Work Text:
It would be easier if he got angry, or sad, or upset the way you did. But he didn't.
Instead he got quiet.
The sort of quiet that had weight to it. The sort of quiet that you felt gnawing at the edges of reality the longer it stretched on. The sort of quiet you wanted to shatter, but instead you found made you grow quieter too.
It wasn't your silence to break.
So you tiptoed around the house, giving him space, giving him time, giving him the quiet. Trying to give him whatever it was he needed, without fracturing the stillness that he had created.
Your first winter together you thought it was all in your head. That you were imagining it. You weren't close enough yet to be sure.
Your second winter together you had overcome the awkward early stages of the relationship - and then he just, disappeared. A nearly whispered sentence about someone named Dr. Carter and some arctic research center.
You'd put the pieces together while he was gone. Mostly because you saw her for the first time. She came to the hospital to see Dr. Greyson, and she was beautiful. She was petite but strong, her presence at once impressive and gentle, a study in contradictions. And she hung, nervously, you thought, on the arm of a tall silver haired man with eyes that you swore glowed with red light. They cut quite the picture as they made their way through the lobby.
When the two of you had started dating, an office romance beginning to blossom - you'd heard the rumors. A secretary heard everything. A girl who'd all but disappeared. The braver nurses who whispered that she'd faked her own death in order to be with the man she loved. You'd rolled your eyes.
You weren't naive to the fact that someone had broken his heart. You'd never asked him for the story - it wasn't yours to ask for. But when you saw her, eyes laughing at something the tall baroque man had murmured in her ear, you felt your stomach sink.
You'd watched her slowly peel off his arm and approach Dr. Zayne's office with what you could only describe as reverence. She'd knocked, and of course he hadn't answered. You'd gently cleared your throat, and softly told her that the doctor was away on research. She'd looked at you like you were a ghost, a surprising apparition who didn't belong in a landscape she was at home in.
When she'd left, her head hung slightly, and his arm encircled her protectively, consolingly. And you'd understood enough.
Now it was your third winter together, a proper couple now, and this time he didn't disappear. But by late January the quiet had settled over Zayne's flat like a heavy snow.
And now you were certain - she was the ghost haunting the narrative, and you could see her reflected in the frost that fogged the windows, and feel her presence in the cold that snuck in under door frames and around the heavy curtains, no matter how you tried to keep it out.
-----------------------------------------------------
Saturday morning dawned with the sort of grey light that only January can bring. You roll over in bed and groan, wondering if there's a way to deny the fact that it's already morning. The bed next to you is already empty, you don't have to look to know. The warmth and shape of Zayne is an absence you can't help but feel like an ache.
You could tell yourself he got called in. He got paged and decided to slip away to the hospital without waking you. But you can hear him downstairs, and smell the coffee he's already brewed. And you've never been a good liar, even to yourself.
So instead you slide your feet into slippers, and your robe over your shoulders, and make your way down the stairs. He's sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a crossword in the other. You mutter a "g'morning" as you pass, but he doesn't respond.
The motions are familiar, merciful in that they don't require thought to complete. You fill your cup with coffee, you find a granola bar, you shuffle to the table and take your seat at his right hand.
The wordless silence stretches on.
You stare out the window over his shoulder, allowing yourself to be transfixed by the small black and white bird on the bird feeder, the lone creature bold enough to venture out in the chill of the morning. You dread its eventual departure, knowing that when it takes wing, it takes with it your excuse not to look at him.
But eventually the coffee runs out, and the bird flies away. And you are left at the table with the shadows under Zayne's eyes.
He speaks first, to your surprise. But the hope that comes with hearing his voice is quickly dashed when he says, "I may have to go in to work today." All you manage to do is nod.
There's a pause.
You point to the paper in front of him. "Neglected."
"What?" There's a delay before he startles slightly as if your voice has surprised him after reaching him from a ways off.
"Your puzzle. Thirty two across, nine letters, "A field left barren."
He nods, offering you a soft hum of affirmation, followed by his pen moving in neat strokes, filling in the letters one by one. You watch quietly, for a moment content to focus on his hands. You trace the scars that cross his upper wrists with your eyes, familiar patterns that you know all too well.
Your reverie is broken by the soft scrape of his chair against the floor.
"I'm going in to work."
"Oh." Is all you manage in response. He's already placing his cup in the sink, you try to force yourself to focus on the crossword in front of you, each square now neatly filled. But the letters swim and dance before your eyes as you blink back tears.
You beat them back with a mixture of determination and a long drink of your coffee. By the time you stand from the table he's already shrugging on his coat.
