September's prompt: hurt/comfort

TW/CW: descriptions of addiction/substance abuse

Rolling over, he stretched his arm forward, his hand searching for her. But he was met with empty bed sheets and a warmth that told him she hadn't been gone long. Groggily, he perched himself on his right arm and listened. He couldn't hear anything beyond his own breathing and the faint popping and crackling of the fire. Just as he was about to leave the bed to look for her, the door to the bathroom swung open and she shuffled out, her plaited curls in disarray and her puffy, tearstained eyes reflecting in the firelight.

"Cora?" he murmured, his throat constricting at the sight of her.

She didn't answer. Sliding under the covers, she inched over until she was curled up against him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped her in his arms and dropped a kiss onto her crown as he stroked his hand up and down her back.

"Is there anything I can do?" he whispered.

She shook her head and breathed a sigh that trailed off into a hum as she shifted impossibly closer to him. Tightening his hold on her, he relaxed into the pillows and began to drift off to sleep. But before he could completely follow Morpheus back into the land of slumber, his eyes sprung open. Her eyes hadn't been tearstained. They had been glassy, almost…glazed.

He began to pull away, desperately wanting to look at her. But the heaviness of her body and evenness of her breathing halted him. She was asleep or very close to it and he was loathe to disturb her hard earned rest. It had been an age since she had been able to find sleep so quickly.

Cradling her to his chest again, he attempted to calm his racing mind. It was just her grief, he tried to convince himself, just evidence of her spilled tears. But his supposition crumbled to dust when she suddenly yawned and he detected a sourness on her breath that hadn't been there when he had kissed her goodnight.

Her grip on the counter tightened until her knuckles were as white as the porcelain. Heart racing, she forced herself to take deep breaths. They were all waiting for her and she must go. But she couldn't seem to impel herself to leave the washroom. Leaving would mean stepping out of her carefully constructed bubble of denial. It would mean forcing herself to once again stare the agonizing heartbreak of reality in the face.

A soft knock sounded on the door. "Milady?" O'Brien cautiously called through the wooden barrier. "Are you alright?"

Rapidly shaking her head, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. No, she was not alright. And she wasn't certain she would ever feel alright again. Her baby was dead. Inhaling sharply at the reminder, a wretched sob tried to force itself from her throat. She bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Her baby was dead. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, the trails of liquid slipping down her cheeks. Over and over the phrase repeated in her head, clanging in her ears. Her baby was dead, her baby was dead…

"Milady? Shall I tell them you're on your way down?"

Every fiber of her being wanted to cry out, wanted to scream. No, she would not be coming. She would not be joining anyone to celebrate a new life. How could she? When her ebullient and joy-filled beauty had left her and taken all manner of gaiety and merriment with her? It wasn't fair that the attention should so soon be removed from her daughter. She deserved to be remembered. She should be the one to be celebrated.

"We'll look after them. We'll look after them both…"

The memory came to her unbidden, its images flashing across the backs of her eyelids. The terror had gone as quickly as it came, stealing away the sweetest spirit to have graced the Earth. Her beauty lay peacefully still in permanent slumber, the nearby lamp illuminating the lifeless gray of her skin. She sat at her bedside, eyes burning with unshed tears as she promised to look after Tom and the baby, vowed to take on the duty of caring from them in her stead…

"Milady," came O'Brien's voice again. "Mr. Stark has brought the car round… Shall I tell them you'll need another few minutes?"

No, it wouldn't be necessary. She was coming. With every ounce of determination she could muster, she was coming. Opening her eyes, she caught sight of her reflection and flinched. Grief had enveloped her in its shroud, had curled her shoulders forward under its impossible weight. Anguish had eaten away at her until she was merely skin stretched over a gaunt frame. Her dress, the lilac gown she had worn to Mary's wedding only months before, hung on her, its shade mocking her with its garishly cheery hue. The glaring color harshly contrasted with the grayness of her skin and the haunted darkness in her red-rimmed eyes.

With a grimace, she looked away and took a deep breath as she tried to remind herself of the reasons she must go. But the sight of her appearance had quickly dissolved what little strength she had gathered. That was until her gaze fell on the brown bottle she had forgotten to hide away the previous night.

Sparks of hunger ignited in her abdomen, the insatiable flaming tongues spreading through her like wildfire. Her fingers itched to reach for the bottle, ached to feel the comforting coldness of the glass against her palm. She salivated at the thought of the sour drops on her tongue, at the idea of washing away the acute tightness in her chest.

