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[love4annie]

2.AM.

John Shelby x OC (Martha)

Moonlight shone through the translucent window, emerging the room, turning it into in a dimmer version of its usual, daily appearance. There, in the pit of the closed space, wrapped in a crocheted blanked, on the squeaky matress, layed John.

A faint gleam outlined the old furniture, collected through the years, inherited or purchased or gifted, haphazard yet emotionally valuable, and John stared. He stared as the gleam traced a silhouette at his doorstep.

The figure was blurry, its heigh unprecised, and dark; like a shadow that took its owner's place. It stayed unmoving, unless for the slight fogginess in its edges: perhaps it was a specter chosing which form it would morph into? Perhaps he was asleep?

The obnoxious ticking of the clock across from him proved otherwise; the sound never manifested itself in his regular, unpleasant dreams, only the continious ringing in his ears occupying his senses, the sole thing he could predict during war and his nightmarish visions.

His mind immediately shifted to his lover, attempting to stretch to her side of the bed, but failing.

He was paralyzed. He was helpless.

The individual approached, and he could only watch, hoping that he would regain control over his limbs to either get his pistol or shield his partner with his body, watch as the fuzziness settled into a flowing skirt and a loose light red cardigan. His lips parted as he deciphered the paling face, the dirty blond hair washed by the white rays, the swirling brown gaze, a shade somberer than their familiar color, and the frown wrinkles around her smiling features. Recognition lit his eyes while worry softened them, and he felt his muscles easing even if he couldn't stir them an inch.

'Why are you up?' The question remained on the tip of his tongue. 'Why the cardigan and not your gown?'

Martha's slow steps came to a halt.

She crossed her arms, staring lovingly at her husband from her spot, in the middle of the room, fully illuminated.

-"Did I scare you, Love?"

He wanted to nod, he wanted to smile, he wanted to reply. To reach for her, hug her close, react to her soothing voice. But he couldn't.

Why? What was happening to him? Did it happen before?

-"It did", as if she was reading into his worries, she answered his unasked question.

She sighed:

-"It will happen again. So long you don't drop it already."

She knelt beside him, so close he would normally be able to touch her. Yet he couldn't. Her hand intended to cup his cheek, but it didn't make any contact with his warm skin. Still, he could feel how cold it was; her hands were always cold.

-"Accept it, John."

His eyes bore into hers, only then filled with tears, hoping, wishing, desperate for her to finally graze her fingers on his skin, to wake him from whatever that was.

-"I am gone."

The first chiming of the clock startled them both, though it wasn't enough to distract one from the other, not when she was on the verge of disappearing.

He saw her beg, broken smile translating more sorrow than her habitual detached, fidgety façade, and he blinked his tears away, allowing them to fall on his pillow.

By the second chiming, she wasn't there.

He quickly sat up, turning switly to inspect his wife.

-"John?", her perturbed voice called, her cold hand set gently on his shoulder.

He sighed, instantly burrying his nose in her neck, smelling her fresh, natural perfume, hugging her flush against him, as she carefully patted his head, repeating comforting words.

She was there..

Wasn't she?

[love4annie]

Holding on for dear life.

John Shelby x OC (Martha)

The sun rarely shone in Watery Lane. Birds never chirped.

-"Get out, leave! Leave me alone!"

Grey was a prominent color; a grey sky, grey smoke, grey people.

The wooden table fell with a heavy thud, bringing down plates and cups that were once sitting peacefully on it. It wasn't that sound that bothered Martha, though, nor did the shattering's, but rather her mom's yells.

-"I don't want to see your face!", she cried, eyes flooding with emotion as it did with tears. And although it seemed like it, that emotion wasn't fury.

Perhaps it was sorrow, dejection, or even exhaustion, but she certainly wasn't angry.

That reasoning broke Martha's heart more than she thought possible, realizing that her mother had grieved so much that she was no longer herself.

-"Mum, dear Mummy, let me clean this and i'll leave, i promise.."

But the older woman severly flinched as soon as her own daughter took the first step toward her. She stared, eyes distraught, at her mother, whom she had considered the strongest person to ever exist, as her soulless, paling frame curled on itself in a corner, shaking with sobs while craddling her head in her quacking arms, as if she was going to be killed, as if she had just killed.

