Work Text:
James is sorting papers. For the last three years, he has been rather good at that, dividing blood test results into different stacks. Ca2+ here, Creatinine there, oh where did I put Fe… Since then, her medical record has grown tremendously. At first, when he was naive, he would find them a special place, hide them in a cabinet alongside with papers from the time he broke an arm. Now though… they just lie right here, on the dining table, always available to him. So James can look at them when he readies himself to work, when he readies himself to sleep. He just… does not know what to do with them anymore.
The recent results are predictably bad. Everything is off the range, some numbers are three-digit. And yet, the doctor urges the discharge, possibly sensing both the futility of this endeavor and a deplorable state of James’ finances. And James agrees. Maybe, this way, it will end faster.
Instead, time stretches unreasonably long and thick. Was it a mistake to take Mary home? Now, he can no longer escape the misery she emanates, the misery he emanates when he passes by her room. He cannot hide from her and conjure lies after lies of why he has not been visiting her. James is her caretaker now, she needs his attention, and he relishes and hates it at the same time. Relishes for the time he can spend with her caring for her, because some idiot part of him still believes her deteriorating state can be reversed; hates for the realization that she will never be the same Mary he remembers, their time together will be his torture, and he will wallow in despair each time she screams at him to let her fucking alone to die.
He peeks inside her bedroom to see her resting still, as if dead. And he stares intensely, trying to gauge her state, trying to catch (or fail to catch?) rise and fall of her chest. It is dark inside, she begged him to keep the blinds drawn tight, and James cannot see a thing. So he sneaks to her bed and stares at her up close like a freak, bores a hole in her visage. Breathe, please… Her body moves slightly and she exhales through parted lips, her warm breath tickling him, making him exhale in return.
James misses her tranquility and warmth, the feeling of home she used to bring in his lonely life. More times than before he finds himself frustrated and unloved, earning for her healing touch. He is standing here, mere centimeters away of her, but Mary still remains out of his reach. She only lets him touch her occasionally. She has told him endless times she feels filthy and ugly, but most importantly – weak. Mary lets him pat her blotched cheeks, put on lotion on her dry and rough hands. She cries a lot when he does that and pleads him not to humiliate her with this pretense. But his affection is not pretense. One time, he tried to kiss her on the lips, but she shoved him away so roughly he hit the nightstand. She babbled apologies and begged him to stay but from that day on his touch became strained, and hers – almost nonexistent. He still wants to kiss her, though. And more.
James dares to place a feathery kiss on her clammy forehead, then freezes waiting for her reaction. But Mary does not protest, deep asleep. He lets out hot breath he did not notice he was holding and, after looking her over one last time, leaves to the living room, to his new sleeping arrangement. He keeps the door slightly ajar; to hear her calling for him in case she needs him.
He crashes on the couch, stretching his body to shake off exhaustion and strain, but it does not go away. He turns to stare at the coffee table, on the assortment of bottles and tubes littering it. Painkillers, heavy medication, lotions. James keeps them here, beside him out of necessary and precaution, but hates the sight altogether. His eyes linger on a small pink tube, a hand cream he uses on Mary. Her favorite one. Fumbling, he reaches for it to unclasp the lid. The smell is subtle and oh so velvety, delicate like Mary he remembers. He inhales it and rolls his eyes, thinking of Mary’s small hands caressing his face. She used to trace his cheekbones and rub soft skin under his eyes invading him with this smell. Her hands on him…
James huffs at himself, he is so pathetic. He can already feel himself harden just from the thought. He tries to conjure ugly images of her with a blotchy face, with rash aggressively marring her pale skin, stretching across the neck, underneath the collar of pajamas and wrapping around her breasts. He palms himself through sweatpants. He is undeniably hard and in need. For her clammy touch, for her botched skin, chapped lips, and a sweaty body. It does not matter how she looks, James wants his wife, the only person in the world who loves him, the only person in the world who he loves.
He lets himself think of Mary’s rough hands on him as he jerks himself off dry. It is painful and he whimpers but carries on, just as Mary continues to pleasure him, shyly glancing at him from under a veil of greasy hair. James wants to comb a strand behind her ear, but he knows she is conscious of her once lush and healthy hair. He wants her to feel loved, too. Keeps calling for her. His Mary, Mary, Mary…
He opens his eyes and yelps as he sees Mary, the real Mary, staring at him from behind the couch back in terror, her breath labored. James takes in the sight of her pink cheeks and a startled face, of her eyes glued to his red overstimulated cock, and he moans involuntarily, releasing himself on his shirt. That makes her turn away, hands flying up to cover her eyes shyly. He finds it cute for a second, before the reality sinks in.
“I- I heard you groaning a-and calling for me, I…” She is still hiding behind her hands, not daring to look at him. He feels like shit now. Not only did he wake her up, he made her stagger across her bedroom only to find his filthy perverted self exposed in the most inappropriate form.
James stares, his thoughts are a jumble. Then, he notices Mary wobble slightly and latches on the thought for a purchase.
“Please… sit down, I… need to clean myself.” He says bashfully before sprinting to the bathroom.
When James is out, Mary is still in the room, actually sitting on the couch despite witnessing the act before. She has placed his pillow on the lap to rest her weakened arms. She eyed him briefly before averting her gaze again. He is naked to the waist – his ruined shirt had to go. Probably not the best choice, he realizes now. Still, Mary does not scoot away from him, when he joins her on the couch.
Unable to hold an eye contact, he decides to watch her hands instead. But that, too, does not help much.
They sit in silence for God knows how long until Mary turns to place a hand on his cheek, caressing him lightly. That brings James from a trance.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she whispers.
He blurts. “For what?”
“You know,” her rough hand slides to his chin, then his throat, stopping under a collarbone; the delicate yet scratchy touch inciting goosebumps. “For pushing you away.”
James exhales loudly, itching to touch her in return. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“Don’t.” She pushes him to lie down with all her strength, and he obliges, helping her to settle down as well, on top of him, until her face is pressed against his neck.
“I know that I’m torturing you, James,” her chapped lips are grazing his throat. James tightens his hold on her. “For that, I’m sorry, too.”
She lets him caress her innocently that night, murmur sweet nothings in her ear and pretend that their lives are not falling apart.