Work Text:
His wife had once told him that she married him for his singing voice.
Now, Tennyson wasn’t sure which was more pathetic: that he’d foolishly believed her then or that none of it even mattered now. It was funny, really, in that twisted sort of way one starts to see things when they’re desperate to maintain control, wanting badly to laugh because otherwise all that’s left is to cry.
He had loved her so much, wanted to give her the world—he’d gone through with this whole ridiculous thing—but, with hindsight, he wondered what she had ever given him, besides maybe a warm body to come home to at night or a pretty face to have on his arm. He remembered that compliment so clearly because it was one of the few she ever gave him—even then, he realized now, it had been backhanded.
“Darling, when you finally stop your beautiful, dreadful yammering and put that lovely baritone to good use, I can almost forget how useless everything else you say is,” she had teased. “Sing to me, Jamie. It’s your best quality—I think I might have married you for it.”
At the time, he had glowed with pride, ignoring the stinging thorns in favor of clutching the meager rose that was his wife’s rare and fleeting affection. Looking back, he wondered if there was anyone in the world who had ever liked to hear him speak. Maybe if there had been, he wouldn’t have gotten the god-awful surgery. (And it had all been for nothing!)
He watched his wife now—contrary to Colonel Taylor’s taunts, she had not been unfaithful—yet it was impossible to replace the rose-tinted glasses of his former self now that they had been yanked off so unceremoniously, haphazardly. She wasn’t quite the same—glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes, nervous, concerned, no longer used to him in her space, even though this was his house and she was his wife; she toyed with her rings, her necklaces, which by now he noticed slowly disappearing, perhaps she’d had the sense to start selling them; the house felt cold and empty, in stark contrast to the buzz of the elegant parties she used to throw frequently. No longer was Tennyson alone, at last reunited with his love, yet it felt as though there was still an insurmountable distance between them, a rift that could not be mended so easily.
But, so too, had he changed. Of course he had—permanently silenced, immeasurably ashamed, increasingly frugal. He regretted his decisions frequently.
And yet…all that time alone, silent—what was one to do but reflect, grow?
The changes that sprung from this were subtler, admittedly, but they did not go unnoticed.
With humbler prospects but greater care than ever before, Tennyson strived to bridge the gap between him and his wife. He would remember a friend’s name, leave a bundle of wildflowers on the kitchen table for her to find, search for stylish but discounted clothes in the catalogs. They had been married for some time, yet he had never taken so much of an interest in her before. Perhaps he regretted that too.
Maybe, he thought to himself as he prepared her coffee just the way she liked it, as much resentment as he had built up towards her spending habits and backhanded compliments had been brewing on her side due to his inattentiveness and busy schedule.
He would still regret his decision—how could he not? He couldn’t even call his wife’s name—but he would learn to find dignity in his newfound mutism, someday. He would have to be satisfied with this, he knew. At least dignity might be in his sights once again, even if it were very far in the future.
The same could not be said of Colonel Taylor, disgraced and long disappeared from the public eye—sometimes Tennyson pitied the older man, other times he felt a small sliver of satisfaction that at least the deal had ensured mutually assured destruction, ruining Taylor just the same (or possibly worse) as it had him.