Her mother's once unwavering gaze trembled, looking at the wall but seeing something further than the room's borders.

Perhaps her late husband was still haunting her unstable mind.

Martha exhaled.

-"Please..", her mother begged, chanting the mumbled word over and over.

And with that, the teenager left.

-"She's gone mad again..", John declared, watching as their neighboring door went open and shut, revealing a disheveled Martha who then sat on the entrance's filthy stairs.

-"Shut your mouth, John-boy!" His mother lightly smacked the back of his head, face harsh at her son's rude statement.

Her features softened, though, when, at his lack of response, she glanced at him and noticed his concerned expression, as he stood with an uncharactristic stillness.

-"Well, why don't you go sit with her, hm?"

At the feeling of her gentle hand on his shoulder, and the sudden change in her attitude, he shifted his blues to meet hers.

Despite not usually forcing herself into situations that didn't directly influence her, feeling like she would only curse the unfortunate and make it worse, Mrs. Shelby had always kept her house welcoming for the little family of three, then of two, living a door away. Her kids were childhood friends with their daughter, the late father teached her sons how to fix a broken ceiling, stopped some of their mischieves, joined in others, and sometimes even held back her drunken husband. The mother used to be an inspiration for her; a woman of firm and elegant posture, too graceful for someone raised in the mud of Birmingham and yet obviously hardened with the poor and difficult life she had grown used to. However, her friend's sudden collapse was a reminder that her own fall was near.

So, John sympathizing with the girl could do nothing but good.

She sent him an encouraging nod, caressing the child by her side and the child in her large womb.

And with that, he was off.

-"May she live in peace, may she live in peace.."

Voice hushed, Martha repeated the only prayer she could articulate, busy worrying about any noise coming from beyond the thin walls.

-"May she live in peace.."

Martha would deal with this again, and again, as many times she had to, for as long as needed, just to keep her mother beside her.

-"May she live in peace..", she selfishly wished, despite knowing that demise would be a more merciful fate for her mother than prolonged suffering.

-"May she live.."

-"I thought you liked to have a lazy walk rather than sit out all the afternoon", John loudly interrupted.

He studied her tense stature, as she rocked back and forth without acknowledging his presence, more focused on listening to whatever was happening inside.

He traced his signature smile, hoping he could make her socket less wide and her fist less tight.

-"I'm losing her", was the first thing she told him, as he settled down to her left, though it seemed more directed to herself; less of a declaration and more of a realization.

-"I can't lose her." She turned to him, pain written all over her being, so stiff that she was slightly quivering. Her tormented brown orbs darted quickly, moving with her mother's slowly decreasing wails, flickering between his pair and the metalic knob, pondering if she should go back inside, near her.

-"You won't", he assured, gaining part of her attention, "not yet."

Silence engulfed them in a limited solace, and none of them felt it was necessary to fill it. Eachother's sole company was enough to make the cold, bitter minutes, maybe hours, bearable. Martha was unsure if the blurriness was tears or a haze ovetaking her senses. It could be both, she didn't care at that moment, and she likely would never care while recalling the dreaded memory.

She heard shuffling, a low hiss, and she stood up, ready to rush to her mother's side, accidently dropping John's vest that was draped over her body somewhere along her daze.

She was beaten to it, as the door unexpectedly cracked open, making her freeze at the spot.

-"You're crying.." Her mother pointed out weakly. She looked _was_ tired, finished, darkness spilling from her eyes and around them. Locks of her hair were pulled out. Her fingernails were bitten anxiously. Her strained comment indicated an extremely sore throat. But she stood, feigning strength, courage, and she met her daughter's gape.

Once she regained use of her limbs, Martha immediately raised her sleeves to messily wipe the droplets running down her flushed cheeks, yet the more she blinked the more they ressurfaced.

-"You'll hurt yourself." Her mother's soft fingers wrapped around her own, and Martha instinctively brought them to her lips to depose loving kisses on them.

A mother's embrace will forever be her children's very first home, their safest haven where they could either laugh or weep uncontrolably.

A mother is a finite gift of unconditional tenderness.

A mother is a blessing whose vanishing is even more agonizing for those who had once possessed it.

-"Let's head inside.."

And despite hearing what she had longed to hear, despite having thousands of better things to say back, the only one she formulated was:

-"I have to clean."

