Tragedy and sad feels...
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So God if you can hear me...crash this train
I said God if you can hear me...crash this train.
What was he doing here? Why did he agree to this? He wasn't ready, he needed to get out of here!
"Benedict, you're on in thirty seconds," his PR told him. His breathing became a bit laboured, as he told her, "No...no, I can't. I'm not ready, please don't make me do this!" She sighed and told him, "Ben, this would be third time in a row. They can sue you for this, you know."
"Then let them! I'm not ready, I can't--!" Suddenly, he heard Graham Norton announce, "Give a warm welcome to Benedict Cumberbatch!" Ben looked to his PR with pleading eyes. Again, she sighed. "Go, Ben. It'll all be fine, I promise."
With as much strength as he could muster, he carried his heavy feet out into the world he hasn't been apart of in months. The crowd was cheering loudly and it was almost too much for him. The cameras, the familiar faces of his friends from the Stark Trek movie; Chris, Zoe, and Zach. It was all too much.
Nevertheless, he put on the best fake smile he could and shook Graham's hand, as well as his fellow actors. They all sat down, but the crowd didn't settle down. Graham had to tell them to be quiet because they were running out of time.
Once they finally got settled, Graham turned to Ben and said, "First off, Benedict...I know I speak for everyone here, but we are so sorry for your loss and we're glad you were able to join our show this evening." Ben gave him a quaint nod and said with an unusually soft voice, "Thank you, yeah."
"Now, I understand that [Y/N] was hit by a drunk driver, yes?" Ben flinched at the memory. You in the hospital bed, tubes and wires sticking out every which way, a machine helping you breath. God, he needed a drink.
Graham obviously saw his body language and changed the subject by asking, "Will you be in any new projects soon? I hear the script for Dr. Strange is almost finished!" Ben simply shook his head and told him, "I wouldn't know. I dropped out."
The crowd gasped. He knew if you found out he had dropped the roll, you'd smack him. You were so excited when he came home and told you. You jumped him right there and ended up making love right by the front door, and then in the kitchen, and then in the bed. He fondly remembers how you ended up putting on the famous Dr. Strange beard on his face with your eyeliner. He doesn't know why he let you, but you just kept laughing and smiling and had that special glint in your eye that he knew meant you were happy.
A tear suddenly rolled down his cheek, but he quickly wiped it away. Unfortunately, that didn't go unnoticed. "Oh, Benedict," Graham cooned. "I promise, I'm trying to make these questions simple..."
"No, no," Ben assured him, "it's just..." he let out a hearty laugh and continued, "[Y/N] was so excited for me to get that role. I'm just imagining what she would say to me." Graham gave him a warm smile. "I'm sure she'd give you a good whipping!"
Ben nodded in agreement. "I don't doubt that. She always put me in my place. She helped me stop smoking, made me more punctual...she was my everything." He looked down at his hands as his fingers twidled together.
Graham gave him a bit of a break and started focusing his questions on the others. Ben, in the meantime, was trying not to break down. You kept flooding his mind. Your hair, skin, taste, smell; you were taking over every sense he had.
About fifteen minutes later, the interview was over and he ignored everyone who came his way, just so he could get to his motorbike and go home. He was a wreck and he desperately needed a drink.
He weaved his way through the London traffic in a daze. He thought back to when you would cling on tightly to him when he took you places on this thing. You hated it, but you loved it. You'd squeal if he made a sharp turn or slammed on the brakes, making him laugh at you. After he would get you both to your destination, he'd lift off the helmet he got for you and give you a chaste kiss, muttering apologizes against your lips. You'd whack his arm, but then tell him you forgave him.
He snapped out of his thoughts when a horn started blairing beside him. His usual reaction would to stomp on the brakes, but when he did, he flew off and ended up toppling over the roof and down the front of a taxi, on to the street. He groaned and slammed his helmeted head into the pavement in frustration. He managed to get up and get back on his bike before anyone could make a fuss and sped off again.
He sighed as he walked into the old, lonely house and dropped his helmet right on to the floor where yours was still laying from your last ride with him. He groaned, as his muscles cracked where he fell. Thank goodness he was wearing leather, or else his mother would kill him if the pavement didn't.
Speaking of his mother, he needed to call her. I'll do it tomorrow, he thought to himself. Then again, he's been thinking that everyday for the past three weeks. He's surprised she hasn't come over to check if he's still breathing.
After getting his scruffed up jacket off and kicking away his shoes, he went straight to the liquor cabinet. Every bottle of his was almost gone. He wouldn't dare touch any of your stuff, as he knew how you'd get if he did. You always looked like a kicked puppy, but then rage out on him like an angry Pitbull. He thought it was cute. He always thought it was cute when you got mad.
It's memories like this that drive him to drink. It numbs the pain when the memories start coming back. He also picked up smoking again, even though he willed himself not to because you worked hard on getting him to stop. But that numbed the pain, too. It relaxed it.
So, he picked out a bottle, grabbed his pack of cigarettes, and headed into the bedroom. He walked past the empty boxes his mother had brought over a few weeks ago for him to put your clothes in. That got them into quite the arguement and that's why he hasn't bothered to call her.
