For how exhausted he looked, Nate didn't sleep well. She thought it was partly because he was way too big for the small couch and having his head in her lap probably wasn't that comfortable, and partly because whatever the hell he'd gone through to wind up in her apartment was making his eyes twitch beneath their lids and his whole body tense and shiver.
He moved uneasily around on the couch for a while, letting out the occasional moan or sharp breath, not awake but not really asleep. She threaded her fingers through his hair, trying to calm him—she remembered how much he liked it, how he'd press into her hand on quiet mornings and hum low in his throat….
She immediately shoved the happy memories away before they could properly surface, but didn't untangle her fingers. This was hardly close to a lazy morning in bed.
A nice distraction from the nostalgia was how dirty and grimy his hair felt beneath her hand. His clothes were stiff with salt—he'd been in the sea?—his face and arms were an angry sunburnt pink, and blood was blooming in an alarming number of places under his shirt and jeans.
"Nate," she whispered, tapping his cheek gently. His features pulled together in a grimace. Whatever he was dreaming about, it wasn't leaving him alone. "Nate, come on. Wake up."
It took a moment, but then his eyes shot open and he gasped in a shuddering breath. The spasm running down the length of his body threatened to spill him onto the floor, so she quickly steadied him with hands on his shoulders.
He frowned up at her, eyes bloodshot and wide. "'lena—what—what's going—" His hands grabbed for her, and she let him hold onto her while he got his bearings, ignoring the small jolt low in her stomach she got from the contact.
"You're in my apartment," she said quietly, and motioned for him to get off her lap. He braced himself on an elbow with a grunt, but he couldn't sit up without her help. She stood up to position him better on the cushions, and he all but fell back against them, breathing heavily. "Covered in blood and sea salt," she added with a frown, crossing her arms.
"Oh," he murmured, and looked down at himself, blinking. "Yeah. I am."
When he didn't elaborate further, Elena sighed. "I'm gonna get you some water. Sit tight."
He actually listened to her while she went to grab a bottle of water from her fridge, but she suspected it was more out of sheer exhaustion than common sense. Nate reached for the water the moment she was back in the living room, and she sat down beside him to hand it to him. Elena spent the next five minutes forcing him to take small sips, struggling to take the bottle from him while he got each mouthful down with a gasp and passing it back with a cautious grip on the bottom.
Nate looked marginally better by the time he'd finished the bottle, but he was exhausted from sitting up for even this long. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch, his hands limp in his lap.
"Before you go back to sleep," she warned, shaking him so he'd stay conscious. "I want you to shower. I need to patch up whatever the hell you've done to yourself," she explained, giving a pointed look to the blots of red soaking his clothes.
He grunted in what was probably agreement, bobbing his head in a tired nod. "'kay."
"Come on; up." She looped her arms under his and hoisted him off the couch, and almost fell into him when he went slack in her arms. "Nate, help me," she grunted, bracing her legs to keep her balance. "I can't lift you by myself."
"Jus' drag me to the shower," he slurred into her shoulder, but got his legs under him and managed to stand up. She slung one of his arms over her shoulder, ignoring the groan of pain it elicited from Nate, and slowly moved them towards the bathroom.
"How'd you find me?" he said, frowning down at her. "I washed up on shore."
She ignored the immediate alarm bells his words set off in her head. Even if she asked him what the hell had happened, she doubted he'd be able to tell her. She'd save the interrogation for later, when he was able to stand by himself. "I didn't; you barged into my apartment."
"Oh." He blinked and nodded his head, but didn't say anything else. They arrived in the bathroom in silence, and she slipped out from under his arm, bolstering him against the sink.
"Have a shower," she repeated, her tone more confident than she felt about him being able to stand up and stay conscious long enough to do as she asked. "You'll feel better."
"Mm," he hummed, nodding, but didn't move to take his clothes off. He just leaned against the sink, blinking heavily, and stared at the toilet, eyes staring at things she couldn't see.
God dammit.
She grabbed the hem of his shirt, which jerked him awake again momentarily. "What—"
"Can you lift your arms?" she asked, ignoring his question. He looked confused, and she wondered if the drug Marlowe had given him was powerful enough to still be coursing through his system, or if he was just so exhausted that he wasn't retaining anything that was happening.
"I think so," he murmured finally, but it sounded more like a question. He raised his arms until they were parallel with his shoulders, then he groaned and stumbled towards her. "No," he rasped as she steadied him, and he grabbed at the sink for support. "Guess not."
It took them several minutes to get Nate's shirt off. It was a shredded and filthy rag on the floor by the time she'd eventually ripped it off him, and he looked about ready to fall over again.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea, she thought. There was no way in hell he'd be able to shower by himself, but if he wanted to be a part of her plan to save Sully, he needed to clean up and properly attend to the mass of injuries covering his skin.
I could just get in with him. He needed a few days rest and minimal physical exertion to recover from... whatever the hell had happened, but they didn't really have time for any of that. Showering alone definitely wasn't an option for him, and giving him a sponge bath was horribly unappealing.
"Great," she muttered, ignoring how heavy the wedding band on her finger felt. She'd envisioned a few reunion scenarios between them on days she'd been too sad or tired to be angry at him, and this wasn't at all on the agenda.
But they needed to save Sully, and Nate needed to get patched up before his injuries got infected... so she just needed to pony up and get in the shower with her estranged husband.
