In the mourning [fic]
TITLE: In the mourning
AUTHOR:
shadowbyrd
PAIRING: Kim/Judy (From 1.04, remember?)
RATING: G
WARNINGS: Spoilers for "Maternity"
SUMMARY: Kim and Judy didn't make it.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Simple as.
Karen: We’re not going to make it, are we?
Chase: Sorry?
Karen: Me and Ethan. Our next-door neighbor, their little boy died in a car crash and she and her husband split up, like, four months after the funeral. It’s just, uh, what always happens, right?
"Maternity"
The trouble begins when he's only a few hours old. He's sleepy, the nurse admits, a little groggier than he should be - but they dismiss it, too caught up in that beautiful face. Then he starts to burn up. Both first time mothers they immediately panic. Kim goes to fetch a nurse, only to almost collide with an unshaven man with a cane who looks more like a patient than a doctor, but he seems to know what's what, especially when it comes to their boy.
He snatches him up out of Judy's arms, questioning them both about his fever, without either of them telling him he had one in first place. He asks about other symptoms, sounding like he's checking boxes in his head. He's not the first he tells them, handing the baby to the young black doctor who followed him in and hurrying out as fast as that cane will let him.
They sit in one of the waiting areas, Judy wringing the bear within an inch of its stuffed life (some old lady in a tabard gave it to them when she heard they were expecting - it was always so refreshing to meet someone of her age who wasn't thrown by them). The black doctor comes along later with a long-haired woman, younger than either of them with a serious face whom he lets talk to them. He soon has to step in though; she just rattles off medical jargon and he steps in as she starts floundering.
She comes to talk them again later to explain what their baby has and how they’re going to treat it. She doesn't say outright that he'll be okay, but it's in her tone and in her face; he's going to be okay. Why else would she smile at them? Getting restless, they go to the ward to see how he's getting on. They think that they have a name for him, finally. Except they don't see him; they see doctors and nurses crowded around one of the beds. One of them, the unshaven man, sees them through the glass wall and commands someone - they all look the same in the gowns and caps and masks they're wearing - to close the blinds. A nurse shoos them back to the waiting area and cling to one another.
Finally the long-haired doctor returns with yet another doctor in tow. She stares at them hopelessly. After a moment the other doctor steps forward. We tried to revive your son, but there was nothing we could do. I'm so sorry. Kim shuts down and Judy begins to bawl like a baby. Kim grabs her on instinct and hugs her tight. She can feel the two doctors, the woman in particular, lingering to watch them.
The next time they see him, their son is lying in a tiny drawer in the hospital's morgue. Kim remembers holding him for the first time, only the day before yesterday when he was the most beautiful thing in the world. Now he's blue and cold and there are ugly red lines and puckered stitches from the autopsy. She starts to cry.
They let Judy leave the hospital a week later. Kim, who's been with her the whole time, has to go back to work - they won't give her any more leave. Judy stays home. She won't stop crying. Kim tries to comfort her in the beginning, though they both know it's hopeless. They spend their next few evenings trying to think of a name for the baby. Except it's no longer a matter of picking a name for their son, it's picking a name to go on a tombstone, a name that they'll never speak aloud.
Judy carries on crying, but starts to shrug out of Kim's hugs, starts to push her away. A week after the funeral she starts to lash out at her, saying - screaming - things Kim knows she can't mean. But it doesn't lessen the hurt when she hears them, or the hours late at night when she hears them over and over as though Judy's still saying them - Who are you trying to kid, anyway? Pretending you care...he was my son. Mine! Not yours! Sometime later Judy will start to cry all over again and hug her, saying over and over how sorry she is.
As the weeks make up a month, the hours between the screams and the hugs and apologies lengthen. Kim starts staying up to get more work done - We're really snowed under at the moment - she tells Judy, whenever she bothers to ask or pass comment. It's all a lie, of course; she's just giving Judy some space, that's all. She probably needs her space right now. Kim's probably been smothering her. But that's a lie too. She's just holding off going to bed for as long as possible - she can't bear the silence, knowing Judy's right there, that she could reach out and touch her-
Because Judy won't talk. Not in bed, not at breakfast, not in the evenings when Kim gets home. Kim doesn't have a clue what to say, she's used up all her words by now and she's tired. Tired of the smell of used tissues, tired of walking down the hall to the nursery, each time to open the door, pack it all up and turning away at the last minute. She's tried of coming home to the sound of Judy crying, of Judy saying those cruel things she means more and more each day, of Judy saying nothing when she comes to bed.
She's tired of Judy.
She tells her as much one night, so utterly exhausted from the lack of sleep, bone tired from the grieving and having to weather so much from the woman she loves. Loved. Loves. She doesn't know anymore. The silence rings in their ears and Kim sighs. Maybe we need some time apart. Judy agrees and so a day later she's been packed off to her parents and Kim has the place to herself. The silence has a different feel to it; it doesn't need to be there. It is defeatable. She turns the radio and the TV up loud, just because she can. On Judy's third night away Kim gets drunk and sings every dirty song she can think of. She gets caught up on her sleep. She seems to be moving on. She even calls Judy on the fourth day. Judy sounds a little better too, and she agrees to come back the day after tomorrow.
