Beck sat in the office and watched Heather from behind the glass. She'd been acting…off… lately. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. She seemed a little more hesitant, shy, almost nervous, looking over her shoulder more often.
He put on a more professional look as she came into his office with an armload of files.
"Hey, I've got some more resource lists here. Just got a new batch in from New Bern." She looked for a clear spot on his desk to put the stack of papers, but wasn't finding one.
"Would you mind putting them up for me? I'll get to them in a bit, I promise."
"Uh, ok."
That hesitance again. It was really starting to bother him. Heather was, by nature, a helpful person – often cheerfully so; this was out of character for her. Her glanced at her again, trying not to be obvious about it. That was when she noticed she was sweating. Why was she wearing a sweater, anyway?
"Heather, you ok?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Amazing. She could lie with a straight face about stealing those pages, but not about something like this. Of course, he thought to himself I'm not entirely sure what 'this' is. "I just need to go get a stool, these go on the top of the cabinets."
He nodded, and she left, but the request left him even more confused. She'd never needed a stool before; she'd just stand up on her toes and reach. She came back a few minutes later, without a stool and even more nervous.
"Maybe there's some old phone books or something..."
"Heather." His voice held a hint of command, to cut through the subtle-but-still-there trace of panic. She looked at him, alarmed, like he'd caught her doing something she shouldn't. He sighed, then spoke more gently. "Sit down, Heather." She complied, though she sat on the edge of the seat, her hands retreating into her sleeves, like a schoolgirl in the principal's office. "Heather, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"What do you mean? Of course I'm okay."
"I mean you've been acting kind of strange lately. What's going on?"
"I really don't know what you're talking about."
"Heather. Please. I can see something's different. You don't lie to me without a good reason."
"I'm not lying."
"Tell that to your face." That hit a nerve. She stared at him in shock – then stood up jerkily and turned away from him.
"It's none of your business."
"Heather, you're freaking out about not having a stool. Which you've never needed before, I might add." When he got no response he continued. "And you're sweating. Are you sure you're not ill?"
"I'm fine, just a little hot."
"Then why are you wearing a sweater? I know you have t-shirts."
"I thought it looked cute, okay? That's all." Her tone was defensive.
"Well, I don't want people accusing me of running a sweatshop. You could roll up your sleeves or something."
"No." she replied instantly, then tried to soften her response. "No, I'll live."
Oh crap, Beck thought to himself as a light bulb went off, how did I not see that?
"If you insist. Why don't we get these files put away then? You pass them to me, I'll file." He then rolled up his sleeves and made to reach for the files. She froze, staring at him. Or, more precisely, his arms, which she had never seen before.
"Heather –"
"You – you – "
"What?"
"Your wrists – I never heard – nobody mentioned – "
"Not something I like to publicize. It's hard to get respect from tribal warlords when they see you've been held captive before. And all it gets you at home is pity." He nodded at her sleeve-covered wrists. "It's okay, you know. No one in this office is going to judge you. We all know someone who's been there"
Heather bit her lip, ashamed now.
"I ran out of makeup." She admitted in a small voice. Beck nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing. They filed the rest of the papers in silence, and Heather moved to leave, but stopped at the door.
"I suppose I should feel lucky."
"Why?"
"That those are the only scars I have." Relatively unnoticeable, when you get right down to it. Beck's captors must have dragged him around with a rope for days to get that kind of scarring. "I wasn't actually tortured." She flashed back to Eric's screams and shuddered.
Beck took a deep breath. He didn't want her to feel embarrassed by her scars, but he didn't want her to go too far the other way, and ignore the whole issue as if it were nothing.
"Heather, just because they didn't torture you physically, doesn't mean they didn't torture you. Waiting, tied up in a cell, for the next time someone opens the door – someone who'll just as likely kill you as feed you – is a form of torture. Don't dismiss what you went through just because others endured worse. If you need help, get it." She nodded, still facing the door. "If you need to talk to someone – "
"Thank you." Heather's voice was quiet, but the gratitude was obvious. His eyes followed her out of his office. He smiled when he noticed that she was rolling up her sleeves.