said gruffly, feeling unaccountably self-conscious as her smile turned salacious.
"A window seat?" she waggled her eyebrows at him. "You mean, another spot where we could - Jem, darling, I didn't hear you come in! Mind those nails your father left on the floor."
"Bully!" exclaimed the boy, lifting the weapon his father had abandoned and inspecting it reverently. "Can I use this one, Dad?"
"No!" the Doctor and his wife exclaimed simultaneously.
"Fine," Jem set the hammer down. "Can me and Walt go swimming, now? It's so hot!"
"One at a time in the water, no longer than an hour."
"Dad, we're not babies! I'm a really good swimmer. Besides, I won't let anything happen to Walt."
"We know you won't, dear, but you know the rules," said Anne.
"It's either that, or you can wait for me to come with you in thirty minutes," added Gilbert.
Jem's pout was a perfect replica of his father's. "Fine, we'll take turns," he conceded. The doctor's wife waited patiently for her young sulking prince to cross the bare living room, frowning at how odd his parents were acting, but not caring enough to delay his trip to the pond.
"Now, where were we?" asked Gilbert once the door slammed shut behind their son.
"You were showing me our new nest." Anne leaned over it. "I'm not sure it's quite sturdy enough for our style of... sitting."
"Obviously, I'm not done," he grumbled. "It's more of a one person nook, anyway." This earned him her curious attention, and he turned to hide his blush. "I remembered how much I liked you in that seat, back in the Glen... In the early days, you used to sit at the window almost every night and wait for me to get home. And... I just - liked finding you there."
"I dozed off half the time," Anne muttered, a bit surprised that he'd enjoyed her pining for him, even in her sleep.
"Even better." It was his turn to grin wolfishly. "I'd get to watch you for a spell, without you getting all shy. Drink in your beauty," he advanced on her, "count your freckles."
"While I was sleeping?"
"I couldn't help it," he shrugged unapologetically. "I missed you when I was at work. And finding you there meant you missed me, too."
"Of course I missed you," Anne swallowed past a lump in her throat. "Gil- even if you didn't build me a nook here, I'd wait for you to come home. I will be here every single night, waiting for you."
"Promise?" he asked, stroking her cheek.
"I promise," she vowed, blinking back tears of regret that confirmation was even needed. I'll never leave you again, was the unspoken part of her oath.
"Right here, by this window?" he tucked a loose strand of auburn behind her ear.
"If that's where you want me, then, yes." She would have agreed to anyplace for him.
Dr. Blythe eyed the long window that gave on their green acres. "We'll need thick drapes."
Anne frowned up at him. "Why would we need thick drapes in a sitting room?"
"For privacy, of course" he explained, waiting for the ball to drop.
His wife, quick on the uptake, smacked him on the arm. "Gil!"
"What?" he laughed. "You started it!"
"That was before I understood how romantic you were being. It's a sacred spot to me now, Gil - let us not defile it."
"Too late," he caught her by the waist, causing her to yelp giddily. "You've already corrupted my thoughts. Besides, we've got to create some memories to keep you warm at night while you're pining for me."
"Pining-! The nerve of you... suggesting that... uh- that...ah!" she gasped as he pinned her against the bare wall, moving his knee between her legs with just the right amount of pressure.
"Let's christen this room," he said, same as he had for the master bedroom, the wash room, the kitchen, and one incredibly dusty trip up to the attic.
"No... drapes..." panted Anne, but her fingers were already unsnapping his shirt buttons.
"There's no one around for miles," her husband assured her, reaching under her skirts. "We own this land now... the boys are o-OH!" he shouted when she reached in his drawers and stroked him firmly. Words turned into grunts and moans as they worked each other up, taking pleasure in each other's arousal.
"Gil," begged Anne as she convulsed around his fingers. "Please..."
"Tell me what you want," he grunted through a clenched jaw, unsure whether he'd last much longer. "Anything, I'll give you anything."
"I want you - inside me."
That was all the invitation he needed, but he still paused to check her face for any sign of fear or discomfort. Finding nothing but want and lust, he lifted her up higher against the wall and reached under her petticoat so that he could insert himself in her: slowly, and with great care, he slid in. "Alright?"
Anne thought her heart might burst. Her beautiful husband, disheveled and covered in sawdust, was gazing at her with caring eyes. Valiant efforts to put his own needs on hold for the sake of her comfort made beads of sweat trickle from his damp, dark curls down his temple, along the side of his face all the way to his clean shaven jaw.
She leaned in for a thirsty kiss in guise of reply. He responded in kind, waiting for her to wrap her legs around his waist to start moving inside her. Small thrusts at first that made them both pant heavily, then broadening his rocking so that he could reach deeper, inching closer to that spot- that spot right there, which made her cry out sharply and clench harder on his shoulders.
Anne desperately tried to tell him with words how good it felt, but all that tumbled from her mouth was a series of oohs and ahs and oh Gils. That was fine, because Gilbert was fluent in Anne's gibberish: he answered in his own guttural vernacular, growling and groaning and moaning, their exclamations speeding up with the rhythm they pounded into the wall.
Gilbert paused to blink sweat from his eyes. He was one thrust away from turning into a quivering puddle of jelly, and he wanted to make sure that she was ready to take the plunge with him. He looked up at his wanton dryad: flushed face, dilated pupils, jaw slack... she was as far gone as he was. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head back and flung them over the precipice of pleasure, holding her tightly as they fell together.