'Just one more drop, just one more taste, and all will be well again.'

Oh it was a foolish idea. And she was mad for ever having entertained the notion. But her hunger outweighed her rationale and before she realized what she was doing, she reached out and grabbed the bottle. Just a few more drops couldn't hurt, she assured herself. It would be the last time.

He hadn't seen her all day. After kissing her good morning, he'd had to join Matthew on his rounds of the tenant farms. But he'd worried about her the entire duration. Unusual for them, she had wakened before him. And even more unusual, he had found her seated at her dressing table with tearstained cheeks, nose runny, and her hands clutching a damp cloth to her forehead. She had immediately waved away his concerns and cited a sudden wave of grief as the culprit. The still fragile nature of their relationship led him to do as she asked and go about his day as normal. But he just couldn't. His mind had remained firmly fixed on her. And as soon as he had the opportunity, he begged off the rest of the rounds, the cold, churning sensation in his abdomen telling him that something was wrong.

Despite his feelings of foreboding, he was still shocked by the state in which he found her. After witnessing the horror the Spanish Flu had wrought upon her, he had prayed he would never again see her in such a condition.

With her head resting against the casing, she stood by the open drawing room window, purple blouse unbuttoned to her corset and glued to her form. Her soaked raven curls were plastered to her forehead and neck and her skin was waxy and shining with perspiration. She breathed deeply, her frame trembling, as she attempted to soak up the gentle summer breeze that billowed in.

"Cora!" he choked out, rushing to her side. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her towards him, pressing his hand to the clammy skin of her forehead. "What's happened? Are you ill? Shall I ring for the doctor?"

Her initial surprise at his sudden arrival quickly dissipated and she struggled out of his grip, taking several steps away from him. "I'm fine," she stated flatly. "Just a little warm."

"A little warm?" he exclaimed, eyes widening in disbelief. "Cora, you are sopping wet and covered in gooseflesh."

"I'm well aware of that, thank you," she snapped. "It's a hot flush. Women my age get them all the time."

Fiery heat crept up his neck to the tips of his ears. He'd heard about such things, in passing of course, but he had never been confronted with them so boldly before. Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze to anywhere but her.

"Forgive me…" he murmured.

Huffing a sigh, she turned away from him and once again neared the open window. Slowly, he returned his regard to her. She leaned against the frame once again with her eyes closed and her head lolling to the side. He couldn't remember the last time she had looked so peaky.

"It's just," he blurted suddenly.

Her eyes slowly blinked open and she stared at him, her gaze strong enough to bore a hole through his head. He dropped his gaze to watch the way her hands twisted in the fabric of her gray skirt.

"It's just," he repeated, his voice halting, "I've never seen you in a public room in such a state of uh—" he gestured towards her— "un-undress."

"I'm fine," she restated, her intonation like stone.

He knew better than to keep speaking when her voice held such a harsh note. But he couldn't leave her as she was. Before he was able to decide his course of action however, she made the choice for him.

"I'd like to be alone if you don't mind," she murmured, voice wavering.

He did mind. He minded very much. But how could he say so? When the memory of his unwillingness to listen to her and what it cost them, was still so fresh in his mind. It was his fault. The blame for their current fragility resided fully with him. If only he had listened. It may not have changed the outcome, but it would have changed the following days. It would have meant facing their grief together instead of apart. It would have meant she could turn to him now with her troubles instead of soldiering on alone.

But he had sworn to himself that night— that infernal night, that he would never again ignore her when she asked something. So, with the utmost reluctance, he accepted her ask and left her in peace.

The moment she heard the drawing room door click shut, she turned away from the window. The heat that had been afflicting her finally retreated, leaving a biting coldness in its stead. With shivers shaking her body, she moved her hands to the buttons of her blouse and started pushing the first one through its hole. But it immediately slipped from her grasp. Teeth beginning to chatter, she gripped the fastener again and tried to pass it through to the other side. This time a violent spasm shot through her hands and she dropped the closure. She grabbed it again and again, but each time it fell through her shaking fingers. With a teary exclamation of anger, she tried to forcefully push the button between the edges of cloth. But her hands were trembling too much to cooperate and she gave up, releasing the fabric from her grasp.

