Agents of the Forgotten Faction

|Chapter 19|

I open my eyes to the words "Fear God Alone" painted on a plain white wall. I hear the sound of running water again, but this time it's from a faucet and not from the chasm. Seconds go by before I see definite edges in my surroundings, the lines of door frame and countertop and ceiling. I feel my heart beat racing at the sight of an unfamiliar surrounding. 

"Tris you are okay, you're in Four's apartment," I hear Hill say.

"You have a bruised side and cheek but other than that you don't have anything serious, you were cleared from concussion. Your vitals are looking fine. I 'm sorry this had to happen to you," I hear Hill say.

The pain is a constant throb in my head and cheek and ribs. I shouldn't move; it will make everything worse. I see a blue patchwork quilt under my head and wince as I tilt my head to see where the water sound is coming from. Four stands in the bathroom with his hands in the sink. Blood from his knuckles turns the sink water pink. He has a cut at the corner of his mouth, but he seems otherwise unharmed. His expression is placid as he examines his cuts, turns off the water, and dries his hands with a towel. I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me.

He turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep, but then our eyes meet and it's too late. 

"Your hands," I croak. 

"My hands are none of your concern," he replies. 

He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over me, slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away, I reach out to touch the cut on the side of his lip but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering. What do you have to lose? I ask myself. I touch my fingertips lightly to his mouth. 

"Tris," he says, speaking against my fingers, "I'm all right." 

"Why were you there?" I ask, letting my hand drop. 

"I was coming back from the control room. I heard a scream." 

"What did you do to them?" I say. 

"I deposited Drew at the infirmary a half hour ago," he says. "Peter and Al ran. Drew claimed they were just trying to scare you. At least, I think that's what he was trying to say." 

"He's in bad shape?" 

"He'll live," he replies. 

Then he says bitterly, "In what condition, I can't say." 

It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first. But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Drew in the infirmary, and I squeeze Four's arm.

"Good," I say. 

My voice sounds tight and fierce. Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me. I want to break something, or hit something, but I am afraid to move, so I start crying instead. These past few weeks have just accumulated inside me. Four crouches by the side of the bed, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes. I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free and, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone. His fingers are careful. 

"I could report this," he says. 

"No," I reply. "I don't want them to think I'm scared."

He nods. He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth.