Bring Him Home [Cian]

[Emma Lawrence]

Funeral Wear
Never Letting Go

There had been days where she stayed in her room and cried. In those days, the bruises she'd gotten on her knees from falling onto the ground at the funeral had healed. Remembering that day was like putting a piece of her six feet under, too. It'd been too much to see his open casket, to take his lifeless hands in hers, to weep on his chest and know that he couldn't stroke her hair, couldn't whisper to her, couldn't do anything but soak up the tears. Corpses looked like freakish mannequins--even Cian's. Pale, motionless, gone. She couldn't believe there was nothing going on in that beautiful head. She refused to come to terms with the fact that his heart wasn't beating inside the chest that she touched, that she loved. Because his time hadn't come--it was taken from him.

The sun was out at the funeral. Putting forth effort to make sure her breathing was slow, Emma kept her hands on her children, who came to perhaps her mid-thigh. The rest of the Lawrence's were creating a symphony of sobs behind her. Her eyes became hard as steel, lips pressed into a firm line as she watched the casket gleam in the sunlight, as if he would thrust open the top and come back to her. The priest went on about how significant his life was, who he was leaving behind, and how he would be joining God in His kingdom of paradise. Emma had problems with this theory (for one, God was female). Cian wasn't in paradise. He was still stuck in Hell, trapped by Azrael.

Solitary after the funeral, Emma stared at the knoll of dirt stretching across the length of the gravesite. Her knees were locked, shoulders squared, and she thought she was quite alone. Soon, she heard the grass fold and crinkle underneath heavier but tentative footsteps. Her head didn't cock.

Warmth came to the small of her back and she smelled Dean. His voice came soon afterward, in a careful murmur. "The kids are gone. You don't have to be strong anymore."

As if granted permission, she crumpled. Her eyes squeezed such and her face contorted into one picturesque image of torment. Tortured sobs of grief hurled from her throat. Her knees gave out from underneath her, and she landed on them on the ground. Dean's arms gathered around her, and she dug her nails into his arms, as if he'd suddenly let go. She grabbed her hair. She grabbed the dirt. Her back convulsed and soon began to ache from the weight of the bawls. Her head pounded. Because Cian was gone. He wasn't coming back.

I never thought I'd have to bury you before my hair turned white with yours. I never thought I'd be forced to say goodbye barely after I've said hello. I never wanted you to be anything but fulfilled. I never wanted to spend a day without you, and now I have to spend a lifetime.

So there were questions: the hardest part. "Where was Daddy?" "Why wasn't he coming back?" "What does that mean?" They were usually accompanied by more tears. On the days the children cried, she took them up in her arms and cried with them.

Today was different. She'd woken up and actually ate. They were all in dire need for some fresh air, so she'd gotten dressed. It was what happened afterward that made her heart fall to her soles.

Oliver and Maura left the mansion first, scrambling out the door with giddy faces on, running down the path to make their way ahead of their mother. Behind them, Emma closed the door, gazed down the walkway, and saw a figure walking toward the place. Her jaw dropped, and she did nothing for a long time. The kids collided with the man, squeals reaching her ears but dropping to the pit of her stomach. Then she had no choice. She ran at full speed and flung herself at her husband with her arms locked around his neck. Her cheek bore into his, tears the only thing separating their flesh. Emma was breathing laboriously, trying to speak and breathe at the same time, but she could only cry.

[Cian Lawrence]

Back
The Dog Days Are Over

Being in Hell was...hell. It felt like every piece of Cian's being, every molecule, was being ripped out of him and ripped apart only to be stitched slowly and amateurishly back together and then the whole routine being repeated over and over into eternity. He wanted to cry and rave and tear his fingernails by scratching his way back to Earth but he couldn't. He didn't own his body, just his tormented, hot mind. Everything inside him inside him reeled and roared.

