When the Light Goes Out

Chapter Eight

D+4

Elizabeth

Elizabeth shed her hospital gown and stepped into the shower. The water poured over her. It soaked her hair, fell like tears across her face, and trickled down over the angry incision that curved just beneath her right breast. She kept her face turned up to the water. If she didn't look, maybe the cut would disappear, maybe everything could go back to how it was before.

By the time she turned the shower off, the room had filled up with steam. She picked up the towel and patted herself dry. But despite her care, the stitches snagged. Each tweak came with the flash of an image: security circling her; the look in Conrad's eye; the fear behind Will's mask; Stevie's utter horror.

There was a tapping at the door. "Babe? Everything okay?"

Elizabeth swallowed. She pressed her thumb and forefinger to her eyes. "I'm fine." She pulled on her underwear, a pair of loose sweats, and one of Henry's old tees. Hardly the most flattering of outfits, but at least it didn't press down on the wounds. At least, for a while, it allowed her to forget.

Elizabeth opened the door and the cool air rushed in. Henry was hovering just outside. "Can you pass my make-up bag?"

"Sure." He went to the bed and rummaged through the kitbag he had brought with him. He presented her with the make-up bag, and then with one hand, he found her hip and pulled her close. "Though, you're beautiful just as you are."

Elizabeth snorted. "Nice try." But she gave him a peck on the cheek for the effort before retreating into the washroom. She balanced the bag on the edge of the sink as she applied her make-up. "I just want to feel a bit more human." She glanced at him. He was studying her, that concerned look creeping back across his features. "What?"

"You can talk to me, you know?" He leant against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest.

She looked away again as tension gripped her shoulders. "I am talking to you."

"You know what I mean."

She caught his eye in the mirror. "Henry, I'm fine." What was there to talk about? She got shot, she was getting better, end of discussion. He raised his eyebrows at her. "Seriously, Henry, I'm fine." She shook her head to herself and then smoothed out her foundation. It was just a touch of make-up, but it would do.

"Elizabeth."

Elizabeth busied herself with returning the brushes and powder to the bag.

"Elizabeth," Henry repeated, firmer this time. She turned to him. Her hands clutched the edge of the sink behind her as she leant back against it. He stepped closer, placing his feet either side of hers, and then he tilted her chin up so that she met his gaze. "Please don't shut me out."

"Henry." She let out a deep breath. "I really am fine." Why couldn't he just leave it alone? He was as bad as that counsellor she had been forced to see after her parents had died.

He let go of her chin and folded his arms across his chest again. But he stayed close, so that he towered over her. "You know, the more you say 'I'm fine', the less fine you sound."

She shrugged. "Then what do you want me to say?"

"The truth." His gaze hardened.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "The truth?" Seriously? She stood up straight, folding her arms across her chest to mirror his stance. "The truth is that you worry about me too much." Her tone was perhaps a touch too sharp. "If I say I'm fine, it's because I'm fine."