Work Text:
Spilling Heart’s Chalice
Even now, alone on the loveseat, it was impossible to read. Linton’s mind was always hazy, plagued with thoughts that commanded his focus, a feverish virus that chased him ravenously no matter how much he fought against it.
But he had to ensure that his Catherine’s wishes would be fulfilled, even if his untrained body protested.
He crossed his legs the other way, his shoe tilted towards the unlit fireplace, and another unwelcome itch assaulted his throat.
Hurriedly, Linton turned his head, muffling the cough with his handkerchief. The seething ache in his lungs stung, however it was so persistent nowadays that it hardly caught his attention. He simply tried to keep quiet for Catherine, who would always complain of the noise hurting her head.
Catherine’s migraines were incurable and tempestuous. Despite this, she insisted that as long as Linton left her alone, stayed away from her door, it would eventually ease away. She never wanted medicine. She never asked for warm company, nor for whispered words of comfort.
Linton would have given them in a heartbeat, if so. He would have kneeled at her bedside if she hadn’t wanted him to share her space, and he would have waited with her for the pain to go away so that she wouldn’t have to bear it alone.
His coughing bothered her head, alas.
His presence distracted her from the solitude her mind needed.
He made her unable to indulge in her personal writings, one of her few remaining pastimes.
She didn’t want to take to staring at Linton as she had begun staring at herself within the mirror she clutched at her bedside… with resentful, self-destructive rapture, some type of poetic filthiness unbefitting a lady of her status.
Regardless, Linton never minded how mannered or honest Catherine was. He only desired to be near her, to be wanted as she wanted Heathcliff. Perhaps he would settle for less than that, if only she would let him in.
He could only imagine Catherine’s migraines and closed-off nature would suddenly clear if that brute she held dear finally returned. If perhaps, then, once the work was done, Catherine would finally spare Linton a true, unfettered smile.
Linton coughed again, and he remembered that he was reading, and so he turned the page. He scanned the words in a mind-drunken haze, aware of the distant roar of the wind, footsteps, the soft clink of silverware on plates. He thought of how the colorful illumination of their home would be so much brighter if he could see Catherine again open that door in the hall, grinning wildly from ear to ear.
Her hair, the sweet color of chestnut and maple syrup, bouncing with the soft radiance of her movements as she approached him. Her cheeks, bright with the pinks of a blush more lively than the reds he’d seen in her sickness and anger. Her tailored dress, bunched up in despairing, whitening fingers as she pleaded, screaming at him, demanding Heathcliff back, accusing Linton for keeping her chained here, until the snot and tears rolled down those same, beautiful cheeks.
She would apologize, eventually. As Linton gazed back at her with unwavering, sympathetic, pained devotion, eventually Catherine would tell him he did nothing wrong. That her tears were for Heathcliff, her anger for herself, and he was a saint for caring for her in the meanwhile. Maybe she would tell Linton that she loved him, while he was watching her cry, his heart still twisted and bleeding.
And he would smile. For her. It wouldn’t reach his ears as her earnest smiles did, so he would bend to kiss her hand, hiding that his face had become so much more pallid than before.
He would feel her clammy, cold fingertips with nails so short from biting, such that she kept them gloved whenever she went out. Tenderly, he would kiss her trembling fingers one by one, chastely, softly, delicately, and without opening his mouth, he would taste the salt on his lips.
Her palm would be hot from her difficult emotions, and finally when Catherine could take it no longer, she would close that palm over his. Without words, asking him to stop. It would send a jolt through him, an unbearable desperation, and still, he would respect her and let go.
She would not meet his gaze when he looked back up at her, so perhaps she wouldn’t notice the love watering in his blue eyes as he blinked it back. The sensation in his core would remain for the evening, regardless of what Catherine said as she turned away.
And he would stare.
He would watch her start to leave, his heart in his throat, fire blistering in his belly.
Then, if only she looked back at him —
“— Linton?”
He flinched, and in his startle, he gave himself a papercut. Swiftly, he hid it beneath the cover of his book, begging to himself that it wouldn’t stain, and glanced back at the Butlers standing guard in the hallway.
“Young Master Linton?”
There was Nelly calling out to him, a tray of dishes balancing on her hand. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to her presence in his home. At first glance, she would have been as insignificant to Linton as any other helper in the Edgar family manor, but Nelly had now made herself known as Catherine’s closest. She always had some secret about his wife to share, always told him things that he couldn’t for the life of him keep up with.
