He tried to tell her it didn't hurt but she had asked him, rather rudely he thought, to cut the bullshit, so he remained silent during her quiet perusal of his body.
She looked him over carefully, first with his clothes on.
"What was this?" She asked, touching the wound on his head.
He winced so she quickly pulled her fingers away. "A bottle, I think." He wasn't sure.
"And this?" Her fingers ghosted over the cut beneath his eye.
"Fist."
She nodded and continued down to his hand. "Is it broken?"
More like shattered, Sam thought to himself. Out loud he answered, "Yes."
"How?" Her eyes flicked up to meet his.
"Andy," he whispered her name hoarsely, almost begging her not to make him tell her.
"Sam," she insisted. "How?"
He cleared his throat. "Hammer."
"Damn," she breathed.
He could see the tears start to pool in her eyes and as much as he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her it was going to be alright, he knew that wasn't what she wanted, wasn't what she needed.
Her fingers bunched at the hem of his shirt and she lifted it up slowly. Before, the feel of her hands brushing against his skin would have been exciting and arousing. Now, he stifled a groan and hoped she wouldn't press too hard.
She inspected his abdomen, taking in the angry purple bruise on his side. She swallowed hard, moving on, and helped him pull his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor.
Her hands went to his belt and quickly undid it, pulling it from his jeans. Her fingers fumbled with the row of buttons down his fly, her vision clouded by the tears that were starting to fall from her eyes.
He gently pushed her hands away and undid the buttons himself, not an easy task with a broken dominant hand. "Why can't you just wear jeans with a zipper?" She asked, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
He just shrugged.
She grasped the waistband of his jeans and slowly slid them over his backside and down to the floor, stepping away as he kicked them off.
Her eyes ran down his legs, settling on his swollen knee. She sniffled and wiped a hand under her nose. "You need some ice for that," she said, turning quickly to walk out of his room. "Sit down, I'll be right back."
He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "Andy."
She stopped walking but didn't to turn back to him. He could hear her measured, shaky breathing and see the way her shoulders rose and fell with every breath.
"Andy, come here," he requested, and she did, standing in front of him but refusing to look him in the eye.
He rested both hands on her waist. "It's not your fault."
She nodded even though she didn't believe him, bringing both her hands up to cover her face as she tried to keep herself from breaking down in front of him. She wanted to be strong but she felt like she was failing miserably.
He pulled her hands down from her face, making her look at him. He swiped his thumbs over her cheeks, brushing away the tears that were freely falling.
"That's not it, is it?" She asked. "What else did he do?"
He shook his head, not wanting to answer. "Andy, no."
"What else did he do, Sam?" She repeated, angrily pulling her hands away from him. "Don't lie to me, I've seen the pictures and I've read the reports. I know what he's done to people. Just tell me."
"Why?"
She looked at him, her eyes watery. "Please."
Sam took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, grinding his teeth together. After a long moment, and against his better judgment, he told her. "He poured water down my mouth and in my nose," he said, trying not to make it sound as serious as it was.
Her brow drew together as she realized what he was telling her and she stepped away from him, out of his reach. "He waterboarded you?" She asked, horrified.
Sam just nodded sharply, confirming what she already knew.
Andy felt like she was going to throw up. The guilt that she felt, combined with the horror of knowing what actually happened to him, was overwhelming. She doubled over and rested her hands on her knees, hyperventilating. "Oh my god."
He sighed and step forward, resting his good hand on her back, waiting patiently for her to calm down.
She managed to get her breathing under control and stood up to face him again. "I'm so sorry." She said, knowing it was terribly inadequate and feeling selfish for bringing attention to herself.
He shook his head, not wanting her apology. "It's over. Let's not talk about it anymore."
"Okay," she agreed. It was the least she could do. She looked him over again. "Will you at least sit down and let me go get you some ice?"
The idea of putting ice on his body after freezing all day in that small, poorly insulated room was more than he could handle. "No ice," he said.
She looked up at him. "Sam, you need it."
He shook his head and something in his eyes told her to leave it alone.
"Alright," she replied. She yawned and he noticed, concerned.
"Have you gotten any sleep?"
She looked back at him incredulously. "Would you have, if it was me?"
Bile rose in his throat at the thought of it. He'd been scared out of his mind the majority of the day, not because he was worried about what Brennan was going to do to him, but about what he already had done to Andy.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and then tilted his head. "Come to bed."
"I'm just going to sleep on the sofa," she told him, ridiculously.
"No," he insisted. "Stay here. With me."
"I don't want to hurt you."
Sam wanted to laugh at how ludicrous the idea was that she could hurt him anymore than he was already, but he refrained. "You're not going to hurt me," he assured her.
She studied him, as if determining the validity of his statement, and then agreed.
Wordlessly, she helped him get settled back on the bed, propping his knee up with a pillow.
She was hesitant to get undressed but he looked at her and grinned and told her not to be shy.
The memory of the morning they had spent together - it seemed like decades ago - caused a small smile to spread across her face.
She pulled off most of her clothing, leaving her tank top and underwear on, and he winked in approval.
He raised the covers up beside him, quietly asking her to join him.
She slid in next to him, careful not to touch him, not to hurt him.
It was absurd, really, the contrast between how freely they had moved their hands over one another not forty eight hours before and now.
He seemed to know what she was thinking and he held his good arm out to her. She turned off the lamp in the room, their only source of light, and then wrapped herself around his arm, gently laying her head against his shoulder.
In the stillness, the heaviness of the choices they had made and the consequences of their actions weighed down upon them.
"Hey," Sam's voice was hoarse. She blinked her eyes and looked up at him. "No going back, right?"
She smiled softly and pushed her self up enough to face him. Carefully, gently, she pressed her lips against his.
It hurt like hell but there was nothing Sam wanted more.
She pulled away and held his gaze. "I don't want to go back," she told him before settling back down beside him.
"Is this normal enough for you, McNally?" he asked into the darkness.
She let out a short, sad laugh. "Sam," she said, "I don't think anything about this is normal."
"Well," he replied, kissing the top of her head. "We can always try again tomorrow."