Wrapping her arms around her upper body in an effort to cease the tremors, she paced the floor to warm herself. Tears involuntarily streaked down her cheeks, but she didn't even take the time to wipe them away. The spasm that had been in her hands, spread throughout her body, dislodging bursts of pain she could feel in her bones. Eventually, the ache forced her to drop her arms, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. It hurt to move but it was much worse to keep still.

Sensing her plight, the gluttonous appetency within her flamed to life. Its hunger and thirst filled her belly and mouth as its burning claws took control of her limbs, propelling her towards the drawing room door as hoarse promises of peace and euphoria tickled her ears.

"No, no, no," she cried in torment, her hands covering her ears.

She never should have given in the first time that little voice sounded. But how else was she supposed to cope with the pain? The heartache? The all encompassing anguish of losing a child? Before, she had her anger to protect her from the pain, to shelter her from the accursed reality. But she had it let go. For her husband and for herself, she had released every ounce of her rage, hoping it would help heal her. Instead, it had left behind an acute ache in her chest and a permanent dissociative numbness pervading the rest of her.

It was her risk of sleep-deprived insanity that had finally convinced the doctor to help her. The treatment, once considered a miracle cure, was hazardous. The line between helpful and harmful thoroughly blurred. She had been sternly instructed on the dose and warned to alert someone else to her actions. But she had ultimately decided to keep her treatment concealed. It was only to help her sleep at night. There was no need to worry anyone else.

She should have realized that one taste, one night of restful sleep, would birth an insatiable creature. An unquenchable demon that would importune in her ear, 'Just one more drop, just one more taste, and all will be well again.' She resisted every time and every time, she succumbed. It should have terrified her, this loss of self-control, but she hadn't allowed it to and had basked in her ability to sleep without struggle and live without pain.

But Robert had noticed. The night before the christening, when she had come back to bed and he'd wrapped her in his arms, his embrace had stiffened ever so slightly and she knew he had realized something. If she could only resist temptation, could just restrain herself long enough, he would never have to understand the extent of her descent.

Seized by a sudden abdominal spasm, she whimpered audibly and gripped the edge of the credenza that sat by the door, her other hand clutching her stomach. Gulping in sharp gasps of air, she tried to breathe through the agony. She hadn't felt such pain since she had last been in labor, twenty-four years ago with Sybil…

Sybil.

A new wave of tears pricked her eyes. The pain in her abdomen had abated, but now the ache was in her chest, her heart. Just the thought of her name was a torment, a taunting of all she had lost.

'Just one more drop, just one more taste, and all will be well again.'

Without taking time to think and before she could stop herself, she flung the door open and bolted from the room. She rushed up to her chamber, to the little brown bottle concealed in her bathroom cabinet. Just one more time couldn't hurt, she assured herself. It would be the last time.

She slept on her back, covers pulled up to her neck, her form cast in the shadow produced from his bedside lamp. He was ensconced beside her, propped up against the headboard, with a book in his hand. But his gaze had never once brushed the page and had instead, remained fixed on her every movement, her every breath. He counted them, her every inhale, her every exhale, and the few seconds between each soft puff of air. And his heart thundered with realization. Her breathing had grown more and more quiet with longer stretches of time between each respiration.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. Each day, he would notice a new symptom, a new peculiarity she exhibited. And each day, she would brush it off, wave it away as if it was nothing. Leaving him no recourse other than to file the new behavior away to the rapidly growing mental list he kept: erratic changes in mood, bouts of dizziness, no appetite, itchy skin, and now, slow, faint breathing.

He had tried to get her to see the doctor, heaven knew how many times. But his every attempt at broaching the subject was at best met with her cool indifference and at worst resulted in her hurling enraged filled words at him. He had half a mind to physically force her into a visit. He had such a right as her husband. But he also feared doing so would cause her to lose all trust in him. And that he just could not bear.

Heaving a sigh, he gave up all pretense of reading and returned his book to the bedside table. The house was silent, all other occupants having already retired some time before. But despite the incredibly late hour, he wasn't yet sleepy and decided to leave the light burning, allowing him to keep his regard of her. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he shuffled closer to her and brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. Her skin was clammy to the touch and damp with perspiration.

"Oh darling," he croaked, tears filling his eyes.

