Title: Marriage (1/1)

Series/Sequel: The fourth in the Reincarnation Series.

Author: Vera

Rating: PG

Summary: Through the centuries of human history, two souls are bound together. This fourth tale takes place in the 1933. The timeline may skip, but it will end in the present.

Disclaimer: The boys belong to Sandra, I just like to mess with them.

Archive: Yes

Feedback: Always appreciated.

Notes: Each title will tell you what separates the souls. I don't know if I believe in reincarnation or not, but it makes for fertile story telling ground. This was not written with the intent of offending any religion. I have done some research on the historical facts mentioned within.

The first thing Christopher noticed as he slouched into the cramped apartment was that the costumes weren't laid out on the bed. A suit and a dress from a better time that the he and his wife wore only to dance contests. His suit was sharply cut, charcoal gray with double breasted buttons. The matching hat had a laced through black ribbon and his wingtip shoes made for a smooth line all the way down. Her dress was classy white, cut to show her lovely pale neck and smooth breast lines. On dance contest days, he'd come home to find these testaments of optimism waiting for him.

They should have been there today. Instead, there was only a rumpled unmade bed and the smell of frustrated hopes. Anger flared in his chest, unsuspectingly. For a moment he was tempted to just turn around and not come back. March far out of this hell of a life and find somewhere new to start over. Took a deep breath. Exhaled.

"Darling, what are you still doing in bed?"

Sniffles.

"I'm sick." Came the definitive whine. With a heavy sigh, he sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his neatly kept hair. It helped to look neat. People sometimes hired him for a day job based solely on his well-patched suit and cleanly cut hair. Harriet, on her better days, would rise with him and trim his hair, mend his only remaining set of clothes while they talked of the next dance contest.

They lived for those contests. It was the only thing that kept them going. Day after day, Chris would wake with the gray dawn and knew that today was the absolute last day he could get out of bed and go look for word. And every night, he lay down knowing that he would get up tomorrow and look for work. To many men had died. To many had taken their own lives to spare themselves the shame of unemployment.

Christopher Tinker was a survivor. By sheer force of will, he had managed to find work where there was no work to be had. He lived by the raw need to live. The twenty-one year old plowed through the day on two cups of weak tea and a piece of toast, knowing that unless he was that smidgen quicker then the other men, all there would be for dinner were long looks and rumbling stomachs. In the Tinker home there were fewer of those nights then most others. Jealous wives in the apartment building, would whisper to themselves when he walked by. Such a shame that this tall, young and handsome bread winner should be tied to such a sickly wife.

He knew this. Wondered if they weren't right. He and Harriet had been so young when they married, barely sixteen and the world had looked so bright. He had a starting career as a printer's apprentice and she was a perfect housewife. Their first apartment had had it's own bathroom and two large bay windows overlooking the crowded streets. Their parents approved of the match, despite their children's youth. They were so in love and Chris' career was so promising, that surely there was no reason to wait? Not to mention, of course, that both families had a half a dozen mouths to feed each and the lessening of the burden by one was nothing to turn one's nose at.

And now the deed was nearly four years since done. The world had gone mad around them and only one had been able to put his shoulder to the heavy weight and press on. Harriet had collapsed and not a day went by that she did not apologize to him in some way, knowing how deeply she had failed him. When she rose to care for him, it was her only effort of the day, one that she did not always make. As he pounded the streets for a few pennies, she slept and daydreamed about the past.

Only the competitions could rouse her from her dream state, prodding her to awareness. She had always loved to dance. Together, even still, they cut quite a figure on the dance floor and more then once, they had taken the prize money home, outlasting other couples by hours. They could dance like youths possessed and the prize money would pay the rent and buy them food. But competitions were scare and as Harriet grew worse, she could not always be rousted into competing.

Christopher stared at his thin soled shoes and tried to find the spark of love that kept him going through the bad times. A place in his heart as many times patched as his jacket and with the same infinite care.

"Did you find work today?" Her voice is soft, apologetic. Asking out of habit.

"A courier's root. The usual boy didn't show up. Only a nickel. "

"Put it in the dish then." Their little porcelain dish, another relic, held his wages from day to day.

