Who: Ainsley Galbraith, Torquil McTavish What: Tor visits Ainsley in her most favoritest place in the whole wide world When: 5 February 2000, Evening Where: St Mungo’s, Artifact Accidents Ward Warnings: Emotional Chicken, Language, So Much Shakespeare
Ainsley was doing that thing where she read and re-read her journal, smiling at some comments, pausing on others, or skipping the ones that were too painful to look at again, at least right now. She had flipped back a few days and came across one that still made her wonder what the hell she’d been thinking. Groaning, she carefully set the book aside, lest she be tempted to tear the pages out and cause them to vanish.
Leaning her head back on a pillow that was far too familiar for her particular comfort, she gazed up at the ceiling and tried very hard not to reflect on why she was here in the first place. This was, of course, an impossibility, since the events were right there, just behind her eyes, lurking- ever-present- on the edges of her every waking thought. Her throat felt tight, and she pushed a few breaths out of her nose as her hands gripped the industrial, scratchy blanket that covered her.
She was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay. This was fine.
He'd made sure Champ was taken care of before rushing to St. Mungo's to see Ainsley. What he was getting from her journal posts wasn't inspiring confidence. Tor knocked on the door before stepping into the room.
"Ains… you awake, love?"
The sound from the door brought her out of her spiraling thoughts, and she was pathetically grateful for it- but even more so when she saw who it was. “Finally,” she said, meaning it as a joke, knowing she was missing the mark. “Lost your chance to play Phillip again, I'm afraid.”
Ainsley sat upright, and began to presumptively make room for him on the narrow bed. “Thanks for coming by. Hope it wasn't too much trouble. Were you able to get the dog sorted all right?”
Tor gave her a smile as he crawled into bed beside her, smoothing her hair back before kissing her forehead. "Champ is all squared away. Although I could make you pretend to go to sleep to show you my Prince Phillip skills."
“Anything for the theatre,” she said in deadpan, even as she leaned against his side and set her head against his shoulder.
Without quite meaning to, Ainsley let out a deep, shaky sigh. There were words poised on her tongue, paragraphs, entire books. She shuddered and curled a little more tightly into herself. “Tell me about practice. Tell me about this new part. Tell me anything. Tell me everything.”
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. He wasn't used to seeing Ainsley like this. Tor closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Well, it's downright boring without you. Mags and I are providing commentary from the sidelines."
Tor stroked his fingers through Ainsley's hair as he talked. "Moose is sidelined too. Ellie's having a bit too much fun with her challenges."
“I can imagine it’s constructive commentary,” she teased. “If I was able to play, I’m sure I’d be fodder as well.” She tried for a laugh, but it wouldn’t quite manifest itself. Ainsley shut her eyes and reached out to close her hand around his upper arm, holding onto him. She felt horribly unmoored; even worse, she felt as helpless as she had the first time she’d had an extended stay in this stupid hospital.
Focus. Focus. Pip. She let go of his arm and leaned back to frown thoughtfully up at him. “He’s not back to it yet? I didn’t realize how bad it was. Hopefully he won’t mind some impromptu company. Merlin knows it certainly wasn’t what I had planned for the week.” Another attempt at a laugh, this one slightly more effective. “Still haven’t decided if I should be grateful for giving it a miss or sad to be missing out. Lorna said she could probably put me to work doing some target work for the Beaters, though, so I’ll not be a useless lump all week at least.”
"Six of one, half dozen of the other," Tor admitted, tugging the blanket up over her. "You might get one or two comments about trying to get out of practice, but a cursed book is a bit overkill, don't you think."
His comments were light in tone, but he was consumed with worry for her. " 'Sides, you could never be a useless lump."
Despite her very best efforts, she winced. She could still hear the way it had stolen her voice, still felt the memory of the connection. “Go big or go home,” she murmured, recalling the quote as something her grandda had said recently. “Guess I failed at the ‘go home’ part.”