And at the back of the ache thumped a name. Sometimes it was Oliver. Sometimes Maura. Sometimes Dean, Harmony, Reagan, Logan. But most often and most consistently it was Emma. Emma, Emma, Emma Sophie, Emma, Emmanuelle, Emma Lawrence, EmmaEmmaEmmaEmmaEmma. Until it wasn't a name any longer but rather a sensation, a memory of everything good he had had in his life, once, when his life was his own. And sometimes, but almost never, it was Jensen, which Cian didn't understand yet.

Until one day. Until one day he felt the cool wash of someone's gentle palm skipping over his cheek. He felt calm and at ease and a deep, deep comfort settle into his chest. Which was quickly replaced by a searing and suffocating sense of claustrophobia. And darkness. And panic. But he kicked. He kicked and punched and fought and scratched until his hands were bloody and a few of his fingers were broken but he finally cracked through the flaky wood of whatever was encasing him.

(A coffin, something at the back of his mind told him. A coffin because he had been Down There at least a week, so his body must've been dead and so they must have buried him. And Maura, Oliver, Emma. There must have been a funeral. Dean, Harmony, Logan, Reagan. They all thought he was dead and how was he to convince them otherwise? Colette, Ainslie, Laura, Essence, Amarie....)

And then none of that mattered because dirt was rushing in, spilling in, covering his eyes, coating his throat, blocking his nose. In a panic and without really thinking or meaning to, he sent out a blast with his telekinesis. The dirt went flying, setting around the cemetery in a shower of detritus and pebbles and bugs and oh, god he needed his wife.

So he climbed out of that hole from that hole in the center of the Earth. He hefted himself up and staggered out of the cemetery. On some level he was aware that he was wearing a suit (because they must have buried him. There must have been a funeral.) and Converses and he thought there had been a fedora laid across his hands but if there was it was now lying in the detritus of a splintered coffin and a strewn grave.

It was early morning so he didn't get very many odd looks. (And, despite the time, that probably wouldn't have happened anyway. New York was a strange place full of strange people.) And he hobbled and stumbled, relearning how to use muscles that had sat dormant for so long. The early-born sun burned his eyes, used to being closed, used to the dank darkness of the chasm of his mind.

And somehow, without his direction, his legs brought him to Rosewood, brought him to his family. Brought him home.

A chance of fate had Oliver and Maura bouncing out of the mansion just as he was reaching the drive. And then they were upon him and all he could do was stare in utter amazement and gasp and cry. Tears tracked tributaries through the dirt etched over his face. "Oh,"

[/i] he rasped out, voice barely there and rusty from disuse. The kids were darting around him, nonsense phrases of "Momma said you died!" and "You were away for so long!" and "Da, I missed you!!" And all he could do was stare in utter amazement and gasp and cry. Lay his dirt, torn hands on their heads and gasp and cry.

And then. And then there was Emma. Emma. Emma, Emma, Emma Sophie, Emma, Emmanuelle, Emma Lawrence, EmmaEmmaEmmaEmmaEmma. And she was crying against his face and she was doing the same and gasping and his hands were bloody and broken and battered and in his hair. And he was touching her, feeling her and all of a sudden Jensen flashed through his mind and then he was taking an impossible breath (impossible because, didn't you know? he was dead. he was supposed to be dead).

Too much. It was too much. Too much atmosphere around him and he was breaking down and falling down. Falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands and weeping like he had wanted to ever since they broke the ground and fell into Hell, leaving him wiht his longing. He wet so the salt-tears mixed with the blood and dirt and death on his skin. Shoulders shaking, tongue feeling like something half-dead, half-alive, cheeks burning with the familiar, unknown sensation of blood coursing through them.

And he was home but everything hurt but everything was okay because he was home. He wanted to reach up, touch his wife. He wanted to reach down, touch his children. He wanted to reach out, spill a thousand words and more but his throat wouldn't work and his tongue felt like something half-dead, half alive. And then he was sobbing and weeping and his shoulders were pitching forward until his fingers-covered forehead nearly touched the drive.

