It seems fitting that the leaves are all dead, crunching underneath his shoes as he crosses the field. The world seems cold and lifeless, as if it were mourning with him, but Nick knows all too well that isn’t true. The bills are piling up on the desk at home, and his boss has called him four times in the past week. Strange how the world just keeps moving. It has only been a month. One month-- thirty days and thirty nights of grieving and crying and blaming himself because why did he choose that night to work late? Why wasn’t he there to protect them or, at the very least, to die alongside them?
The world is a cruel, unjust place.
They lay side by side in the earth now, far beyond his reach. Their names are inscribed in stone, each with a simple epithet. Devoted Wife and Mother. Beloved Son. Neither one does them justice. Nick could fill a book and not do them justice. Taken too soon.
He lays the flowers on each headstone with care. Sarah’s roses are pink. Lucas’ are white. They’re the only bright spots in the otherwise dead field. That’s fitting too. They were the only bright spots in his life.
There’s darkness now. There’s so much darkness.
Nick thought that after a solid month, he’d be out of tears, but he isn’t. He twists his fingers up in his pockets, shivering against the cold, and gives a ragged breath as his eyes start to burn.
“I love you,” he says, voice dry and cracked with the effort not to cry. “I miss you.” He swallows hard, feeling his bottom lip begin to tremble. There was so much more he needed to say to them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, choking on each syllable. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t… I should have… I wish… Oh, God.”
Nick falls to his knees, fingers curling into the dirt as if he can still touch them that way. If God hears him, he gives no indication.
He sobs miserably. “What do I do? What am I supposed to do without you? I can’t. I just can’t. I’m by myself, and it’s all a mess, and I just… I just… I miss you.”
The grief crushes him like a weight, and Nick’s body folds under the pressure. He sinks down on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself in a crude mimicry of an embrace, but there is no one to hold him now.
Hours pass. Salt and wind mix on his cheeks until they’re red and chapped, but he hardly feels that. His skin goes numb, but his heart does not. There’s no cold that can dull such a profound agony as this, or so he thinks now. Nick walks home in the icy rain, no regard for his own health. Maybe this will be it. Maybe this will be what finally lets him follow them.
It isn’t.
He goes through half a bottle of scotch before he collapses into bed. Nick wraps himself up in blankets, but that doesn’t stop the chill. It isn’t the wind or the rain or the unforgiving winter air. Emptiness. It’s just the aching, icy emptiness. Time passes, but Nick knows he will never be whole again. What could possibly hope to fill this gap?
Nearly an hour goes by before the liquor has enough of a hold on him that his eyes roll closed and there’s a brief reprieve silence in his head. He’ll see them again tonight in his dreams. If he’s lucky, they’ll be smiling instead of bleeding and screaming and crying for help.
Nick is rarely lucky.
He sleeps then, a strangely familiar chill washing over him, and as he dreams, he hears his wife’s voice calling his name.
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Fill: Team Castiel/Lucifer, Thirty Days and Thirty Nights
Date: 2013-10-20 11:51 pm (UTC)It seems fitting that the leaves are all dead, crunching underneath his shoes as he crosses the field. The world seems cold and lifeless, as if it were mourning with him, but Nick knows all too well that isn’t true. The bills are piling up on the desk at home, and his boss has called him four times in the past week. Strange how the world just keeps moving. It has only been a month. One month-- thirty days and thirty nights of grieving and crying and blaming himself because why did he choose that night to work late? Why wasn’t he there to protect them or, at the very least, to die alongside them?
The world is a cruel, unjust place.
They lay side by side in the earth now, far beyond his reach. Their names are inscribed in stone, each with a simple epithet. Devoted Wife and Mother. Beloved Son. Neither one does them justice. Nick could fill a book and not do them justice. Taken too soon.
He lays the flowers on each headstone with care. Sarah’s roses are pink. Lucas’ are white. They’re the only bright spots in the otherwise dead field. That’s fitting too. They were the only bright spots in his life.
There’s darkness now. There’s so much darkness.
Nick thought that after a solid month, he’d be out of tears, but he isn’t. He twists his fingers up in his pockets, shivering against the cold, and gives a ragged breath as his eyes start to burn.
“I love you,” he says, voice dry and cracked with the effort not to cry. “I miss you.” He swallows hard, feeling his bottom lip begin to tremble. There was so much more he needed to say to them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, choking on each syllable. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t… I should have… I wish… Oh, God.”
Nick falls to his knees, fingers curling into the dirt as if he can still touch them that way. If God hears him, he gives no indication.
He sobs miserably. “What do I do? What am I supposed to do without you? I can’t. I just can’t. I’m by myself, and it’s all a mess, and I just… I just… I miss you.”
The grief crushes him like a weight, and Nick’s body folds under the pressure. He sinks down on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself in a crude mimicry of an embrace, but there is no one to hold him now.
Hours pass. Salt and wind mix on his cheeks until they’re red and chapped, but he hardly feels that. His skin goes numb, but his heart does not. There’s no cold that can dull such a profound agony as this, or so he thinks now. Nick walks home in the icy rain, no regard for his own health. Maybe this will be it. Maybe this will be what finally lets him follow them.
It isn’t.
He goes through half a bottle of scotch before he collapses into bed. Nick wraps himself up in blankets, but that doesn’t stop the chill. It isn’t the wind or the rain or the unforgiving winter air. Emptiness. It’s just the aching, icy emptiness. Time passes, but Nick knows he will never be whole again. What could possibly hope to fill this gap?
Nearly an hour goes by before the liquor has enough of a hold on him that his eyes roll closed and there’s a brief reprieve silence in his head. He’ll see them again tonight in his dreams. If he’s lucky, they’ll be smiling instead of bleeding and screaming and crying for help.
Nick is rarely lucky.
He sleeps then, a strangely familiar chill washing over him, and as he dreams, he hears his wife’s voice calling his name.
If only he could never wake up.