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30 June 2007 @ 06:35 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 185: Question 185  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1317

It's your moment of triumph! Where are you and what are you doing?

There was something well orchestrated about that day, whether it was the way the young bride’s dress fit so perfectly, or how the young groom stood, tall and archaic in facial expression. He was a man who looked wiser beyond his years, and most adequately knowledgeable about the act which he was about to commit. The hairs on the back of his neck persisted to prickling though, as people looked at him. The church doors were open, and he stood their archway, feet placed casually, waiting for the service to get underway. Once, he turned around to look outside, and people passing on the sidewalk outside the church sometimes would stare briefly at him, their attention captivated by a boy maybe, or a man, who knew neither where his age and appearance lay, but who was done up in wedding regalia all the same. Black suit, bowtie, white shirt, crisp and clean, freshly pressed, his hair combed, his smell nice. He was attired in all the relevant wedding regalia supposed for such an ecclesiastical themed event.

His father clapped him on the back suddenly and the young Sid startled as the large working hand collided, in a surprising motion, with his spine. When he turned back to face the innards of the church, the eighteen year old smiled warmly, cocking his head to one side and watching the other man intently. His father’s own look was proud, but he could detect, with his own brand of infinitely expanding wisdom, that slightest trace of worry, concern maybe. His mouth twisted reassuringly he laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, confident fingers then brushing an imaginary trace of dust off the sharp edge of material that lay there, joined, like this day, to so many other things, that together made a functioning whole.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” the boy said, resisting the urge to brush his fingers through his hair, it having been neatly combed and set mostly in place earlier on in the morning. In that moment, a whole world of history went unsaid between them. How he had met Marianne, how he had fallen in love with her, how they had already spend so long together, how they were, in essence and truth, a very good couple. There was, of course, one of the larger issues, that had already been turned over many times in confident and assuring tones, of how young they were. It had been a small bone of contention in the scheme of things, but it had been talked about, it had been discussed, questions had been asked, answered, worked out. They were both only children, though, it was relevant for both sets of parents to be concerned that what they were doing was right. It was not a terrible slant against them, his father just wanted to know that he’d be ok with what he was going through with.

He was, though, he had long since been fine of wanting to spend, forever, with her. Foolish as it may have seemed to others, he was following a gut instinct, he knew, it would work out right in the end, that they could have years and years together, filled with so many adventures.

Hair wavy and brown, glasses perched upon a smooth young face, he stood in the aisle eventually, waiting, watching what was ahead of him, willing himself to be still, desiring his hands to be calm, and so they were. Buttons done up, material smooth and pristine, he stood there waiting for her, waiting for it to begin. Her mother lowered her veil, her father walked down the aisle, gave her away to him, they went through the service, meticulously planned out at an even earlier age to the one they were at that moment. A quiet hush fell over the crowd, and then, unsurprisingly, raucous cheers when they kissed. It was a wedding in every sense, in attire and decoration, modest and not overly lavish, but still nice, professional. They went outside and pictures were taken, and then later, food was eaten, speeches and congratulations were made, and they shared their first dance as a married couple.

There was a time later when they sat together, decades later in fact, when they sat together on the couch, lolling, pressed together, lulled by the thudding of each other’s hearts, each beat spreading calescent emotion throughout each other’s bodies. They had long since become successful in their own right, and proved any doubt wrong as to whether they would succeed. When they were both thirty eight, they had renewed their vows, and things had proven to be similar to the day, twenty years before exactly, when they had gone through the process for the first time. They had still been very much the loving couple, the wedding had still been traditional, modest, but elegant, and pictures had been taken afterwards.

Now, though, both wedding albums lay before them as they lay curled together, appreciating the same warmth, the same shared delight that wove itself between them as they examined the albums together. Young Sid to older Sid, young Marianne to older Marianne, how the clothes were different, how the priest had aged, and how grateful they were to him, for coming back to read them their vows again, how lovely it had been. There were memories remembered and re-examined, words that had been said brought back into saying, humour lost, discovered and found amusing anew.

Then one day, even more decades after his moment of triumph, it all come crashing down, brick by rapidly falling brick, on a haze of smashing concrete, whirling papers, spilt blood and harmful smoke and dust. He remembered, in examining life afterwards, in searching through the memories of his wife, his children, his wedding, his life before, a reading they had done once in a small amateur theatre group, while they had been discussing themes of love, something like that. It was one of those memories, held in fondness, a time where he had been untroubled by her absence, and they had been together as a whole. It was one of thousands of memories he had of her, one of so many that rose above the tidal wave of depravity, regret, and him missing her, longing for her, and then ebbed away only to be replaced by another sudden, gut wrenching remembering.

“She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.”

Sid smiled as he sat back down, his own voice ringing pleasantly in his ears. He grinned at the young woman opposite him in the small circle of rattly thespian chairs with their equally as amusing thespian occupants. They both hid the wedding rings on their fingers, beneath the palm of the other hand, a jovial game to see what discussions would be made, if they were not connected as a pair. He gave her a wry look, and then glanced away, examining another girl, pushing Marianne’s buttons, curious to see if later, she would react any, and push him back. It was all jest and humour though, all light hearted joking between a young couple, a young married pair, who already knew each other, so very, very well. Turning his eyes back to her later, he flashed the golden band on his hand, and they smiled secretly, remembering their day of triumph, remembering all that was to come, and all that had already, been.
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