He was alive. He was with his family. He was home. How could this be? Did it matter; he was home.[/blockquote]

[Emma Lawrence]

She couldn't catch her breath. Not because of running, but because she was so incredibly overwhelmed with emotions that breathing was not on the top of her priority list. There was no way that this was an impersonator or a shapeshifter or anything of the like. No one could cry the way that he was. The best actor in the world couldn't shed tears like the ones she felt against their skin. Again and again she kissed his battered cheek, running her hands through his hair, which was torn and bloody, like the rest of him.

Emma grabbed his hands. Cian. Cian was here, Cian was with her. But how? Had he been released, too? What kind of god so favored her enough to return two of the men she loved the most? As much as she knew she should hand his attention over to the children, she gave in to greed. He was hers, for Christ's sake, hers!

Emma grabbed his hand with such a vigor that her own were shaking violently. His nails were worn down, bleeding, fingers calloused, but palms ever-soft. Looks be damned, she crashed her face into his, kissing him with a distinct passion she'd never felt toward anyone before. She had to stop thirty seconds in for fear of her heart failing. With her hands on his sides, she breathed over and over again, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

[Cian Lawrence]

Emma's touch overwhelmed he and he couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but be. And then his hands were in hers and he knew she was thinking. Wondering, because she was Emma. Fuck, she was his Emma. His Em-n-Em and Maura-mine and Oliver-Ollie and oh, fuck. But Emma, Emma. She was his and he was hers.

She took them with a panic and then crushed herself into him, pressing her lips against his. He gave a gasp into the kiss, startled, but recovered easily. She was pouring her entire self, her very essence into the kiss and Christ did it feel good to kiss his wife. His wife who had been missing for so very long. And he wanted to rip and tear Azrael to shreds but that could wait because he had Emma against him and then he woke up and put his arms around her so he had her in his arms. And the kids were dancing around them and everything was perfect.

She broke the kiss, declaring her love over and over and he wanted to return it, tried to really. But her throat was roar and non-functioning and he still couldn't quite figure his tongue out beyond the kiss. And beside that, he was not done weeping really and it was less weeping now and downright bloody sobbing. His chest heaved in gasps and wracked breaths, spine shivering with each quake. He stuttered on something that was almost her name but not really. And he put his wrist to his eyes, wiping and scrubbing and took in a breath and tried again.

And that time he was rewarded with just enough, "Emma," he managed to rasp out, "love you." And then he pressed a damaged hand to her face and sighed.

[Emma Lawrence]

His body was malfunctioning, and that was okay. As long as he was intact and here, here with her, and with their kids, and waiting to continue life with them. Again and again she ran her hands over his face, through his hair, down his sides, along his arms. Just taking in his existence. He began to panic, and in reaction, she held on tighter, one arm around his neck and the other around his waist, trying to transfer some of her bodily normality to him. Her Empathy was flying in all directions, latching onto what she probably could have identified easily as the force of the universe, but that was impossible. It was just everything washing over her at once, bombarding her with extreme gauges. Turning things over and over in her head, she kept wondering if something was wrong with him now. If being in hell had permanently disabled him; deterriorated parts of his brain. Trauma, no doubt, wouldn't fade for years--maybe even over a lifetime it would never truly heal.

Realizing she'd been holding her breath, scared to lose it, the pain in Emma's chest forced her to blow it out, and with it came horrible tears she never thought she'd shed. It all came back. The day he died, getting that phone call. Seeing his mangled body, having to put the fedora in his hands and fold them, smooth his tie, and say goodbye. The funeral. The heart-wrenching fucking pain.

The silence of her sobs became known when she finally reached for a breath and choked on it, trying to cry while going through routine inhale-exhales. Her hands trembled in fierce patterns she'd never felt surge through her body before. "I can't lose you again," she breathed, "I can't lose you I'm never going to let go I just can't I can't I can't I can't."

Joy had died into fear. Cian was back and he was hurt. Emma was relieved but she couldn't bear the mere thought of losing him again let alone carry the occurrence.

The moment his hand touched her face, her breathing became less labored, but his palm was still soaked with her oncoming tears. She nodded a few times. "Rest your voice," she advised through her own raw one, fingertips to his chin. "Come on. You're going to come inside, and we're going to lie down. Okay? We'll get you to a hospital later. You'll be all right. Everything's okay now, you're home. You're home and we're all here and you're all right."

