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muses_gonewild... Her Bed
Spoilers for "Children of Earth"
By 10pm, she is in her pyjamas. The window is open, and the evening wind ripples the curtains and tickles her skin. He won’t be to bed for another half hour, and it is her time, the only time she allows herself in the span of her days, to feel the weight of it all against her.
She sits at the window for a few moments, until the tickle of her hair against her cheeks begins to send an annoyed restlessness through her body. She moves slowly – waddles, now, she has to admit – and sits with an exhausted sigh at the vanity. She holds a brush in her hand, the heavy wood solid in her palm, her hand sticky against it’s rough finish as she drags it through the length of her hair.
It’s almost ten minutes past when she slips beneath the duvet and shuts off the light on the night stand. She lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling she can’t see. The silk of her nightdress is smooth against her skin, and she slides her hand across the bulge of her stomach as she feels another life move inside of her.
She’s not used to the weight, and she doesn’t know if she will ever be. She huffs another laboured breath and curls to her side, her wrist hanging limply across her body. She curls her legs as close to her body as she can, plants her curled fist against her mouth. And she cries.
Her hand muffles her sobs, and as her grief washes over her she digs her teeth into skin. Her throat is tight and dry, and the tears gather on the pillow against her temple, wet and clammy. She can’t afford to let him hear her cry; the weight of her grief already plagues his eyes, and she can already barely stand to look at him. She knows there is only so much of her loss he can help her carry. The rest is her burden, and hers alone.
She feels a tremble within her; the baby, kicking against her. Stifling her tears, she puts her hand back on her stomach, rubbing and patting until she can feel the child quell within her. Right now, she remembers she doesn’t carry her grief alone; her child bears it too, and she hopes that a mother’s sorrow is not genetic. Her child should not suffer the weight of its mother’s sins.
At ten thirty, her sobs have vanished, and her eyes have cleared. He slides into bed next to her, thinking she’s asleep, and his arms slip around her body. His hand splays against her stomach. She is still awake when she feels him slip into his own peaceful slumber.
It’s all the time she has, to feel the weight against her. The weight of his hands, the weight of their unborn child. But neither is as heavy, or as permanent, as the weight of ghosts.
------------
Cut for Spoilers for Children of Earth
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: 164. Her bed (setting)
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 495
By 10pm, she is in her pyjamas. The window is open, and the evening wind ripples the curtains and tickles her skin. He won’t be to bed for another half hour, and it is her time, the only time she allows herself in the span of her days, to feel the weight of it all against her.
She sits at the window for a few moments, until the tickle of her hair against her cheeks begins to send an annoyed restlessness through her body. She moves slowly – waddles, now, she has to admit – and sits with an exhausted sigh at the vanity. She holds a brush in her hand, the heavy wood solid in her palm, her hand sticky against it’s rough finish as she drags it through the length of her hair.
It’s almost ten minutes past when she slips beneath the duvet and shuts off the light on the night stand. She lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling she can’t see. The silk of her nightdress is smooth against her skin, and she slides her hand across the bulge of her stomach as she feels another life move inside of her.
She’s not used to the weight, and she doesn’t know if she will ever be. She huffs another laboured breath and curls to her side, her wrist hanging limply across her body. She curls her legs as close to her body as she can, plants her curled fist against her mouth. And she cries.
Her hand muffles her sobs, and as her grief washes over her she digs her teeth into skin. Her throat is tight and dry, and the tears gather on the pillow against her temple, wet and clammy. She can’t afford to let him hear her cry; the weight of her grief already plagues his eyes, and she can already barely stand to look at him. She knows there is only so much of her loss he can help her carry. The rest is her burden, and hers alone.
She feels a tremble within her; the baby, kicking against her. Stifling her tears, she puts her hand back on her stomach, rubbing and patting until she can feel the child quell within her. Right now, she remembers she doesn’t carry her grief alone; her child bears it too, and she hopes that a mother’s sorrow is not genetic. Her child should not suffer the weight of its mother’s sins.
At ten thirty, her sobs have vanished, and her eyes have cleared. He slides into bed next to her, thinking she’s asleep, and his arms slip around her body. His hand splays against her stomach. She is still awake when she feels him slip into his own peaceful slumber.
It’s all the time she has, to feel the weight against her. The weight of his hands, the weight of their unborn child. But neither is as heavy, or as permanent, as the weight of ghosts.
------------
Cut for Spoilers for Children of Earth
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: 164. Her bed (setting)
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 495