"Will you be back for lunch?" Your question hangs in the air and you wish you could take it back, at least try again, try to say it in a voice that sounds less needy, less hopeful.
He opens the door and the cold air cuts through the room like a knife. The black wool of his coat throws him into stark contrast against the white landscape beyond him.
"I don't know." His voice is as gentle and calm as ever, but his answer makes you shiver harder than the frigid wind that has hungrily swept into the room. "Stay inside, you won't last long in this cold." It's a protective sort of warning, and you almost find it comforting. Almost. He shuts the door gently, and is gone from sight.
You're left painfully, chillingly, alone.
-----------------------------------------------------
By lunchtime you've pulled yourself together. Just enough makeup to feel like yourself. A favorite sweatshirt that you know every seam of, a spot on the couch, a familiar movie playing softly in the background. These things should be cozy, comforting even. But instead they feel more like distant memories that you are somehow inhabiting.
The fact that he's at the hospital shouldn't bother you. He's always at the hospital. But today, today you can't help but see her there too. You can't help but imagine her there with him, probably because you can't help but think that's what he's doing.
You think maybe it would be easier if you could hate her. Or at least be mad at her. But you don't have that in you. You saw the way she looked for him. Reached for Zayne's door like it was the portal to something sacred she was too profane to touch. And you saw the way she looked at the man she was with, like he was the only light she'd ever seen in the dark. Hell, you'd seen the way he held her as the left - like she was the only thing in the world worth holding. So as much as you wanted to, you couldn't even be mad at her.
You couldn't be her either.
You didn't remember pulling your knees to your chest, but at some point you had. You didn't remember crying either, but the damp streaks down your cheeks told a different story.
That was how you found yourself when the sound of the front door opening pulled you back to reality.
He enters the living room before you have a chance to finish wiping the tears off your face. The snow still clings to the edges of his hair, and his coat is thrown over one arm.
And when he sees your face, the silence finally breaks.
He falls to his knees before you, the coat forgotten and dropped in a heap.
"What's wrong?" His hands are cupping your face, familiar, gentle, and firm. He is using one thumb to gently wipe the remnants of the tears away.
It only makes you cry harder.
"Are you alright?" The worry in his voice is warm and it makes you suddenly aware of how cold you've been. All you can do is wordlessly nod, as you fall forwards into his arms.
He lifts you gently, placing the two of you side by side on the couch. He strokes your hair, making soft hushing noises and letting you weep.
As the tears slow and become soft sniffles, you lifts your chin.
"Can you tell me?" He asks in a way that is so gentle it almost makes you start to cry again. With great effort you meet his eyes, your own hands finding a place to rest on his shoulders.
"I'm sorry I can't be her." The words come unbidden, unwished for, without trying. You watch his brow crease and furrow, and he brushes your hair from your face with tender care. You recognize confusion in his eyes.
"Who?" He finally asks, struggling to follow your thought.
There's a moment of silence - and you shake your head ever so slightly. "The girl before me, the girl you loved, the one you miss every year at this time."
Realization dawns on his face, and it is accompanied almost instantly by a deep pain that makes you wish you could take every word back. The pause stretches on, and you see him searching for words, reaching and grasping for something you don't understand.
When he next speaks it is only after he has grasped your face in his hands, and turned your gaze unequivocally to his.
"She has nothing to do with this, my love." His voice is pained, but raw. "I have failed you. And for that, I am sorry." He punctuates each of the last three words with a gentle squeeze, never looking away from you. "I should have been honest with you a long time ago." You can see tears beginning to form at the corners of his hazel-green eyes. "But I didn't want you to have to carry my grief." His next breath in is ragged, his shoulders almost shaking. "And I didn't have the words to tell you."
Over the next hour he tells you a story you wish he didn't know. Of a long dark night on a mountain. Of a friend who died. And you get the feeling he doesn't tell you the whole story, or at least, not the parts that he still doesn't have words for. But he shares his grief, at least the parts that he knows how to share.
And the ghosts leave in the light of the words between you.
-----------------------------------------------------
Sunday morning was as grey as the previous morning. But as the light opened your eyes, you felt arms around you. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, Zayne's face slowly comes into focus.
"Good morning." his voice rumbles deep in his chest, and you can't help but giggle as his arms wrap around you, pulling you close.
"Your hands are freezing cold!" You exclaim with a squeal, although you don't try to escape.
"Then warm them up for me." You feel his words as breath on your neck and he's placing kisses slowly behind them.
The bleak midwinter can't reach either of you here.
And the chill leaves with the silence.