Chapter Text
Patrick looked around his office, trying to conjure up additional work. It shouldn’t be like this, his mind whispered to him. They hadn’t even been married a year and already the cracks in their relationship were so large that a deep chill blew through their previously cozy existence.
But had it been cozy? Their relationship had been a rollercoaster since before they even acknowledged it existed. The peace, the rosy joy of that brief period after their wedding, that had been the anomaly. And even then there was the strain of Timothy’s recovery. Shelagh had pushed Timothy then too - continued to push him - to enjoy what she thought he ought to, imposed herself on their way of being as though that was how a cohesive family was made. Marianne had never done that. When she’d enquired about the war he’d politely closed that topic and she’d let it lie. A compromise. That was how relationships were built to last. Damn it, why couldn’t Shelagh let this lie? Maybe she’d been right when she’d worried that their inability to conceive a child meant God frowned on their relationship.
He rubbed his eyes hard with the palm of his hands, the retinal ganglia sending brilliant flashes of light to illuminate the darkness behind his closed lids. What was he doing, turning to a God he didn’t believe in to let himself off the hook? What was he doing blaming Shelagh for loving so fiercely? Shame washed over him. I shouldn’t be like this. I’m a coward, a broken old coward who drags others down with me. The words stung with truth, and despair welled up within him. And he hated that too, hated that he was sitting here, wallowing in self-pity while his wife worked upstairs to restore normalcy. He could smell it, wafting down the stairs. A roast, he thought.
Put it away, just put it away. If we both commit to restoring a normal life, it will fall back into place. All of the mess with the adoption will fade into the past and we’ll move on. If more children aren’t in the cards, well that’s just that. We were happy just the three of us and if we can just get past this bump, we’ll be happy again.
Decisively, he flicked off the lamp, hung his white coat on the rack, and marched upstairs.
He opened the door to the warmth and brightness of his familiar flat. The punchy patter of Beyond Our Ken drifted out of the kitchen along with the smells of supper and the lighthearted chatter of Timothy and Shelagh. They were jokingly trying to imitate one of the presenters, Shelagh failing to capture his accent, sending Timothy into hysterics. The laughter stopped as he closed the door, the lightness instantly dissipating. Did you need any more proof that this is your bloody fault? He buried the bitter words as soon as they formed. He tried to school his features into an easy happiness, hoping they would shape the feelings they masked.
“Hello dearest,” Shelagh stepped out of the kitchen to greet him, an uncertainty in her eyes dampening the brightness of her welcoming smile.
He smiled back in reply, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. In spite of the warmth of the flat, her skin was as cold as marble under his chapped lips. Their movements felt stiff and mechanical, unsettling. She felt it too, he could read that in her eyes, guarded as they were.
He pushed the thought out of his mind, the more they practiced this normalcy, the more natural it would become. They would get through this.