Dear Readers,

Thanks again for your continued support and patience; I really, REALLY appreciate it, and it's partly what's helped me keep writing consistently for the first time in over a year! I have to apologize though - instead of delivering a fluff fic like I was originally intending to, I ended up writing this absolute angst-fest about Helen recovering from the Screenslaver fight. Unfortunately my brain's default setting is angst so I kind of couldn't help myself. I hope you all still manage to enjoy, it, though!

Best Regards,
Pooka

P.S.: Just to be safe, I'm giving a mild content warning for a couple brief allusions to slight dissociation/out-of-body experiences due to shock/trauma. It's nothing overly descriptive but I wanted to give a heads-up in case anyone might be bothered by it.

Soundtrack: "Wish That You Were Here" by Florence + The Machine

Wish That You Were Here

"And I never minded being on my own
Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home
To be where you are
But even closer to you, you seem so very far
And now I'm reaching out with every note I sing
And I hope it gets to you on some Pacific wind
Wraps itself around you and whispers in your ear
Tells you that I miss you and I wish that you were here…"

It's past midnight by the time the painkillers wear off.

Unfortunately for Helen Parr, she has yet to succumb to sleep. So when the pain once again rears its monstrous head, she is fully conscious, unable to escape the surge of white-hot fire setting her nerves ablaze. She clamps her jaw hard and squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to quash the sickening sensation of bile rising in her throat, but it's no use. Cursing under her breath, she hastily throws the covers off her and rolls out of bed, desperately hoping that she can make it to the bathroom before she empties the contents of her last meal onto the hotel carpet.

Helen barely contains the shriek of agony that claws at her insides as she gingerly places her feet on the floor and slowly pushes herself up into a standing position. The movement sends a stab of excruciating pain shooting up her thigh and into her hip, and the room begins to swim in her vision, her surroundings momentarily blurring into a formless haze of color and light. She sways dangerously to the side and flings her arm out on instinct, scrabbling at the nightstand in a frantic attempt to regain her balance. She manages to plant her hand firmly atop its surface before she has the chance to stumble back onto the mattress, and she shuts her eyes once more, sucking in several deep yet quavering breaths in a strained effort to steady herself. When she opens her eyes a few seconds later, the room has righted itself in her view, and she takes a cautious step forward, her hand still clutching the side of the nightstand in case she should wobble again. The first step goes without a hitch, but the moment she tries to bring her opposite foot up underneath her, she realizes to her horror that her other leg has gone limp once again, rendering it practically useless. She bites back another scream as the pain sears through her muscles, and forces herself to keep moving one step at a time, dragging her injured leg behind her.

Without the flood of adrenaline pumping through her veins like earlier, Helen is unable to pick up much speed, so the progress of merely walking is agonizingly slow. It's only a few feet to the bathroom door, but in her current state it feels like miles, and by the time Helen reaches it she wants nothing more than to collapse onto the floor in a heap and remain there for the rest of the night. But she grits her teeth, pressing on despite the maelstrom of aches and nausea and exhaustion, and pushes the door open. She fumbles around in the dark for the light switch and then hobbles to the edge of the toilet where she finally drops to her knees. She hardly has enough time to thrust the seat up before her stomach lurches, and she spends the next several minutes clutching the side of the bowl and retching until she has nothing left inside her. When she's finally finished, trembling violently and gasping for air, she shakily lifts a hand to flush the toilet before allowing herself to list sideways and fall against the sink cabinet with a dull thud. A second later, however, she jerks backward with a startled cry as another bolt of razor-sharp pain slices through her shoulder and up her neck.

