Upon reflection that evening, Ellie hated Sauve. The counsellor hadn't thought to tell her what had happened--or more importantly how it had happened. She'd told Hazel about Jimmy, yet neglected to mention a word of Sean's ordeal. She didn't find out until she saw the bandage--and even then, Sean said little, forcing her to guess and piece together the smallest details that she knew.
He was aware as it happened that things would never be the same. Rick had a gun, and that was all that should have mattered, yet his head was spinning with regret, knowing that this would destroy what he and Ellie had, and remembering jokes and tidbits of irrelevant information--an inebriated ant always falls over onto its right side; a pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes--and trying not to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of such thoughts. And then the gun pointed at Emma and Toby and without thought--yet with a world of thought--he was holding it, and his head screamed as they both fell, the shot deafening him, and then no one made a sound.
Sex that night was rough, and hurried, and by the time they were through, they both knew that come the next night, they wouldn't be sharing a bed, and they certainly wouldn't be sharing a body. Ellie left her arm warmers on and both were acutely aware of what could be found underneath, if Sean had cared to look. Neither, however, was willing to discuss it, and so it remained a secret that wasn't really a secret.
Outwardly, they were everything they'd always been, and more. Ellie's tongue was sharper than ever, and Sean, the heroic, now-worshipped thief smiled wanly, and borrowing Ellie's favorite reaction, shoved and shoved at the pain until he himself believed he was fine.
Ellie hated Sauve, and she hated Rick, and she hated the world for what had happened. Ellie, always inwardly sympathetic, Ellie, a lover despite it all, lost her very essence. She dimly recalled her comments to Emma, and wished she'd said more. She didn't hate Rick for being Rick, she hated him for stealing her naive hopes and dreams and wishes.
They spent the weekend watching the news and dodging reporters and trying to convince themselves and each other that nothing had changed when really, nothing had stayed the same. Even Bueller sensed the difference--normally playful and demanding, the ferret stayed out of their way.
Ellie grew sick of the tireless reports, and Sean became obsessed. He was reliving it, constantly, picking up each newspaper, taping the reports on the television, and interjecting occasional comments about how everyone was making a big deal out of nothing, and how calling him a hero was absurd, and that he was fine, perfectly fine. But he wasn't sleeping. He kept the television on long after the broadcast was over, watching infomercials with unblinking eyes as Ellie, awake in the bedroom, atoned for whatever it was she had or hadn't done and offered blood worship to whatever gods had protected Sean, and cursed the very same gods for taking him away.
And so the minutes ticked by, and then it was Monday, and they had to face the world.