"None left. We were out of food, I picked up bread and a two apples."

"Oh."

He turned to her, in the dim falling light of dusk, taking in her face that still shone with beauty even in it's fallen state. She lay tangled in the sheets, her wide blue eyes staring at nothing and her blonde hair flattened against the pillows, haloing her head. Her oh lingers on her lips, forming a perfect circle of pink. The spark in his heart flares and he finds it in himself to care for another day.

"I thought there was a contest tonight?"

"Oh, Chris, I can't."

"It's two hundred dollars, Harriet." He tells her softly as he can. "We could live for two months without missing a meal on that much. "

"I know. You can go."

"Thank you, darling. But if you I think I need a partner."

Is her mind more addled then he had believed? Is she really so sick that she can no longer track the simple details of their lives?

"There's a girl down the hall named Silvia. I met her doing laundry. Her husband found a job about five hours from here. He's going to send for her when he makes enough. She's lonely and she likes to dance."

He stares at her as if she is possessed. She does the laundry once every other week, when did she befriend this girl? Harriet never talks to anyone, but him anymore. She is afraid they will hurt her. So who is this Silvia?

"We'll have to split the money." But he knows already that he will do it. Even if it is only for the chance to leave the one room apartment for a while, dressed in his fine suit. To pretend.

"I asked her to come by after sunset. I'll help you get dressed."

She rose with effort and languidly helped him into the charcoal suit. It feels odd to wear it while she remains dressed in a thin night gown. The last dimness of light shimmers through it when she stands by the tiny window and he shivers slightly. She looks as if death has already taken her. Ghostly and ethereal.

The knock on the door is so light that it takes him until Harriet is already opening the door to notice someone was there. It startles him. And makes him wonder how long it has been since he met someone new, who he wasn't competing with or soliciting for work. Harriet calls him back to reality with her soft warm tones,

"This is Silvia, Chris. Silvia, this is my husband, Christopher Tinker."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Tinker. Harriet's told me so much about you. "

He bows to her, rather stiffly more out of shock then anything else. Silvia is there age, he somehow thought she would be much older, a matron of sorts. But instead, she looks like Harriet should. Vivacious and alive, her brown eyes sparkling in the remains of the days light. Her hair is bobbed and curled though by the smell, she has done it herself and recently. Her dress is tighter then it should be and the red of the rose pinned to the sharply creased lapels of her jacket has faded to pink.

"The pleasure is mine. And please, call me Chris. If we are going to dance together tonight, then we should be on a first name basis. May I call you Silvia?"

Her blush matches her rose and her quick nod almost dislodges her curls. Chris drops a kiss on Harriet's cheek, but she has already faded away again, eager for him to disappear so she can return to her fantasy life where they are ever young. It has never been such a relief to close the door behind him.

"Tell me, Silvia. How did you meet Harriet?" He asked as they started the long decent down. Eight flights of stairs would lead them to the streets below. He let her take the railing, careful with his footsteps on the rickety wood.

"Meet her? She stopped me today in the hall and asked my name. We have seen each other many times before, but never talked. We chatted for a while about the apartment building and then she asked me if I liked to dance." The words halted suddenly, the perky voice chopping to a stop. "I don't know that I should have told you that."

"Why not? My wife's business is her own, Silvia."

"Perhaps." Was all the blonde said mysteriously.

"Harriet told me that your husband had found some work. Congratulations."

"It's only a little thing, but it is something. I keep up my end here. I was a seamstress before we married and now, I sometimes do little jobs. It keeps me busy and its good pocket money."

The conversation ambles onto lighter topics as they reach the rapidly darkening streets. Chris does not fear the robbers who lurk in the shadows. He keeps a knife in his pocket and trained to use it. He has used it twice since he bought it three years ago. Doesn't know what happened to the men whom he stabbed and doesn't care. They would have killed him if he had the chance. Lazy concentration kept on the chatter between him and Silvia and the rest on the potential dangers of the street. It is only when they reach the nightclub that he notices she is shivering from the cold. No jacket. It is to late to comment because the entrance of the club spews forth warmth and they enter a raging inferno.

