Chapter Text
Guilt sat in his stomach like a stone. Over the fox, that he might be wrong to keep him alive and suffering, that he might have been wrong and nearly euthanised an animal that pulled through with less suffering than he expected. Over Tristan, who he’d been harsh with in his all-consuming worry for Audrey. Over Audrey herself — over so much for his beloved Audrey — and the way he had been unable to comfort her during the interminable, god-awful waiting for news. Even carrying on as normal as she seemed to want hadn’t worked — had made it worse, in fact, leading to her anguished outburst about the fox’s treatment.
She was exhausted, poor soul, falling asleep on the old sofa during their quiet vigil in the shed. ‘Our shed’, he’d called it earlier, in surprise. She hadn’t noticed, or perhaps she had but thought he meant his and Tristan’s, or maybe his and James’s, part of the practice. That wasn’t what he’d meant, of course. Everything he had was hers. And he could never tell her.
As the night grew colder, he covered her with a blanket so the chill wouldn’t wake her. She still had her coat on, and he’d turned on the heat lamp, but even a mild Yorkshire winter was cold and the shed was draughty. She hadn’t slept well since the news of the Repulse going down, he knew. Although barely audible, the sounds of her tossing and turning, and sometimes getting up again, into the small hours had kept him awake in sympathy, unable to go to her, paralysed by that stupid bloody line. Even with his own sleep disturbed, he hadn’t been carrying the emotional burden she had. They could all see it had taken its toll on her. She needed the rest.
He was no longer sure whether his vigil was for the fox or for her. She looked younger in sleep, her face relaxed, all her worries temporarily lifted from her shoulders as she slumbered. How he wished he could lift them for her, instead of watching impotently as the inevitable marched toward them. He’d be her Atlas, if he could — hold the weight of the world for her. It all reminded him of having to stand by, completely bloody useless, and watch Evelyn die. He hadn’t been able to save her, or ease her suffering, either. No, the one who did the saving and comforting at Skeldale was Audrey herself, in spite of the trouble he caused her, and she barely allowed herself to lean on him.
She slept on as the minutes ticked by, the night almost silent but for the rustling of small creatures and the occasional faint call of an owl. In the past, he’d treasured the moments he’d been able to watch her in repose. The occasions she fell asleep in an armchair or on the sofa when they were alone, and he’d been allowed a brief moment to gaze upon her without having to hide how much he loved her, before putting the mask back on and waking her gently to send her off to her bed. He hoped he was doing the right thing, allowing her to hide out here all night, sleeping on an old sofa that hadn’t been particularly comfortable even when it had been in its prime.
The fox whimpered and grew restless. He hummed the tune to the carol Silent Night under his breath to calm it and checked his watch before administering another dose of painkiller, examining the wounds for any signs of worsening infection. He was relieved to find they seemed to be no worse, at least, and put the animal back in its cage. It settled down to sleep, apparently reasonably content, and he felt a foolish surge of superstitious hope that it might be a sign that Edward had survived too.
The birds had started their pre-dawn chorus by the next time the little fellow woke, a soft cry letting him know there was pain again. He shushed it, murmuring soothingly lest it become distressed and wake Audrey, and gave it the next dose of painkiller, checking it over again, relieved to find everything he had done seemed to be helping, and the young animal might pull through. When he returned it to the cage, it ate a few of the dog biscuits Audrey had put in, crunching them with enough vigour that he took it as a hopeful sign, before laying its head down to go back to sleep.
Perhaps it was his tiredness after a night without sleep, or the optimism he felt nowadays when birdsong heralded a new day, but he found himself bargaining with the Almighty to spare her the loss of her son. He was a weak and selfish man, and he knew that he would not be able to leave her alone in her grief, no matter how much she might want that. He could live with remaining at a distance from her, yearning forever and never having what he dreamed of, if He would keep her whole by sparing Edward.
Siegfried found himself watching her sleep again. The day was bright and he found himself wishing he could prolong the moment, somehow stop time to savour this peace before Christmas and all its attendant chaos arrived, along with any news. He couldn’t decide whether it would be better for the axe to fall and have the waiting over with, to know for certain one way or the other instead of prolonging the agony. He knew better than to believe that the armed forces had Christmas Day off duty. There might have been one Christmas Day truce in the last war but he knew a call could come at any time, even today.
How different things were now to the year Edward hadn’t come, and she’d confessed their estrangement to him as he escorted her home from church. So much better and yet infinitely worse. But still she was the strongest of them all. Her belief made them all stronger — himself, Tris, James, Richard… Even the little fox he would have written off, but she had fought for when she couldn’t fight for Edward. He looked at the fox, curled up and sleeping soundly. The little chap had made it through the night. He had eaten. There was some hope.
She had moved in her sleep, he noticed, and the blanket was low, exposing her throat and chest to the chill. He got up and drew it up to cover her again, careful not to wake her. Returning to his seat so he might almost persuade himself he didn’t yearn to hold her as she slept. Of all the permutations his unruly dreams had concocted of them spending a night alone together — and they had, despite his best efforts to remain entirely gentlemanly, even in thought — a draughty shed with injured wildlife had not been among them.
Too soon, she was awake and he had to put his too-full heart away. He gave her a cautiously positive update on her foxy friend. And then Tristan appeared to announce there was a telephone call and they’d scrambled into the house.
He followed behind, not wanting to crowd her, his heart in his mouth. He watched Tristan’s face for a reaction, unable to hear her exact words themselves, always at one blasted remove. It was a wonder his knees didn’t give out when joy bloomed on his brother’s face, a glorious confirmation that her boy was alive and well enough to telephone home.
Tristan rushed forward to join the crowd on the stairs, almost holding her up as she wept and laughed, nearly sobbing with relief. Edward was alive, he was safe, and he was injured but well enough to speak to to his mother.
Siegfried held onto one of the staircase spindles to anchor himself where he stood, desperate to join the seated group’s embrace, half-paralysed by that bloody awful line he had to keep between them. The uprights he stared through might as well have been the bars of a cage, he was so effectively trapped by propriety. Doomed to be always within arms length but never allowed to reach for her. How he envied the others their freedom to hold her as she laughed through her tears. He’d catalogued every time they’d briefly squeezed each other’s hand or shoulder, yearning for the next occasion like a man starved.
She didn’t tolerate being the centre of attention, however happy, for long, standing determinedly and announcing she had to get on with breakfast. It was then that the next blow landed. Only minutes after the flood of relief over Edward’s being alive, the floor fell out from under him as he realised, belatedly, he hadn’t picked up the goose.
He’d failed her! She had given him one task to look after in her darkest hour and he’d completely failed her. He could hardly believe it. No — that wasn’t true. He could believe it. He could entirely believe he had failed the woman he loved more than life itself because he always did. His stalwart, his rock, his North Star. She’d arranged it all, the only thing he had to do was go and get one blasted thing and he couldn’t even manage that. He covered his face with his hands, acknowledging his unforgivable blockheadedness from under them, lest he appear as undone as he felt. He didn’t deserve how easily she let him off the oversight, still giddy with relief over Edward.
What could he do? He could distract everyone with drinks. It wouldn’t do to let any of them see his outsize remorse, the gaping crevasse in his chest. Good God, he found himself wondering, was this what a sternotomy felt like? No, get a grip, man! Compose yourself!
“I think we all need a festive drink.” He announced, his voice tight with a strange cocktail of relief and regret and forced cheer.