-"On it." She had totally forgotten, disregarded John's presence.

He hurried through the door, promptly initiating on his task, and Martha could only be grateful he offered her even just a little longer while in her mother's arms.

-"Let's go home", her mother urged, cupping her innocent visage.

And at that, she replied:

-"Yes, dear Mummy."

[love4annie]

Falls.

John Shelby x Martha OC

Autumn is terrible.

For most, it was a beautiful blend of orange and yellow leaves scattered on the ground, tracing a magestic path for bypassers, a soft chill that would run down one's skin while the breeze gradually became colder, pumpkins pies and warm jumpers.

Not in Birmingham. Or at least, not for Martha.

Autumn reminded her of death, of an inescapable end for the living. While others despised winter for its general gloominess and harshness, considered it the worst period of the year, she at least appreciated its closure that leads to rebirth, its major contrubition to the circle of life.

Autumn was a season of grief, of endorsed losses, unquestionned, welcomed. She had mourned her father's passing while the cemetery was surrounded by rotting plants and buried bodies alike, listening to her mother's howling over the wind's. She had worn his long coat, attempting to shield herself from either the sharp temperatures or the bitter sorrow, until it started tattering, smelling like burning wood and medecine, and she had to watch her mother's health fall abruptly, turning her into a frail ghost of the once strong woman, both in physique and spirit.

Martha rocked back and forth on her seat as a one year old Edward snored in her arms. She kept mindlessly singing a lullaby memorized by her tongue more than her ears, words slurred as she repeated the same short verses over and over, unknowingly seeking comfort in the brief memory of her dear mum.

The sound of squeaking steps woke her from her trance, and her daughter from her nap, the door opening and closing carefully. She heard John's familiar long strides, and his warm face soon revealed itself around the corner of the living room. He somehow brightened even more at the sight of his small family huddled on the old chair.

-"Da!", Kattie, then fully awake, announced happily, excitedly gesturing for her father to lift her up.

With a joyful smile, he complied, as always, raising her in his arms as he threw and spun her around, laughing at her satisfied giggles.

-"You look tired." Martha hadn't realized he was speaking to her, at first, needing a few seconds to process his quick switch from playing with their girl to talking to her. Maybe she was.

-"You should let the kids with me, have a good nap. You didn't sleep well yesterday, with that little guy yodeling all night." He bobbed his head toward the boy.

She dropped her gaze to watch John gently caressing the bits of light hair over Eddie's tiny head with his empty hand, only feeling the heaviness over her eyelids when she tried looking up again. She closed her eyes, sighing as her husband's warm touch brushed her cheek, before fluttering them open at the feeling of a peck on her tightly shut mouth, his lips sweet on hers.

Their stares adoringly contested, speaking louder volumes than whatever could've been said, for their love was too difficult for words to express. His finger remained on her slowly paling skin, barely pressing with how delicately they were posed.

He saw her statement dance in her brown gems before coming to life.

-"I can't. Sleep won't come." She turned toward the window worriedly, unwittingly starting to move again, patting her son, a hazy mingle of thoughts overtaking the peace John usually brought her.

-"Mama!", as if she understood the situation, her darling daughter called, urging her parents to smile, both glad to have such an angel to release them from their own minds.

-"Kattie's right! Mama's too distracted, we should take her out, shouldn't we?" The man beamed hopefully at his lover. The child in his hold squealed in delight as he readjusted her on his hip, content after hearing a favorite sentence; 'take her out'.

-"Oh, I don't know, Love.." She pondered the suggestion, hesitant about taking out her kids at such a weather, such a dejecting atmosphere. Still, she had to admit that she missed going out, especially after Polly had chased her out of business to ensure she would properly rest, claiming that her newborn was enough labour.

-"I'll help Kattie change and bring out the stroller, you can change and wrap Eddie in his blankets, eh?" He kissed her forehead as she meekly nodded.

Their walk was haphazard, quiet apart from random expressions the baby girl would often throw, very rarely answered as both of her parents knew that she was more musing than communicating. They proceeded in the empty streets, employees at work, housewives at home, and students at school. Martha apparently hadn't noticed her husband's early arrival before. She didn't overthink it then, either; assuming that his brothers sent him to keep her company as soon as possible, taking care of the remaining duties themselves. She squeezed Kattie's hand, as they all went at her leisurely pace, forcefully admiring their surroundings and breathing in the fresh air.

