ch. 2 continues here! idk what's happening y'all but elizabeth is going thru it

…...

It doesn't last as long this time.

Henry, hovering anxiously in the bathroom doorway, is grateful for this small mercy as he watches the effort it takes her to brace what he assumes are cracked ribs against her body's dry heaving. It's not long before Elizabeth sits back, and this time, to his surprise, she reaches for him immediately, beckoning him closer even as she continues to level her breathing.

He settles against the edge of the bathtub, pulling his wife ever so gently back between his legs. Her head drops back onto his shoulder, in turn.

There are things Henry desperately needs to know, questions he's going to have to ask, some of which she probably legally can't answer, but he knows now is not the time; he merely holds her, rubbing a thumb over her wrist and a hand over her shoulder, and making quiet shushing sounds as she starts to cry.

His whisper of "I've got you. Everything's going to be okay, honey," seems to escalate her tears rather than soothe them, so he switches to low humming of songs he sings to Stevie, has sung to Elizabeth before when she couldn't sleep, songs that were played at their wedding, things he heard in church growing up, anything out of his repertoire that he thinks might be of some comfort to his hurting wife.

Elizabeth's crying in earnest now, her sobs weak, fitful things that make her lurch where she lies against his chest and then whimper when her ribs are jarred. He wants nothing more than to take this, whatever this is, away from her. Some higher power eventually decides to do just that, for however brief a period, because it only takes about twenty minutes for her to cry herself out and into fitful unconsciousness against him.

Henry shifts her with as much finesse as he can, pulling her further into his body and standing slowly so as not to jostle her. He settles her on the bed and holds her hand (split knuckles, he notes) while he tries to come to a decision. He's desperately hoping she'll sleep for a while, give her body and mind a small window of chance at recuperation, and he knows Elizabeth is always intent on sleeping in clean clothes. He wonders if leaving her in slacks and a turtleneck will rouse her sooner and rob her of her rest. On the other hand, given her very recent aversion to touch of all kind, Henry's not entirely comfortable changing her clothes while she's out like this, even though he's seen and loved every inch of her and his intentions here are nothing but chivalrous.

He doesn't want Elizabeth to wake suddenly, being touched, half-dressed and confused. That isn't an ideal return to consciousness for anyone, much less for a woman, he thinks. The chances of her waking sooner than she might have had she been wearing something clean and comforting are greater, he finally decides, than the chances of her waking in the next five minutes. He maneuvers her arms and torso carefully to remove her turtleneck, and then he stops in his tracks. Her side is dark with bruises, confirming his idea of the state of her ribs, but that isn't the worst of it.

Dark handprints. On her waist, forearms, biceps, and most alarmingly, surrounding her throat. He remembers her hysterical apologies earlier, and how hoarse she had sounded then. Afraid of what will be revealed when he does, he shifts her weight gently with a hand under the small of her back to remove her pants. A handprint bruise on her thigh, matching ones on her hips, bruising on her knees.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, taking deep, steadying breaths to avoid following in her footsteps to the bathroom. His head feels fuzzy, surroundings blurred with rage. The only thing in focus is her, Elizabeth, lying vulnerable and hurt on their bed. He doesn't see any open injuries, nothing that needs to be cleaned, and he hopes to God she saw a doctor wherever she was before she got on a plane home.

They're going to have to talk about this; she won't come away from whatever this was unaffected. He doesn't want to think about it, though. The concern for her wellbeing is physically paining him, and he just wants her to stay here with him, with Stevie, forever, and never come home in a state akin to this again.

Now is not the time for that thought, for that instinct to keep and protect. Elizabeth can keep and protect herself, he knows, but he loves her so much and this might just kill him. He makes quick work of her bra and maneuvers her limp form into her loosest pajama pants and a UVA tee of his that positively swamps her. He gets a glass of water for the bedside table, tucks her under the covers gently, and checks briefly on their daughter before returning to his wife's side. He's not leaving her alone in this.

She wakes briefly about an hour later. She hasn't moved while she's been asleep, or perhaps unconscious, he thinks, and it's been odd to watch her so still. She typically shifts and turns almost constantly, mumbling and making faces in sleep, and the utter stillness is disconcerting. She wakes in exactly the position he placed her, eyes snapping open suddenly. From where he's lying on his side watching over her, holding her hand, he greets her carefully. "Hey, babe. I'm right here." He moves to be in her eyeline. "You're okay." She nods slowly, moving a hand to her ribs and wincing at the pressure. She doesn't seem inclined to speak, so he fills in the blank for her. "I think at least a couple are cracked. Did someone look at them for you?" Another nod. That makes him feel a bit better. Her eyelids are fluttering now. "Think you can get some more sleep?" A third nod, as she turns slowly, gingerly toward him. He's a little surprised when she lays her head in the juncture of his shoulder and curls her fingers into his shirt, but he breathes a little easier at her willingness to do so. She's out again in mere seconds.

