Fic: Dying of the Light, Marilyn Whitmore/Thomas Whitmore, (1/1)
Title: Dying of the Light
Fandom: Independence Day (Movie)
Pairing: Marilyn Whitmore/Thomas Whitmore (The First Lady/The President)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, Romance
Summary: His free hand reaches out and falls so painfully through nothing... She should have had more time in the film, and 'though I started this with the hope of a little humour...as always, the angst caught me.
Warnings: Character Death
Length: 2,000+ words
Status: Complete
Author's Note: This is what happens when you watch Independence Day and then follow it up with the British Legions' Rememberance Day Celebration. For Isa...because she inspired me without even meaning to.
Dying of the Light
Hair.
He remembers her hair as the Mothership burns bright above him, one of it’s offspring smoldering in defeat so close it feels like he should be able to reach out and touch it. He clings tighter to his daughter, and remembers his wife’s hair.
The way it hung almost black, in long wet tendrils against her creamy skin every time she got caught in a sudden rainfall. She loved the rain, would never let it stop her from carrying out her duties. She often refused the use of an umbrella; it impeded her view of the country he loved, she would say. She had loved the people. His people. They had loved her back.
Another flash, this one slightly larger than the last; a trial of fire searing the sky in it’s wake. Red. Her hair had been such a deep red when they married. Vibrant and alive as it bounced in curls around her shoulders, just begging him to run his fingers through it. And he had, at every opportunity since, however few that had become the last years. His fingers ache to be wrapped in the strands again. Patricia hasn’t inherited her mother’s hair, it’s something less he has of her.
Connie shifts beside him, clinging to David’s hand and without looking he knows his heart is breaking all over again.
He’s the President. His people and the people of the world’s militaries have just won the most important of wars. His states lay in ruins. He should have no time to stand around and watch. And yet he does. He has the time to celebrate, to congratulate. To be happy. And the painful irony is that he can’t. He just can’t, because he should have another hand in his own, small but strong and brown hair should be tickling his chin as she leans up against his shoulder, snuggled into his side; uncaring of the propriety for just once.
Brown hair. She’d promised to stop tying it back when she came home. Promised to let it fall loose and wild when they reconnected. Because she had taken more days than they had planned, and it would have been her apology. He hadn’t had to ask; she’d known him better than anyone.
It had been down at the end, but that hadn’t been right, not at all. It was all wrong and bitterly unfair; his fantasy turned to ash at the sight of her too pale skin, the Doctor’s words echoing incomprehensibly around his head.
He closes his eyes and imagines he can see her there before him. His free hand reaches out and falls so painfully through nothing.
Eyes.
Green eyes glow at him from between the books. He blinks and they're gone. He wonders for a moment if he has imagined it, and is suddenly reminded of the Cheshire Cat. He shakes his head, he has obviously been spending too much time with his niece.
“Excuse me.” The soft voice startles him and he spins around only to be fixed once again in that mossy gaze. “Are you taking that?” She drops her eyes and it takes him a moment to shake off his disappointment before realising she's refocused on the book in his hand. The book he suddenly can’t remember the title of, or why it had seemed so important to him when he found it.
“Er, no.” Articulate. He's a military pilot, for heaven’s sake, he's supposed to thrive under pressure. He has the distinct feeling that she's rolling her eyes at him, and he almost wishes she would look up again so he can see.
“Well, can I have it then?” She does look back up then and he can read amusement in her eyes. Amusement and a little smugness. He wonders how often she renders perfectly confident men utterly dumbstruck. He assumes it's frequent and is surprised to feel the first coil of jealousy in his stomach.
“Only if you have a drink with me.” He blinks. He hadn’t meant to say that, had he?
She blinks back at him, and he glimpses a little slip in her mask. She appears to be as surprised by his boldness as he is. Amazingly, that restores a little of his confidence. The fact that she has yet to shoot him down helps too.
He waits, holding his breath and struggling to keep his eyes locked with hers. They really are something. Deceptively open, he can already tell that. They have the ability to tell anyone what she truly feels, and she has obviously worked hard to keep them under control. He wonders what it would take to break it. He finds himself looking forward to finding out, almost certain that he will.
“I know nothing about you.” That isn’t a yes, but it's a long way away from being a no.
“But won’t it be exciting to learn?” Laughter glitters in the green depths, making them sparkle to life. His breath catches. Exciting.
Smile.
“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not, Mister President.”
“It isn’t a wise move to lie to your President.”
“I’m not lying, Sir. There has been no laughter from this side of the phone.”
His eyes narrow at the wall. “What has there been?”
A predictable and telling silence.
“Is the First Lady speechless?”
There’s a mutter that he could probably translate but most likely does not want to hear.