And she spoke like she’d done this for ages beyond what was possible, so collected about everything that easily drove Linton mad.
He was growing ill just thinking about it. Hastily, Linton cleared his throat to distract the itch in his chest. “Yes…?” Linton wheezed out. “What is it? Is Catherine —”
“She’s fine now. It’s nothing to lose sleep over, really. No need to worry so much,” Nelly replied, waving her hand flippantly, to the point where Linton blanched to nearly the shade of a ghost, imagining she was only placating him. Nelly, the confident Chief Butler that Catherine had brought with her after their marriage, had proven more dependable than her lies were harmful, but it was still terrifying to allow her any control. “Miss Catherine was only having one of her usual fits.”
Linton’s stomach lurched in fear, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from coughing. His thumb instinctively bunched in his handkerchief — upon pulling back, beads of blood from his papercut had smeared on the fabric. Nelly’s gaze, naturally, rested upon it.
“I know you refuse to retire for the night, but it’ll only beat you down if you stay up worrying, you know?” Nelly said. “Miss Catherine wouldn’t want you to become bedridden over her.”
Linton folded his handkerchief with all his restraint not to cough, and pressed his stinging thumb into it. He frowned mid-reply, catching the concern he seemed to detect in the watchful eyes of his Butlers.
“And don’t you try to give me that ‘I was reading’ excuse, either,” Nelly interjected. “I’ve known you since you were small; you don’t do well masking your emotions.”
“I truly was reading, earlier,” Linton returned, a bit thinly. He hadn’t been reading for leisure or distraction either; Catherine had requested him to help her prepare Wuthering Heights for her fulfillment, and that was exactly what he intended to do. No matter Linton’s own feelings on the matter. There was still much to learn about T Corp’s policies and their workings with the Wings that he’d never thought he’d have to touch on. Not to mention the Ring, who Linton had to hope he could influence so things would slide by smoothly.
He had to succeed in this.
Or else he’d be a failure to Catherine. Even if it was for a cause that made his entire being recoil with apprehension, Linton was selfless, he was resolute. Even if Catherine never fully wanted him until her passing, Linton would be someone worth her affection, if only temporarily.
“I will go to sleep… shortly after,” Linton said, now beckoning Nelly with a nod, as he’d done these past few nights. He did his best to keep his expression unreadable as he noticed the dishes Nelly carried were mostly empty — even the dry crusts of Catherine’s toast were no longer crumpled on the edge of her plate.
His heart jumped a bit at the implication that Catherine might be improving; Linton took in the sight of the gruel struggling to reveal the bottom of the bowl. He remembered the days when he was weak, confined to his bed, how each reluctant bite seemed to be endless, the space left from his spoon filled by more food, until finally it was all gone. He used to stare at the watery porridge with its curling steam and bland determination until he could stomach it no more. He’d hated it, as a child, until Catherine said it would make him stronger than the sweets that he once preferred so much.
“I’m glad,” Linton breathed, nodding again for Nelly to take the tray away.
Lately, Catherine had barely been eating, even after her marriage with him. She had occasionally exited her room, asking to review the situation with Linton’s quest to appease her. Sometimes, Linton was gifted with a chance to hear her thoughts, a murmur by the stormy windows, towards the purple-speckled hilltops in the distance. Once, Catherine had given a suggestion to Nelly about her favorite vegetables to peel for potential guests, but had quickly turned down the offer to join in, as if feeling guilty about it.
But Linton noticed a difference today as compared to the last; it was a slight difference, but Catherine must have been hungrier than usual. He supposed it made sense that he’d had to wait longer today for news on Catherine than normal, but Nelly promised to always let Linton know how Catherine was doing so he could sleep well each night.
“Whatever for—?” Nelly said, her gaze flickering to the hand he’d been hiding from her.
“Catherine… she really is feeling better, isn’t she?” Linton interrupted softly, hopefully. He felt the shadow that followed him wavering with emotion, needing the smile Nelly returned to him to be confirmation of it. “She ate more today than usual.”