Helen gulps, and the helpless whimper rising up from her chest dies in her throat for the time being. After what seems like hours, she manages to haul her body upright again and lean against the bathroom counter, her lungs heaving with the effort. Her eyes instinctively flicker upward to the mirror, and she nearly topples backward from the sheer force of her own shock at the grotesque sight before her. Wide brown eyes sunken into deep, shadowy caverns gape emptily back at her, surrounded by a ghostly pale landscape drenched in a sheen of cold sweat and framed by an unruly nest of auburn frizz. This face isn't her own – it can't be – it's too terrifyingly unfamiliar, too unrecognizable, and hardly even human. Helen suddenly feels her mind detaching from her body, floating aimlessly away into an unknown dimension somewhere between reality and a horrifying nightmare she can scarcely distinguish from one another. She grimaces in response to the unsettling sensation, and the stranger reflected in the glass mirrors her expression almost as if it's mocking her. She tears her gaze away as a shudder ripples through her body, and then she spies the neat little stack of Dixie cups hugging the corner of the wall. Taking care not to glance back at the godforsaken mirror, she plucks a cup from the top of the stack and fills it with cold water before staggering back towards the bed, not bothering to turn off the bathroom light on her way out.

When she finally plops back down onto the mattress, she places the cup on the nightstand and reaches for the little orange bottle next to the alarm clock. The doctor who examined her after her altercation with the Screenslaver assured her that due to the protection of her suit and her unique physiology, the effects of the injuries she sustained probably wouldn't last as long as they would for a non-super. Like hell they won't, she muses bitterly as she twists the bottle cap open. Still, he at least did see fit to grant her a generous dose of medication before declaring her free to go, sending her off with the bottle and a pointed instruction to "get some rest."

As if that will do me any good, Helen inwardly grumbles. She's only supposed to take one pill every few hours, but the pain is so unbearable that she shakes two capsules onto the upturned bottle cap. Against her better judgment, she pops both of them into her mouth, gulping them down with the cup of water before yielding to her exhaustion and leaning into the soft embrace of the pillows beneath her.

It's then that something catches her eye. Swiveling her head to the side, her gaze hones in on the phone sitting atop the nightstand, and her heart clenches in her chest as a sudden realization dawns on her.

Bob.

In the midst of the night's chaos, she completely forgot to call him. She feels a sharp pang of emotion pierce through her at the thought of him trying to reach her, only to be met with indefinite ringing on her end. He must have been worried sick, Helen thinks, guilt settling in her gut like deadweight. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs the phone, carefully adjusting her position so she can hold the receiver with one hand and dial the number with the other. It's only when she glimpses the bedside clock that she pauses, her fingers freezing just inches away from the rotary. The red digits glare accusingly at her – 1:15 AM. Far too late to call. There are rare occasions when the two of them will still be up at an ungodly hour, but with his hands full with the kids – not to mention being all on his own – the likelihood of Bob being awake now is next to impossible. Helen sighs heavily, slumping into the mattress and letting the phone receiver slip down beneath her ear, the dial tone blaring against her jaw. She might as well attempt to obey the doctor's orders and get a few hours of sleep in before the inevitable press conference tomorrow. She can call him in the morning. He'll be fine. They'll both be fine. It's just one night without speaking to one another – nothing that they haven't dealt with before, although the last time they were apart the circumstances were quite different…

Her arm refuses to budge.

Something twists deep in the pit of her stomach – something raw and untamed, a ravenous hunger gnawing at her insides, desperate with need. Helen suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how massive the bed is, how empty – her petite figure barely fills even a third of the space, the rest of it a yawning expanse of blankets and cushions that only serves to taunt her in her isolation. A chill ripples through her veins, and she finds herself yearning for the warmth of an embrace – Bob's embrace. Her husband. Her chest contracts as the image of his gentle face blossoms in her mind's eye, and before she can stop it, a lump begins rising in her throat, pools of hot tears blurring her vision.

God, she misses him.

A sudden wave of emotion crashes over her, flooding her consciousness and carrying her thoughts back to the events of that night. The flashing lights, the man in the mask, the cattle prod plunging into her side and the blistering pain that accompanied it, her head pounding in agony as if it was about to split into two. But the most terrifying things she recalls are the jumble of thoughts that raced through her mind in those moments – each one merely a fraction of a second but powerful enough to haunt her for the next several weeks, maybe even months. Violet retreating into her shell once again, closing herself off from the world so thoroughly that no one can even hope to penetrate the wall she's built around her. Dash, angry and confused, lashing out and refusing to acknowledge the source of his fury because the reality of it is too frightening of a concept to face. Jack-Jack – her precious little Jack-Jack – growing up in a home where his mother is merely a loose collection of anecdotes, her existence barely a wisp of a memory tucked away in the furthest corner of his mind. And Bob, alone, consumed with guilt and grief, burdened with the prospect of a future without her and a life darkened by the gaping hole left by her absence that no one, not even his own children, will ever be able to fill.

