They spent a very quiet evening together, sitting close by the fire and doing a lot of talking. Connie told Ric to help himself to anything he could find in the kitchen if he was hungry, and at one point in the evening he even managed to persuade her to eat some toast. "One thing that did occur to me when I saw you two days ago," Ric told her carefully, watching her as she gradually ate the toast. "Is that you don't need to get any thinner." "Yes, Yes, I know," She said tiredly, as though he hadn't been the first person to say this to her, when she knew that he had. "It was just an observation, that's all," He said mildly. "I tend not to eat enough when I'm stressed," She admitted whilst steadily avoiding his penetrating gaze. "I did wonder," He replied as though it made other things fit into place. "It's nothing major," She insisted, seeing where his thoughts were going. "Try not to let it become anything major," He warned her quietly, knowing that she didn't need that particular complication on top of everything else.
Later that night when they went up to bed, Ric changed the dressing on her arm, pleased to see that his stitches still looked clean and secure. When she was lying snugly under the duvet, looking more exhausted than he'd ever seen her, he asked, "Would you prefer me to sleep in the spare room?" "No, of course not," She said in surprise, lifting her hand to cover a yawn. "I thought it might make you feel more..." Ric hesitated over the word comfortable, not sure if it was really the right one. "Ric, I know that you're not about to jump on me, and you know you're not getting any more than a cuddle," Connie told him with a tired smile. "So I would be perfectly happy to have you in my bed. It would be extremely nice, believe me." After borrowing a spare toothbrush, Ric slid under the duvet in his boxer shorts, immediately reaching out to her as she moved into his arms. It felt incredibly soothing to her to be so close to him, to have her head on his chest, and to hear his slow, deep breathing. He softly ran his fingers through her hair, breathing in the sexy, subtle fragrance of her. "I'm glad you're here," She said into his chest. "I wish it was for a far more pleasurable reason." Lifting her head to look up at him, Connie could just see his profile, by the shaft of moonlight coming in through the gap in the bedroom curtains. His face was full of emotion, as though all his feelings on what had happened to her, had finally broken free of their restraints. His eyes were moist, and she could see the struggle it was taking to maintain his equilibrium. "Darling, please don't cry," She said gently, the endearment slipping out before she could think better of it. She was incredibly moved by the feelings he clearly had for her and what had happened to her. "I'm not," He said a little unconvincingly. "Yes, you are," She said with a soft smile, using a finger to wipe away the one tear that had managed to escape. When she hesitantly placed her lips on his, he briefly held her even closer to him, pouring everything he felt for her into that embrace. She could feel all the fondness and compassion emanating from him, surrounding her like a warm, fleecy blanket, protecting her from any further harm. When they eventually came up for air, Ric said, "I'm sorry," Feeling that he really shouldn't have revealed himself quite so entirely. "Sh, it's all right," She told him softly, laying her head back on his chest in preparation for sleep.
Connie was dreaming, with sights and sounds flitting in and out of her range of perception. She was floating, looking down on the scene of her lounge, watching as Michael and she argued and fought. She winced as the first blow came, feeling the pain even though she was looking down on her own body. She saw her own fruitless struggle to run for freedom, and watched in helpless silence as the scene changed. Now she was looking at the hospital boardroom, and Ric and Michael were facing each other across the table. Cards were spread out before them, the stake rising higher and higher. Realising what they were surely playing for, Connie opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Then, she was back in her lounge again, and fully engaged in the fight this time, instead of floating above it. When he began squeezing her throat, she almost looked forward to the coming evaporation of her senses. But as this was a dream, things didn't quite go according to plan. She didn't lose consciousness, but remained aware of everything Michael did to her, crying out as Michael forcefully breeched the unprepared entrance to her body.
