[Hair] The Zorya (4/9)
Dec. 4th, 2010 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eirenicalTitle: The Zorya
Fandom: Hair, the musical: 2009 Revival
Pairing: Berger/Claude/Sheila
Rating: PG-13 for some kissing, really very mild stuff, though... even for me.
Word Count: 62,317 Part 3: ~5800
Warnings: Slash (as always ^_^), angst
Disclaimer: Neither the musical nor the boys belong to me, if they did they'd be groping each other on sta--. *pause* *blinkblink* Huh. Look at that... they do. *eg* :D ((Hair was written by James Rado and Gerome Ragni with music by Galt MacDermot.))
Summary: Berger and Sheila are a broken triangle, desperately missing their third side. But is Claude well enough to fill his usual place? Only time will tell.
December 4, 2010: Yeah... I have a 20 page paper to write, so I got nothing. :-P But I should at least get props for finally managing to figure out the chapter breaks... right?
Enjoy and please remember... comments and reviews are love!
Zorya Vechernyaya
by Renee-chan
That night, after far too many Christmas movies and several cups of hot cocoa, Sheila sat in the armchair, idly twisting her mug back and forth between her hands. Cheryl was fast asleep in her crib and Berger was well on his way, too, sprawled out on top of Claude like a living blanket. Claude, however, was not nearly so tired... especially not with the look Sheila wore on her face boring holes into him with every passing second. Reaching out a hand, he gently touched her knee, "Sheila? What's up?" At her startled and immediately guilty look, Claude knew he'd hit the nail on the head, "Something's bothering you. I can tell. What is it? Was it... Was it this afternoon?"
Sheila sighed, put down her mug on the end table and reached down to take his hand in hers. As she slowly stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, she shook her head, "Not specifically, Claude. It's more what this afternoon meant." When Claude quirked his eyebrow, she sighed, "Neither one of us wants to push you too hard or too fast, Claude. You've made unbelievable progress in the last eight months and neither of us wants to belittle that, either. It's just... it's hard."
Claude shifted so that he could sit up and Berger immediately shifted with him to rest his head in Claude's lap and sling his arms around his waist. Claude dropped his free hand to rest in Berger's unruly mop of dark curls, dropped his gaze along with it. Swallowing hard, he said, "I... I understand. And I'm sorry."
Sheila reached out her other hand and tucked it under Claude's chin, forced him to look back up at her, "No, Claude. I don't really think you do. If you did, you wouldn't apologize." When Claude finally looked up and met her eyes again, she smiled, "If you had any idea what an incredible gift it was to have you back with us after so long thinking you were..." Her throat closed off before she could get the last word out. After another minute, she continued, "You wouldn't apologize. Nothing that's happened is your fault and we're going to support you however long your recovery takes. What's hard is that we want to share this gift with everyone else we love. It's been very difficult these last few months, not shouting it from the rooftops that you're alive and G-d only knows how Berger managed for the six months before that... but I don't want to do anything that's going to hurt you. And I think... I think having that many people all over you, in spite of none of them meaning you harm... I'm afraid it would scare you into a relapse. So, I'm willing to wait until you're ready, but that means that when I see certain members of the Tribe... Jesus, Claude. The last time Jeanie, Crissy and I had a girls' night, I couldn't look either one of them in the eye the whole night, I was so scared that I was going to give something away."
Claude turned, ducked his gaze again, "I... I don't know what to say, Sheila. No. That isn't true. I know what to say." Looking back up, he met her eyes, "I should tell you to tell them. I should tell you to invite them all over so that they can all get a look at me. I should. It... it's the right thing to do." Looking down again, he hunched his shoulders, "But I think... I think you might be right." Sheila gripped his hand tighter, lifted her other hand to stroke it through his hair. He took in a deep breath, shakily let it out, "Sheila... I looked out at that crowd of people today and felt nothing. No fear, no anxiety. But, that's almost the problem. There was nothing. No connection. They're my fellow New Yorkers, my fellow Americans, my fellow human beings... and they all could have dropped dead in that street and I wouldn't have cared." Gently freeing himself from both Sheila and Berger's holds, he rose from the couch, started furiously pacing.
Berger, jostled awake by the movement, sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He turned to look at Sheila and frowned, "The hell, man?"
Sheila shushed him, "Not now, baby. I think... whatever this is, I think he needs to get it out."
Claude paused by the dining room table, idly pushed at one of the mugs still sitting there. And the eyes he turned back on them... Sheila's breath caught in her throat. Those eyes... they were so desolate, so barren... so cold. Claude noted her reaction and let out a mild snort, "See? That... that's not normal, right? It shouldn't matter that I don't know them. It shouldn't matter that we've never met. If someone drops dead in front of you, you should care, shouldn't you? It should matter." Looking down, he stared at the mug in front of him, gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles were white with the strain, "It should matter. If someone dies in front of you, it should matter. You should care. You should feel something. I... Sheila, I don't feel anything. I don't... I don't feel anything. Why don't I feel anything??" With that last question almost a growl, he slashed his hand across the table, knocking the mug across it with such force that it flew off and shattered against the wall. Eyes wild and breathing heavy, he clenched his hands in his hair and cursed, low and intense, "Fuck."
Berger let out a curse of his own, got up from the couch and took a step towards Claude. He'd had a long talk with Dr. Howard when the man finally agreed to let Claude out of the hospital, about things that they could expect from Claude once he was settled in. Berger knew what this was, what it was part of, but knowing didn't make it any easier to witness and it certainly didn't make it any easier to fix. Every instinct in him was screaming at him to go to Claude, to hold him, to soothe away the hurt... and that was the wrong instinct, he knew. Still, he stepped closer, determined to at least keep Claude from hurting himself... somehow.
Claude backed away from the table, pressed himself into the corner of the dining room and sank to the floor, hands still clutched in his hair. He looked up once, eyes almost desperate as they met Berger's. He lowered his hands, plucked at his shirt almost helplessly, "Why don't I care? I don't care. I can't care." His eyes dropped away from Berger, started darting around the room, gaze shifting inwards towards some inner landscape that neither Sheila nor Berger could see. He started muttering, almost under his breath, "The others don't matter. They can't matter. If you worry about the others, you're the one who suffers in the end... because they sure as fuck don't worry about you."
Berger winced, dropped to his knees near Claude, "Claude... we do worry about you. We care about you. We love you, remember? We want you with us because we love you. Please... Claudio... Come back to me. It's safe here, remember?"