Spurred on with reluctant purpose, she reached for his belt and set aside his ridiculous belt buckle on the counter, then tossed the belt into the pile with his shirt. He seemed to become aware of what was happening when she pulled at his pants' zipper. He gave her the barest approximation of his usual flirty grin—haven't seen that expression from him in a while—and she shot back an exasperated look.
"Think you can handle your pants?" He looked a little more awake—figures—and she didn't want to give him the impression that she was okay with how this was about to go down.
Because she wasn't. She definitely wasn't, and he really needed to wipe that stupid grin off his face.
"You're doin' a great job," he muttered, the infuriating grin still in place. "Carry on."
She sighed and let go of him. "Take your pants off, smart ass." She then shed her own shirt, but tossed it on top of the toilet seat, away from Nate's destroyed clothing.
His eyes widened further when she started undoing her bra. "What are you—"
"You can't hardly stand up," she said, and turned away from him to peel her bra off. "So I'm going in with you." It was silly, since he'd seen her naked countless times, but this was different. There was too much distance between them, and they were coming together as familiar strangers now.
"Oh," he said softly. There was a beat of silence, then: "Been awhile since we've showered together."
And whose fault is that, Nate?
In lieu of starting an argument, she peeled off her socks and began undoing her own pants in silence. Nate was quiet behind her, and was almost rid of his clothing by the time she'd stripped down to nothing. She pushed down the sudden urge to cover her breasts with her arms and turned around to help him with stepping out of his pants and boots.
His hands were large and warm on her shoulders to steady himself while the rest of his clothes were shed—or at least that's why she thought he was holding her—and she was avoiding his gaze, which was full of something unreadable and sad. To keep herself from leaning into him or doing something she'd regret like kissing him on his full, sunburnt lips for simply being alive, she reached around them to turn on the shower head instead.
"Is that okay?" she asked, and had him feel the water. He nodded, and she maneuvered to help him lift his leg over the lip of the tub and step in. It took some jostling, and a lot of complaining about sore spots on his part, but they managed to get him in, and he huddled beneath the tepid spray of water.
She stepped in after him, and the limited space of the tub was quickly realised. She couldn't move without brushing against him, and he was blocking the soap with his elbow right now.
"Can you—" She stopped when she saw his eyes beginning to close, and Elena tapped him on the shoulder. "Nate, you need to stay awake. Just for ten minutes. Can you grab the soap?"
He wasn't really a big help, but then it was mostly because moving was painful and sometimes impossible for him. Propriety and personal space were becoming more and more difficult to maintain; Nate would occasionally begin to weave as if about to fall over, so her hands never really left him. When she was finally able to reach the soap, she rubbed the bar into a cloth and went to offer it to him, only to realise he was still half-asleep.
She moved the cloth gently over his skin herself instead, careful not to scrub too hard at the sunburns on his skin or the cuts that made a patchwork lattice over his body. It was hard to look at his injuries, at the pink and brown water that circled the drain. There were rope burns on his wrists and fist-sized bruises covering his ribs that made it difficult not to think about what had happened, and what he'd gone through to end up here, in her shower and barely able to keep himself standing.
Slowly, carefully, she wiped away the salt and grime and blood that was caked on his skin. Nate was still in a liminal state of consciousness, sometimes blinking down at her sleepily and sometimes leaning against the bathroom wall, an uneasy crease between his brows. By the time she was finished with his arms and chest, he was awake again, and was looking a little bit more human.
His hands had initially been on her shoulders, to help steady himself, but they'd slowly slipped down her arms and to her ribs as she'd washed away the grime and the blood, and were now settled on her hips. He was leaning in close, his forehead almost touching hers, and this time she didn't think it was because he was falling asleep standing up.
"Elena…." he breathed, voice hoarse and barely audible. She met his eyes, hooded and bloodshot, and then he was leaning really close and his mouth was only moments away from hers.
She should turn away. This wasn't—he'd left, made the decision to walk out of their life and continue on his own, and she was still coming to terms with that. She couldn't give him the wrong idea; couldn't make him think it was okay to hurt her that deeply and then just waltz right back into their marriage when it suited him. And a part of her pride didn't want to let him win, on any level.
But then she didn't turn away—god, she stood up on her toes to meet him halfway—and the kiss they shared was soft and slow and nourishing. Tears pricked her eyes with the sudden realisation that he was here, alive, with her and wanting this, even if it wasn't okay right now and they hadn't been on speaking terms for months before this, and he was covered in bruises and she was torn between pride and anger and the hollow feeling that had claimed a space in her chest ever since he'd left.
They parted when Nate's breathing became laboured, but instead of pulling away, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his chest. Her hand came up to feel for his heart, a steady drum beneath his ribs—the most tangible sign that he was really alive. Days of worrying and waiting and wondering slowly drained out of her, washed away with the water.
"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear, so quiet that it was only for her to hear. Her head fell forward, her nose to his collarbone, and she couldn't resist leaning into him.
"I know," she whispered, because it sounded like he was really starting to get it, and "it's okay" was a cheap lie. The smell of blood in the shower and the tan line on his finger where his ring used to be was a testament to that.
But he was alive, and willing to admit things were wrong and broken, so that was a start.
She pressed her face into his neck. "I'll help you finish cleaning up," she murmured. "And then you can sleep while I patch you up."
"Jus' like old times," he replied, words still a bit slurred. She wasn't so sure about his claim, but the intent was what mattered. He was offering her an olive branch, and she just need to decide if it was worth taking it.
"Yeah," she whispered after a long moment, and saw the first real smile from him in months. "Just like old times."