Work Text:
In your dreams, you cease to be. When you close your eyes, you see them.
Their world always seems so real, so true.
The man next to you was the same man you are used to seeing once your head hits the pillows - you both share the same face, the same body, the same voice. You are him, and he is you. Doctor Zayne. He was everything and nothing like the man you are in your own world.
The woman he had married was everything you wished you had and desired.
Most of the time, though, you dream of them just being... together. At home together, cooking side-by-side, planning their day over breakfast, Or out somewhere, at a restaurant or the park. You have always watched, aware that there's a foolish little smile on your face. They're unequivocally together, arm in arm or hand in hand. Always together.
Sometimes you dream of taking her to bed; making love to her. His hands, no — your hands, had mapped her body like a pro. The pleasure you had shared through your lovemaking was private and intimate. You had felt confused and aroused in a way over your other half's absolute love and devotion to this woman.
When you finally dreamt of her pregnancy, the pure joy of the great news had kept you smiling for days, even as you continued to live through another day of devastation.
You had gone to bed in anticipation of what is to come of the life that you yearn desperately to be in. But, this time, it doesn't even look like the cosy apartment where you last left them.
It took a moment for you to realise that this isn't the doctor's bedroom at the townhouse— it was too empty, too bright, too sterile. The air smelled like disinfectant as opposed to the familiar mixture of sweet macarons and home-baked bread. There was a pained cry from behind you.
You turned, and there she was in the birthing bed, her legs widely parted and propped up in stirrups to ease the baby's entry into their world. Her beautiful face, the face that you remember and know so well, was contorted with pain as her contractions intensified, each wave of labour amplifying the tension in the room.
The Doctor, was by her side, her hand tightly gripped in his as he dabbed away the perspiration running down her forehead.
You step forward, wanting to hold her other hand in yours. But your dreams were unkind to you, they never let you get closer.
As you reach your hand out, the vision of them shimmers and ripples before you, as if sending a cruel reminder that you don't exist in their world.
Her congenital heart condition had put her in the high risk category - regardless, they had decided to try for a baby after getting married.
You had been there when they talked through their options, of the risks the delivery may bring. The name of the child that will resemble her and him. And of you.
You take one more step closer towards them.
The sight of her struggling to breathe, her chest heaving with a painful, uneven rhythm, was a blow that even you were not ready to face. An oxygen mask was quickly pressed to her face. Something was wrong.
"She's showing signs of decompensated heart failure—her oxygen saturation is dropping, and her blood pressure is tanking!"
Zayne is shouting now. You hear the urgency in his voice, the terror breaking through his usually-stoic expression.
"Dr Zayne, I understand your concern, but you’re off-duty," the Obstetrician says calmly, frustration on his face as he tries to manipulate the birth.
"Let us handle this. We need to focus on managing the labour without interference."
"You don't understand Dr Andrew. She has Protocore Syndrome. Her heart is failing on her. We need to stabilize her hemodynamics immediately!"
You turn your eyes back to her. Every instinct in you screamed to act, to take control, but you were helpless as the room swirled with frantic energy.
You could see their attempts to manage the crisis. The room’s atmosphere shifted from one of controlled intensity to raw, palpable dread.
In the stark, sterile light of the delivery room, you could only watch as her fight to bring their child into the world became a struggle against an unrelenting darkness closing in on her life.
There was one more pained yell before the piercing cries of a newborn filled the room. Quickly, the nurses swaddled the child and brought the infant away. No one celebrated.
Her eyes turned away from her distraught husband, and then... she sees you.
Despite her weakness post-birth, her pale lips spread into a smile – the same smile that you had yearned for, that was always directed to your other self. Before you could say anything, her lashes fluttered as her eyes slid shut, and her body goes limp in her husband's arms.
The voices of the medical staff grew urgent, their movements swift but not quick enough.
"Her uterus isn’t contracting. We’ve got massive postpartum hemorrhage—she’s losing too much blood. Get me oxytocin and misoprostol, now!"
"BP is plummeting—60/40! She's unresponsive. We're losing her. Start chest compressions!"
You are screaming now.
"Move, Zayne!"
No. Doctor Zayne is.
"Defibrillator ready! Charging to 200 joules—clear!"
He is losing her.
"Someone get him out of here!"
No. You are losing her.
"Push 1 mg of epinephrine—now!"
"Another dose of epi is in. Charging again—clear!"
You bolt upright, back in your own bed as the dream dissipates. The bleak walls of your room, not of the hospital, greets your sight. Still, you are breathing hard, and when you reach for the half-empty glass of water abandoned on your nightstand, and you find that your hand is shaking.
It's strange, how dreams can have that effect.
Nothing really happening, no lurid Wanderers looming out of the darkness at you or anything, but the suffocating dread builds and builds.
Your eyes shift to the spot where you last saw them, the spot where, in that dream, where her lifeless body had lain.
And you know for certain that something horrible has happened.