“Ah — yes, and she was quite a bit more talkative this evening,” Nelly added, rather hurriedly. “You know how she can get, when she’s in her moods… I stayed extra in her room before I could come here. But I guess that passionate energy of hers is worth some excitement, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” Linton said. He sat forward, subconsciously tilting towards Catherine’s room in the hallway, wanting more than anything for this to turn around soon. He knew better than to hope, and there he was, heart pounding in the anticipation of it, bringing on another fit of coughs just from the tingling in his chest.
This time, he didn’t mind being just a little louder as he muffled his grin.
Just a little.
Perhaps he was always selfish.
~£0<3~
It was cruel, the way she twisted him, wringing out his heart as if she desired what little of him would be left.
She was beautiful, resting like an angel, like the goddess Linton would have followed until his last breath, had it only come sooner.
They had built her a coffin at his request.
A bed for her last smile to be put to sleep.
Linton hated it. He hated that she looked so peaceful, surrendering to her entombment, a fate to him worse than death.
For although she was closing herself off forever, there was a trickle of warmth echoing out like a new heartbeat, trapped beneath the glass.
“Thank you,” Catherine’s voice was so distant already in Linton’s memory. She had, in her last moment, let Linton take her gloved hand as she climbed inside her resting place.
Linton remembered how, in that final moment, layers of leather and fabric separated them as he lightly pressed his lips to the top of her hand. There was still a softness and warmth there that he could hardly remember indulging in before — yet still, this time, Catherine did not pull away.
She had awaited the moment Linton was satisfied. Perhaps it was the tears clouding his vision or the cough threatening at his chest, but when Linton looked back up at her, Catherine was reaching towards him.
Her fingers, although protected from pure skin-to-skin touch, rubbed the feverish tears from Linton’s eyes as they escaped him.
Silently, Catherine wiped more and more of his tears away as he wept against his will, feeling like she had broken him, knowing it as fact.
Her gaze seemed so present, suddenly. So very loving, as if she saw the soul of a crying child within him and wished only to comfort him. How deep those dark coffee eyes of hers were, both rich with emotion and indescribably empty. Linton realized he’d been staring when he couldn’t see her anymore through the trembling of his lashes — he couldn’t have possibly stopped her. She wanted this with all its consequence, and so Linton dared not muster even a word of protest.
Her pity would have to be enough. He was holding her back, prolonging her unease —
“Are you ready, my dearest Linton?”
Of a thousand things she might have said, he could have answered everything else honestly.
“Of course,” he had responded, almost catching hiccups from the way his breath hitched as Catherine caressed his cheek. She tilted his head up towards her, and suddenly Linton’s mind silenced, the pain replaced by a fog rimmed with brilliant light.
Catherine bent, closer, impossibly close, and seemed to hover over him.
He thought she might kiss him.
Linton forgot to breathe.
But there, with a flash lightning quick, Catherine fought back her own fleeting urges, and it seemed she gathered restraint. But with that, a smile, somewhat mournful, and appearing for once only for him.
Whatever she’d seen in that instance, it would never leave Linton’s mind. If only there was a way to know what he once had a chance to do differently, if it meant sharing in that teasing, elusive reality.
“You live only for me, don’t you?” Catherine asked quietly, and Linton felt a sharp jolt of dread and excitement to hear her impulsiveness return.
“You know that I do, my Catherine,” Linton returned. “Please do not ask me any more of my wishes. I would rather your happiness be fulfilled. Your wish is all I need.”
She could have pressed him anyway. She could have decided to stay with him, offering her sympathies, coming to her senses, maybe finding a craving for the man by her side. The man who gave his entire life to her.
Whatever brought the silence, Linton understood it hurt them both. But, unlike him, Catherine was stubborn, finding only one solution.
“Your wish be done,” Linton echoed, one too many times, needing to believe in its completion, even now that countless days had passed.
He came to see her often, when he could.
He made sure each drop of blood spilt for her was worth it.
The bodies would have once terrified him, but he was growing used to serving her amidst it all.
“Your wish be done… my Catherine.”
She haunted him more than he would ever fully realize. He made sure to cough quietly, holding in the tears, for she had wiped them all away.
It hurt.
She was mesmerizing, even in death.
But she had never quite let him in.
Unless — just barely…
I love you.
He gripped subconsciously at his chest.
If only her hand were still there.
If only she wanted it to be.
My Catherine…
Linton smiled, and felt the fiery ghost of her touch melting against him. The tears she had banished felt like boiling water as they sizzled, disappearing from his skin.
It hurt.
He loved her.
It was all he ever needed.