Ric had become gradually aware of Connie tossing and turning in the bed beside him, her occasional whimpers of protest telling him that the dream, whatever it was, certainly wasn't nice. But when the word, "No!" Sprang from her in absolute terror, Ric thought it was about time to wake her up. Putting out his arms to her, he tried to hold her still, to prevent her from hurting herself even more. "Connie, wake up," He told her firmly, hoping to penetrate her fogged and disturbed mind. Her eyes were glazed, clearly not seeing him, but someone else. She pushed at his chest, frantic to get him away from her, desperately trying to prevent a repetition of Christmas Night. "Connie, it's me, Ric," He insisted, taking her hands in his so that she didn't give him a black eye in the throws of her fear. When her vision finally cleared, she lay there, breathing hard, clearly trying to banish the panic that was swamping her. "It was just a dream," Ric promised her soothingly. She stared at him, trying to put her jumbled thoughts into some sort of order. "I, erm, I..." She stopped, not entirely sure how to explain what she'd seen. "Oh, god," She suddenly added, all the colour draining from her face. Wrenching herself free of Ric's arms, she lurched out of bed, heading with more speed than Ric would have thought possible towards the bathroom. Connie didn't think that she had ever thrown up quite so much, not even when she'd been seventeen, and had smoked some seriously off dope with a couple of friends. It surely wasn't natural for there to be so much able to leave one's stomach, when said person had eaten so very little. When she felt him kneel down beside her, his arms going around her waist to hold her upright, she knew that in this moment, she sincerely wanted to die. Her ribs were total agony with all the heaving, but it felt as though her diaphragm had gone into spasm. "I wish I was dead," She groaned after a while. "No, you don't," Ric admonished her gently. "Try to calm down, or you'll hurt your ribs even more." "Easier, said, than done," Connie told him between gasps, feeling his hand beginning to rub gentle circles on her back. When her stomach eventually decided it had nothing else to give, she took in a few deep breaths, made all the harder by her cracked and protesting ribs. Ric helped her to her feet, and watched as she splashed her face and scrubbed her teeth until her gums bled. She stared at her flushed, hollow-cheeked face in the mirror, not wanting to believe this was Connie Beauchamp staring back at her. "I look about sixty," She told him dismally, absent-mindedly scratching at the skin on her left forearm. "What?" He asked, gesturing to the nails that were raking along her skin. "I feel filthy, tainted," She said, the words making sense only to her, because only she knew what she had dreamt. "I need a quick shower." "Would you like a cup of tea?" Ric asked her, thinking that the post-traumatic stress must finally be catching up with her. "Yes please," She said, switching on the shower, and turning the dial to as hot as it would go.
Finding a box of herbal teas in the kitchen, Ric made her a cup of peppermint, knowing it would settle her stomach far more than ordinary tea. When he returned upstairs, she was out of the shower, and back in bed, clearly wearing a different nightie. "Sorry about that," She said as he handed her the tea. "Nothing I haven't seen before," He commented dryly, sliding back under the duvet. "What did you dream?" After taking a tentative sip of the tea, Connie placed the mug on the bedside cabinet and lay down again. "You and Michael were playing poker for my soul," She told him succinctly, her body uncontrollably shivering now that she was out of the hot shower. Putting his arms round her, Ric tried to warm her up. "Who won?" He couldn't help asking, for want of anything better to say. "I don't know," Connie told him exhaustedly. "The scene kept changing. It kept alternating between the poker, and what Michael did to me. I don't remember anything after I lost consciousness," She added a little unsteadily. "So how can I know it was like that? How can I recreate it in so much fucking detail?" "It's highly possible," Ric said carefully. "That you were peripherally aware of what happened, but that you're not allowing yourself to remember it, because you don't want to remember it, which is perfectly natural." "What, about any of this, is perfectly natural?" Connie demanded acidly, hot tears pouring down her face. "Precisely what, is perfectly natural, about one's husband forcing his way inside you, just because he wants his own way?" Ric never did know what to say in these sorts of situations, and this one was no different. All he could do was to try to calm her down, to reassure her by actions rather than words, that he really wasn't going anywhere. "I'm sorry," She said eventually. "You shouldn't have to deal with all this. When I lose it, I really go all out to do it properly." "You do with most things," Ric told her fondly. "And I'm here, trying to help you through this, because that's what friends are for." "Well, thank you," She said, reaching for a tissue to blow her nose. "I'm not sure where I'd be now if it wasn't for you. Never thought you'd hear me say that, did you." "Go to sleep," He told her gently, hearing the clear exhaustion in her tone, but silently indulging himself with the thought that she actually did need him.