Once the air in her head had cleared, she wrapped an arm around him, leading him to Rosewood's entrance.

[Cian Lawrence]

She was exhaling words to him, promises and vows that she would never lose him again, that she just couldn't. And he wouldn't let that happen. He wasn't going anywhere ever again. No, he loved his family and he wasn't going anywhere and...

Holy fuck he had been in Hell. The real, true, full recognition exploded into his chest and he choked on a sob, Emma was telling him something but he didn't quite register it. But the recollection of where he had been, the panic that it had caused, died quickly; flickered away. He was fine.

He wasn't there any longer, he was home and that was good, that was fine. He was home. He was fine. He heard a mention about a hospital.

"No," he said, voice strong and firm. His throat was slowly getting better, just time above ground was helping. "No hospital. I'm fine," he insisted. And he was. He was fine. He just wanted to stay with his family.

He was home and he was fine and everything was okay.

Emma wrapped an arm around him and helped him to stand and led him toward Rosewood. Oliver and Maura were bouncing after them. Well, no. Maura was trailing after them, taking slow, careful steps with her head tipped to the ground. He stopped mid-step and turned to her completely. "Maura-mine?" he asked softly, voice only a little hoarse.

She looked up at him, tears drenching her cheeks and pooling at her chin. Cian's heart stopped. "Oh, Mo," he murmured. "Maura-mine, what;s wrong?" Her lips trembled and then she was crying again.

"I...missed...y-you," she stammered out. "I...don't want...you t-to leave...again."

Cian's heart broke. "Oh, you don't have to worry 'bout that. I'm not goin' nowhere. Y'hear that, love? Not going nowhere." And Maura ran to him then, putting her arms around his legs. And it hurt and it was hard, but he picked his daughter up and hugged her to his chest. And he dropped his hand to his son's head, just taking a moment to be with his children and his wife.

"Home," he managed to get out. And took the steps forward.

[Emma Lawrence]

His bewilderment was parallel to hers, but she couldn't have wanted this to be any other way. Nodding, she drew a hand over his cheek, letting her fingertips linger at his chin, as if her lightest touch could keep him afloat. No more going back there--wherever it was. Certainly it wasn't in the center of the earth. It was in a different plane of what wasn't the universe. He'd been away from all this, and yet... He was home. Home.

The minute Maura's voice caught her ears, she stopped in her tracks, dropping to her knees and putting her arms around her. Before she had time to say anything, Cian had her in his arms, head against each other's. That was a pretty picture. One she didn't want to lose. Didn't want to forget, didn't want to stop looking at. "Not going nowhere," she echoed, like saying it a second time would make it final and absolute.

She pressed her lips to his temple, ringing an arm around his neck. Oliver inched closer, clinging to Daddy's leg. "It's okay," she exhaled. "We're all here. We're together, and everybody's fine." The more she said it the truer it became.

[Cian Lawrence]

He listened to what Emma said and, against every fucking odd, he smiled. He grinned, only half of one, just the one corner of his lips quirking up. But it was real and it was there. It died on a cough and a buried face into his daughter's hair, but it was there.

They broke through the threshold and Cian felt his resolve crumble. He handed Maura off to Emma. She fought it, not willing to let go of her Daddy lest he disappear again but eventually just cuddled into her Mumma, sniffling. Pressing a hand to Emma's cheek, he swallowed thickly and told her, "Just a minute." Just a minute. He just needed a minute.

Pacing away from his family, he just made it into the side room before his legs gave out. He collapsed just inside the doorway, leaning heavily against the wall. He pressed his palms into his eyes and pushed up coasting through his hair, spiking it. His clothes were starched with old, stale sweat and the new from breaking out. He couldn't break down. He was with his family. He needed a shower.

Breathing deep, he nodded to himself and entered the foyer again. And saw his family all together. And his spirits sky-rocketed and then he laughed. Laughed and rubbed at his mouth and smiled. "Need a shower, yeah, ya t'ink?" he asked, still grinning.