She thought she was going to die. Without ever having the chance to say goodbye.

The tears press against her eyelids, threatening to spill over and release a torrent of her pent-up anguish. She can't go to sleep like this. The physical pain is one thing, but the emotional torture of lying in this bed all alone with the memories of her near-death experience plaguing her thoughts is an entirely different beast altogether, and it's not one she has the strength to conquer on her own. At least not right now. If she was home she would immediately bury herself in Bob's arms, letting him hold her as tightly as humanly possible until she's emptied herself of every last ounce of emotion screaming to break free of her body and escape into the open air. But she's not home and Bob isn't here, and the only thing she can think of that could possibly bring her some small sliver of solace is to hear the sound of his voice filling her ears.

She dials the number before she has a chance to rethink her decision.

Time seems to slow almost to a halt as the endless ringing echoes into Helen's ear. Please pick up, she begs silently, nervously clutching the receiver with both hands. It's a selfish wish, she knows – especially if Bob is already asleep, which he most likely is – but she's too tired and too desperate to pay heed to the tiny voice of her conscience admonishing her from the recesses of her mind. She needs to hear him speak, even if it's only for a few minutes; otherwise, she'll stay up tossing and turning all night, a prisoner held captive by her own chaotic thoughts.

Bob, come on—

"Hello?"

Helen nearly bursts into tears as the familiar deep rumble crackles through the phone static. The tendrils of fear coiled around her chest loosen their grip, and she heaves a small sigh, allowing a welcome deluge of relief to rush through her veins.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Bob," she croaks, speaking more to herself than to him. He's there. He's really there.

"H-Helen? Oh my god, Helen! Are you okay?! I-I tried calling the hotel a couple times and they connected me but no one answered and I figured you got tied up with a mission but I wasn't sure—"

"It's okay. Work…ran late. I'm sorry I didn't call."

He pauses to draw in a small breath before answering. Despite the somewhat fuzzy connection, she can hear the slight tremble in his voice. "So…you're all right?"

Helen freezes, carefully considering her next words. She is most certainly not all right. For a fleeting moment she thinks maybe she should tell Bob the truth about what happened that night – after all, they've agreed to no more secrets between them, and he deserves to know. But then the image of his face flashes into her mind's eye once again. That kind, handsome face now contorted in worry – brow knit in concern, tender blue eyes wide in anxious anticipation. Her heart constricts in her chest and a few tears tumble over the edge of her eyelids and trickle down her cheeks. She can't tell him. Not now. No matter how much she wants – needs – to spill the whole story for her own peace of mind. He'll worry himself to death and that's the last thing he needs right now, especially when he's alone with the kids.

"Yeah," she breathes finally, hating herself for lying even though she knows it's in his best interests. "I'm fine."

Her husband emits a relieved sigh of his own. "I'm glad," he replies in a soft whisper. "I was worried."

The gentleness in Bob's voice nearly shatters Helen's resolve, and she has to choke back the flood of sobs threatening to escape and ruin her charade. "I'm sorry," she rasps quietly as more silent tears roll down her cheeks, leaving hot trails in their wake. "I was just so tired I almost forgot—"

"I know."

"Did you see the news?"

"No, didn't get a chance. The kids, you know. What's up?"

"I, uh, I caught the Screenslaver."

She can almost see his eyes – those beautiful baby blue eyes that still manage to steal her breath away – lighting up in excitement and glowing with pride. "You did?! Oh, honey, that's great!"

Without warning, the cattle prod suddenly blazes into view on the periphery of her consciousness, and her entire body seizes up in panic. She feels her mind beginning to detach again, drifting away into a muted nothingness where the memory can't touch her and the pain is merely a horrible dream. In a desperate attempt to remain grounded in reality, she latches onto the sound of Bob's steady breathing on the other end of the line, forcing her mind to hold on for dear life and just focus on that sound, on him. As long as he's there, she's safe. She's alive. They're together.

