0210

Jun. 7th, 2010 03:02 am
witticaster: (dressed for a funeral)
[personal profile] witticaster
Because sometimes I don't want to go to bed, I want to rewrite canon scenes for the Woolfverse. This is so stupidly overwrought, but whatever, I do what I want.


One winter afternoon, ensconced upon the settee next to the fireplace, James dared ask the question that had plagued him for the past week. He folded his newspaper and turned his head to regard his wife, who had set down her needlework for the third time in twenty minutes, and was now watching the flames flickering behind the glass screen. "Is there something wrong, Beth?" he inquired, his voice quiet. "You have seemed out of sorts lately."

He had expected her to demur, as she so often did when one asked after her welfare, but instead, she nodded slowly and murmured, "There is, or, at least, I believe there is, but you shall not like to hear it."

"If you should like to tell me, I would prefer it to remaining ignorant." As he spoke, he slipped his hand into hers, smoothing his thumb over the back of her hand.

Only then did she draw her attention from the cozy fire, and looked at him as still and solemn as she ever had. She was beautiful--had always been, he could happily aver--but her beauty had ever been a delicate one, pale and fine-boned, and her recent ailments had magnified it. Where she had been slender, illness now left her gaunt, her wide blue eyes suddenly huge in her face, and the pallor that had accompanied her malady had not yet lifted. He had told himself not to worry, but to look at her now, and feel how small and thin her hand was beneath his, it was difficult to remember this instructive.

Something in her face changed, though he could not for the life of him place where the difference was; he knew only that she looked relieved, and he wondered what was written so clearly in his own expression. "You can see it, too, can't you?" she asked, touching his temple with gentle fingers. "Please tell me that you can--I am not sure I can bear to say the words aloud."

"I--" and he closed his eyes, trying to think of nothing but the light touch upon his wrinkled skin. "I have reason to worry, don't I?"

"Yes." It was nearly inaudible, and when he trusted himself to look at her once more, her eyes were on her lap.

"We--we must tell the doctors," he found himself saying, covering her other hand, in the old gesture: he brought both of her hands to his lips, held them as carefully as one might a startled bird. "They can run tests, they'll find out what's wrong."

"If you would like to, we can," Beth responded, and took a deep breath, each word growing more trembling than the last, until finally she sounded on the verge of tears. "but--I do not think it will do any good. I've never felt quite like this before. Every day, I...I wake up, and I feel as though some part of me has already gone. It's as though the tide is going out; it's slow, but it doesn't stop ebbing until it has all gone away."

He gathered her in his arms and pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, needing her closer, near enough to feel her vitality, however long it might remain. Her quiet certainty, corroborated by his own vague, unnamed suspicions, set loose the terror lurking in his heart. "I--I do not want you to leave," he told her, feeling like a lost child, her hair now damp against his skin. "I don't know what I should do without you."

"Nor I," came the muffled reply, for she had buried her face in his shoulder. "I have tried not to fear, but I cannot bear to leave you. Nor the children, but--oh, James, not you."

"My dearest Beth," he sighed, attempting to catch hold once more of his emotions. After some minutes there together, after they both had had ample opportunity to regain some composure, he coaxed her head up and kissed her. She tasted of saltwater, and for one absurd moment, he was reminded of their walks along the shoreline, leaning into each other against the breeze, with gulls calling overhead. "How long, do you think?"

She shrugged, reaching for the handkerchief in her pocket as she curled up against him, her cheek pillowed more comfortably against his shoulder, and dabbed at her eyes. "I don't know. Not so soon, I hope, but--" and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I cannot--cannot speculate, it feels--"

"I'm sorry," he said, beginning to stroke her pale hair. "I should not have asked."

Sounding very hesitant, she looked up at him and said, "In any case, let us try not to dread too much? I would like the rest to be--to be happy times, and with you near, I could expect nothing else."

"I will do my best," he answered, and knew in his heart that his best could never possibly be good enough, if it still resulted in losing her.