They somehow ended up in Charlie's yard, greeted by the old man who kissed their still snoring infant, waved at the littlest girl before quickly hurrying back to his tasks. Curly tipped his hat at Martha from beside the horses, who slightly bowed her head in return, gaining a content grin.

Chuckles and cries of contagious joy filled Martha's ears, as her face beamed with delight. Her stare followed her daughter who bounced on the calm mare's back, supported by Curly's hand. He never ceased to remind her of the brave girl she was, how fast she learned. She shifted on John's jacket, and her laughter lines grew even wider at he sight of him gingerly playing with a babbling Edward.

She admired their matching blue eyes, illuminated by the filtered orange rays, swam in the beauty of that creation of theirs that was inspired by the most mesmerizing being she had ever crossed, and wondered if it was fair that a broken woman like her got to love and be loved by such souls.

Her sweetheart, her companion, her Lover caught her distant gaze on him. He invaded her most intimate sentiments, he always did, knowing somehow what had captured her senses and responding to her emotions with that smile of his.

The world quietened, and so did her worries.

-"You keep me sane", she whispered to his heart, after a beat of silence.

Autumn was a curse; unavoidable, miserable, just as her family was a blessing, one that made any suffering bearable, so long they were with her.

So long John was with her.

-"And i'm crazy in love with you", he murmured back to hers.

[love4annie]

Gramophone.

John Shelby x Martha OC

Unspoken words clashed between their eyes as their minds communicated. Martha broke their prollonged silence, walking to the old wooden table, her back facing him. Suddenly, a familiar symphony started, urging John's white teeth to display themselves. She graced him with her smile, in return, loving, adoring, as was her touch in his hand, over his shoulder.

Then, they swayed, left and right. To the rythm, to their journeys.

In every corner, in every step, they swayed.

Wherever, whenever, they swayed.

Holding eachother, trusting eachother, they swayed.

Gems remaining locked, arms tangled, feet synchronized, they kept hazily swaying, for their lives were just a little dance they shared.

[love4annie]

Four times a mother.

John Shelby x Martha OC

Martha's slightly wide eyes stared at the paper in her hand, orbs filled with worry as she reread the letter. Her calm voice should've surprised her, as she ordered her oldest daughter to stay home and watch over her brothers, but it didn't. After all, she often had this kind of unbreakable composure near her children. She left her house, rushing towards the Garison where she knew her husband was.

Her mind raced along with her, apprehension and ration battling in her thoughts, one reminding of the alarming future and the other recalling the many times she had handled situations like this.

"You mother..she passed.."

"My dear, what happened?"

"Oh, John, help me forget!"

"Pray. Pray, my girl."

"I'm tired.."

Words. Words brawled in her head, hers and others', dictating over the hidden realm of her consciousness that was quickly becoming more unbearable. Younger, she would've claimed this was a lot less than it seemed to be. Older, she admitted that it was a lot more than what a sixteen years old should be dealing with. But then, right then, she knew no past beliefs, nor was she sure that she would live to see the next day.

All she needed was John.

Her legs led her when her senses couldn't, and she soon found herself stumbling over Polly's door. The woman opened it, face wrinkling even more when she saw the poor girl's miserable air, calling for who she could only guess. Martha mumbled her lover's name under her breath, and he soon made his appearence, immediatly craddling her into his arms with reassurances she couldn't hear. His name escaped her lips once more, unheard, but John felt it and hugged her even closer.

Her following statement made him pause, probably along with everyone else in the room, for a second. But a charming smile tugged on his face, and he looked behind the couch, where Pol was previously standing. Truth was, their family had already discussed that subject for the longest time, and then was simply the ideal opportunity. He rubbed soothing circles in her back. She also felt the comforting palm of Arthur over her shoulder and Tommy's concerned blues flickering from her to the toddler over his knee. Ada sat beside her, interwining their fingers, for once looking older than her actually older friend. John's clear gems stared into her stormy pair, and his heart broke, it shattered for her. But there, then, she was in his hold. She wasn't alone in that gloomy house of hers, grieving her mother on her own and occasionally visiting them when the empty echoes of her memories in the hallways became too insufferable. She wasn't alone that gloomy house, as he peeked from the windows, attempting to check on her without disturbing her agitated peace, and he wasn't worrying over her safety when she was too loud or too quiet. She was in his hold, and he could protect and provide her. He would, undoubtfully would. Swift footsteps clicked more than they usually would have, sound more prominent in the mute exchange between most presents. She discreetly handed John a mystery item, and the boy gently removed Martha from his grasp as he fell on one knee, loving gaze set upon her and a hopeful grin mastered to encourage his one and only.

