A/N: I cried writing this imagine, which probably isn’t a good sign. If you really want to suffer, listen to the first minute of “Magic Tree And I Let Myself Go” by Craig Armstrong while reading it. All due respect to Christina, by the way. :) I hope you don’t cry too much, loves.
warnings: angst, death
The vows have been uttered, the wedding band adorning your left hand. Fraser carries you out of the church in his arms, the crowd cheering for the both of you.
Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Your white dress is hanging up in the closet, gathering dust. Your husband sits on the bed contentedly, letting his eyes roam and you catch him in the act. Flashbacks from your honeymoon come rushing back, remembering how the two of you were always running away together, kissing in alleyways.
Best wishes, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Crowds of beautiful flowers bloom in the shop. It’s your third anniversary - he has to leave on tour, but not before arranging a gift to be sent to his gorgeous wife. You come home from the airport feeling sad, yet the bouquet of roses left at your front door leave you speechless.
“Happy anniversary, my love.” it says on the card.
Take care, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
You’re a mother-to-be, sporting the prominent baby bump. Fraser’s resting his head on your belly, singing quietly, his angelic voice soothing to your ears. You feel a sense of pride and joy, knowing the unborn child you carry will have the greatest father they could ask for. He’d set the roses on the kitchen counter.
“I’m so grateful to have you, my love.” it says on the card.
Good luck, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Your little bundle of joy has entered the world, her tiny hands latching onto her father’s forefinger. She has Fraser’s nose and his azure eyes, fused with your (y/h/c) hair and the perfect replica of that bright smile of yours he loved so much. Brielle is a dainty child, so petite compared to his large frame, but the both of you love her more than anything. The roses are waiting on the bedside table this year.
“Thank you for choosing me, my love.” it says on the card.
God bless you, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Brielle squeals, happily tumbling around the house on her chubby legs. With tired eyes full of maternal love, you smile softly, opening your arms and beckoning her to come to you. She’s growing up just to look like her father, those sapphire eyes screaming of Fraser’s warmth. He’s away again, but as always, the roses are there at your front door.
“I don’t deserve you, my love.” it says on the card.
Keep on, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
The angels have taken Brielle home tonight. Her frail heart had given out too early, and she went home in her sleep. You and Fraser sit together on the living-room couch, weeping bitterly at her loss. Your baby’s gone, and she isn’t coming back. The boys are there with you, joining in your show of tears. Fraser’s roses gild his late daughter’s coffin this year, your seventh anniversary being the bitter-sweet tale it is.
“You’re all I have left, my love.” he whispers in your ear.
Sorry for your loss, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
It’s taken awhile to accept Brielle’s death, but the ache is slowly subsiding. Perhaps, it will always be a sensitive subject for you and your husband as the both of you pull out of the grieving process. He’d dealt with it through music, working in the studio every day from dawn till dusk. He’s fatigued and hurting, and you wrench him away from his desk to force him to take care of himself.
Yet, despite his distance, the roses arrive at your door as on cue.
“Thank you for staying with me, my love.” it says on the card.
Hold on, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
The sun is coming up again, the both of you alone in your hotel room as the others explored the new city you were visiting. Fraser had convinced you to come with him on tour this time, and you agreed, wanting nothing more than to be with him. As you were staring into each other’s souls in comfortable silence, he reaches out and cups your cheek with his hand, kissing you deeply - just like he did on your wedding day nine years ago.
After the concert that night, he gently hands you his signature bouquet.
“We’re in this together, my love.” says Fraser, sighing in awe of his beautiful wife.
Stay young, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Gathering around Brielle’s grave, you and Fraser pay your respects, kneeling beneath the ancient weeping willow tree that hung over your child’s final resting place. He and the boys sing her one last song in the fading daylight, fighting back the ghostly tears threatening to make a reappearance.