Claude looked up, locked eyes with him for a moment, then he was off and away again into that desolate inner landscape, "Safe? Safe. Not safe. Never safe. Safety is a lie. A trap. Always a trap. Always a price... too high a price." He let out a soft, not-quite-sane laugh, screwed up his face into an expression of cruel mocking, "Take the pretties, little soldier. That's right... Take the pretties and enjoy them, feast on them, revel in them. But come morning, we'll come to collect the price of these gifts, whether it's one you're willing to pay or not." He then snarled, flung out a hand in negation, "Not willing. Gave up too much of myself already. Not anymore. No more. No more." This time when his eyes met Berger's, he may have seen him... but Berger was sure he didn't know him. Claude reached out a hand in entreaty, eyes pleading, desperate, "Please... no more. No more..." And with that last, his face crumpled and he collapsed in on himself, quietly keening in a way that Berger hadn't heard since that night he'd found him, nearly eight months ago.
He only vaguely heard Sheila sobbing quietly from her spot behind him, couldn't spare her even a moment's thought. Instead, he edged closer... closer... closer, still. With every inch he gained, Claude flinched again, let out a desperate whimper amidst the keening, but still Berger crept closer. Eventually, he got himself to the wall right next to Claude and started to talk, quietly, soothingly, the way he had when he'd first started visiting Claude in the hospital, talking about everything and nothing, anything just to keep his voice going, anything to try to talk him down out of this waking nightmare he'd inadvertently stumbled into. He talked about Sheila, about Cheryl, about the Tribe and his parents, talked about the autumn leaves in Central Park and the beauty of Bethesda Fountain in the chill of the morning. He talked and he talked and he talked.
Eventually, he talked about Claude, about how much he loved him, how happy he was to have him back, how much he'd missed him when he'd been gone... how desperately he didn't want to lose him now. Sheila had gone still behind him, as wrapped up in his words as Claude. After some time -- Berger had no idea how long, except that it had to have been a long time, judging by how sore his throat now was -- Claude finally relaxed, allowed Berger to pull him into a loose, sheltering embrace. Berger closed his eyes and gave a fervent prayer of thanks to whatever god had been listening and had gotten them through this. It wasn't long after that that Claude fell asleep, beyond exhausted by that emotional storm.
Sheila rose from the chair, made her way over to kneel beside him. She rested a gentle hand on Berger's hair, pulled his head down to rest on her shoulder, "If you had any idea how much in awe of you I am right now, you'd laugh yourself sick."
Berger shrugged, continued stroking soothing hands through Claude's hair, "I didn't do anything. Just talked. That's all."
Sheila shook her head, "That's not all it was and you know it, Banana-Berger. You reached him, gave him a way back when there was no way back. I... I couldn't have... Berger, for a minute there, I was actually scared."
Raising his head to stare at her in shock, Berger said, "Of him?"
She shook her head, "No, not of him... for him. Berger... if you hadn't been here, what would I have done?"
Berger lifted a hand to cup her cheek, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, he met her eyes with a determined look in his own, "You'd have found a way." Before she could argue, he smiled, gave her a gentle shake, "You'd have found a way, Sheila. But it doesn't matter. I was here. And... somehow... I think you were right. I think he needed to get that out. If we don't know the problem, we can't start to fix it. And he was right about one thing... this sure as fuck is a problem." Swallowing hard, he said, "Jesus... Sheila... how many people did he have to see die before he forced himself not to care? How many people... in how many awful ways? What did they do to him over there that he'd rather feel nothing at all than feel connected to another human being? What did they do to him that he can't trust a feeling of safety and comfort even coming from someone he loves?" Looking away, he said the last in a harsh whisper, "And is it cowardly of me that I don't really want to know?"
Pulling Berger against her in a tight embrace, Sheila slowly started rocking him, "No, baby. It's not cowardly. That war... That war is so awful. We've all read the news, seen it on TV. We can imagine what's going on over there all too easily. Banana-Berger, if you're a coward for not wanting to know more details than you already do, then so am I. But you know something else?" At his querying look, she smiled down at him, "I know you, Berger. If Claude needs to tell you every single one of those horrible details to get better, you're going to listen to all of them and you're just going to be glad that he feels comfortable enough to tell you. Right, baby?"
Berger let out a soft snort and turned a wry smile her way, "Yeah... yeah, I guess you're right."
Sheila smiled, kissed him, then slowly rose off the floor. Looking down at the two of them, she said, "Berger... honey, I know he's still not comfortable in the bed, but just for tonight... do you think he'd mind if we put him there? I... I think I'd feel better being near you both tonight, and I'm not sure I'm up to sleeping on the floor."
Berger looked down at Claude, stroked a soft hand through his hair, "You know... what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And I'll leave the blankets laid out in the hall so that if he wakes up in the middle of the night and wants to move, he at least has a place to go. All right?"
She nodded, "All right. Thanks, Berger."
Berger then slowly rose, Claude cradled loosely in his arms. When he gained his feet, however, he frowned. At Sheila's raised eyebrow, he abruptly shook his head, "Nothing, Sheila. Just... it's nothing." Looking down at Claude, he sighed, "Come on, Claudio. Let's get you tucked in. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."
The transition from sleep to wakefulness happened instantly, with no transition, no buffer to allow the psyche to identify unfamiliar sensations before it was forced to deal with them. This was not an unusual occurrence and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. That didn't mean he didn't miss having those few precious moments to let the world register before he had to get up into it. He missed the time when awakening wasn't an instantaneous cacophony of terrifying noises and impressions that made no sense until far, far later. As he fought to calm his racing heart, fought to feign the impression of sleep until things made sense, he wearily began the process of cataloguing each noise, each smell, each feeling until he could determine which of the hundreds it was that had jolted him out of sleep.
It was warm. Warmth... softness. He was under blankets, head on a pillow, body on something just as soft. It took him several preciously ticking seconds to figure it out. He was on a bed. He was on a bed. Forcing himself to move past that, though his skin now crawled from the very contact with the surface upon which it laid, he focused on the next item. Smell. Clean smell. Not cleancleanclean like the hospital. This was the clean of flower-scented detergents, smells-good-enough-to-eat shampoos and soaps, air clearing incense. This was the clean of everyday life. This was the clean of her apartment... now his home. Good. That was good.
Most important of all was the next item down the list: sound. People gave things away by sound, far more than they realized -- the heavy tread of booted footsteps, the squelching noise of walking through mud, the rattling of heavy chains... the clatter of instruments on a tray. He didn't hear any of those here. No, none of the usual danger sounds. Here there were apartment sounds -- pipes rattling, heaters kicking on and blowing steam, the creak of the floorboards as someone above them got out of bed. So what was out of place? What besides the mere fact of him being in the bed could have awakened him so abruptly?
Knowing that he was risking whatever was out there spotting him, but needing to know what had awoken him, he slowly edged his eyes open. Dark. It was very dark, the dark of a full night that hadn't even begun to edge its way towards dawn. More confused by the second, he finally pried his eyes open the rest of the way. He was on the right hand edge of the bed, any further over and he'd have fallen off. Still, Berger, the one who slept beside him, had crowded no closer than a foot away. He and Sheila were tucked together in the middle of the bed, each with a hand extended in his direction, neither quite bridging the gap far enough to touch, but both clearly wanting to. Both were deeply asleep. It hadn't been either of them who had awoken him... so what had it been?
