A/n-i keep talking about all these J&W fics i canabilized for rizzles, so, here is one from four pennames ago.
It should have been raining.
It's the only thought that runs through his mind as he unlocks the door, feeling lost as to where he's supposed to go. Instead, he stands in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the coat rack, hanging his hat before he even quite knows what he's doing. He simply stands there, unsure of where to go, what to do. He's been untethered and set out to sea.
It should have been raining, because then there would be some reason for it. There would have been something to blame. It would have been slippery, the driver's brakes would have slipped, it wouldn't have simply been a freak accident. He closes his eyes for just the briefest moment, and a snapshot of what had just happened plays in front of him.
It reminds him of a motion picture that's missing most of it's frames. It's simply an image there, not lasting long enough to really analyze it before it flickers away and changes a second later. A scene, of his employer, laying there, his leg bent at a grotesque angle. He'd grimaced at the thought of having to deal with a Wooster nursing a broken leg-the next six weeks would be hell. And he smiles at the idea of keeping him around the flat where he can't get into trouble.
It's a pleasing thought-after all, the young master couldn't get out and gallivant with a fractured shin. It's then that the scene changes, just as he's thinking of all the positives that this could bring. The dull thud-he thinks it should have been louder, really. Turning just in time to see long and lanky limbs lurching up over the hood. He doesn't remember the whole scene, just a moment captured with a short exposure, frozen perfectly in midair, blue suit matching the sky.
The scene changes again, and he sees himself rushing to his employer's side. It should have been raining, because it would wash away the blood that had spattered onto his neck. It was there in bright, long, streaks, brown against the alabaster skin as it dried. But, then again, he thinks, that the water dripping into the great gash in his head would have hurt him-and he's thankful that it wasn't raining.
He can see the gash clearly in his mind, focusing on it, as though it's not a part of Bertie at all, it exists on a separate person, who is only blond curls, a gash, and a bloodstained neck, and ends at the corner of the eyes and the collar. The blood shines black in the sun, the wound is that deep, and there are the faint traces of white around the edges of the wound as it disappears into the hairline.
There's another jump cut, and his hands are clasped around Bertie, and only the shock of the situation is stopping him from pleading with him not to go. He would have rather damned impropriety than not bargain, in any way, for the other man's life. He had never been a religious man, but there had to be hope of a God to pray to for situations like this. He looks down, and he can see those blue eyes staring back at him, a certain warmth to them before they closed.
It's another long moment before he realizes he's staring at the floor of the living room, and that the white carpet is lurching, moving like the white sheet that had been draped over the blue suit. Over the neck. Over the gash. That it's the same color as the white trim around the windshield, only missing the bloodstain on the corner.
It should have been raining, because the sun was shining far too brightly, far too cheerily into the room. He thinks that this is all the sun's fault, because if it had been raining, they wouldn't have been going for a leisurely stroll around town, enjoying the day. He finds himself in the master bedroom, sitting heavily on the bed, the scent of his love surrounding him as he curls into a ball, not knowing what to do or what to feel.
He's a boat out on the ocean, and his anchor had been hoisted, and the sails put out to full. Only he didn't have a map, or compass, and the sky was clouded over, without even the stars or the sun to navigate by. He's lost the one thing that he's had as a light, telling him where to go.
He hasn't cried in thirty years.
But when the tears do come, it's every drop that hadn't been falling from the sky like it should have been.