The nightmares don't bother him too much, not anymore.
It's a nice surprise, he supposes.
That's not the same for Eileen, and on sticky, summer nights when everything is just a bit too much, and she can only wear one of his t-shirts to bed because everything else clings to her skin and she can't deal with that, Henry stays awake, keeping himself busy with his computer and browsing through PDF files about photography while she sleeps next to him, kicking all the blankets to the floor, her legs exposed. He's waiting for her to wake up, and he wishes he could focus on how beautiful she is and leave it at that, but what gets his attention is the scar on her left calf that he knows wasn't there six months ago.
He swallows the lump on his throat and looks at his laptop, the white glow of the screen forcing him to squint his eyes. He rubs his temples and pinches the bridge of his nose. Ever since moving out from South Ashfield Heights, Henry has been taking every precaution known to man to keep headaches at bay. Sure, sometimes he gets one, but by now he knows most of the tricks to cut it short. So he straightens his posture, inhales, counts to four and then exhales, counts to four again and repeats this process three more times. It gives him a little bit of relief even though he knows he'll end up taking a couple of aspirin anyway.
Shutting off his laptop, he stands up and moves to the wooden desk across their bed. He places his laptop there, glances at the stack of magazines that he needs to throw away (he'll do it, eventually), and notices that some of the lilies in the glass vase next to the stack are dying. He feels guilty, somehow. Eileen has been flling their small house with flowers and plants since they moved in (he's very thankful for that, actually, because roses and lillies and peonies smell ten thousand times better than blood and rust and metal), and she'll be sad to see the lillies in their bedroom giving up like this.
That's when he hears the bed creaking, the rustling of a body moving on a mattress and his heart skips a beat.
Turning around, he sees Eileen sitting on the bed, like a stoic, her hair a tangled mess that frames her face, her breathing erratic and heavy. Her cheeks are red, and she's staring at a spot on the bed as if she's unaware of the world surrouding her. She seems small, frail and lost, hidden underneath his t-shirt.
Henry approaches her carefully, tries not to let the fact that she's trembling get to him, but it's difficult, especially when her wide green eyes meet his.
"It's burning," she says, looking straight at him, her eyes watering as she tries not to break down.
Knowing exactly what she means, he nods and tells her to wait just a second and rushes out of the room. The trip from the bedroom to the kitchen takes less than a minute. He opens the freezer, takes out a tray of ice cubes and snatches a rag from the sink. He goes back to the bedroom and sits behind her on the bed, placing the tray and the rag on the nightstand for a second. He helps her take off that ratty t-shirt of his she adores so much. She crosses her legs and leans forward, the breeze coming from the open window prickling her skin, but it's nothing compared to the coolness she feels when Henry drags a cube of ice down her back, follows the pattern of that scar with delicate precision, the ice going on each number carved on her back gently.
The numbers have been fading away slowly, but Henry knows they'll never disappear. They're light pink now, and soon they'll turn white, but they'll still be there. They were cut into her skin way too deep. Eileen doesn't mind them now, at least not like she did on the first few days after that mess. He remembers how she used to wake up screaming, her wounds open and bleeding-how she refused to sleep because he was always there, smiling at her, trying to hold her hand, calling her mother. She'd jolt up from the bed feeling sick, voice gone from all the shouting, her throat hurting and head throbbing and she'd cry until she was too exhausted to do anything else but go back to sleep.
Lately, however, she's been too tired to yell and cry, too used to the nightmares.
"Better?" Henry asks, using the rag to dry the cold water on her skin.
"Better," she says, leaning back and resting on his body.
He wraps his arms around her to keep her there, keep her safe. It's a funny thing, he thinks, being in love after all they've been through. Truth be told, Henry didn't think he'd ever find the courage to live a normal a life again, but Eileen clawed her way in, made herself part of his life, made him sane.
As she starts to fall back asleep in his arms, he hopes he can do the same for her.