He edged out from beneath the blankets, noted with mild surprise that someone had changed him into pajamas while he'd been asleep -- if one could call the bone deep exhaustion that had tipped him into unconsciousness by so mild a name as sleep. He plucked at the sleeve of the pajama top, feeling a vague sense of recognition. He'd worn these pajamas before... With an irritated frown, he released the sleeve. It didn't matter. This was a distraction, nothing more. He surveyed the room, saw nothing out of place. Crouching low, he moved towards the door, edged himself out into the hallway, slowly, stealthily... and then he heard it. A thin, warbling cry sounded from off to his right. In a moment's shocked realization, he finally understood what had awoken him -- it had been Cheryl. The sound was so faint that it hadn't even registered on the baby monitor, but his hyperaware senses had picked it out just the same. Letting out a small breath in relief, he rose from his crouched position and forced himself to walk the remaining distance to Cheryl's room normally. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, no matter how frightened he'd been himself.
When he reached the open doorway, he peered inside, looked for anything that might be out of place. There was nothing. He stepped back out of the room, rested his back against the wall for a moment, forced himself to pause and think. What if she didn't recognize him at night? What if he wasn't who she wanted? Perhaps he should go back and wake one of the others. No. No. Berger had said it and Sheila had confirmed it -- he was her dad. He was her parent, just like Sheila and Berger. He had every right to be the one to comfort her in the middle of the night. He... he could do this. He had to do this. If he couldn't even connect with Cheryl enough to soothe her out of whatever nightmare had awoken her... If he couldn't even do that, then... G-d, there was no hope for him. Taking a deep breath, he turned, squared his shoulders and walked into Cheryl's room.
She was sitting up in her crib, eyes huge and unhappy. She had one thumb firmly planted in her mouth, the fingers of the other hand twirling circles in the curls of her hair. When she saw him, she sniffled once, testing the waters, and let a single teardrop fall from her left eye. He walked over to the crib, reached a hand down to touch the twirling fingers and said softly, "Hey, now... what's this? You couldn't sleep either, huh?"
At the sound of his voice, she let go of her curls and clamped her hand tightly around his questing fingers. She let out another little sniffle, pulled her lips down into a pout. In spite of everything, he found himself almost smiling, "What do you say, little one? Should we have a bit of a rock and you can tell me all about it?"
She seemed to consider his words for a moment, finally answered by shaking her head and reaching both hands up in the universal gesture for "I want to be picked up, now." Shaking his own head at the mixed signals, he nonetheless obliged. He lifted her out of the crib and tucked her securely against him, then walked over to the rocking chair and settled them both into it. She immediately drooped against him, rubbing her face against his chest and clutching her hands in his shirt. She then let out a little noise of complaint, kicked one leg against his knee. He smiled as he pulled her closer and, complying with the unspoken request, began to gently push his feet against the floor and set the chair to rocking. Immediately, she quieted, snuggled closer.
They sat there like that for several minutes, just enjoying the gentle rocking and creaking of the chair and the fact that each wasn't the only one awake. Eventually, however, she let out another little noise of complaint, shifted unhappily against him. He sighed, placed a soft kiss on top of her crown of curls, "Not much for the silent type, are you? I shouldn't be surprised. Your father... your pop... he isn't, either."
Cheryl looked up at him, made a generally contented noise of agreement, then pressed her face against his chest again. He sighed, "I wish I knew what to say to you, little one. I... There's so much in my head these days that I wouldn't want you to ever know. Nothing seems safe to say. Nothing seems safe to do. Like tonight... Jesus. How can I help teach you to love your fellow man when I can't even do it myself? What am I teaching you just by how I've been acting these last few weeks? Am I hurting you in the long run? I don't even know." His voice trailed off.
After another moment, however, he resumed speaking, "It's the strangest thing, though, Cheryl... even with this whole disconnect between me and the rest of humanity, somehow I don't have that problem with you." Cheryl lifted her head, gave him a sleepy smile, then leaned foreword to press her forehead against his nose. Recognizing the gesture, Claude smiled, obliged her with a kiss, "I don't know what it is about you, sweetheart, but loving you is easy, even though we hadn't met before I left. It's as easy as loving your parents. And I do love them, you know. I love all of you. Somehow that held, even when nothing else did." His voice quieted, "You have no idea how grateful I am for that."
And there was something about sitting there in that rocking chair with Cheryl's sleepy form growing heavier and heavier against him as he rocked them both. It was so soothing, so relaxing. He hadn't realized how desperately he needed that soothing for himself until the tension he'd been carrying for the last few weeks started to ease. He hadn't wanted to trouble Berger or Sheila, but this fear that he would never again fit in with normal people was a huge and all-consuming one. It was easy when it was just he and their little family. It was easy when it was just him and Cheryl, like now. Even when they went out in public, as long as they didn't run into anyone who should matter, Claude could keep it contained. But today... today when he'd looked across that sea of humanity and recognized faces in the crowd, he'd been terrified. He'd been terrified that even with that recognition he would feel no more for them than he did for the faceless ones around them. He'd been afraid that he would recognize Jeanie or Crissy or Woof... and feel the same absolute nothingness for them that he did for everyone else... everyone except Cheryl and Berger and Sheila.
That thought had settled in his brain and started eating at him, continued eating at him the entire way home and into the evening. He'd brought to mind every name, every face that he remembered from his days with the Tribe -- Jeanie, Woof, Crissy, Dionne, Hud... everyone -- then started picturing them all injured, dead, mutilated in more and more gruesome ways. And it was easy -- far easier than he liked -- because he'd seen them all die before... in that trip he'd taken at the Be-In prior to turning himself in at the induction center. He didn't plan on ever telling Berger that. And maybe it was the shock of seeing people that he knew that afternoon or maybe it was the shock of having realized how wide the gulf had grown between himself and the rest of the human race, but whatever the cause, the result had been the same. He couldn't feel anything, even for the people who had been his friends. With each remembered friend that he brought to mind, with each violently choreographed death or dismemberment, there was no feeling. Nothing. No anger, no grief, no remorse... just nothing. And the more he'd tried to tempt a feeling to surface, the deeper it would dive away from him. And then when Sheila had unknowingly forced the issue, he'd had no protective barrier left against the horror of his own imagination.
Ironically, he felt better now, less tense about it, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that nothing had changed. Even though some of the pressure had been released by his outburst, the basic problem remained -- no matter which Tribe member he pictured dieing, he couldn't make himself feel anything about it. And how could he face any of them with that reality churning in his gut? How could he look into the eyes of someone who would be beyond happy and excited to see him after four years apart and tell them that he couldn't give a shit whether or not they lived or died. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He just couldn't see a way around it. He couldn't fake something like that. It was too big.
