#i'm terrified tho so shall prolly q for when i'm asleep

[nomdeguerreblogs]

THE AIR TURNED BLUE

So, this came out of my psyche maybe six months ago and, for want of a painful line or two, was hanging around unfinished until now. It’s pretentious and overwrought and a bit embarrassing tbh but I wrote it and what’s the point in that if you never share? It’s just a bit of stuff I want to add to the opening of 3.03, written as a script (not quite sure why but that’s how it came). It kind of includes Grace’s death scene… I think I was just trying to pull together some threads that I wanted to see joined before Tommy’s opaque fire-staring and torture-grief. It does have the virtue of being short. After that amazing effort at self-promotion, I’d forgive you for not wanting to click through, but I do kind of like it, and anyway there you go *deep breath* *hits post*

~ THE AIR TURNED BLUE ~

3/1   INT. ARROW HOUSE, MASTER BEDROOM - PRE-DAWN

Friday 29th February 1924 - - Moonlight gives a blue cast to the room. A low pile of orange embers in the fireplace emit a glow that just reaches the bed. No light is on. A lamp has been removed from the side of the bed nearest the mirror, Thomas’ side. The other remains in place, as do the glass items on the shelf below, which refract the firelight.

The absent lamp has been replaced by a decanter of heavy Stourbridge cut crystal set beside a mismatched whiskey glass of early 19th-century Waterford make, engraved with a pretty floral motif. The glass is empty, the decanter not-quite. Next to these is a metal ashtray overflowing with butts and burnt matches and a crumpled packet of Sweet Afton.

From above, we see Thomas on his left side, limbs folded in to his body. He hasn’t bothered to undress and wears a long-sleeved undershirt and slacks and socks. A sheet and a blanket of gold-coloured wool (the bedding is not the rich satin of previous episodes) twists around him, the bed in disarray. His right hand, palm downward, has driven with force into the pillow on which his head rests.

Thomas’ face sweats despite the cold air. His eyelashes are damp. His sleep is restless, twitchy. He moves his hand on the pillow, caressing it softly before pressing on it again, hard.

A soft sound like a woman’s sigh hovers. We hear other odd noises: creaks, moans. Perhaps it is the house settling or wind outside. Thomas murmurs a gentle, soothing sound and nuzzles the pillow. We hear a gunshot, screams, pounding footsteps on a hard floor.

Thomas clutches at his left shoulder and gasps. He blinks at his hand with unfocused eyes. It shakes and is covered in blood. His cuff comes into view, the same cuff he wore to the Shelby Institute gala dinner of Episode 2. We see his cufflink, which veers to feminine taste; gold with white, green and purple enamelling, nouveau-style morning glory flowers.

2   INT. SHELBY INSTITUTE GALA DINNER - NIGHT, FLASHBACK

Bright blood seeps rapidly into the crisp white fabric and drips from the link. The noises echo as the image expands to include a white satin gloved-hand (GRACE SHELBY’S) which winds itself through Thomas’ and is smeared red. Thomas speaks with subdued panic, attempting reassurance.

THOMAS You’ll be right. You’re going to be all right… You’ll be all right…

We’re aware of activity in the background but the focus is on Thomas and Grace. They are spotlit in blackness. She is propped up beneath her shoulders by Thomas’ jacket. He presses a wad of starched white linen to her wound, sandwiching her shoulder between his hands. He rocks slightly. Grace’s face comes into focus. She’s vibrant and her eyes full of love. As we watch her face greys and her eyes begin to fade. She is clearly in much pain and a little dazed. Words are a struggle.

GRACE Tommy, you…

Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.

THOMAS Shhhhhhhh.

Thomas cradles her head, smudging blood unintentionally along her cheekbone. He presses his lips to her forehead.

THOMAS (CONT’D) Grace, you’re strong. Stay strong. You’re not leaving like this.

He pauses to draw breath and hold sentiment in check.

GRACE This is real, I know what’s coming, Tommy. Just don’t leave me.

THOMAS I could never… I love you. I’m…

She holds out a finger to touch his cheek, he presses instinctively against it. She falls from consciousness. Her hand drops. She is dead.

THOMAS (CONT’D) (broken) I’m sorry.

He kisses her, clutches her, sobs. We focus now on the sapphire around her neck. Its lambent blue engulfs the screen. The background noise rises and screams to a painful tinnitus pitch then stops abruptly.

3   INT. ARROW HOUSE, MASTER BEDROOM - PRE-DAWN

The focus is tight on Thomas’ eyes as they blink wide open. We pan back into the oppressively quiet bedroom. Thomas sits, rubs his eyes viciously with his palms, combs his fingers through his hair. He inhales and lets his head slump forward. We see him in profile, windows behind, the high full moon visible like a taunt. A pale curtain breathes inward on a breeze, its reflection caught in the full-length mirror. Thomas moves to the window. As he goes he glances forlornly across through white railings to the empty crib.

Thomas stands at the window.

4   EXT. ARROW HOUSE - PRE-DAWN

We follow his gaze to a horse with a broad white blaze in a near meadow. The horse paws at the ground. It rears and gallops. We follow it as it outpaces us out of frame. The frame slowly reveals the empty landscape: fields, woods, chapel glowing blue.

5   INT. ARROW HOUSE, MASTER BEDROOM - PRE-DAWN

Thomas pours himself the remaining whiskey, downs it in one, returns to the bed. He lies on the fire side now and switches on the lamp, his hand lingering on the base. He stares at the ceiling then, reluctant but compelled, turns to the photograph on the bureau. It feels inevitable. His features contort with guilt. The ‘pook pook’ of a blackbird enters through the window. The noise makes up his mind and he swings round, planting his feet on a thick rug. He’s tired, so fatigued that pulling on his boots seems a monumental effort. They’re on. He stands. He coughs richly. He picks up the photograph with tender hands, tracing over the glass with his fingers and now a thumb. There will be something that appears in the wake of the thumb. A shadow? Sweat? Blood? Is it a trick of the light? He replaces it with reverence. He gathers his coat and exits.

#my fic #tommy x grace #s3 #the air turned blue #the pics look good on mobile #at least but fckn tumblr #it's been too long since i contributed something to this fandom #please please be kind #i know it's a wankfest #i wanted the parallels dammit #i'm terrified tho so shall prolly q for when i'm asleep #fuck i hate blogging things that matter to me