Except she doesn't. Kim waits for hours at the railway station, but she doesn't come. When she goes home there's a message on the answering machine. We need to talk. Kim plays the message over and over, listening for every nuance in Judy's voice. She sounds hesitant, a little tired, a little pained...but determined.
This can't end well.
Kim calls her that night - hang the time - and they talk, like they never could face to face over the breakfast table or back to back in bed. It's not working out, is it? It's rhetorical - they already know the answer. It turns out Judy has found it easier to get out of the mourning stage away from Kim. They talk about it, padding the conversation with speculation about why. They pick holes in each other's theories, poke fun at one another and for a few sentences it's just like the old days, before the baby.
That's how Kim thinks of him most of the time. "The baby". She keeps forgetting that they named him. Even in the news report on the epidemic he was called "Chen-Lupino boy", even though they'd picked a name for him by then.
When they're done talking Kim goes around the apartment and starts to sort; her CDs here, Judy's there. Her DVDs here, Judy's in the box. That little table is Judy's too, and so are those mugs - but not all of them because they bought a second set (who owns that now? And the TV they both chipped in for, and that copy of "Mean girls" that neither of them remember buying?).
She carries on sorting through the night, slowly making her way through the apartment. She runs to work and they send her home because she's clearly not well - they all know about it, she's sure, can see it in her face, every whisper and snicker feeding the paranoia. Once she's back she tackles the bedroom - lots to do in there - and then the bathroom, and then the closet and then-
She stops at the baby's room as she has every day for the past two months and opens the door. The nursery, a blue jungle with green furniture, ruled between a stuffed elephant, hippo and monkey, is covered in a layer of dust, cobwebs beginning to grace the corners. Kim stares so long her eyes start to water and she backs out quietly, as though not to disturb the baby. She'll go through that room later. When Judy gets back. Then they can do it together.
The last time she sees Judy is three months after the funeral when they meet up to lay flowers at the grave. Except it isn't really the last time that she sees her; she sees her in the city every now and again, once with a pretty red head, which apparently didn't amount to much, and twice with a charming blonde.
The charming blonde she takes to their son's grave on the first anniversary of his death. Kim looks her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You did good there, kid, she mutters. She waits, feeling strangely like an intruder, for them to leave, hand in hand, just like her and Judy in the old days. Then she comes cooing and talking softly just like she did those two days he was alive and she and Judy were proud mothers. She leaves him a daisy chain, framing the words;
Luke Chen-Lupino
December 1st 2004 - December 2nd 2004
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.
AUTHOR:
shadowbyrd
PAIRING: Kim/Judy (From 1.04, remember?)
RATING: G
WARNINGS: Spoilers for "Maternity"
SUMMARY: Kim and Judy didn't make it.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Simple as.
Karen: We’re not going to make it, are we?
Chase: Sorry?
Karen: Me and Ethan. Our next-door neighbor, their little boy died in a car crash and she and her husband split up, like, four months after the funeral. It’s just, uh, what always happens, right?
"Maternity"
The trouble begins when he's only a few hours old. He's sleepy, the nurse admits, a little groggier than he should be - but they dismiss it, too caught up in that beautiful face. Then he starts to burn up. Both first time mothers they immediately panic. Kim goes to fetch a nurse, only to almost collide with an unshaven man with a cane who looks more like a patient than a doctor, but he seems to know what's what, especially when it comes to their boy.
He snatches him up out of Judy's arms, questioning them both about his fever, without either of them telling him he had one in first place. He asks about other symptoms, sounding like he's checking boxes in his head. He's not the first he tells them, handing the baby to the young black doctor who followed him in and hurrying out as fast as that cane will let him.
They sit in one of the waiting areas, Judy wringing the bear within an inch of its stuffed life (some old lady in a tabard gave it to them when she heard they were expecting - it was always so refreshing to meet someone of her age who wasn't thrown by them). The black doctor comes along later with a long-haired woman, younger than either of them with a serious face whom he lets talk to them. He soon has to step in though; she just rattles off medical jargon and he steps in as she starts floundering.
She comes to talk them again later to explain what their baby has and how they’re going to treat it. She doesn't say outright that he'll be okay, but it's in her tone and in her face; he's going to be okay. Why else would she smile at them? Getting restless, they go to the ward to see how he's getting on. They think that they have a name for him, finally. Except they don't see him; they see doctors and nurses crowded around one of the beds. One of them, the unshaven man, sees them through the glass wall and commands someone - they all look the same in the gowns and caps and masks they're wearing - to close the blinds. A nurse shoos them back to the waiting area and cling to one another.
Finally the long-haired doctor returns with yet another doctor in tow. She stares at them hopelessly. After a moment the other doctor steps forward. We tried to revive your son, but there was nothing we could do. I'm so sorry. Kim shuts down and Judy begins to bawl like a baby. Kim grabs her on instinct and hugs her tight. She can feel the two doctors, the woman in particular, lingering to watch them.