She didn’t want to feel like this, didn’t want him, want anyone to see her like this. And the very last thing she wanted to do was start crying, so she was outraged at herself when she felt the tears start pricking at the corners of her eyes. “This is so stupid,” she muttered, burrowing her face into the side of Tor’s neck. “This is so fucking stupid.”
He realized by her reaction that it had been the wrong thing to say. "Oh, love..."
It broke him to see her like this, especially only a few days after her confession (and too much time thinking about what might have been if he'd known about her feelings earlier). He loved her for years (even if he didn't know if he was in love with her) and to see her hurting… it was almost too much.
His wrapped her in both his arms, one hand comfortingly rubbing her back. "It's not stupid. You're not stupid... This isn't your fault…"
“Isn’t it though?” she said miserably, tucked up against him and holding on for dear life. Her body gave another shiver, and then it stilled, and when she spoke again, there was steel in her voice and a simmering anger that was self-directed. “Isn’t it though?”
Ainsley had no intention of telling anyone about any of this outside of the healers and the curse breakers, and possibly the Portree management if they asked for details. Yet, something seemed to have shattered inside of her, and the whole sordid business came spilling out. She told him about the Priory, about originally finding the book, and the first trip to St Mungo’s. They hadn’t discovered anything then, no curse, nothing, but after a couple of days she’d noticed that things were different: little things, like weird dreams and the sudden inability to feel pain. And she didn’t tell anyone about that either- hadn’t even told the healers even now- because who wouldn’t want to capitalize on that kind of skill?
She brought him up to date on their most recent Priory jaunt, where the book had started stealing her voice and then her thoughts, and how- just at the end- she could have sworn that she had heard its thoughts as well. And then suddenly she couldn’t hear or think or feel anything at all, and waking up after all of that nothing had felt like crawling up through the ground, like she’d been buried alive in her own mind. And now she was shaking and crying, and she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to stop, because she should have said something, anything.
Tor listened quietly, shifting his position to get more comfortable on the hospital bed and pulling Ainsley completely into his lap, wrapping her in his arms and pulling the blanket up around her. He nuzzled his face against hers, lips brushing against her ear. "Listen to me, Ains. This is not your fault. This was an accident. A shite accident, but an accident. Not. Your. Fault."
Her sobs subsided slowly, soothed by his gentle calm and reassurances. He felt warm and safe; he felt like home.
The sudden thought gave Ainsley significant pause, because she was trying so desperately to ignore everything about her current situation; it was playing out like a cruel pantomime of what could have been.
She reached up and tentatively put her hand against his chest, over his heart. Almost at once, she pulled it back again, but then resolved herself and placed it there more firmly, using it to push herself back from him a little. Ainsley searched Tor’s face for a moment, something conflicted in her own, and then smiled sadly at him. “I think it would have been nice. To be your Sleeping Beauty.”
His chest felt tight and Tor put a hand over hers, squeezing it as something seemed to break inside of him. "Our kids would have the curliest hair anyone's ever seen.."
She let her head fall forward onto his shoulder, a watery laugh startling out of her at this, until she was shaking with it. This gamut of emotions was not an easy run to make, and the exhaustion she’d been feeling since waking up was starting to catch up with her with all the subtlety of a rogue bludger. Ainsley sagged against him, and pressed a single kiss against his shoulder. “Can’t live our lives trapped in yesterday’s regrets.”
He turned his head, pressing his lips against her forehead. He threaded his fingers through her hair, resting his head on top of hers, grateful she couldn't see his face at the moment. There was no need for her to see his face right now. No need for her to know how much he'd been thinking about what might have been between the two of them.
"No need to worry about that now, love. You just need to rest."
“I’ve rested all bloody day,” she muttered, but then was betrayed a scant second later by a yawn. It ended with a miserable little whimper, which became a dismissive snort. “Guess I’ll just rest all the remaining days of my life.”
Ainsley pulled away from him- unable to look him in the eye just yet- but it was only so she could arrange herself so that she was on her side, her back to Tor. “You don’t have to stay,” she said quietly. “I’ll just be sleeping.”
