Healing
Title: Healing
Author: royalbluehues
Warnings: PTSD. Nothing graphic, though.
Pairings: William Schofield x Reader
Request: Thanks! May I request a story where Schofield is another man after the war and reader wants her hubby back? He has nightmares, he never wants to go out, he barely talks to the reader. She understands that he will never be the same man after what he went through, but she wants at least a bit of her husband back. She doesn't know what to do to help him, but she will fight for their marriage.
Author’s Note: The story treks off the path of the request just a tad. I always end up making my stories fluffy without intending to. (Image found on Pinterest)
You had known it the minute he stepped off the train’s platform.
His shoulders were slumped and his eyes had a far away look to them. When he had brought you close to embrace you tightly, he had nuzzled his face within the crook of your neck and stayed there.
His body was taught and stiff.
Deep down within you, a small feeling poked at you, Something’s wrong.
But you pushed that thought to the side, rather selfishly relishing the fact you finally, after nearly three years apart from him, you finally had your husband in your arms once more.
And God willing he will stay there, you prayed silently.
You raised one of your hands to tangle his locks around your fingers, squeezing your eyes tightly, “William,” you breathed out, savoring the way his name tasted on your tongue, then peppering whatever visible part of his face that was not tucked away into your neck.
Your heart was blooming with a mixture of gratitude, relief, happiness, and bereavement to the time that was pitilessly ripped from you and your daughters.
He was filthy, despite his obvious attempts at a decorum of cleanliness. But his hair was matted, his uniform tattered, ripped, and stained with dark splotches in several places.
You sided with your better judgment and not allow your mind to wander to what those splotches were.
He finally lifted his head from his embrace, moving to lean back and look at you. His lips pulled upward into a lopsided smile.
But you see it there: his large eyes betray his effort of solidity. Quickly as it comes, it goes. And before your mind could analyze it, he pulls you into a kiss.
His lips feel soft, despite the skin being cracked. The calloused fingers grasping either side of your face are cold to the touch, his grip tight yet tender. You melt effortlessly into him, feeling the tension you’ve held in your shoulders, amounting since the moment he received his notice of deployment, give ease.
When he releases you, you notice the tears that have swarmed in not only your eyes but in his as well.
“I’ve missed you.”
Once again, you’re flooded with a thousand emotions. Those three words have left you winded. They’re drowning you, pulling you so far beneath its current you’re left with the largest knot in your throat, threatening to release the moment you open your mouth to reply to him.
It’s his words that have compacted so many meanings unspoken.
Your tongue has turned leaden, your mouth is clenched shut, and the knot in your throat is only forming and growing every second that is passed.
All you can do is stare up at him pathetically, eyes wide and brimming with tears that wait to fall.
I love you. I’m so sorry. I want you. I feared for you. I feared for myself. I’ve missed you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Your heart feels full and empty all at once, and you tremble as his hands softly stroke away the wisps of hair that have fallen from your coiffed hair.
When you open your mouth to breath, to finally repay the sentiment, your lungs betray you as they rack in a sob.
He pulls you back into an embrace, only this time it’s you that is being hid away from the onlooking world, gasping for breath as your tears wet the lapels of his uniform.
You feel him press his lips to the crown of your head.
“I know,” He tells you thickly.
---
It’s early morning as Will sits by the window of this home. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and rather than thrashing about in your shared bed, he figured it wise to detach himself lest he wake you for the third consecutive night that week.
The heat emitting from the teacup clasped in his hands scalded his skin, but he chose to ignore it. The burning grounded him. Reminded him of where he was and where he wasn’t.
He tiredly exhales a deep sigh, leaning his head against the crown molding of the window. He feels almost guilty for not staying in bed, remembering the constant visualizations of a warm bed- of your body warmly pressed into his side, the welcoming sound of a pair of bare feet that patter softly against the floor- all of which he painted to keep him sane in the trenches.
But now that he had it after wanting it for so long, he always returned back to France, even when he tried to suppress it.
It would be small things that would set off the memories: The sound of the leaves billowing from the wind, the clanging of a fork against a tin can, the smell of upturned soil, just to name a few.
It was silly, he thought more often than not, of how different he was now.
Though he was still William Schofeild, he really wasn’t. It was a notion he had to accept the first week he returned home to you and the girls.
But he tried, by God, did he try.
Whenever it would be set for judgement day to come, William Schofeild knew that he would be judged for what he did not do and what he did. But one thing that would serve him with certainty, was that he tried.
He tries to uphold the station that he situated before he left. The role of a good father and a good husband. Not showing the cracks that were undoubtedly unfixable. Attempting to get back into the swing of things.
Though he knew that his false bravado hardly went unnoticed by you. He would feel your suspecting gaze when he was teetering on reliving events as he stared off blankly into the space ahead of him, when he would leave his food untouched or his tea forgotten. He knew you had a hunch of what was happening when his daughters sat on his lap as they begged him to tell stories.
“Girls,” you would scold them, emerging from the kitchen as you wiped your hands on your apron, “you know better than to be asking your father such things he wishes not to discuss.”