“I was smiling, Mister President. Just smiling.”
He can hear it in her voice again, knows that wherever she is her mouth has parted just a little, her cheeks rising and squashing her nose in a way he finds irresistible. He knows that if there are press there, she’ll be caught on every camera because they can’t resist. He makes a mental note to have a copy sent to his office. A smile spreads across his own face and he feels his shoulders relax slightly. He doesn’t mind being seen as foolish when it causes her to smile.
“Good.”
Hands.
It will be a small ceremony. The world is too busy mourning itself to be concerned with his affairs. He feels a small moment of thankfulness for that, before the reason solidifies again in his memory. He won’t be thankful. Not when she would still be here were it not for them.
She blamed herself until he refused to believe her. She told him it wasn’t his fault and for the first time he was able to lie to her and not give himself away. He should have forced her to evacuate so much earlier. If she were there, she would remind him that he had never been able to get her to do anything she didn’t want to. But she isn’t and he continues to uphold the lie in his heart.
He looks down at her. Asleep. Patricia understands so little and still so much. She looks so close to sleep that he can almost believe a small peck to her cheek will be enough to wake her. She was always such a light sleeper. He doesn’t try it; the failure threatens to break him, and he can’t afford that. Not now, not when America and perhaps much of the world is looking to him to lead them on from this.
The room is still empty. He’s earlier than he should be, but this is where he needs to be for just a little while. He isn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. Cannot bring himself to hand her over to somewhere he isn’t. He finds her hand and clasps it tightly within his own. Their wedding rings clash together in a sweet chime that brings to mind, suddenly, every time he has held her hand since they exchanged those rings.
Every single moment is different and it threatens to pull a sob from his throat. He grips a little tighter, and she doesn’t. For the first time he notices how cold she is, how unnaturally still she lies, how little of her is left in the body that betrayed her. Betrayed him when her soul lost the ultimate fight with her tired heart.
He squeezes the delicate digits within his own, one last time before letting her go. He lays her hand atop her other, both resting on her still stomach. One last sweep of his eyes, so slowly and he steps back out of sight.
The room begins to fill and the formalities move ever closer. Tears settle in his eyes and he clasps his empty hands tight behind his back. Breathing evenly he fights for control. His daughter will be here soon, and everyone will be watching. He cannot afford to break. His hand shakes as he wipes away a stray tear. He’s not sure how much more he can bend.
Breath.
Her chest rises and falls beneath his head, a steady rhythm that he can feel slowly lulling him to sleep.
He moves slightly, ear pressed below her breastbone, and counts the beats, each one bringing a strong sense of comfort. His breath coasts across her bare skin and he opens his eyes to watch her skin prickle against the sensation. He breathes out again, more controlled, and smiles at the laugh she emits. His next breath comes from his mouth and the hot air soothes the rising bumps back out of sight. She laughs again and shifts beneath him, bringing his head a little higher until her chin presses against him.
This time it’s he who can feel her breath against his body, the small gusts breezing through his hair barely touching his scalp and yet scalding him all the same. He sighs, inadvertently drawing another laugh from her and can’t help but do it again.
Moonlight seeps in through the curtains, a long inverse shadow glowing silver across the floor and coming to rest atop the bed. If he listens hard enough, past the beat in his ear, he can hear the celebrations still continuing without him. He doesn’t know the time, but he suspects the sun will have made it’s appearance before his team falls into their own beds.
He rubs his nose against the smooth skin beneath it. He doesn’t envy them, they don’t have the incentive to cut the partying short like he did.
He notices suddenly that their breathing has adjusted; both of their chests rising at the same time, to fall back down together. He doesn’t know whose original pattern they are following, he chooses to believe it’s neither one nor the other’s but a compromised rhythm somewhere in between.
He thinks about the day he’s had, the weeks and months, the years before that all building up to a moment that passed in a blink. He thinks about the time ahead of him, the responsibility he’s shouldered and the choices he’ll have to make. He thinks about now, lying here with his wife, their breath shared, his heart light and wonders if this isn’t the moment his life was building towards instead. He has a second of insanity where he wants to tell them all they were wrong, that they are celebrating something that was just the build up, not the miracle.
“This is right, don’t over think it.” He gets his arms under him and looks up at her, still surprised that she knows him so completely. His eyes smile to match her's and he starts to truly believe that he can do this.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” He quips, drawing a huffed snort. He breathes in her strength like oxygen and thinks that with her beside him, he can do this, and do it well.
End.
For this is Wisdom; to love, to live
To take what fate, or the Gods may give.
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion's ebb as you greet its flow
To have, - to hold - and - in time, - let go!