He shifted his grip on Cheryl, settled her more comfortably against him. She barely moved. At some point in the last few minutes, she'd gotten her thumb back into her mouth and started twirling her other hand in his hair like she usually did in her own. It was precious and it was probably an indication that he should tuck her back into bed. Still, he didn't move. There was something about having her settled safely in his arms, something about being able to wrap himself around her and keep her safe... something about being so close. It eased him in a way that almost nothing else did. This was something he could do. Pressing another kiss to Cheryl's head, he murmured, "What do you say, little one? Just a few more minutes, then we'll tuck you into bed, hmm?" There was no more response from Cheryl, not even a sleepy complaint. She was out like a light. Claude smiled, continued rocking, "Yeah... just a few more minutes. Just... a few more..." With Cheryl's sleeping weight acting like a living blanket, Claude never even noticed when his body finally made that soft transition from drowsiness into full sleep.
Standing in the doorway of Cheryl's room, Berger felt a soft, sappy grin take over his face. He'd awoken barely a few seconds after Claude got up from the bed. Seeing the other man crouched near the door and surveying the room had allowed him to forestall the instinctive fear that rose when he knew that Claude wasn't beside him anymore. He'd followed Claude out of the room, into the hallway, saw the exact moment when Claude figured out that it had been Cheryl's soft cry that had awoken him. He'd thought about intervening when he saw the other man back out of Cheryl's room, but decided to wait, to see what happened.
He was glad he had.
Witnessing that perfect moment between Cheryl and Claude, hearing Claude acknowledge -- regardless of the man's own surprise at the emotion -- that he loved Cheryl, loved Berger and Sheila, too, had made it all worth it. All the pain of earlier in the night, all the stress of the last few weeks, months, years... it was all worth it for that moment. And seeing his baby girl respond to Claude's mere presence as confidently as though he really were her father... it was wonderful. Berger couldn't have been happier if he tried.
Now that they were both asleep, he considered taking Cheryl and tucking her back into bed, guiding Claude out into the hallway to go to sleep on that pallet of blankets, but something held him back. He hadn't seen Claude so relaxed in sleep in the entire time that he'd been home with them. There was even a tiny smile resting at the corner of his lips. He couldn't disturb that, wouldn't want to even if he could. And besides, Claude kept insisting that he'd slept in worse places, so sleeping in a well-cushioned rocking chair for one night should be no major hardship. So, rather than disturb either of them, he simply appropriated one of the comforters from the pallet of blankets on the floor, quietly entered Cheryl's room and draped it over them both. The nights were getting colder and colder this time of year and he didn't want either of them getting sick.
As he turned to leave, however, a touch on his hand stayed him. Looking down at the source of the touch, he smiled. Claude had reached out, lightly hooked his long fingers around Berger's. When he let his gaze travel upwards, though, he saw with wry amusement that Claude was, in fact, still asleep. He lightly squeezed the other man's fingers, pressed soft kisses to both his and Cheryl's foreheads. Claude shifted, cuddled down into the blanket. Berger smiled down at them, wanted nothing more than to curl up by Claude's feet and sleep right there. Still... they had been leaving Sheila alone on far too many nights. Oh, she understood, just as he'd promised Claude she would, but that still didn't mean it was fair. Claude and Cheryl would be fine in here together and Berger had the feeling that Claude might need to stretch the boundaries of his independence a little. And this was a fantastic first step. The more comfortable he felt, the more stable, the stronger he felt, the better chance they would have at reintroducing things from their old life... namely old friends.
Gently extricating his hand and giving each of his sleeping beauties another kiss, Berger turned away from them to leave the room. He was unsurprised to find Sheila waiting for him in the doorway. Her hair was sleep-tousled, her blue eyes hazed with drowsiness. She looked beautiful. Stepping closer, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pressed a soft kiss to her lips, "Hey, gorgeous. Didn't mean to wake you."
She smiled, let her head drop onto his shoulder as she, too, took in the scene in Cheryl's room, "You didn't. Not really. At least I don't think so. I think it was Claude getting up that actually woke me. Everything all right?"
Berger smiled, leaned his head down to rest against hers, "Yeah, I really think it is. I followed him, thought he'd need me, but he did fine. He and Cheryl, man... she's the best medicine we could give him, you know?"
Sheila smiled, planted a soft kiss on the underside of Berger's jaw, "I've noticed that. It's a wonderful thing, Berger. I'm glad he has her." Leaning back, she lifted a hand to cup his cheek and the eyes she turned up to meet his were shining with love, "And you, baby. Without the two of you... I don't even want to think about it."
Shaking his head, Berger pulled Sheila's hand down from his face, planted a gentle kiss on the palm, "You, too, Sheila. It isn't just me and Cheryl. He's different with you, he always has been. It's like he needs to prove that he's worthy of you, and right now that means working as hard as he can to get better, to reach a point where he's self-sufficient. It's a good thing and something he needs... something to work towards. It's something I can't give him, but you can."
Sheila's smile widened, touched beyond measure by Berger's interpretation of where she fit into this strange situation. She hadn't realized it until that moment, but it had been a reassurance that she'd needed, especially after last night. Wrapping both arms securely around his neck, she pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his chest, looked up at him from underneath her lashes, "Is it wrong of me--? Is it selfish of me that I want nothing more right now than for you to take me back to bed and help me forget all of this for a little while?"
Lips sliding into a gentle smirk, Berger cradled her close, "No, it's not selfish. And somehow, I think Claude would understand and would be the last person on this green Earth to tell you to deny yourself on his account. Don't you?"
Sheila laughed, pushed lightly at Berger's shoulder, "You're just saying that because it works to your advantage."
In spite of her expectations, however, Berger's eyes turned solemn as he shook his head, "No... I'm not. Even if we hadn't had sex in months -- a year, even -- if I thought we'd hurt Claude by not including him, I wouldn't do it. I'd wait. But this... I really do think he'll understand."
Sheila's breath caught in her throat, overcome, as usual, by this more serious and caring side of Berger whom she still barely knew. Placing her hands on Berger's shoulders, she gently pushed herself up so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. Bending over, she whispered her next words directly into his ear, "Then take me to bed, Sexy-Berger. It's been too long."
Sending a ferocious smile her way, Berger tightened his grip on her lean frame and did exactly that. And if he'd looked back at that moment, he'd have just caught it as Claude closed the eyelid he'd opened, a contended and satisfied smile on his face.
( Master Post and Chapter List )
A/N:
Yeah... as noted. 20 page paper. I got nothing. Hope you enjoyed!
Coming Soon: Our intrepid trio didn't get off as easily as hoped... someone did see them at Rockefeller Center. But what will they do with that information?