Quickly, he signs them in, placing in the dollar entrance fee for a couple and helps Silvia attach their number to her blouse. His hand brushes against the exposed skin of her neck and shivers course through him, unexpectedly.

A slick haired man in an even slicker suit takes the stage, calling for attention.

"All right, cats let's begin this crazy shindig and remember that all you have to do is keep dancing. We've got all night and most of tomorrow. Last one's still on their feet win the pot. And away we go!"

The band beings to play and Chris finds his mind emptying out his troubles, bringing him into a white hot concentration. There is only this moment and only this partner and Silvia falls right into step. It's hard in the beginning, the first few dances are somewhat awkward as they try to find each others rhythms and cues. Things that Chris has done for years with Harriet, won't work with this slighter, but less agile woman. Around them, the first few drop outs flee the floor, red in the face and panting heavily. The first hour is all about finding the right pace. Finding the concentration.

The second is all about endurance. It's easily one of the hardest parts of the whole ordeal. The pace has been found, but muscles have not yet learned to accept their fate. Thighs, knees, toes and joints all scream out for relief that they will not receive. There is no easy way through the second hour.

It's in the third hour that Chris realizes he's in love with Silvia. Maybe it is the way she kept pace with him through the second hour, maybe it's the pure joy of dancing in abandon to the sound of trumpets wailing and maybe, even, it's that she is so very alive. Already sweat has undone her careful work on hair, the blonde curls is mussed every which way. Her eyes flash in challenge and her cheeks are on fire. He knows that he must look awful, black hair asunder and sweat pouring down his face, but he cannot bring himself to care.

During the fourth and fifth hours, they begin to talk about things. Words are far apart and hard to hear, but the manage through aching lungs to communicate. They speak in short sentences, trying to pack in as many thoughts as possible into the fewest amount of words. Through a tangle of limbs and sweat, they learn about each others bodies and minds.

The sixth hour is brutal. There strength is failing them and there are still three other couples still on the floor. The band has been replaced twice and between them they have only managed to grab one and half glasses of water. Talk falters and they resort to eye contact to keep them going. Chris, in his delirious mind, reads maybe to much into the light brown irises and dilating pupils. He decides that she returns his love and that when they collapse to the floor in exhaustion it will not end. They can run into the chilly night and walk for hours until they reach the point of no return. He can start from scratch again with this kindred spirit behind him. Together they can create a home made from toil and sweat. Together they can be free of obligation.

It is the beginning of the seventh hour that a kind judge stops them with a light hand and drops a small trophy filled with dollar bills into his hand. They have won out of sheer determination as Chris had always won before. But this seemed easier then his other wins. This time, his partner was equal to him. Always before, he had had to carry the weight of two people in the end, pulling Harriet on. Victory was sweeter when fairly earned and he had no compunctions of counting out Silvia's half into her palm.

They smiled at each other for a long minute, before rushing to sit heavily and drink copious amounts of water. They did not speak while the rest of the crowd made for home. It was easily four in the morning when they managed to stagger out, clutching each other out of necessity more then anything else.

The stillness on the streets overwhelmed them, so they spoke in whispers which made it seem that they shared a secret though they told little more then their plans for their winnings. It was only as they reached their building that Chris realized that the night had to end. Exhaustion tugged at him to join his slumbering wife on their soft rickety bed. Love tied him to the stoop, staring down into large brown eyes that had pushed him to his limits.

"I don't want this night to end." He admitted, surprised by the emotion in his voice.

"Neither do I."

So they stood together, her looking up at him, for three long minutes. Together they created a solid memory of joy and satisfaction in a job well done. They acknowledged the deep fate that had steered them to this space and time.

"With that money, you can go to your husband." He says finally.

"I think that I will."

The moment is broken and the stairs rob them of breath. At last, they reach the eighth floor, their footsteps leaden and their feet bleeding. He walks her to her door and as she steps inside, she turns, leaning her face up to him to brush her lips gently over his.

"When the time is right, we will meet again."

The door shut like a kiss in his face and he turned his back to the anonymous apartment and trudged wearily home to a life that would have it's ups and downs, but on his death bed it is that moment that will linger in his mind. A single ghostly kiss and the promise of destiny.