- - - -Laurence Hope
please review; let me know what you think before the aliens invade again...
Fandom: Independence Day (Movie)
Pairing: Marilyn Whitmore/Thomas Whitmore (The First Lady/The President)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, Romance
Summary: His free hand reaches out and falls so painfully through nothing... She should have had more time in the film, and 'though I started this with the hope of a little humour...as always, the angst caught me.
Warnings: Character Death
Length: 2,000+ words
Status: Complete
Author's Note: This is what happens when you watch Independence Day and then follow it up with the British Legions' Rememberance Day Celebration. For Isa...because she inspired me without even meaning to.
Dying of the Light
Hair.
He remembers her hair as the Mothership burns bright above him, one of it’s offspring smoldering in defeat so close it feels like he should be able to reach out and touch it. He clings tighter to his daughter, and remembers his wife’s hair.
The way it hung almost black, in long wet tendrils against her creamy skin every time she got caught in a sudden rainfall. She loved the rain, would never let it stop her from carrying out her duties. She often refused the use of an umbrella; it impeded her view of the country he loved, she would say. She had loved the people. His people. They had loved her back.
Another flash, this one slightly larger than the last; a trial of fire searing the sky in it’s wake. Red. Her hair had been such a deep red when they married. Vibrant and alive as it bounced in curls around her shoulders, just begging him to run his fingers through it. And he had, at every opportunity since, however few that had become the last years. His fingers ache to be wrapped in the strands again. Patricia hasn’t inherited her mother’s hair, it’s something less he has of her.
Connie shifts beside him, clinging to David’s hand and without looking he knows his heart is breaking all over again.
He’s the President. His people and the people of the world’s militaries have just won the most important of wars. His states lay in ruins. He should have no time to stand around and watch. And yet he does. He has the time to celebrate, to congratulate. To be happy. And the painful irony is that he can’t. He just can’t, because he should have another hand in his own, small but strong and brown hair should be tickling his chin as she leans up against his shoulder, snuggled into his side; uncaring of the propriety for just once.
Brown hair. She’d promised to stop tying it back when she came home. Promised to let it fall loose and wild when they reconnected. Because she had taken more days than they had planned, and it would have been her apology. He hadn’t had to ask; she’d known him better than anyone.
It had been down at the end, but that hadn’t been right, not at all. It was all wrong and bitterly unfair; his fantasy turned to ash at the sight of her too pale skin, the Doctor’s words echoing incomprehensibly around his head.
He closes his eyes and imagines he can see her there before him. His free hand reaches out and falls so painfully through nothing.
Eyes.
Green eyes glow at him from between the books. He blinks and they're gone. He wonders for a moment if he has imagined it, and is suddenly reminded of the Cheshire Cat. He shakes his head, he has obviously been spending too much time with his niece.
“Excuse me.” The soft voice startles him and he spins around only to be fixed once again in that mossy gaze. “Are you taking that?” She drops her eyes and it takes him a moment to shake off his disappointment before realising she's refocused on the book in his hand. The book he suddenly can’t remember the title of, or why it had seemed so important to him when he found it.
“Er, no.” Articulate. He's a military pilot, for heaven’s sake, he's supposed to thrive under pressure. He has the distinct feeling that she's rolling her eyes at him, and he almost wishes she would look up again so he can see.
“Well, can I have it then?” She does look back up then and he can read amusement in her eyes. Amusement and a little smugness. He wonders how often she renders perfectly confident men utterly dumbstruck. He assumes it's frequent and is surprised to feel the first coil of jealousy in his stomach.
“Only if you have a drink with me.” He blinks. He hadn’t meant to say that, had he?
She blinks back at him, and he glimpses a little slip in her mask. She appears to be as surprised by his boldness as he is. Amazingly, that restores a little of his confidence. The fact that she has yet to shoot him down helps too.
He waits, holding his breath and struggling to keep his eyes locked with hers. They really are something. Deceptively open, he can already tell that. They have the ability to tell anyone what she truly feels, and she has obviously worked hard to keep them under control. He wonders what it would take to break it. He finds himself looking forward to finding out, almost certain that he will.
“I know nothing about you.” That isn’t a yes, but it's a long way away from being a no.
“But won’t it be exciting to learn?” Laughter glitters in the green depths, making them sparkle to life. His breath catches. Exciting.
Smile.
“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not, Mister President.”
“It isn’t a wise move to lie to your President.”
“I’m not lying, Sir. There has been no laughter from this side of the phone.”
His eyes narrow at the wall. “What has there been?”
A predictable and telling silence.
“Is the First Lady speechless?”
There’s a mutter that he could probably translate but most likely does not want to hear.
“I was smiling, Mister President. Just smiling.”