Fandom: Hair, the musical: 2009 Revival
Pairing: Berger/Claude/Sheila
Rating: PG-13 for some kissing, really very mild stuff, though... even for me.
Word Count: 62,317 Part 3: ~5800
Warnings: Slash (as always ^_^), angst
Disclaimer: Neither the musical nor the boys belong to me, if they did they'd be groping each other on sta--. *pause* *blinkblink* Huh. Look at that... they do. *eg* :D ((Hair was written by James Rado and Gerome Ragni with music by Galt MacDermot.))
Summary: Berger and Sheila are a broken triangle, desperately missing their third side. But is Claude well enough to fill his usual place? Only time will tell.
December 4, 2010: Yeah... I have a 20 page paper to write, so I got nothing. :-P But I should at least get props for finally managing to figure out the chapter breaks... right?
Enjoy and please remember... comments and reviews are love!
Zorya Vechernyaya
by Renee-chan
That night, after far too many Christmas movies and several cups of hot cocoa, Sheila sat in the armchair, idly twisting her mug back and forth between her hands. Cheryl was fast asleep in her crib and Berger was well on his way, too, sprawled out on top of Claude like a living blanket. Claude, however, was not nearly so tired... especially not with the look Sheila wore on her face boring holes into him with every passing second. Reaching out a hand, he gently touched her knee, "Sheila? What's up?" At her startled and immediately guilty look, Claude knew he'd hit the nail on the head, "Something's bothering you. I can tell. What is it? Was it... Was it this afternoon?"
Sheila sighed, put down her mug on the end table and reached down to take his hand in hers. As she slowly stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, she shook her head, "Not specifically, Claude. It's more what this afternoon meant." When Claude quirked his eyebrow, she sighed, "Neither one of us wants to push you too hard or too fast, Claude. You've made unbelievable progress in the last eight months and neither of us wants to belittle that, either. It's just... it's hard."
Claude shifted so that he could sit up and Berger immediately shifted with him to rest his head in Claude's lap and sling his arms around his waist. Claude dropped his free hand to rest in Berger's unruly mop of dark curls, dropped his gaze along with it. Swallowing hard, he said, "I... I understand. And I'm sorry."
Sheila reached out her other hand and tucked it under Claude's chin, forced him to look back up at her, "No, Claude. I don't really think you do. If you did, you wouldn't apologize." When Claude finally looked up and met her eyes again, she smiled, "If you had any idea what an incredible gift it was to have you back with us after so long thinking you were..." Her throat closed off before she could get the last word out. After another minute, she continued, "You wouldn't apologize. Nothing that's happened is your fault and we're going to support you however long your recovery takes. What's hard is that we want to share this gift with everyone else we love. It's been very difficult these last few months, not shouting it from the rooftops that you're alive and G-d only knows how Berger managed for the six months before that... but I don't want to do anything that's going to hurt you. And I think... I think having that many people all over you, in spite of none of them meaning you harm... I'm afraid it would scare you into a relapse. So, I'm willing to wait until you're ready, but that means that when I see certain members of the Tribe... Jesus, Claude. The last time Jeanie, Crissy and I had a girls' night, I couldn't look either one of them in the eye the whole night, I was so scared that I was going to give something away."
Claude turned, ducked his gaze again, "I... I don't know what to say, Sheila. No. That isn't true. I know what to say." Looking back up, he met her eyes, "I should tell you to tell them. I should tell you to invite them all over so that they can all get a look at me. I should. It... it's the right thing to do." Looking down again, he hunched his shoulders, "But I think... I think you might be right." Sheila gripped his hand tighter, lifted her other hand to stroke it through his hair. He took in a deep breath, shakily let it out, "Sheila... I looked out at that crowd of people today and felt nothing. No fear, no anxiety. But, that's almost the problem. There was nothing. No connection. They're my fellow New Yorkers, my fellow Americans, my fellow human beings... and they all could have dropped dead in that street and I wouldn't have cared." Gently freeing himself from both Sheila and Berger's holds, he rose from the couch, started furiously pacing.
Berger, jostled awake by the movement, sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He turned to look at Sheila and frowned, "The hell, man?"
Sheila shushed him, "Not now, baby. I think... whatever this is, I think he needs to get it out."
Claude paused by the dining room table, idly pushed at one of the mugs still sitting there. And the eyes he turned back on them... Sheila's breath caught in her throat. Those eyes... they were so desolate, so barren... so cold. Claude noted her reaction and let out a mild snort, "See? That... that's not normal, right? It shouldn't matter that I don't know them. It shouldn't matter that we've never met. If someone drops dead in front of you, you should care, shouldn't you? It should matter." Looking down, he stared at the mug in front of him, gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles were white with the strain, "It should matter. If someone dies in front of you, it should matter. You should care. You should feel something. I... Sheila, I don't feel anything. I don't... I don't feel anything. Why don't I feel anything??" With that last question almost a growl, he slashed his hand across the table, knocking the mug across it with such force that it flew off and shattered against the wall. Eyes wild and breathing heavy, he clenched his hands in his hair and cursed, low and intense, "Fuck."
Berger let out a curse of his own, got up from the couch and took a step towards Claude. He'd had a long talk with Dr. Howard when the man finally agreed to let Claude out of the hospital, about things that they could expect from Claude once he was settled in. Berger knew what this was, what it was part of, but knowing didn't make it any easier to witness and it certainly didn't make it any easier to fix. Every instinct in him was screaming at him to go to Claude, to hold him, to soothe away the hurt... and that was the wrong instinct, he knew. Still, he stepped closer, determined to at least keep Claude from hurting himself... somehow.
Claude backed away from the table, pressed himself into the corner of the dining room and sank to the floor, hands still clutched in his hair. He looked up once, eyes almost desperate as they met Berger's. He lowered his hands, plucked at his shirt almost helplessly, "Why don't I care? I don't care. I can't care." His eyes dropped away from Berger, started darting around the room, gaze shifting inwards towards some inner landscape that neither Sheila nor Berger could see. He started muttering, almost under his breath, "The others don't matter. They can't matter. If you worry about the others, you're the one who suffers in the end... because they sure as fuck don't worry about you."
Berger winced, dropped to his knees near Claude, "Claude... we do worry about you. We care about you. We love you, remember? We want you with us because we love you. Please... Claudio... Come back to me. It's safe here, remember?"
