Work Text:
When Arthur thought of hauntings, he imagined chains rattling, moans echoing, objects flying across the room. He pictured gruesome visages of the murdered dead. He figured it would be frightening.
He didn't expect it to be so goddamn sad.
A week after Faroe was born, as she lay (finally) sleeping in her crib down the hall, Arthur felt the bed beside him dip. He was only half-awake, and he said, “Bella?” out of habit. The weight settled and stilled a few inches away from his back, not embracing or even brushing against him. This was typical of their marriage. He just hoped she hadn't stayed up too late working. Sewing in lamplight would blind her eventually.
In the morning, he startled out of sleep, confused and panicked. The other half of the bed was empty. Of course it was empty. Why wouldn't it be empty? Bella was dead. Just a dream.
The pillow on that side of the bed was indented, as if a head had rested on it.
Later that month, he was coming out of the bath, and through the crack in the door he could have sworn he saw a graceful form bent over the table she'd always sewed at. When he pushed the door open, the table was bare and unattended.
Guilt, he told himself. His brain was playing tricks on him as punishment.
One of her embroidery hoops had been pulled out of its drawer and dropped under the table.
For weeks, there would be snatches of songs at the edge of his hearing. Threads on the arms of the chairs, in colors he never wore. A swish of skirts going into a room he'd find entirely empty. A cup and saucer left on the top of the piano, smelling like her favorite tea, which he no longer bought.
In a way, it wasn't that different from their life together. Always out of reach. Never quite connecting. That was the tragedy of it: That he'd always been without her, and she without him.
One early morning, before the sun was up, he awoke to the feeling of a hand slipping around his waist and into his pajamas. He was groggy, but he knew enough to keep his eyes closed. On these rare occasions, it had always worked best if he let her think he was still asleep. That made it easier for her to take what she wanted.
He rolled onto his back and felt her settle on his hips. Familiar heat enveloped him, and he allowed himself to sigh. The bed rocked, and he rocked with it. She shuddered, and so did he.
Tears were leaking out of his eyes, but he didn't open them. He whispered, “You… you don't have to stay, you know. Not for me. I don't deserve it.”
The weight on top of him lifted. A soft touch brushed over his wet cheeks. The covers were pulled up.
When the sunlight pierced the curtains, he looked around the room. On the nightstand – her nightstand, not his – was one hairpin, gleaming in the morning light. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe nothing had changed at all.