Grief affected everyone differently. He himself had spent many hours in the library nursing a drink in solitude with tears pouring down his flushed cheeks, had found himself searching for Sybil only to remember with paralyzing pain she was gone. But he had a feeling this was more than just grief. A sinking sensation— terror— had lodged itself in his abdomen every time he had witnessed her reach out to steady herself from falling, his own stomach knotting each time he had watched her fork her dinner around her plate without taking a single bite.

No, this was not just grief. This was a descent. A downward spiral that was rapidly taking her from him. And he was powerless to stop it. The sense of helplessness burned in his chest and heavily pressed against the back of his eyes, the feeling stinging the bridge of his nose. He just couldn't lose her too.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open, her lips parting to mumble the name that hadn't been spoken between them since that night. "Sybil."

Startling back from her, he watched with increasing alarm as she visibly paled and more beads of sweat pearled her skin. Her eyes, unblinking, were vacant as she stared up at the canopy.

"Cora?" he whispered, voice wavering and heart thumping wildly in his chest.

Jolting upright, she stared intently at the wall opposite her, her pupils blown wide. "Sybil," she called, cocking her head to the side.

Unnerved by her behavior, he could only gape as her lips curled into a smile and her empty eyes filled with tears.

"Sybil," she exclaimed breathlessly.

Without warning, she tossed back the blankets and leapt from the bed, dashing from the room and into the dark corridor. He immediately chased after her, panic filling his every step as he trailed her across the empty gallery and down the next equally empty hallway. Rounding the corner, his heart clenched as she came to the room no one had entered after that night. But she didn't so much as pause in her stride as she flung the door open and rushed inside.

Even with his terror for her and his unwillingness to leave her unobserved for even a moment, he couldn't bring himself to follow her example and dash into the room. The wounds from that night were still too fresh. Still too raw.

He had heard her as she sat by Sybil's bedside. She had wanted nothing to do with him, had wanted to be as far from him as possible. And he'd understood her reasoning. But he hadn't been able to leave her. He had stayed in the hall in silent support of her. That was, until he heard her saying goodbye to one of the best gifts they had every received.

"Because you are my baby, you know. And you always will be. Always. My beauty, my baby."

He'd had to flee to his dressing room, vision blurry and tears trekking down his cheeks. Her words had haunted him, chasing him the entire way, echoing in his ears for days afterward. He had run away when she needed him. He couldn't fail her again.

Cautiously, he entered the chamber, more uneasiness creeping up his spine. For a moment he thought he had been transported back to that dreadful night, back to the moment part of his world had stopped turning. Images of his baby girl— his Sybil— gasping for breath, struggling for life, flashed across his mind before he could stop them. The words that had been spoken— that had been shouted, the ones he wished to forget while simultaneously hoping he never did, rang in his ears.

Shaking his head to dispel the memories, he took in a steadying breath and watched her in silence for a moment. She sat on the edge of the mattress, her left hand extended and caressing the place where Sybil had taken her final breath.

"Darling," he whispered, heart splintering into a million pieces. Is this how she had looked saying goodbye? There was a small part of him relieved he hadn't witnessed it, he couldn't have borne it.

She startled, no longer appearing to be held captive by the trance that had enveloped her. Snapping her head in his direction, she stared at him through eyes no longer vacant, but filled with tears.

"I-I.." she stuttered. She cast her gaze around the room, eyes widening when she realized where she was.

Slowly, he stepped towards her and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. She instantly jerked away from him.

"Cora?" he murmured.

"I'm sorry, I—" Shaking her head, she hurried past him and fled the room.

For a second time that night, he raced after her, following her back down the hallway and across the gallery to their bedroom. Crossing the threshold, he found the chamber empty. But hearing noises from the adjacent room, he continued straight for the washroom. She had left the door standing open so he entered without hesitation, stopping short when he saw her.

With tears pouring down her splotchy face, she stood in front of the sink, holding a tablespoon in one trembling hand and a brown bottle in the other. His eyes immediately locked onto the label and his heart dropped into his stomach. Laudanum. Tears pooled in his eyes as he watched her shakily try to pour some of the liquid onto the spoon. That deadly liquid that had ruined so many, had now sunk its claws into his darling Cora.

"Cora," he choked through his tears.

She jumped, frightened by his intrusion. Her sudden movement caused her to drop the spoon into the sink with a loud clatter.

"It's not what you think," she blurted, eyes wide with alarm. "It just helps me fall asleep sometimes. I don't really need it."

He took in a slow, deep breath to keep himself from shuddering with sobs. "Then pour it out," he murmured gently.

