#malving

“It’s not as hot as it’s been,” Malcolm says apologetically while he dips a hand in the tub.

”The doctor recommended that the water be lukewarm. Too hot might be overwhelming and shock the system.”

John doesn’t know what Malcolm means when he says ‘the doctor’. None have visited in weeks, months perhaps? It’s hard to remember clearly, the hot steam of the room always makes his brain soft and slow.

The last doctor he can remember is the surgeon who cut the tendons out of three of his useless frostbitten fingers. How John had pleaded to keep them attached, even though he knew they would never serve him again. He cursed wailed and bargained and must have looked like a blubbering fool. He slept that night, and woke up two days later with his hand blazing in agony and the taste of chloroform still flooding his senses.

Malcolm told him later, twisting his handkerchief and avoiding John’s gaze, that he didn’t want John to be spared any necessary procedure, even if it came at the cost of his pride and vanity. John spat and cursed but Malcolm was still there the next day offering to transcribe any of his letters for him.

John's home late. He knows Elphie will worry. The sky is getting dark quickly, the clouds low and promising rain. When he finally opens the door to Elphie's little brownstone, he has already rehearsed what he might say to apologies, and is scolding himself in advance for his temper, hoping he has the patience to let Elphie get his thoughts out without snapping or talking over him.

Elphie isn't in the foyer, though. Odd. The house is quiet.

He leans his cane up against the wall and pulls his overcoat off his shoulders. Even two years out, he has pain, especially on cold days. His fragmented fingers in his mittens ache the most, but today his chest is tight and sore as well, and he's glad he had the cane with him.

When he's got his outer layers shed, he goes into Elphie's study, considering lighting a fire against the chill before he does a little search.

There he finds Elphie. He's at the mantel, looking at a photograph.

John's by his side in an instant. When Elphie notices his presence he turns away, wiping his eyes. He pushes the photograph away, facing it towards the wall. Turning it away from John.

It's all useless of course. John knows who lives in that little round frame. Elphie's wife, Mary, who John never met, who died giving Elphie a daughter.

"My apologies," Elphie says, his voice so even and controlled, even as his eyes still weep. "I should be giving you a lecture on staying out late."

"It can wait," John says. He raises a hand— still he startles at his own fingers some days, half-missing, gnarled things— and gently wipes at the tears on Elphie's cheek.

"I shouldn't mourn her so," he continues. "I don't mean you disrespect, John. You mean the world to me."

John's disturbed to even hear it. "How could you say such a thing? She was your wife. Your daughter's mother."

"I don't want you to think, just because I…"

"Love her? I should hope you do."

Elphie turns to meet John's eyes. His eyes are red, but he's smiling. "You know… I am so sure that you two would like each other. I think it all the time."

"I think we would have, too." Any woman Elphie deemed worthy of love was a wonderful person in John's book. Maybe it was the long day, the ache in his joints, or the gray clouds, but John's own eyes start to prickle. "You know, I've imagined it."

"What?"

"Living here, with the three of you." John's turn to look away, his cheeks reddening. "I know its terribly selfish of me, to want to be part of it. But the thought calms me. You know I've never been good at… that sort of thing. I'll never find a wife. It is nice to imagining seeing you and her happy, and... Being in proximity, even, would be enough." He stops himself, before he says something terribly embarrassing. Something like how he'd love to help them look after their child, which he does now without her and hopes she is looking down from heaven and finding he's doing a good job. How he's imagined giving his income to their household, so they'd always have enough, and maybe consider having a second child. He's imagined being as good friends with Mary as he is with his brother's wife Kate, letting her walk him through the park on days where he's hurting, pretending he's escorting a lady and not the other way around, her escorting an invalid.