Loved and Lost
Rating: PG-13, or whatever's appropriate for bad language and serious angst.
Pairing: Speed/Calleigh
Spoilers: None
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site Checkmate (helsinkibaby.ahkay.net); anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: Tennyson didn't know what he was talking about.
Author's Notes: I've got to stop answering challenges! This is another one from Raven, who chalked up a plea for "sad angsty fic" - I'm not sure how sad this is, but it's pretty angsty, and more than a little angry I've gotta say, so hopefully "angry angsty fic" fits under the auspices of the challenge!
'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
That's a quote from a poem you know. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. In Memoriam. I know it doesn't sound like the kind of thing that I'd read, but my mom, in one of her well-meaning moments, gave me the book a long time ago, back when I'd just suffered the worst loss I'd ever suffered in my life. She even underlined that very line.
It said in the foreword to the poem that when her husband died, Queen Victoria of England was so distraught, so maddened with grief, that she literally locked herself into her chambers, wouldn't come out, and that one of the things that she had with her in there was a copy of Tennyson's poem. I think Mom must have seen certain similarities between me and the noble Queen, and that's what inspired her with the gift giving.
But I did read the poem, saw the underlined part, and I often wondered what Queen Victoria made of it. Did she believe it? Did it give her some comfort?
Or did she feel the urge to behead Tennyson, or whatever punishment she could dish out to him, because she thought he was a fucking liar who didn't know what the hell he was talking about?
I know which one I'd lean towards.
'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
Bullshit.
I loved someone once in my life, and I had no desire to do it again. Because that loss nearly killed me, and I knew, I knew in my heart and in my soul that there was no way I could go through that again. And I was ok, I had my work, I had my friends, but only at a distance. I didn't let anyone get close to me.
But you didn't care about any of that, did you?
You waltzed into my life with your long blonde hair, and your huge big eyes, and that special brand of Southern sass that was all your own, and you swept me off my feet before I even realised that that's what you were doing.
When I did realise, I fought you, tried to push you away. But you weren't having any of that were you? You pushed back just as hard; you fought for me. You were used to getting your way, and once you decided that you wanted me, you weren't going to take no for an answer.
Damn woman.
The only reason I let anything happen between us was because you convinced me, waged a campaign against me that I was powerless to resist. And you promised me, you promised me that this was for keeps, for always, that you'd never leave me.
Do you remember making that promise?
It was the first time that we'd made love, and we were in my apartment. You were on your side, facing me, sound asleep, or so I thought. I remember that the curtains were open slightly, a full moon shining in, giving me just enough light that I could see you clearly. You were smiling, and while I'd seen you smile a hundred, a thousand times in the years that I'd known you, I'd never seen you look quite so peaceful, so content.
To know that you were with me, fuck-up extraordinaire, and you were smiling like that because of me, not in spite of me, blew my mind.
I didn't want to touch you, because you looked too perfect to touch, I didn't want to break the spell. But I could no more stop myself touching you than I could stop the incoming tide. Your skin was so soft as I ran my index finger from your shoulder down your arm, and your eyes opened at my touch. I thought that I'd woken you, but the clarity that I saw in your eyes told me that you'd been awake for a long time, just playing possum.
I think I must have tried to smile at you, but it mustn't have come off, because that's when you reached out with one hand, cupping my cheek. "Stop worrying," you whispered. I wanted to tell you that I wasn't worrying, that there was nothing wrong, but my voice didn't seem to be working properly. "I'm not going anywhere," you continued.
I was able to say only one thing, a question in a voice that sounded nothing like my own. "Promise?"
You smiled at me again, pressed yourself closer to me, winding your arms around my neck as you brought your lips to mine. "I promise." That was the last coherent thing that you whispered to me for a while and I wanted to believe you. My God, I wanted to believe you.
And I did.
Except you went and did it anyway.
It's not your fault, I know that. I know it wasn't your choice to leave; that's what makes it so hard.
That, and that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to you.
Horatio and Alexx have been hovering around me like some demented version of my parents ever since it happened. I think they're afraid that I'm going to do something stupid. I'm not, though it's not like I haven't thought about it. There's just enough theology left in this lapsed Catholic boy to be afraid that if I did anything like that that we really would be separated forever, and that's the last thing that I want. It would take too much effort to explain that to them though, so I don't. I just wish they'd leave me alone. I can't deal with their pain when I'm trying to deal with my own.
Speaking of, Delko and his family seem to be trying to adopt me. I think it's his way of dealing, of coping with his own Catholic guilt. He thinks he should have been able to stop it, that he should have been able to save you. I tell him that you wouldn't want him thinking like that, and I think he's starting to believe it. Doesn't stop him arriving at work, at my apartment, with care packages from his mother, doesn't stop him dragging me to these big Cuban family dinners every chance he gets.
Not that I mind that so much, because I get along quite well with his Dad. Cultural stereotypes aside, I find that we have something in common, and that's an appreciation for a good bottle of Russian vodka. Delko gets the job of taking me home, putting me to bed, and I always get those disapproving looks from him, and this morning, when I stumbled into work bleary eyed and quite hungover, he told me that this isn't what you'd want for me. That you wouldn't approve of me crawling into a bottle to escape my problems, and there's enough sense left in me to realise that he's probably right.
But if that's what you wanted, then you shouldn't have left me.
But you did. You left me, and here I sit alone in my apartment that was fine for one, then was cosy for two, and now seems too big for one. I'm sitting here with a bottle of vodka and a centuries old poem that makes a satisfying thud as it hits the wall, and I'm wishing more than anything that you'd walk in that door.
Except you won't and you never will.
'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
Bullshit.