The next time they see him, their son is lying in a tiny drawer in the hospital's morgue. Kim remembers holding him for the first time, only the day before yesterday when he was the most beautiful thing in the world. Now he's blue and cold and there are ugly red lines and puckered stitches from the autopsy. She starts to cry.
They let Judy leave the hospital a week later. Kim, who's been with her the whole time, has to go back to work - they won't give her any more leave. Judy stays home. She won't stop crying. Kim tries to comfort her in the beginning, though they both know it's hopeless. They spend their next few evenings trying to think of a name for the baby. Except it's no longer a matter of picking a name for their son, it's picking a name to go on a tombstone, a name that they'll never speak aloud.
Judy carries on crying, but starts to shrug out of Kim's hugs, starts to push her away. A week after the funeral she starts to lash out at her, saying - screaming - things Kim knows she can't mean. But it doesn't lessen the hurt when she hears them, or the hours late at night when she hears them over and over as though Judy's still saying them - Who are you trying to kid, anyway? Pretending you care...he was my son. Mine! Not yours! Sometime later Judy will start to cry all over again and hug her, saying over and over how sorry she is.
As the weeks make up a month, the hours between the screams and the hugs and apologies lengthen. Kim starts staying up to get more work done - We're really snowed under at the moment - she tells Judy, whenever she bothers to ask or pass comment. It's all a lie, of course; she's just giving Judy some space, that's all. She probably needs her space right now. Kim's probably been smothering her. But that's a lie too. She's just holding off going to bed for as long as possible - she can't bear the silence, knowing Judy's right there, that she could reach out and touch her-
Because Judy won't talk. Not in bed, not at breakfast, not in the evenings when Kim gets home. Kim doesn't have a clue what to say, she's used up all her words by now and she's tired. Tired of the smell of used tissues, tired of walking down the hall to the nursery, each time to open the door, pack it all up and turning away at the last minute. She's tried of coming home to the sound of Judy crying, of Judy saying those cruel things she means more and more each day, of Judy saying nothing when she comes to bed.
She's tired of Judy.
She tells her as much one night, so utterly exhausted from the lack of sleep, bone tired from the grieving and having to weather so much from the woman she loves. Loved. Loves. She doesn't know anymore. The silence rings in their ears and Kim sighs. Maybe we need some time apart. Judy agrees and so a day later she's been packed off to her parents and Kim has the place to herself. The silence has a different feel to it; it doesn't need to be there. It is defeatable. She turns the radio and the TV up loud, just because she can. On Judy's third night away Kim gets drunk and sings every dirty song she can think of. She gets caught up on her sleep. She seems to be moving on. She even calls Judy on the fourth day. Judy sounds a little better too, and she agrees to come back the day after tomorrow.
Except she doesn't. Kim waits for hours at the railway station, but she doesn't come. When she goes home there's a message on the answering machine. We need to talk. Kim plays the message over and over, listening for every nuance in Judy's voice. She sounds hesitant, a little tired, a little pained...but determined.
This can't end well.
Kim calls her that night - hang the time - and they talk, like they never could face to face over the breakfast table or back to back in bed. It's not working out, is it? It's rhetorical - they already know the answer. It turns out Judy has found it easier to get out of the mourning stage away from Kim. They talk about it, padding the conversation with speculation about why. They pick holes in each other's theories, poke fun at one another and for a few sentences it's just like the old days, before the baby.
That's how Kim thinks of him most of the time. "The baby". She keeps forgetting that they named him. Even in the news report on the epidemic he was called "Chen-Lupino boy", even though they'd picked a name for him by then.
When they're done talking Kim goes around the apartment and starts to sort; her CDs here, Judy's there. Her DVDs here, Judy's in the box. That little table is Judy's too, and so are those mugs - but not all of them because they bought a second set (who owns that now? And the TV they both chipped in for, and that copy of "Mean girls" that neither of them remember buying?).
She carries on sorting through the night, slowly making her way through the apartment. She runs to work and they send her home because she's clearly not well - they all know about it, she's sure, can see it in her face, every whisper and snicker feeding the paranoia. Once she's back she tackles the bedroom - lots to do in there - and then the bathroom, and then the closet and then-
She stops at the baby's room as she has every day for the past two months and opens the door. The nursery, a blue jungle with green furniture, ruled between a stuffed elephant, hippo and monkey, is covered in a layer of dust, cobwebs beginning to grace the corners. Kim stares so long her eyes start to water and she backs out quietly, as though not to disturb the baby. She'll go through that room later. When Judy gets back. Then they can do it together.
The last time she sees Judy is three months after the funeral when they meet up to lay flowers at the grave. Except it isn't really the last time that she sees her; she sees her in the city every now and again, once with a pretty red head, which apparently didn't amount to much, and twice with a charming blonde.
The charming blonde she takes to their son's grave on the first anniversary of his death. Kim looks her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You did good there, kid, she mutters. She waits, feeling strangely like an intruder, for them to leave, hand in hand, just like her and Judy in the old days. Then she comes cooing and talking softly just like she did those two days he was alive and she and Judy were proud mothers. She leaves him a daisy chain, framing the words;
Luke Chen-Lupino
December 1st 2004 - December 2nd 2004
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.