Rinoa/Caraway: The Half Hour
Title: The Half Hour
Claim: Rinoa/Caraway
Rating: K (some language)
Prompts: Ice, 'a fork in the road', winter (#11, #34, #97)
Note: Chronicles the day Julia died, and should be subsequently read alongside 'Don't Take Me Away From Here'
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1900 hrs.
The small desk lamp emitted a strangely warm glow. Caraway lit a cigarette, trying to keep his eyes focussed on the printed words. Sometimes they bled into each other, like a huge stain that became indistinguishable and strange.
His eyes slid other to the whisky cannister, feeling thirsty.
She said he a had a drinking problem, that he was a bad husband, a cold father.
Could he really deny it?
He put down his pen and tumbled some ice cubes into a glass. He twirled open the crystal holder and then--
“Sir, a call for you.”
1904 hrs.
Would he like a car? No, he fucking wouldn't.
The ice cubes in the glass were slowly melting. Grabbing the cannister, he had several quick swigs to calm himself down. It didn't work. When did it ever work, really?
Agitated because he couldn't drink, drink to stop being agitated.
1912 hrs.
In the car he felt physically ill, almost dizzy with sickness. He fiddled with his gloves (the ones he got for his birthday) and took several deep breaths (but the air felt laced with sadness).
The driver said nothing. The heavy Deling rain sounded like white noise. It silenced everything-- stifled screams, angry words under heated breath, the sound of a marriage (slowly, slowly) falling apart.
1923 hrs.
The hospital smelt of lemon and fresh sheets. It didn't smell like death, like loss.
The doctor approached him.
“Take me to her.”
“Your wife has been in an accident.”
He placed down the glass slowly. “I don't understand.”
“That's not advisable.”
“Stop it! Take me to her!”
“She's very, very unstable.”
Caraway felt winded. “What happened to her?”
“She hit the windscreen, hard.”
“Please come soon, sir.”
“Of course.”
But he had to sit back down, he couldn't move.
1929 hrs.
She was crying so hard.
“This isn't working.”
It wasn't. But he had never surrendered in his life.
“What do you mean it was an accident?”
“I mean your wife swerved off the road.”
“Impossible!”
...Of course it's possible.
She bundled a sleeping Rinoa into the car. He didn't try and stop her-- he couldn't fight this enemy. Rinoa's black hair spilled against her pale face. They were both so beautiful. And he loved them, but that love he could never express, because it hurt to put it into words.
They were never meant to be his.
Rinoa looked at him with frightened eyes. He wanted to say something, a comforting word to express a mutual sense of loss.
Nothing.
Just a horrible, excruciating absence.
She collapsed to the floor.
But he was numb, and felt nothing. Just thirsty
1930 hrs.
It had been the moment Julia noticed he had no pictures of her or Rinoa on his desk.
“Why?”
Caraway couldn't understand why she was upset. He suspected that was half the problem.
She was asleep, or what he thought was sleep. He touched her face. Again, she was not his.
Julia Heartilly was never anyone's.