Three years have passed since that fateful day, and since then the six of you all have grown up and begun families of your own. Fraser nearly bursts out crying when he sees Harvey’s little girl frolicking around the cemetery with her brother. She’s wearing what would’ve been Brielle’s dress, her coffee eyes wide with wonder and her bouncy curls blowing around in the summer breeze.
He suddenly misses his daughter so much, watching his friends-turned-brothers gleefully run after their little ones. Yet, you’re there to comfort him, to put him back together, and this time it’s you who gives him your rose.
“We’ll be okay, my love.” you murmur, kissing his forehead.
We wish you well, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
The family friends are over for a barbeque this evening. Fraser, Benjamin, and Harvey are outside playing tag with the kids as Peter tends to the grill and Noah looks after the stereo, controlling the playlists.
You’re in the kitchen baking an apple pie, catching up with the other wives as they cut the fruit beside you. You can’t help admire your husband from a distance, watching his lips curl up into a cheeky smile as he darts back and forth between the trees in the backyard.
He’s happy again.
When it gets dark, Noah’s eldest takes the little ones inside to watch cartoons - the adults now allowed enjoy some romantic couple-time together.
An acoustic love song plays on the radio, the ten of you slowly waltzing under the milky fairy-lights and summer stars. You and Fraser take centre-stage, it being your eleventh anniversary, the others dancing around you in a warm, smitten stupor.
The wives had woven your roses into your hair a few minutes earlier, jumping up and down, cheering you on as Fraser suddenly dips you and brings his lips to yours in a long, gentle kiss.
“You are my world, my love.” Fraser whispers in your ear.
Stay strong, Mr. & Mrs. Pryce.
Hands entwined with his fingers, you wait restlessly at Fraser’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up. His breaths are few and far between, his chest raising ever so slightly as he gasps for air.
There was an accident last night. Your husband’s in a coma. The doctors say he may never wake up.
Twelve years together and today might be the day he joins Brielle at home with the angels.
Gripping onto his wrist, you beg for him to say something. Anything. Just one word, one utterance.
But the ward is deathly silent, filled with unspoken promises passing from one spouse to another.
It’s Fraser’s time to go. One last time, you press your lips to the back of his limp hand, barely holding back the sobs rising up from your throat.
But just before you step out of the door forever, his eyes pry open, looking straight at you with all the love and admiration he can muster. Fraser smiles at you weakly, and the raw emotion coming from his sapphire eyes alone shatters your heart.
The heart-rate monitor flatlines. Those striking orbs snap shut once and for all.
Farewell, Mr Pryce.
You’re alone in your apartment, flipping through your old photo albums and clutching your wedding ring in your hand. Today would’ve marked thirteen years of marriage between you and the love of your life. But he isn’t here. He’s gone, and you know you’ll never love again.
Setting the book down on the rug beside you, you lay down on the cold, hardwood floor and cry.
You cry, and cry, and cry until there’s nothing left but an empty shell of what used to be a happy soul.
First, it was Brielle, and now it was Fraser. Life has taken everything away from you, and all you want to do is curl up into a ball and disappear.
But the doorbell rings, startling you.
Opening the door, your eyes fill up again with tears as you see the melancholy sight in front of you.
It’s a bouquet of red roses, just like the ones Fraser would send to you every anniversary.
Hesitantly picking them up, you read the card and collapse onto the ground, sobbing like a waterfall.
“My love for you is eternal.” it read, being written by Fraser’s own hand.
With it you saw the receipt, showing that he’d paid for years and years in advance. You closed the door, setting the roses on the kitchen bench like your husband once did.
<b><p></b> <b>Hufflepuff:</b> Do you want to see the new Beauty and the Beast movie?<p/><b>Ravenclaw:</b> *playing "Evermore" loudly*<p/><b>Ravenclaw:</b> I've seen it twice already.<p/><b>Hufflepuff:</b> So is that a no?<p/><b>Ravenclaw:</b> Are you crazy, when's the next showing?<p/></p><p/></p>