"My Husband Catches Criminals"

[amine_eyes]

Title: My Husband Catches Criminals
Character: The Missus
Rating: PG
Summary: She tries not to notice how he's changed.
A/N: This is a sequel of sorts to "Going Under", from the viewpoint of the Missus. We (as far as I remember) never find out her name in canon, if we have, then I am more than happy to correct it :) The title is mostly taken from Marion Cotillard's song in "Nine", "My Husband Makes Movies" which sums up the sort of feel I'm going for in this :)

 

You’re coming up the path with a heavy bag of shopping, and Agnes from number forty-two waves from her door, hurrying over.

 

“Doris! How are you, let me take your bag for you, won’t you?”

 

You can’t really say no, how ever much you’d like to, and she takes the bag with a grunt of surprise at how heavy it is, and you invite her in for a cup of tea.

 

As the two of you settle on the sofa – not the good one, you’ve both known each other too long now - you chat about various small things:  little Tommy’s practice for Sports Day, the price of milk at the shop, whether that nice man from number fifty-seven has found a young lady that is not that stuck up girl from Belworth Street, until Agnes leans over, and places a hand gently on yours.

 

“Doris, how’s Gene?”

 

You pause.

 

How do you tell Agnes that he wakes up from nightmares that are worse than the ones before, that he refuses to let the television go onto the Open University programs, how he’s got rid of the toy clown that you both got for Jack’s birthday?

 

How do you tell her that he’s flinched at your touch, that he drags himself to the station every morning even though he’s been put on leave, because he can’t stand being shut in the house all day?

 

How do you tell her that the only one who’s managed to make him feel better is D.I Tyler, that the only person he’ll confide in about his time kidnapped is not his wife of almost thirty years, the woman who’s been there for him since they were kids, the woman who cooks, cleans, washes, listens, loves him, but a man who has eyes that are too old for his face. A man who Gene came home day after day being angry at for his methods of policing. A man who doesn’t belong here. How do you tell her that?

 

“He’s doing much better, he’s off at work every morning,” you tell her, and you ignore the little stab of hurt that he’ll go to work and face down demons, instead of staying here with you.

 

He’s your husband.