spn ficlet
I've been trying to prod the muse back into gear (silly me, signing up to pinch hit), so I wrote this random little one shot. It's like a comment fic without a meme. Unbeta'd, of course. I really liked the idea of Castiel going around, performing random good deeds miracles, so I decided to write one. Randomly.
Little Prayers
They hadn't said anything to her yet, not directly, but she can tell. It's written in their long, silent glances. In the pity found there.
She sits in the chair next to the clear plastic box and squeezes her own clasped hands so tightly her knuckles go white.
Behind her, machines beep and whir softly. The nurses and doctors slide past, their shoes squeaking on the floor. The speak in hushed tones. Delia ignores them and clasps her hands tighter together for a moment before bringing them to rest up against her chest. They brush against the paper gown draped over her clothes, and of all the stupid things, it's the sensation of the paper against her hands that reawakens the gaping hole where her daughter should be.
She brushes a hand against the box, fighting the perverse urge to break it open, tear away all the tubes and wires, to grab her baby and take her somewhere safe. It's not a rational thought. She hasn't slept, she's hardly eaten. She knows it's not a rational thought. It bubbles up from the deepest depths of the brain, some primeval, animal instinct that's mistaken correlation for causation and is screaming at her to get out, out, out, to grab her daughter and leave this place that smells of illness and is filled with dread.
Instead, she pulls the hand away and curls it back in her lap. She knows what they're not saying. It might as well be written in neon, every time they check on her daughter's vitals. There's the look at the chart. The pause when they see the new results. The hesitation before they say, “Mrs Stevens...” and the way they trail off after. “Your daughter is very sick,” they say instead. “We're doing our best but-” and here they purse their lips - “She's not yet turned the corner.” As if she might, but the words are said without conviction. “There's still time,” they'll say. “We'll have to wait and see. But at this point...we need to be prepared for all eventualities.”
All eventualities. The death of her child is not an eventuality. It's this monstrous, looming thing posed to come crashing down. It's not fair, it's not fair at all, but the injustice of it is a small and deeply buried thing compared to the bitter tide of guilt welling up in her stomach and spilling its way through the rest of her. Delia is too exhausted to grasp all the fine details of the doctors' diagnoses, but she doesn't need to. She's failed, she's a failure and now her baby is dying. She's sick with it. Her fault- her fault. She can't know which minor indiscretion could have caused this, but she knows it must be one. Every last one is emblazoned on her memory, each one piercing her heart a little deeper. Or maybe that's not it. Maybe it's something more. A punishment. Maybe she's been unfit for this all along. Please, she thinks. Please. It's no more than that- a prayer too raw and big for any words, any plea that might come to mind.
The monitors beep. Shoes squeak. She can feel her own heart beating, too rapid in rhythm. Something flickers at the edge of her vision.
And then there's a man standing before her, right at the head of the incubator. No, something gibbers in a deep, dark corner of her brain, Not a man.
The instincts that were clawing at her earlier come back in full force, but she's paralyzed. Panic chokes her throat. She's waiting for the moment when everything will click, for when the uncanniness of the moment will drain away and she'll be left feeling awkward when she recognizes the man as one of the administrators from upstairs. It doesn't come, and she doesn't move. She wants to call out to the hospital staff, but in that moment, her voice remains frozen, her body beyond her control.
The man- the thing, gibbers the voice in the back of her brain- looks right through her, head slightly tilted as if he's considering her. Measuring her.
“Be calm,” he says at last. He glances down at the baby, and something shifts in his face. It's still impersonal, still subtly alien in ways she cannot name, but there's something else there, too. Awe, maybe. Or...respect.
“Please,” Delia says, and it takes all her will to even whisper the word.
“A long, full life,” the man says, and the words have weight. He's still looking down at the child. She's not even sure he heard her. He glances back up at Delia, and then almost more quickly than her eye can track, he moves his hand up and lays two fingers on her forehead. There's a whispering building in her ears, and the room fades. The man is still speaking, and she struggles to catch the last of it before it's beyond her reach. “Peace,” he says, and then he's gone, the room is gone, her daughter is beyond her reach. She's lost to the shadows and the whispers, but neither seem so ominous now.
Some time later, Delia startles awake. She'd fallen asleep in the chair, her head at a funny angle. Her neck should be killing her, but it isn't. She blinks, and rubs a hand down her face. Exhaustion has been giving her such odd, disturbing dreams. She glances over at the incubator, and her blood freezes. It's not there.
She jumps up and wheels around. There's a nurse making her way through the room. The nurse looks at her in concern, then glances at space where the incubator should be. Understanding flashes across her face, and she hurries towards Delia.
“Honey, she's fine,” is the first thing she says. Her hands grasp Delia's. “Don't you worry. There's nothing wrong,, she'll be back in a second, she's better than fine.”
“What-” Delia starts, and despite the nurse's assurances, she can't quite shake off the terror that washes over her.
“The doctor just wanted to make sure,” the nurse continues. “Just ran to do a quick test. But your daughter- that baby is fine, honey. Squalling her head off for you, I bet.”
“But-” Delia starts. “You told me - she was- are you sure?”
The nurse smiles broadly. “It happens like this some times. These little miracles. They'll just turn a corner. She's a fighter, your girl,” she says. She pats Delia's hand. “She'll be giving you scares for years to come.”
It's perversely comforting, and the nurse's knowing grin and resigned tone loosens a knot in Delia's shoulders she hadn't even known was there.
“I'll go see if the doctor's done,” the nurse says, letting go of Delia's hand. She trots off. Her shoes squeak. A few minutes later she returns with Delia's daughter. She settles the incubator back in its place. Delia greedily soaks in every detail, checking her daughter from top to bottom.
She'd almost think she was imagining it, but the baby's color seems better, her breathing easier. Delia recalls the strange dream, the strange man, and for a second, all she hears is the rushing in her ears. “She's okay,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. “She's okay?”
“The doctor will come by in a minute to talk to you,” the nurse says. “But I don't think you'll be staying here much longer at all.” She gives Delia another tired smile, then continues off on her rounds.
Delia places her hand against the plastic, and watches her daughter clench a tiny fist.
Thank you, she thinks. It's not directed anywhere in particular. But, she reflects, it probably doesn't need to be.
The end.