That's why he hasn't called anyone. They're all telling him to "move on", but how can he? All he wants that time back. If he didn't spill that coffee on his shirt before he left, then he wouldn't have called you to ask to pick up his dry cleaning for the premier the next day; if you didn't forget your wallet and had to go back to retrieve it; if you didn't drop your purse in front of the car, making everything spill out...you might be here.
Time. He wanted to erase that part of time and he wanted you here, with him.
He took the first swig from the bottle and lit the first cigarette. This was how it was now. And he hated every torturing second of it.
At one point, he started looking through your clothes, smiling when he saw one was torn from him literally trying to rip it off of you, or silently crying when one brought back a special memory. He wouldn't put these in boxes. He couldn't. He won't.
As he got nearer the back of the closet, he found something sticking out of one of your shoe boxes. Sometimes you kept little knick-knacks in them from trips or from your past. He opened one of them and saw a onesie, big enough for a baby.
This broke him. He held on to the small piece of clothing and sobbed into it. You both had been trying so hard for a baby before all this happened. He always found little baby things lying around that you had bought "just in case it happens".
It never did. And it never will.
Ben drank a little more, and then called a cab to take him somewhere. This was something he did every week, every Wednesday, at the exact same time, no matter how drunk he may be. He always did this.
First stop was the flower shop. The owner had seen him every week for the past few months; coming in and ordering the same thing. Eventually, he just had the flowers ready for Ben at exactly six o'clock.
Next stop, was the liquor store. Exact purchase, exact time.
Finally, he ended up at the cemetery. He walked respectively past all the graves...until he came up to yours. He was right on time, too.
He knelt down and replaced the flowers with his new ones, before leaning back on the side of your stone. He took out his drink and started chugging from the bottle. Eventually, he took out a cigarette and started smoking it.
He chuckled a little bit and said, "You'd kill me if you were here. Your face would get scrunched up and cute and then you'd get pissed when I call you adorable. I have no doubt that you would throw a bucket of water over me if you saw me smoking."
He looked at the cigarette in his hand and painfully sighed. "Maybe this is the way I'll get to you quicker," he softly said. "Maybe this is God punishing me for asking you to go pick up that damn suit."
He didn't bother wiping the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He simply let them fall. One fell on to the cigarette and put it out. He grunted and pulled out his pack to find it empty. He started laughing.
"Oh, you're a clever girl, [Y/N]. You are a clever, clever...beautiful...amazing...girl." He lost all control at that point and started crying into his hands. A reached into his pocket to grab a tissue, but instead came out with the baby onesie.
He turned to face the front of your grave and folded it across the top of the stone. "You would have been the best mum to our children," he cried. "Sometimes I wonder if things might've been different if we had one already."
He hastily wiped his tears and looked up at the gloomy sky. It was going to rain soon, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore.
"So," he breathed out, "I had an interview with Graham today. He talked about you a bit, but just...I can't talk about you yet. Not openly, at least. It's just that every time I do, I break down."
He felt the first trickle of rain start to fall. He continued, "I miss you. Deeply, hopelessly miss you, [Y/N]. There's so much pain inside me, knowing I'll never see you again. And I want the pain to stop. Please, baby if you can hear me, just...God, make this pain go away!"
The rain started pouring down harder, but he just took another swig. "I mean, how much fucking longer am I supposed to live with this?!" He drunkenly yelled. "Another forty, fifty years?! Because I can't do that, I can't just live that long with this fucking pain in my bloody heart!"
He tried to take another drink, but horribly discovered that the bottle was empty. "Sweetheart, please stop doing that," he begged through tears. "I need this, you know I do."
"No, you don't," your voice suddenly rang out. He whipped his head to the sound of your voice and...there you were. Standing underneath the pouring rain, yet you were perfectly dry, unlike Ben who was soaked to the bone.
"[Y/N]," he breathed out in complete awe. "Oh my God...honey, you're...you're..."
"No," you told him, "I'm not. I'm not alive, Ben." He closed his eyes and relished in the way you said his name. "What are you doing to yourself?" You asked angrily, as you knelt down beside him.
He chuckled and opened his eyes. You were still there, but looking angry. He smiled and whispered, "You're so cute when you're angry." You rolled your eyes, while his filled up with tears.
"Ben, can you please stop doing this? Please? Go out there and go find yourself someone else. I want you to be happy, not miserable."
He scoffed at you. "Go find someone else? And what? Marry them? Tell them I love them? Because then, how would that be fair to them? You're the only one I have ever loved and will always love! I can never love another like I love you." He looked down and fiddled with his wedding ring.
"Never," he softly cried. "You and I are always and forever. It was always going to be just you and me against all odds. But I knew that when I saw you in ICU...I knew the odds and turned to us. And then when they...when they told me you had passed..." He let out a shaky breath and a strained sob.
"I had never...ever known that a pain could be so great. You were my entire world. You still are." He looked up to see you smiling fondly at him. Oh how he missed that smile, your eyes, your hair, your body.
"Kiss me," he begged through tears. "Please, just kiss me. That's all I ask." You gave him a solemn look and sadly told him, "I can't. I have to go."
"No," he pleaded, "stay! Don't leave me again!" He reached out for you, but you were already fading away. And, before he knew it, you were gone. Again.
He screamed in frustration and chucked the empty bottle across the cemetery.
He can't do this. Not without you.
So God if you can hear me...crash this train
I said God if you can hear me...crash this train.