Author's Note: Something I thought of at work. See End Notes for more information.
His left hand feels heavy.
His fingers feel distracted.
Days, weeks have passed since her death, since he lost the woman he had pledged life and happiness and love to. Time has come and gone like the foamed water lapping at the sleek steel surrounding him; it will not be ignored, but also becomes a constant, surrounding him and washing over him and reminding him that there is a missing part of him he will never recover.
When he has a moment to breathe, when the ship or the crew or simply life allows him to stop for a singular second, he feels something tight in his chest, a thing that has banded his ribs and stolen his ability to draw in a full breath. This thing, this emotion is carried in his breast the way a parasite resides in the blood of a host; he has little knowledge on how to remove it, since this thing is so foreign, so unknown that it can run unchecked through his veins and thieve his peace.
Because shouldn't he feel that as well?
He should feel such relief at the sight of his children smiling and growing and healthy. He should feel relief that his father - hardheaded that he is - can rest easily in a home with his grandchildren, without worry of the red death following so many others.
He sees them, hears them, holds them, and yet there is still a hole in his contentedness.
She was ripped from him without a goodbye, and he had been unable to save her.
Sure, others have told him that it was never something he could have stopped, and no blame should placed, as life is out of any control, and accepting that will ease the pain. But which pain? The pain of being too late? The pain of knowing she suffered more than a human should? The pain knowing that his children will live in a world without their mother? The indescribable pain that eats away at him from somewhere deep inside, a dark place that is gaping and raw?
That pain?
He pretends, so very well, that he is dealing with all the pain, but it is a lie. He lives this lie for his children and his father and his crew. He lives it because he doesn't know any other method of coping with his failure.
And then there are moments, moments like this, where he feels the small weight of his metal promise, of the gold wrapped around his finger, and remembers all too vividly the way she felt and laughed and loved and lived. He thinks he should remove it, peel away the physical reminder of his loss, but he still feels tied to her, tied to their promises, and he cannot walk away from that.
He can't walk away, but that doesn't mean he must walk alone.
There is another in his life now that gives him hope, as rare and real as that is. She understands loss, understands that he cannot simply move on to the next new thing because to him, the last was perfect. That thing in his chest, the one that pumps toxic doubt and guilt through his veins, is lessened, made to shrink back when she is near. He knows he is coming to a dangerous place with her, a place they both know to be precarious; she is in love with her work, he is in love with his wife, and they are both desperate for a more immediate connection, be it love or otherwise.
His left hand feels heavy.
She threads her fingers through his, and they walk forward.
Author's End Note: scifihippie you have brought attention to part of my argument with my friend about Chandler and Rachel's relationship. I feel strongly, however, that their greatest chance for happiness will come when they have both shed some of the past, and are able to move forward. At the moment, Chandler's loss is too raw, and Rachel is too invested in humanity for them to be "together", but I think once they move past that, they have a chance. Also, guilt-ridden Chandler is my favourite thing to write.
And as always, thank you to those who have reviewed, followed, and favourited.