Fanfic: Dreams
When his wife gives him the news, William is firstly ecstatic and secondly scared out of his mind. His excitement and joy and anxiety and thoughts of oh god how are we going to do this? are all jumbled up inside his heart, ready to burst. He’s really never felt like that before, so full of nervous energy and elation all at the same time, and the only thing he can think to do is cradle Grelle close and mutter some quixotic nonsense about protecting her, even though every word of it is true. Her smile is unlike any he has ever seen her wear: grinning ear to ear and crinkles at the corners of her eyes and tears as well, but for once, she’s not crying sad tears over this sort of thing. Her smile is telling him she’s genuinely, indisputably happy, something she’s only recently ever known how to be. Her smile makes him smile, and for once, he’s genuinely, indisputably happy as well.
In the blink of an eye, it seems, her midsection is impossibly swollen. She’s decided on a whim to paint the former guestroom a beautifully subtle shade of blue, even though the gifts they’ve received from friends and family (as well as assurances from certain medical personnel) are all tinted the same soft pink. Her gut is telling her so, she argues, and her gut feeling is never wrong. He hesitates to correct her, even though he could do so with an overwhelming amount of examples, because she’s wearing that smile again. His gut is telling him that she’s genuinely, indisputably happy, and that’s something he can bring himself to spoil.
He’s sitting beside her on the couch, his fingers spread over her belly, trapped under her palms, and they are discussing names. She, of course, wants something unique and wonderfully theatrical (as befits an actress such as myself, William darling!), while he’s pushing for something practical, something that won’t seem completely outlandish to say in polite company. She’s probably going to get her way, if he knows himself and his wife any at all, but that’s alright. Picking out names like Ophelia Jane and Paris Alexander makes her genuinely, indisputably happy, and truth to tell, as much as he’d loathe to admit it, he is too.
And suddenly, everything is red. Red, red, bloody red, and there’s pain and panic and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do besides sit in the waiting room and wring his hands and try not to cry. Knox is there inexplicably, looking just as worried as William feels, trying to calm him down and reassure him that everything is going to be okay, Spears, I just know it, your girl’s a fighter, she’s strong, she’ll make it and so will the-but he knows the statistics and the percentages and he knows that fate has always had it out for him, so he can’t quite believe anything his companion says.
Hours and hours later-or at least what seems like hours and hours later-some faceless doctor opens the door and calls his name, and when he stands up and walks over to meet her and sees the expression on her face, his throat closes up and something behind his eyes stings wildly. As soon as his worst fears are confirmed as a reality, his mind tunes out everything else that’s said to him and all he can think is that he’s not going to make it through the night, he’s going to give up, because he can’t go on without her, he can’t, he can’t, he can’tcan’tcan’t and-
-
William wakes up in his own bed. He’s sitting straight up, sweating like a pig, and can’t seem to stop shaking, but he’s in his own bed. He’s not surrounded by repressive, sterile white, he’s not sobbing into his knees, and most importantly, he’s not alone. He’s not alone.
“Are you okay, Will?” Grelle slurs sleepily by his side, sitting up and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He looks down at her belly-still flat-and he knows it’s irrational, but he has to make sure. “I’m fine, darling,” he manages, and he notices peripherally that his voice has gone all high-pitched and wobbly. His scalp hurts all of a sudden, but that’s probably because his fingers have a death grip on his hair. He’s relaxing more and more the longer he’s awake and around her, though, and so he slides his hands into his lap. “Just…just a bad dream.”
She nods and convinces him to lie back down, and although his wife is asleep again before her head touches the pillow, William is still too frightened to shut his eyes. The rational part of him knows his subconscious is only playing tricks on him. But the irrational side is using totally rational facts and figures to persuade him that he should be scared, that although there is no chance for his fears to be realized now, he doesn’t know what the future holds, and that if there ever is a chance for his fears to be realized, he doesn’t know what the future holds for them then either. The whole thing is so full of uncertainty, and he wants to throw a tantrum like a child at the absurd unjustness of it all.
The thought makes him genuinely, indisputably sick.
In the blink of an eye, it seems, her midsection is impossibly swollen. She’s decided on a whim to paint the former guestroom a beautifully subtle shade of blue, even though the gifts they’ve received from friends and family (as well as assurances from certain medical personnel) are all tinted the same soft pink. Her gut is telling her so, she argues, and her gut feeling is never wrong. He hesitates to correct her, even though he could do so with an overwhelming amount of examples, because she’s wearing that smile again. His gut is telling him that she’s genuinely, indisputably happy, and that’s something he can bring himself to spoil.
He’s sitting beside her on the couch, his fingers spread over her belly, trapped under her palms, and they are discussing names. She, of course, wants something unique and wonderfully theatrical (as befits an actress such as myself, William darling!), while he’s pushing for something practical, something that won’t seem completely outlandish to say in polite company. She’s probably going to get her way, if he knows himself and his wife any at all, but that’s alright. Picking out names like Ophelia Jane and Paris Alexander makes her genuinely, indisputably happy, and truth to tell, as much as he’d loathe to admit it, he is too.
And suddenly, everything is red. Red, red, bloody red, and there’s pain and panic and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do besides sit in the waiting room and wring his hands and try not to cry. Knox is there inexplicably, looking just as worried as William feels, trying to calm him down and reassure him that everything is going to be okay, Spears, I just know it, your girl’s a fighter, she’s strong, she’ll make it and so will the-but he knows the statistics and the percentages and he knows that fate has always had it out for him, so he can’t quite believe anything his companion says.
Hours and hours later-or at least what seems like hours and hours later-some faceless doctor opens the door and calls his name, and when he stands up and walks over to meet her and sees the expression on her face, his throat closes up and something behind his eyes stings wildly. As soon as his worst fears are confirmed as a reality, his mind tunes out everything else that’s said to him and all he can think is that he’s not going to make it through the night, he’s going to give up, because he can’t go on without her, he can’t, he can’t, he can’tcan’tcan’t and-
-
William wakes up in his own bed. He’s sitting straight up, sweating like a pig, and can’t seem to stop shaking, but he’s in his own bed. He’s not surrounded by repressive, sterile white, he’s not sobbing into his knees, and most importantly, he’s not alone. He’s not alone.
“Are you okay, Will?” Grelle slurs sleepily by his side, sitting up and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He looks down at her belly-still flat-and he knows it’s irrational, but he has to make sure. “I’m fine, darling,” he manages, and he notices peripherally that his voice has gone all high-pitched and wobbly. His scalp hurts all of a sudden, but that’s probably because his fingers have a death grip on his hair. He’s relaxing more and more the longer he’s awake and around her, though, and so he slides his hands into his lap. “Just…just a bad dream.”
She nods and convinces him to lie back down, and although his wife is asleep again before her head touches the pillow, William is still too frightened to shut his eyes. The rational part of him knows his subconscious is only playing tricks on him. But the irrational side is using totally rational facts and figures to persuade him that he should be scared, that although there is no chance for his fears to be realized now, he doesn’t know what the future holds, and that if there ever is a chance for his fears to be realized, he doesn’t know what the future holds for them then either. The whole thing is so full of uncertainty, and he wants to throw a tantrum like a child at the absurd unjustness of it all.
The thought makes him genuinely, indisputably sick.