Claude looked up, locked eyes with him for a moment, then he was off and away again into that desolate inner landscape, "Safe? Safe. Not safe. Never safe. Safety is a lie. A trap. Always a trap. Always a price... too high a price." He let out a soft, not-quite-sane laugh, screwed up his face into an expression of cruel mocking, "Take the pretties, little soldier. That's right... Take the pretties and enjoy them, feast on them, revel in them. But come morning, we'll come to collect the price of these gifts, whether it's one you're willing to pay or not." He then snarled, flung out a hand in negation, "Not willing. Gave up too much of myself already. Not anymore. No more. No more." This time when his eyes met Berger's, he may have seen him... but Berger was sure he didn't know him. Claude reached out a hand in entreaty, eyes pleading, desperate, "Please... no more. No more..." And with that last, his face crumpled and he collapsed in on himself, quietly keening in a way that Berger hadn't heard since that night he'd found him, nearly eight months ago.
He only vaguely heard Sheila sobbing quietly from her spot behind him, couldn't spare her even a moment's thought. Instead, he edged closer... closer... closer, still. With every inch he gained, Claude flinched again, let out a desperate whimper amidst the keening, but still Berger crept closer. Eventually, he got himself to the wall right next to Claude and started to talk, quietly, soothingly, the way he had when he'd first started visiting Claude in the hospital, talking about everything and nothing, anything just to keep his voice going, anything to try to talk him down out of this waking nightmare he'd inadvertently stumbled into. He talked about Sheila, about Cheryl, about the Tribe and his parents, talked about the autumn leaves in Central Park and the beauty of Bethesda Fountain in the chill of the morning. He talked and he talked and he talked.
Eventually, he talked about Claude, about how much he loved him, how happy he was to have him back, how much he'd missed him when he'd been gone... how desperately he didn't want to lose him now. Sheila had gone still behind him, as wrapped up in his words as Claude. After some time -- Berger had no idea how long, except that it had to have been a long time, judging by how sore his throat now was -- Claude finally relaxed, allowed Berger to pull him into a loose, sheltering embrace. Berger closed his eyes and gave a fervent prayer of thanks to whatever god had been listening and had gotten them through this. It wasn't long after that that Claude fell asleep, beyond exhausted by that emotional storm.
Sheila rose from the chair, made her way over to kneel beside him. She rested a gentle hand on Berger's hair, pulled his head down to rest on her shoulder, "If you had any idea how much in awe of you I am right now, you'd laugh yourself sick."
Berger shrugged, continued stroking soothing hands through Claude's hair, "I didn't do anything. Just talked. That's all."
Sheila shook her head, "That's not all it was and you know it, Banana-Berger. You reached him, gave him a way back when there was no way back. I... I couldn't have... Berger, for a minute there, I was actually scared."
Raising his head to stare at her in shock, Berger said, "Of him?"
She shook her head, "No, not of him... for him. Berger... if you hadn't been here, what would I have done?"
Berger lifted a hand to cup her cheek, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, he met her eyes with a determined look in his own, "You'd have found a way." Before she could argue, he smiled, gave her a gentle shake, "You'd have found a way, Sheila. But it doesn't matter. I was here. And... somehow... I think you were right. I think he needed to get that out. If we don't know the problem, we can't start to fix it. And he was right about one thing... this sure as fuck is a problem." Swallowing hard, he said, "Jesus... Sheila... how many people did he have to see die before he forced himself not to care? How many people... in how many awful ways? What did they do to him over there that he'd rather feel nothing at all than feel connected to another human being? What did they do to him that he can't trust a feeling of safety and comfort even coming from someone he loves?" Looking away, he said the last in a harsh whisper, "And is it cowardly of me that I don't really want to know?"
Pulling Berger against her in a tight embrace, Sheila slowly started rocking him, "No, baby. It's not cowardly. That war... That war is so awful. We've all read the news, seen it on TV. We can imagine what's going on over there all too easily. Banana-Berger, if you're a coward for not wanting to know more details than you already do, then so am I. But you know something else?" At his querying look, she smiled down at him, "I know you, Berger. If Claude needs to tell you every single one of those horrible details to get better, you're going to listen to all of them and you're just going to be glad that he feels comfortable enough to tell you. Right, baby?"
Berger let out a soft snort and turned a wry smile her way, "Yeah... yeah, I guess you're right."
Sheila smiled, kissed him, then slowly rose off the floor. Looking down at the two of them, she said, "Berger... honey, I know he's still not comfortable in the bed, but just for tonight... do you think he'd mind if we put him there? I... I think I'd feel better being near you both tonight, and I'm not sure I'm up to sleeping on the floor."
Berger looked down at Claude, stroked a soft hand through his hair, "You know... what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And I'll leave the blankets laid out in the hall so that if he wakes up in the middle of the night and wants to move, he at least has a place to go. All right?"
She nodded, "All right. Thanks, Berger."
Berger then slowly rose, Claude cradled loosely in his arms. When he gained his feet, however, he frowned. At Sheila's raised eyebrow, he abruptly shook his head, "Nothing, Sheila. Just... it's nothing." Looking down at Claude, he sighed, "Come on, Claudio. Let's get you tucked in. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."
The transition from sleep to wakefulness happened instantly, with no transition, no buffer to allow the psyche to identify unfamiliar sensations before it was forced to deal with them. This was not an unusual occurrence and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. That didn't mean he didn't miss having those few precious moments to let the world register before he had to get up into it. He missed the time when awakening wasn't an instantaneous cacophony of terrifying noises and impressions that made no sense until far, far later. As he fought to calm his racing heart, fought to feign the impression of sleep until things made sense, he wearily began the process of cataloguing each noise, each smell, each feeling until he could determine which of the hundreds it was that had jolted him out of sleep.
It was warm. Warmth... softness. He was under blankets, head on a pillow, body on something just as soft. It took him several preciously ticking seconds to figure it out. He was on a bed. He was on a bed. Forcing himself to move past that, though his skin now crawled from the very contact with the surface upon which it laid, he focused on the next item. Smell. Clean smell. Not cleancleanclean like the hospital. This was the clean of flower-scented detergents, smells-good-enough-to-eat shampoos and soaps, air clearing incense. This was the clean of everyday life. This was the clean of her apartment... now his home. Good. That was good.
Most important of all was the next item down the list: sound. People gave things away by sound, far more than they realized -- the heavy tread of booted footsteps, the squelching noise of walking through mud, the rattling of heavy chains... the clatter of instruments on a tray. He didn't hear any of those here. No, none of the usual danger sounds. Here there were apartment sounds -- pipes rattling, heaters kicking on and blowing steam, the creak of the floorboards as someone above them got out of bed. So what was out of place? What besides the mere fact of him being in the bed could have awakened him so abruptly?
Knowing that he was risking whatever was out there spotting him, but needing to know what had awoken him, he slowly edged his eyes open. Dark. It was very dark, the dark of a full night that hadn't even begun to edge its way towards dawn. More confused by the second, he finally pried his eyes open the rest of the way. He was on the right hand edge of the bed, any further over and he'd have fallen off. Still, Berger, the one who slept beside him, had crowded no closer than a foot away. He and Sheila were tucked together in the middle of the bed, each with a hand extended in his direction, neither quite bridging the gap far enough to touch, but both clearly wanting to. Both were deeply asleep. It hadn't been either of them who had awoken him... so what had it been?