-"Will you marry me?"

She finally saw the church, a place where she sought comfort when life became too much. Her remembrance was again triggered by the mere image of this very familiar building.

-"May we leave now, my dear?", John complained about his wife staying longer than the preaching lesson's time, though he understood that she was attached to the wooden benches and revebrating sounds in early Sunday hours, despite not being much of a religious woman herself, having comitted her fair share of sins, though she was everything but mistaken in anything she had to do, to him. He understood that those visits were a habit, one her mother had installed in her since innocence, and while he had the unpredicable events of life to blame for making both of them drift just a bit from what they used to be and do; the illegal business the Shelby brothers had debuted and the dozing baby girl on his lap; he knew that events were also what brought them back there.

-"I am praying for us, John." She replied, not quite the answer he awaited. Her vision was unfocused, but it held more reverence than he could ever perform. She had always been more spiritual than him, more perceiving of herself than he ever was. More sentimental, more thoughtful, she claimed there was a certain depth in things he couldn't entirely decipher.

-"Don't you always do that?" He had to admit, he was longing for a morning in with his girls, a rest he desired for himself after a long week, but even more for his wife. He knew that taking care of a nearly one year old, along with helping with the numbers, relentlessly worrying over his late shifts, and the newfound talent she had for patching him up when Polly was too busy with a doubly bloodied Arthur, was draining her more than she let on. He might've been the one facing the danger of the minor criminal affairs the family had started, but she was lifting most of the emotional burden, as she assumed her duty as the stability of their small household.

-"I am praying for our child." She said, then murmured something. Not to him, not to herself. She listened to every movement he did, every response he formulated, but she yet had to look at him.

She did, when he asked his next question.

-"Isn't she here, safe and sound and healthy?"

He frowned at his wife's quivering stature, but he soon showed a happy grin at her announcement.

-"I am praying for our second, John."

Somewhere in her haze, her pace had quickened, throat already dry and muscles throbbing from the sudden extreme activity of sprinting from one edge of Watery Lane to the other. The Garrison just a corner away, and she evoked one more crucial moment of her existance.

In the dim lights of her bedroom lantern, sat a single mother of two, widowed but not so, husband taken by the war, juggled between death and life as he hid in holes in the frontlines and soiled his hands with crimson dirt. Her children slumbered soundly in her bed, crying themselves to sleep for weeks after their father's departure and she promised herself every night that they would soon adapt with his abscense. They were old enough to notice him missing in the late evening when he used to gladly indulge in their youthful fun, but still too young to fully comprehend the cause. Though, in that night precisely, she needed him even more than they did. So, sitting in front of her vanity table, fingers wrapped around a pen, she wrote. She wrote her struggle, wrote her worry, but assured him that she was carrying on, would be until his return and as long as he needed her to after that. She wrote and her thoughts fell into the dark ink, free from her grip, news that could weight him more than what was already on his shoulders. Then, when the ink grew dry, she wrote with her tears, for she knew he could very much be reading it with his blood. She clutched to the paper, seeking the solace John brought her in the immobile object, his alluring beams and alleviating touches.

It did reach John, while he sat moments away from their next violent warfare, and he feared it was tainted with filth after all the transportation, though he melted in a wave of calm as soon as he gently ripped it open, a smell of home hitting him harder than bullets. It was short truce, getting to imagine her voice along the perfectly picked words and neat handwriting. His brothers watched as joy traced his features for the first time in the two months of combat, before he revealed that yet another Shelby was to come.

The chants of men didn't falter as she entered the pub, but those who saw her distressed expression made her a path toward her husband, and she scurried into his embrace.

-"The doctor..the letter.." She tried to tell him despite her panting from all the hurry.