He would give a tight smile in response, “Nothing to worry about, Darling,” he’d say as he pressed a kiss on either girl’s head, “Perhaps I’ll do you one better, girls: I’ll read you a story with princesses and about great castles. Far better than hearing about daddy’s stories. I’ve no fairies or knights in mine.”
They would beam up at him, slipping off his lap as they ran back to their nursery to play with their dolls.
He knew you knew when he would simply pick his book up once more, staring at the page he attempted to read for the nearly two hours- how you would hover by the entryway of the kitchen and observe him before disappearing to finish up the roast.
He knew you knew because as he sat there, sitting and observing the outside world through the window, the heat prickling his skin, he could feel your presence in the room.
He watched as a bird flew by, situating itself on the small tree only feet away from the gate.
You moved quietly, settling into the parlor chair by his.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he tells you quietly as he turns to face you. You have a shawl over your shoulders, and sleep still evident in your eyes, and one hand atop your rounded belly.
You don’t meet his eyes, rather fixing your gaze on the same bird fluttering about.
“You didn’t wake me.” You reply just as quietly, pulling the shawl tighter around you with your left hand, “The baby was kicking again.”
Will gives you a small smile, eyes glancing down at your bump, “A rowdy one, he’ll be.”
He outstretches his arm to pass you his tea, and you accept, bringing it to your lips as you take a sip to fight away the chill lingering in the early morning.
You hand it back to him, and the two of you so, passing the tea cup back and forth for the next minutes in comfortable silence.
Finally, you speak.
“William, I’m worried for you.”
It hangs in the air, and causes Will to shift uncomfortably in his chair as his right pointer finger plays with the handle of the tea cup.
You fill the silence once more, turning to him now. “There’s something that’s wrong.”
His eyebrows furrow and his lips pull into a frown. Instead of replying he gulps down the remainder of the tea and sets it atop the window sill.
“I know you do not wish to speak on it. And I apologize for bringing it up so early in the morning, but I’d rather it not be in front of the girls,” you spoke slowly, your right hand still grazing your stomach as a nervous habit.
Will sighs deeply once more. This conversation was bound to be brought up eventually.
He hangs his head, crossing his arms, trying to think of the correct words to say.
“I can hardly imagine what you saw or what you went through, and I’m grateful for the ignorance that permits me to do so. But seeing you in these states,” you trail off, feeling the familiar knot take place within your throat, “it pains me because I do not know how to help you.”
You take in a shuddering breath, biting your tongue as you cast your gaze on the floor. “I wished so many times to take you away from there. To bring you back home where nothing could harm you. I would have given anything to ensure you were safe.”
William shakes his head, lifts it and turns to look at you. “You already help me. Just by being here, by my side.”
You wipe away at a tear that had escaped, knowing fully it was a pretty fib to make you feel better. “Don’t lie to me, William. I see it in your eyes.”
He gives you a small smile again that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Of course you do. I suppose that’s the price of marrying an observant woman.”
“And as an observant wife, it’s my duty to point upon when I think something’s wrong,” you murmur quickly, quietly. You're terrified to find him angered, so you shift your gaze to avoid his eyes. “I made a vow to you four years ago: to be by your side for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer,” you pause before finally mustering up the courage to face your husband, “and in sickness and in health.”
William’s gaze is on the teacup that he set aside, his large eyes saddened and reserved. He frowns, slowly rises from his chair, kneels before you and claps your hand in his. He moves to press his lips on the knuckle of your thumb, “I’m sorry I do not speak to you about it. About what happened.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tightly, voice cracking.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” He admits to you, “and I’m deeply sorry for that.”
You shake your head, a bit exasperated at how you jumbled your own words, in turn making him feel he was at fault, “No, my Darling. No, please do not take it that way. What I meant is that though it’s not my place to pry personal information you do not wish to tell, it is my place to point something that I see taking a toll on you.” You lift his hand so you can kiss them, “I-I just want you to feel better.” You sigh, “I’m rambling again. I’m afraid I can’t speak properly this morning.”
“I know what you are attempting to get across.” he mumbles to you, bowing his head to rest it upon your bump. “But I should make more of an effort to…” He furrows his brows, carefully selecting the correct word, “be open. But it’s difficult. How can I ask you to help me when I do not even know how to help myself?”
His words break your heart.
You frown, letting go of his hand to stroke his head. “We will figure it out, and I will be there every step of the way with you, no matter what.”
“And if you grow tired of me?”
You stiffen. This time it’s his words that hang in the air. As he utters them, a cloud seems to block the early sunlight emitting through your window, casting a blueish-gray hue in your small home.
“William never utter such mindless things again,” You scold him sharply. “I will never tire of you.” You allow your form to relax once more as your face softens, lightening your tone, “Is not carrying your child enough evidence?”
You hear him exhale a breathy chuckle and then feel him place a kiss on your womb.
After a while, with you stroking his hair and him kneeling before you, you speak softly once more reassuring, “I love you. For the man that you were and for the man that you’ve become. I will be here for you. And though your healing may take time, it’s a step in the right direction. Never doubt that.”
The sun’s rays make an appearance once more, flooding the small room in a golden, promising light.
.
.
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