He edged out from beneath the blankets, noted with mild surprise that someone had changed him into pajamas while he'd been asleep -- if one could call the bone deep exhaustion that had tipped him into unconsciousness by so mild a name as sleep. He plucked at the sleeve of the pajama top, feeling a vague sense of recognition. He'd worn these pajamas before... With an irritated frown, he released the sleeve. It didn't matter. This was a distraction, nothing more. He surveyed the room, saw nothing out of place. Crouching low, he moved towards the door, edged himself out into the hallway, slowly, stealthily... and then he heard it. A thin, warbling cry sounded from off to his right. In a moment's shocked realization, he finally understood what had awoken him -- it had been Cheryl. The sound was so faint that it hadn't even registered on the baby monitor, but his hyperaware senses had picked it out just the same. Letting out a small breath in relief, he rose from his crouched position and forced himself to walk the remaining distance to Cheryl's room normally. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, no matter how frightened he'd been himself.
When he reached the open doorway, he peered inside, looked for anything that might be out of place. There was nothing. He stepped back out of the room, rested his back against the wall for a moment, forced himself to pause and think. What if she didn't recognize him at night? What if he wasn't who she wanted? Perhaps he should go back and wake one of the others. No. No. Berger had said it and Sheila had confirmed it -- he was her dad. He was her parent, just like Sheila and Berger. He had every right to be the one to comfort her in the middle of the night. He... he could do this. He had to do this. If he couldn't even connect with Cheryl enough to soothe her out of whatever nightmare had awoken her... If he couldn't even do that, then... G-d, there was no hope for him. Taking a deep breath, he turned, squared his shoulders and walked into Cheryl's room.
She was sitting up in her crib, eyes huge and unhappy. She had one thumb firmly planted in her mouth, the fingers of the other hand twirling circles in the curls of her hair. When she saw him, she sniffled once, testing the waters, and let a single teardrop fall from her left eye. He walked over to the crib, reached a hand down to touch the twirling fingers and said softly, "Hey, now... what's this? You couldn't sleep either, huh?"
At the sound of his voice, she let go of her curls and clamped her hand tightly around his questing fingers. She let out another little sniffle, pulled her lips down into a pout. In spite of everything, he found himself almost smiling, "What do you say, little one? Should we have a bit of a rock and you can tell me all about it?"
She seemed to consider his words for a moment, finally answered by shaking her head and reaching both hands up in the universal gesture for "I want to be picked up, now." Shaking his own head at the mixed signals, he nonetheless obliged. He lifted her out of the crib and tucked her securely against him, then walked over to the rocking chair and settled them both into it. She immediately drooped against him, rubbing her face against his chest and clutching her hands in his shirt. She then let out a little noise of complaint, kicked one leg against his knee. He smiled as he pulled her closer and, complying with the unspoken request, began to gently push his feet against the floor and set the chair to rocking. Immediately, she quieted, snuggled closer.
They sat there like that for several minutes, just enjoying the gentle rocking and creaking of the chair and the fact that each wasn't the only one awake. Eventually, however, she let out another little noise of complaint, shifted unhappily against him. He sighed, placed a soft kiss on top of her crown of curls, "Not much for the silent type, are you? I shouldn't be surprised. Your father... your pop... he isn't, either."
Cheryl looked up at him, made a generally contented noise of agreement, then pressed her face against his chest again. He sighed, "I wish I knew what to say to you, little one. I... There's so much in my head these days that I wouldn't want you to ever know. Nothing seems safe to say. Nothing seems safe to do. Like tonight... Jesus. How can I help teach you to love your fellow man when I can't even do it myself? What am I teaching you just by how I've been acting these last few weeks? Am I hurting you in the long run? I don't even know." His voice trailed off.
After another moment, however, he resumed speaking, "It's the strangest thing, though, Cheryl... even with this whole disconnect between me and the rest of humanity, somehow I don't have that problem with you." Cheryl lifted her head, gave him a sleepy smile, then leaned foreword to press her forehead against his nose. Recognizing the gesture, Claude smiled, obliged her with a kiss, "I don't know what it is about you, sweetheart, but loving you is easy, even though we hadn't met before I left. It's as easy as loving your parents. And I do love them, you know. I love all of you. Somehow that held, even when nothing else did." His voice quieted, "You have no idea how grateful I am for that."
And there was something about sitting there in that rocking chair with Cheryl's sleepy form growing heavier and heavier against him as he rocked them both. It was so soothing, so relaxing. He hadn't realized how desperately he needed that soothing for himself until the tension he'd been carrying for the last few weeks started to ease. He hadn't wanted to trouble Berger or Sheila, but this fear that he would never again fit in with normal people was a huge and all-consuming one. It was easy when it was just he and their little family. It was easy when it was just him and Cheryl, like now. Even when they went out in public, as long as they didn't run into anyone who should matter, Claude could keep it contained. But today... today when he'd looked across that sea of humanity and recognized faces in the crowd, he'd been terrified. He'd been terrified that even with that recognition he would feel no more for them than he did for the faceless ones around them. He'd been afraid that he would recognize Jeanie or Crissy or Woof... and feel the same absolute nothingness for them that he did for everyone else... everyone except Cheryl and Berger and Sheila.
That thought had settled in his brain and started eating at him, continued eating at him the entire way home and into the evening. He'd brought to mind every name, every face that he remembered from his days with the Tribe -- Jeanie, Woof, Crissy, Dionne, Hud... everyone -- then started picturing them all injured, dead, mutilated in more and more gruesome ways. And it was easy -- far easier than he liked -- because he'd seen them all die before... in that trip he'd taken at the Be-In prior to turning himself in at the induction center. He didn't plan on ever telling Berger that. And maybe it was the shock of seeing people that he knew that afternoon or maybe it was the shock of having realized how wide the gulf had grown between himself and the rest of the human race, but whatever the cause, the result had been the same. He couldn't feel anything, even for the people who had been his friends. With each remembered friend that he brought to mind, with each violently choreographed death or dismemberment, there was no feeling. Nothing. No anger, no grief, no remorse... just nothing. And the more he'd tried to tempt a feeling to surface, the deeper it would dive away from him. And then when Sheila had unknowingly forced the issue, he'd had no protective barrier left against the horror of his own imagination.
Ironically, he felt better now, less tense about it, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that nothing had changed. Even though some of the pressure had been released by his outburst, the basic problem remained -- no matter which Tribe member he pictured dieing, he couldn't make himself feel anything about it. And how could he face any of them with that reality churning in his gut? How could he look into the eyes of someone who would be beyond happy and excited to see him after four years apart and tell them that he couldn't give a shit whether or not they lived or died. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He just couldn't see a way around it. He couldn't fake something like that. It was too big.