Her brow creased. "Why should I?" she asked, blinking.

"If you don't need it as you say," he answered, "then pour it out. It shouldn't matter if you have no need for it."

"It just helps me fall asleep sometimes," she repeated, babbling, "but I don't really need it. There is no reason you should worry."

"I am worried," he admitted. Heaven above, he was terrified. "I'm worried a great deal. Pour it down the drain."

"No," she stated petulantly, her grip on the bottle tightening despite the shaking of her hands.

"You say you don't need it. So it won't cost you to pour it out." He could see her waffling, her resolve slowly crumbling. "Pour it down the drain, Cora," he encouraged.

She dropped her gaze to the brown bottle and stared, eyes transfixed. His heart raced as he observed her. For a moment he thought she wouldn't do it, that the monstrous hold on her was too strong. But then…

Slowly, she inched her arm out until it was stretched over the sink, tremors keeping her from holding it steady. Her teeth sank into her lower lip and more tears filled her eyes as she continued to hold the bottle aloft.

"I can't," she whispered brokenly. "I can't do it."

As though approaching a frightened animal, he drew close to her and took her empty hand in his, interlocking their fingers. "You can," he murmured, his own tears streaming down his cheeks. "Darling, you can."

He watched as her brow furrowed with determination and her shoulders straightened with resolution. Caressing his thumb over her knuckles, he kneaded her clammy palm with his own in silent support. Gradually, she tilted the bottle, allowing one drop, then two, to escape the container. She continued to tip the bottle until there was a steady stream of liquid pouring over the rim and down the drain.

As the final drop emptied, she released the bottle and it shattered against the porcelain sink. Wearily, she collapsed against him in the same instant he crushed her to his chest.

"You did it," he murmured into her ear, his teary voice filled with pride. "You did it, Cora."

Dissolving into body wracking cries, she clutched him impossibly closer to herself as though she was trying to crawl beneath his skin. "She was everywhere," she sobbed. "In every corner, in every room and I— I couldn't bear it."

"I know, my darling," he whispered. He pressed a series of kisses to the top of her head, his tears slipping down into her hair. "I know."

He held her as she continued to cry, gently rocking her back and forth, whispering words of comfort to her. Until eventually, her tears ran dry and her shuddering breaths began to even out. Keeping his arms around her, he leaned back ever so slightly and looked down into her bloodshot eyes, her pupils still dilated.

"I've tried to stop," she mumbled, silently pleading with him to understand. Her body was still shaking and gooseflesh dotted her heated skin. "I haven't had any since luncheon. But—" her eyes dropped to the buttons of his pajama shirt, embarrassment coloring her face— "she was there, Robert. I know she was and-and then she disappeared and I couldn't—" A choked sob. "It was like losing her all over again."

"Oh Cora," he sighed, clasping her to him again.

"I don't know how to stop," she continued in a whisper. "I know I have to, but I…"

She lapsed off and burrowed even further into his arms. He pressed his lips to the side of her head and squeezed her to him, more tears stinging his eyes.

"I don't know how to stop," she repeated weakly.

"We'll ring Clarkson first thing," he murmured. It took everything in him to not ring now, but it was late and he didn't want her worrying about disturbing the doctor at such an hour. "He'll know what to do."

She nodded against him and sighed, her exhausted body becoming limp in his arms. Keeping a hold on her, he led her out of the washroom and over to the bed.

"We should get some sleep," he whispered as they walked. "You need rest."

"But I won't sleep," she stated suddenly panicked, her body going rigid. "It's not that I don't want to, I just can't. The longer I go without it, the worse I feel an-and I'll keep you up."

"Then we'll stay up together," he answered sensibly.

"That's fine for tonight, but what about tomorrow night?" She looked at him wide eyed. "Or the one after? Are you—"

"Shhh," he soothed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'll stay up tomorrow night— and every night, until you are well again."

Shaking her head, she dropped her gaze. "This is my problem, not yours. I can't ask that of you."

"You're not asking. I'm volunteering."

He brought his hands up and gently cupped her face, titling her head until he could look into her eyes, sparkling with unspilled tears. A single teardrop managed to escape down her cheek and he was quick to kiss it away.

"I'm not leaving you to face this alone. I love you, Cora," he continued, emotion clogging his throat.

She reached up and pressed her forehead to his, her eyes blinking closed.

"And nothing will ever change that."