Tor didn't say anything. Was this what it was going to be like now between them? Every word like stepping in dragon dung. He let out a sigh as he flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "And here I thought you were going to help me run lines."
She turned back around, tangling her legs in the hospital sheets, raising up so she could fix him with an incredulous look. It lasted for all of two seconds before she shoved at his shoulder with a roll her eyes and a smile that was sharp but fond, and put out her hand expectantly. “Hand over the sodding script, then, if you’re going to be a prima donna about it.”
Tor smirked and shifted to pull a rolled up script out of his back pocket before handing it over. "I don't know, if you're going to be sleeping or sulking, I'll just go annoy some healers instead.."
“And have them keep me here longer out of spite? I don’t think so.” She flopped back down with the script in hand, though her shoulder and upper arm were snug against his. “Actually, it wouldn’t be out of spite- it would be to keep you here longer. Your plan is fiendish, and I’ll have no part in it.”
Ainsley bapped the back of her hand harmlessly at his stomach before opening the script. “So, what is this anyway? Where are we starting?”
"Shakespeare," Tor answered. "As you like it. Act One, Scene Three. It's a long shot, but well, it's all about taking chances, isn't it?"
Turning her head a little, she studied his profile with an inscrutable look that still somehow spoke volumes. “Aye, chances.”
Ainsley looked at the script, scanning the characters, distracting herself before she said (or did) something foolish. “And who am I reading? Are you trying out for Rosalind?”
Was she teasing him? Probably.
"Very funny, but my hair's not quite long enough. Besides, you would make a much better Rosalind," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "Orlando, I think… but maybe Touchstone… I don't know.."
She was too tired to resist the urge to close her eyes as he played with her hair, but managed not to be lulled to sleep by sheer force of will. Focusing back to the script, she flipped through it thoughtfully. “If it's Touchstone or Orlando, then it looks like we should skip ahead a bit. How about… Act 2, Scene 4, after he and the ladies have seen Silvius and Corin in the forest?
“Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own.”
And if that wasn't the most randomly appropriate quote to ever come up.
Tor ran a hand through his hair. "And I mine. I remember when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for coming a- night to Jane Smile. And I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked. And I remember…"
His brain searched for the words. He knew this scene, but it escaped him. All he wanted right now was to make sure Ainsley was safe and to keep her that way.
"Line?"
Reaching out, Ainsley took his hand, threading their fingers and giving them a squeeze. “And I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears ‘Wear these for my sake.’”
She had intended to stop there, but was caught out by the next line, and went on softly: “We that are true lovers run into strange capers, but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.”
His words caught in his throat and he stared at Ainsley a bit longer than he meant to. Taking a deep breath, Tor started the speech again. "And I mine. I remember when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for coming a- night to Jane Smile. And I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked. And I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears, “Wear these for my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly."
“Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.” Ainsley read the next line with a wavering voice, because the Bard’s words seemed to be tailor made tonight to dig straight into the heart of all the things they weren’t saying. She was exhausted, and just wanted to curl up and sleep for fifty years, but being on this precipice of unnamable anticipation was keeping her far more alert than she really wanted to be. Her fingers tightened reflexively around his, pressing the words into his skin: I love you.
Tor's eyes were trained on Ainsley, full of worry and more that he couldn't say - things that kept him awake at night. His fingers squeezed hers tightly in response. He would always be there for her. He let his wild curls fall over his eyes. "Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it."
His fingers reached out to stroke her hair. "Sleep, love… you've been through a lot. I'll stay till your lad gets back."
Once again, she shut her eyes with the sensation, and this time she didn’t bother with opening them again. Ainsley shifted closer and put her head on his shoulder. “Ta, thanks,” she murmured, already halfway asleep. “Take it from me: never get cursed.”
"Whatever you say, my love," Tor whispered, brushing his lips against her forehead. "Anything for you."