Except that they're not.

Her heart contracts again as she remembers the distance between them, remembers that only his voice is here with her and not the rest of him. The ache in her chest swells – it's so palpable that it feels almost as excruciating as the red-hot burns scarring her body. She curls in on herself as if somehow the action will assuage the harsh sting, even more tears now blanketing her face in a steady stream of salty liquid.

"Helen?"

She blinks and slowly emerges from her reverie, Bob's voice drawing her back to the present moment.

"Y-yes?"

"You went quiet." The edge in his tone has returned, his alarm clearly evident even through the phone line.

"I'm sorry. Just…tired. It's been a long day."

"Yeah, I bet. I should probably go and let you get some rest."

"NO!" The word comes flying out of her mouth before she can restrain it. She swallows fretfully and quickly tries to mask her sudden outburst. "No, I mean…I'm fine. Talking to you for a bit, I mean. I…I—"

"It's okay, I get it," Bob interrupts softly, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I miss you too."

Helen has to bite her lip to keep from wailing into the phone. She's yearning for nothing more in this moment than to leap into Bob's embrace and sob into his chest, to feel his sturdy body wrapped around hers, his strong arms encircling her waist and squeezing her tightly, his steady heartbeat thrumming against her bones, his warm breath tickling the edge of her ear, his fingers threading gently through her hair.

She wants to go home. To go home, to bury herself in him and forget that any of this has happened.

"I miss you so much." More than you know.

"Well…at least this means you'll be home soon, right?"

She nearly chuckles through her tears at the fact that he's virtually read her mind. "God, I hope so."

They fall silent for a moment, listening to the sound of each other's breaths.

"Hey, Helen?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really proud of you, you know."

The air catches in her throat and her heart seizes violently, a fresh surge of tears suddenly swelling in her eyes. She squeezes them shut, barely containing the sob straining furiously at the inside of her throat, screaming to break free. She shudders with the effort as she sucks in a quivering breath in an attempt to steady herself before speaking.

"T-thank you, sweetie," she manages to choke out. "That really means a lot to me."

"I know."

"I should…I should let you get back to sleep. I'm sorry I called so late."

"No, no, it's okay," he murmurs. "I can stay on a little longer if you want."

She grips the phone receiver so tightly in her hands that her knuckles turn white. She wants so desperately to say yes, to take him up on his offer, if only to have his breathing on the other end lull her to sleep. But she knows she can't. He'll have his hands full with the kids in the morning, and he needs all the rest he can get. She got what she wanted – to briefly hear his voice – and it would be asking too much of him to stay up any later into the night. He's already sacrificing enough letting her do this job in the first place.

"No," she forces herself to reply, the word pushing reluctantly past the lump in her throat. "I'm okay. Like you said, I need rest too."

"Okay. If you're sure."

She pauses, almost ready to retract her decision. But she stands her ground, shakes her head, and presses on. "I'm sure."

Helen hears him take a deep breath before answering. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll…let you go then. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Of course."

She can practically feel him smiling through the phone, and the mere idea of it makes her heart ache even more profoundly. "I love you."

Helen swallows thickly before responding. "I love you too."

"Goodnight, babe."

"Goodnight."

Click.

And just like that, he's gone.

She doesn't bother to place the phone back in the cradle before unleashing the monstrous sob from inside her, allowing it to burst free from its restraints and roar into the suffocating stillness surrounding her. Clutching one of the pillows in her fists, she buries her face into the fabric and lets loose an anguished wail, the pain and terror and longing all converging into a guttural cry far too wild to be contained within a single emotion.

She screams until her throat is raw and the tears no longer come, and when the dark shadow of sleep finally falls upon her, Helen welcomes it with open arms.

A/N: I promise I will TRY to write some fluff next time as a reprieve from this overflow of angst that's taken over my writing! After three angsty oneshots in a row, you guys definitely deserve a fluff intervention xD