Can't Fight This Feeling || Roger Waters Imagines

- aubrey -

The day had drawn to a close hours before. Now, darkness consumed the house, calling us to bed where we would sleep and wake up to a brand new day. This particular night, however, felt different. The energy had shifted. Instead of the usual sleepy-time exhaustion of the long day, a surge of excited energy filled the air, keeping us awake and unable to fall asleep. There was no reason for this energy– after all, it had been an ordinary day to be followed by an even more ordinary day. But for whatever reason, we were wide awake. Eventually, my body caved and lulled me into a light sleep as I pressed my ear against his chest and hypnotized myself with his heartbeat.

I woke up. Rolling over to check the time, I sighed. It was only 2:13 in the morning. Oh, how the night seemed to draw on and on without an end in sight. I rolled back over onto my side and curled up next to him. But he wasn't there.

My curiosity piqued. More-so, my apprehension piqued. Where is he?

Then I heard it.

A gentle tune carried through the house. Soft, sensitive. The door to our room was cracked open, lightly permitting a ray of warm light into the bedroom. I pulled back the covers, crawled out of bed, and walked to the door. Upon opening it, the song became a bit clearer. And so did his voice.

I made my way downstairs, creeping along the cold hardwood floor beneath me. The autumn air chilled my bones. Goosebumps made their way down my spine. My eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light that emitted from the living room, I saw him sitting there with my guitar in his lap... playing.

My heart lifted.

From his lips flowed a little song. Every once in a while, he would mess up. He'd screw up a word or a chord and a slight shade of embarrassment would shadow his face. But then he'd regain his flow and start again.

He'd never played guitar this well before. He barely even played guitar at all. Where did he learn to...?

A sense of pride filled my spirit. Although he may not have been perfect, he was certainly trying. He was doing it. The thing he was most afraid of, he was trying. He hated screw-ups. He wanted perfection. If it wasn't perfect, he wouldn't even try. That's why he stuck to bass and only bass. But that night, I saw him trying. And he looked happy.

"Rog?"

His hand snapped to mute the strings as his eyes shot up to look at mine. "Dawn! What are you doing up?"

I shrugged. "Heard you playing."

His embarrassed demeanor faded into a harsh one. He put his guitar back on the stand and said sternly, "Well go back to bed. I'm done now."

Frustrated by his sudden change in attitude, I asked, "Why do you do this?"

"Do what?"

"This." I gestured to the guitar and then to him. "You get so upset when people see you being vulnerable. I thought you were doing a great job on that guitar and I was so proud but now look at you– you're a mess."

His voice lowered, still stern. "I didn't want you to hear me."

"Why not?"

"Because I messed up! I wrote that song and I still messed up. The chords, the lyrics, I couldn't sing it right." He turned his back to me and sad down on the couch. "I didn't want you to hear it until it was perfect."

"Why not?" I was getting sick of my repetitive questions being battered by his insecure remarks.

His eyes met mine when he turned back around. "Because I wrote it for you."

My heart fell to the pit of my stomach.

He'd never written a song for me.

Why did you do that?

He must've read my mind. "It's called If. I wrote it for you. I wanted to get it right and then show it to you but I wanted it to be different than anything else the band has done and the chords just weren't-"

"Roger..." I trailed off, breathing heavily as my voice cracked. My cheeks flushed red. "You wrote a song for me?" He nodded. I gulped. "But why?"

Blinking silently, he bit his lip. A second of silence passed. "Because I love you."

As I began to walk towards him, he stood up with his arms splayed out. I fell into his embrace. Our bodies fit perfectly together, like yin and yang. I hadn't hugged him in what felt like months. His scent caused me to burrow my face into his chest. I love you too.

A moment later, he pushed my away gently and bent down to meet my gaze. "Let's go to bed. It's late."

"Ok," I whispered almost inaudibly, taking his hand before leading him back to bed.