He stays two more hours, watching over her restfulness, hoping Stevie stays occupied, before he begins to hear their daughter moving about at a greater volume on the monitor. Rather than allow it to wake Elizabeth, he gently disentangles himself and leaves the room, intent on quieting their child and working on some dinner for the three of them. He knows Elizabeth doesn't have anything left in her stomach. It's over an hour later when he's got Stevie settled in her high chair with her blocks, dinner in the oven, and a bit of relief at the way his wife seems to be getting good rest that he hears it.

It's a thump like something's fallen, and then a small cry. His heart jumps to his throat. He hurriedly checks that Stevie's still safely settled and turns the oven down to low before he practically runs through their apartment to the master bedroom. What he sees when he gets there breaks his heart.

Elizabeth is on the floor beside the bed, having squirmed off and taken just about every bit of sheet and blanket with her. She's positively writhing, tangled up in fabric and twisting desperately. On her face is an expression of anguish as Henry hovers, trying to decide on the most helpful course of action. He doesn't think he should touch her, though he so wants to snatch her up and hold her tight until she's calm again.

She's still asleep, dreaming, and the things she's saying are causing him a physical pain to hear.

It's all hoarse please and I won't try again and don't touch me. She's moaning, whether in pain at her movements or discomfort in the circumstances of the nightmare, he doesn't know. Both, he imagines.

"Please," she cries, "don't tie me back up. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please. I won't run again," her voice breaks, hoarse again after the higher pitch of her pleas. Suddenly the twisting makes sense. She thinks the blankets are restraints, he realizes, and he takes a stride closer and pulls them away, off of her, frees her as much as he can. She curls into a tight ball on her less injured side, at that. A sob bursts from her, and her tone is a little less panicked, now, but more plaintively distressed. "I just want Henry. Please. Where's Henry? I'm sorry, I won't do it again, please."

He's on his knees next to her shaking form, now, feeling his heart physically pang in his chest at her state. At her mention of him, he reaches for her, unable to restrain himself. "I'm right here, Elizabeth. I've got you. Wake up, sweetheart. It's alright. You're safe. You're home," he sits her up as gently as he can, pulling her fully into his lap and rocking her, desperate to comfort, to soothe. His tears are falling into her hair and he's smoothing sweaty strands back from her face as she jolts to wakefulness, moaning as she once again jars her injuries. Elizabeth doesn't make any move to exit his lap, letting him rock her and pet her hair and murmur reassurances that he doubts she can really hear over how hard he can feel her heart pounding through the hand he has on her back. And then finally—

"Henry?" It's a tentative, hopeful question.

"Yes, baby. I've got you. Just a bad dream. You're safe."

It wasn't just a bad dream, and he knows it, but a moment later there's a quiet, plaintive, "okay," against his shoulder, and they stay that way for several more minutes before she moves and he helps her up.

First things first. Her clothes and his shirt are damp with sweat and tears, and she's shivering. "Want to try to shower, or just change?"

She hums noncommittally, but moves toward the bathroom, and he follows a step behind, a little wary of letting her out of his sight at this point. She glances back at him when they're both inside. "You've-you've already seen, haven't you?"

It's about as vague as Elizabeth could be, but he knows what she means regardless. "Yeah. I didn't want you to have to sleep in your clothes."

She just nods at that, stripping her pajamas off. When she gets to the shirt she pauses, looking to him again. "I can't-"

"I've got it." He helps her get the shirt off and turns the taps for her, setting it to warm before she can set it to either freezing or scalding, her two preferences, and helping her in. "Tell me what you need from me, sweetheart."

She's tearing up again, standing huddled under the stream, steadied by Henry's arm where he's still reaching in to hold her. "I- where's Stevie?"

"She's in the kitchen, playing. She's okay."

"Can you check on her? I just- I think I need a minute."

He doesn't like to see her tenuous; his wife is bold in all areas of her life. "Of course, babe. Call if you need me, okay?"

She nods, and he leaves the door cracked open behind him slightly so that he can hear her from the next room if she calls.