He can hear it in her voice again, knows that wherever she is her mouth has parted just a little, her cheeks rising and squashing her nose in a way he finds irresistible. He knows that if there are press there, she’ll be caught on every camera because they can’t resist. He makes a mental note to have a copy sent to his office. A smile spreads across his own face and he feels his shoulders relax slightly. He doesn’t mind being seen as foolish when it causes her to smile.
“Good.”
Hands.
It will be a small ceremony. The world is too busy mourning itself to be concerned with his affairs. He feels a small moment of thankfulness for that, before the reason solidifies again in his memory. He won’t be thankful. Not when she would still be here were it not for them.
She blamed herself until he refused to believe her. She told him it wasn’t his fault and for the first time he was able to lie to her and not give himself away. He should have forced her to evacuate so much earlier. If she were there, she would remind him that he had never been able to get her to do anything she didn’t want to. But she isn’t and he continues to uphold the lie in his heart.
He looks down at her. Asleep. Patricia understands so little and still so much. She looks so close to sleep that he can almost believe a small peck to her cheek will be enough to wake her. She was always such a light sleeper. He doesn’t try it; the failure threatens to break him, and he can’t afford that. Not now, not when America and perhaps much of the world is looking to him to lead them on from this.
The room is still empty. He’s earlier than he should be, but this is where he needs to be for just a little while. He isn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. Cannot bring himself to hand her over to somewhere he isn’t. He finds her hand and clasps it tightly within his own. Their wedding rings clash together in a sweet chime that brings to mind, suddenly, every time he has held her hand since they exchanged those rings.
Every single moment is different and it threatens to pull a sob from his throat. He grips a little tighter, and she doesn’t. For the first time he notices how cold she is, how unnaturally still she lies, how little of her is left in the body that betrayed her. Betrayed him when her soul lost the ultimate fight with her tired heart.
He squeezes the delicate digits within his own, one last time before letting her go. He lays her hand atop her other, both resting on her still stomach. One last sweep of his eyes, so slowly and he steps back out of sight.
The room begins to fill and the formalities move ever closer. Tears settle in his eyes and he clasps his empty hands tight behind his back. Breathing evenly he fights for control. His daughter will be here soon, and everyone will be watching. He cannot afford to break. His hand shakes as he wipes away a stray tear. He’s not sure how much more he can bend.
Breath.
Her chest rises and falls beneath his head, a steady rhythm that he can feel slowly lulling him to sleep.
He moves slightly, ear pressed below her breastbone, and counts the beats, each one bringing a strong sense of comfort. His breath coasts across her bare skin and he opens his eyes to watch her skin prickle against the sensation. He breathes out again, more controlled, and smiles at the laugh she emits. His next breath comes from his mouth and the hot air soothes the rising bumps back out of sight. She laughs again and shifts beneath him, bringing his head a little higher until her chin presses against him.
This time it’s he who can feel her breath against his body, the small gusts breezing through his hair barely touching his scalp and yet scalding him all the same. He sighs, inadvertently drawing another laugh from her and can’t help but do it again.
Moonlight seeps in through the curtains, a long inverse shadow glowing silver across the floor and coming to rest atop the bed. If he listens hard enough, past the beat in his ear, he can hear the celebrations still continuing without him. He doesn’t know the time, but he suspects the sun will have made it’s appearance before his team falls into their own beds.
He rubs his nose against the smooth skin beneath it. He doesn’t envy them, they don’t have the incentive to cut the partying short like he did.
He notices suddenly that their breathing has adjusted; both of their chests rising at the same time, to fall back down together. He doesn’t know whose original pattern they are following, he chooses to believe it’s neither one nor the other’s but a compromised rhythm somewhere in between.
He thinks about the day he’s had, the weeks and months, the years before that all building up to a moment that passed in a blink. He thinks about the time ahead of him, the responsibility he’s shouldered and the choices he’ll have to make. He thinks about now, lying here with his wife, their breath shared, his heart light and wonders if this isn’t the moment his life was building towards instead. He has a second of insanity where he wants to tell them all they were wrong, that they are celebrating something that was just the build up, not the miracle.
“This is right, don’t over think it.” He gets his arms under him and looks up at her, still surprised that she knows him so completely. His eyes smile to match her's and he starts to truly believe that he can do this.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” He quips, drawing a huffed snort. He breathes in her strength like oxygen and thinks that with her beside him, he can do this, and do it well.
End.
For this is Wisdom; to love, to live
To take what fate, or the Gods may give.
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion's ebb as you greet its flow
To have, - to hold - and - in time, - let go!
- - - -Laurence Hope
please review; let me know what you think before the aliens invade again...