He shifted his grip on Cheryl, settled her more comfortably against him. She barely moved. At some point in the last few minutes, she'd gotten her thumb back into her mouth and started twirling her other hand in his hair like she usually did in her own. It was precious and it was probably an indication that he should tuck her back into bed. Still, he didn't move. There was something about having her settled safely in his arms, something about being able to wrap himself around her and keep her safe... something about being so close. It eased him in a way that almost nothing else did. This was something he could do. Pressing another kiss to Cheryl's head, he murmured, "What do you say, little one? Just a few more minutes, then we'll tuck you into bed, hmm?" There was no more response from Cheryl, not even a sleepy complaint. She was out like a light. Claude smiled, continued rocking, "Yeah... just a few more minutes. Just... a few more..." With Cheryl's sleeping weight acting like a living blanket, Claude never even noticed when his body finally made that soft transition from drowsiness into full sleep.
Standing in the doorway of Cheryl's room, Berger felt a soft, sappy grin take over his face. He'd awoken barely a few seconds after Claude got up from the bed. Seeing the other man crouched near the door and surveying the room had allowed him to forestall the instinctive fear that rose when he knew that Claude wasn't beside him anymore. He'd followed Claude out of the room, into the hallway, saw the exact moment when Claude figured out that it had been Cheryl's soft cry that had awoken him. He'd thought about intervening when he saw the other man back out of Cheryl's room, but decided to wait, to see what happened.
He was glad he had.
Witnessing that perfect moment between Cheryl and Claude, hearing Claude acknowledge -- regardless of the man's own surprise at the emotion -- that he loved Cheryl, loved Berger and Sheila, too, had made it all worth it. All the pain of earlier in the night, all the stress of the last few weeks, months, years... it was all worth it for that moment. And seeing his baby girl respond to Claude's mere presence as confidently as though he really were her father... it was wonderful. Berger couldn't have been happier if he tried.
Now that they were both asleep, he considered taking Cheryl and tucking her back into bed, guiding Claude out into the hallway to go to sleep on that pallet of blankets, but something held him back. He hadn't seen Claude so relaxed in sleep in the entire time that he'd been home with them. There was even a tiny smile resting at the corner of his lips. He couldn't disturb that, wouldn't want to even if he could. And besides, Claude kept insisting that he'd slept in worse places, so sleeping in a well-cushioned rocking chair for one night should be no major hardship. So, rather than disturb either of them, he simply appropriated one of the comforters from the pallet of blankets on the floor, quietly entered Cheryl's room and draped it over them both. The nights were getting colder and colder this time of year and he didn't want either of them getting sick.
As he turned to leave, however, a touch on his hand stayed him. Looking down at the source of the touch, he smiled. Claude had reached out, lightly hooked his long fingers around Berger's. When he let his gaze travel upwards, though, he saw with wry amusement that Claude was, in fact, still asleep. He lightly squeezed the other man's fingers, pressed soft kisses to both his and Cheryl's foreheads. Claude shifted, cuddled down into the blanket. Berger smiled down at them, wanted nothing more than to curl up by Claude's feet and sleep right there. Still... they had been leaving Sheila alone on far too many nights. Oh, she understood, just as he'd promised Claude she would, but that still didn't mean it was fair. Claude and Cheryl would be fine in here together and Berger had the feeling that Claude might need to stretch the boundaries of his independence a little. And this was a fantastic first step. The more comfortable he felt, the more stable, the stronger he felt, the better chance they would have at reintroducing things from their old life... namely old friends.
Gently extricating his hand and giving each of his sleeping beauties another kiss, Berger turned away from them to leave the room. He was unsurprised to find Sheila waiting for him in the doorway. Her hair was sleep-tousled, her blue eyes hazed with drowsiness. She looked beautiful. Stepping closer, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pressed a soft kiss to her lips, "Hey, gorgeous. Didn't mean to wake you."
She smiled, let her head drop onto his shoulder as she, too, took in the scene in Cheryl's room, "You didn't. Not really. At least I don't think so. I think it was Claude getting up that actually woke me. Everything all right?"
Berger smiled, leaned his head down to rest against hers, "Yeah, I really think it is. I followed him, thought he'd need me, but he did fine. He and Cheryl, man... she's the best medicine we could give him, you know?"
Sheila smiled, planted a soft kiss on the underside of Berger's jaw, "I've noticed that. It's a wonderful thing, Berger. I'm glad he has her." Leaning back, she lifted a hand to cup his cheek and the eyes she turned up to meet his were shining with love, "And you, baby. Without the two of you... I don't even want to think about it."
Shaking his head, Berger pulled Sheila's hand down from his face, planted a gentle kiss on the palm, "You, too, Sheila. It isn't just me and Cheryl. He's different with you, he always has been. It's like he needs to prove that he's worthy of you, and right now that means working as hard as he can to get better, to reach a point where he's self-sufficient. It's a good thing and something he needs... something to work towards. It's something I can't give him, but you can."
Sheila's smile widened, touched beyond measure by Berger's interpretation of where she fit into this strange situation. She hadn't realized it until that moment, but it had been a reassurance that she'd needed, especially after last night. Wrapping both arms securely around his neck, she pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his chest, looked up at him from underneath her lashes, "Is it wrong of me--? Is it selfish of me that I want nothing more right now than for you to take me back to bed and help me forget all of this for a little while?"
Lips sliding into a gentle smirk, Berger cradled her close, "No, it's not selfish. And somehow, I think Claude would understand and would be the last person on this green Earth to tell you to deny yourself on his account. Don't you?"
Sheila laughed, pushed lightly at Berger's shoulder, "You're just saying that because it works to your advantage."
In spite of her expectations, however, Berger's eyes turned solemn as he shook his head, "No... I'm not. Even if we hadn't had sex in months -- a year, even -- if I thought we'd hurt Claude by not including him, I wouldn't do it. I'd wait. But this... I really do think he'll understand."
Sheila's breath caught in her throat, overcome, as usual, by this more serious and caring side of Berger whom she still barely knew. Placing her hands on Berger's shoulders, she gently pushed herself up so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. Bending over, she whispered her next words directly into his ear, "Then take me to bed, Sexy-Berger. It's been too long."
Sending a ferocious smile her way, Berger tightened his grip on her lean frame and did exactly that. And if he'd looked back at that moment, he'd have just caught it as Claude closed the eyelid he'd opened, a contended and satisfied smile on his face.
( Master Post and Chapter List )
A/N:
Yeah... as noted. 20 page paper. I got nothing. Hope you enjoyed!
Coming Soon: Our intrepid trio didn't get off as easily as hoped... someone did see them at Rockefeller Center. But what will they do with that information?