-"The hell is happening, John?" Arthur called behind her, ready to beat up whatever bastard bothering his sister-in-law. He had always seen her as a sister, even before she was married into their family, her and Ada cherished by his heart that softened remarkably around them, and inevitably, a feeling of protectiveness bloomed within it toward her.

John didn't answer him, instead thinking about what she said, until it clicked, and that beautiful smile of his shone again. Thomas' hawk eyes caught on it, and he discreetly relaxed.

-"John, I...i drank a beer..and you're just back and.."

-"And we would welcome it like the blessing it is." He locked eyes with her, and she drunk in the love they emitted, as they released her from the confines of her pondering into a warmth only he could grant her, tapping her on the back to face the boys.

-"Tell 'em, my dear."

She hesitated, studying the anger and concern Arthur casted, the sudden near-stillness state of the entire room, and spoke at Tommy's supportive nod.

-"I'm..pregnant."

And the place roared with yells and congratulations, until John spoke again, making it blow with even more excitement.

-"All drinks tonight are on me!"

[love4annie]

Glossed over eyes.

John Shelby x OC

Note: Pretty much Martha, but with some modifications, and she's not dead because that's how i cope.

War had changed a lot of things.

Clothings that now became more practical, women dropping a few layers to keep up with their duties for when their husbands and fathers weren't home.

Haistyles, mostly for men, who wore it the same way they did while battling. It gave them a unique flair they held proudly, like a crown posed on their heads for serving their country.

War had changed a lot of things.

Nights in Birmingham were no longer the nearly peaceful wanders in darkness and dim lights escaping windows, dangerless other than the unfortunate meeting with a drunken neighbor whose violence took over, or the ocasional fights that broke between lads. They were now filled with nightmares for the woken and asleep, for those who went to war and those who didn't. They were filled with the cries of agony traumatised men would throw, or the shattering of furniture, or sobs of children. Even the once cocky and careless boys returned broken, double-checking with each step they made, glimpses of the front haunting them in diurnal whispers and nocturnal screams. They'd seen lives abruptly taken, flying with the breath of a breeze. They were survivors, while those who used to sit on the other side of the table, were gone, consumed in the ashes, dissipated in the mud of the collective graves, buried under the ground they walked on.

They were survivors, while others weren't.

War had changed a lot of things.

And her husband was one of them. It was not apparent when he bickered with his equally changed brothers, or when he did business. It was not apparent when he was playing with their kids, or when he was poking fun at her. It only showed in the gloominess, when John would finally allow himself to rest beside his wife, in the earliest hours into the next, unpredicable day. When he no longer would be distracted by the fast events of life. His wife's soft snoring and her gentle arms holding him would grow distant, his own body would grow numb and his eyes would look around the room.

But it wasn't the room they were seeing.

They would recall the details of the cruelty he had witnessed. They would remember the bursting heads of men he had chanted with, knowing well it could've been his. They would remind him of the pained expressions his brothers had when they were separated, not sure if they will unite again. He frankly believed the three of them would never sit around the same plate. He thought that one, two or even them all would forever perish in France.

In France, he would reminisce, over young Martha's portrait, of their free escapades and lovely times. He found comfort in all their memories, from when they met as children to when he got her pregnant at sixteen to when Arthur walked her down the aisle. He had smiled mindlessly to even their struggles with their two kids, thought of what his thirdborn would look like, until his smile dropped, realizing he was unable of seeing him, because the war was still rumbling around him, and if he didn't want it to reach them, he had to face it.

And he would shout, shriek, yell, of fear and pain and bravery, he would join the chorus of suffering voices and wake Martha from beside him. She would sit, worried, before her features displayed sorrow for her husband's torment. Her hands would grab his cheeks, cup his face and she would gently bring him back to her; the war had already taken him for long enough.

She would craddle him and wipe his forehead of sweat, while he brawled with unconscious protests. Then she would sing, a lullaby she used on her children, her mother using it on herself, and her warmth would bring John back, the familiar walls materialising around him and his wife's voice unclenching his heart. She would kiss and console him as he mumbled about his troubled self, appologizing for God knows what, so out of himself but also so safe and sound that she would just ignore it all and keep hugging him, reassuring both of them that he was home, often until dawn peaked through the curtains.

War had changed a lot of things. Even somethings in their daily, even in their dynamic.

But it never, never changed their love.