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Silence.
Normally she was good at being quiet.
She'd spent years in silence. Years of quietly moving through life, taking up as little space as possible. Leaving little to no sign of her existence. Suffering alone was no new feat.
But this was different.
As was everything.
She should've seen this one coming. She should've predicted this. What happened to make her so soft? What happened to make her walk through life unguarded? Allowing people to creep closer and closer into her heart. She knew better. She'd learned before.
If she'd only kept people out – if she'd kept her heart closed to hope – closed to trust – she wouldn't be in such pain.
A deep pain.
A pain she'd felt.
But a self-inflicted pain.
If she'd kept them out. If she'd not trusted again. If. If.
If only.
Time passed. Silence continued.
She passed time by counting.
Counting the number of drinks she'd had before Charlotte got home from work.
Counting the number of drinks she could pour before Charlotte would drop a hint that she should stop.
Counting the number of steps she'd take to the closest bar after she tired of Charlotte's nagging looks.
Counting the number of times she had to ask the bartender to change the channel to some sporting event instead of the news that blared in every DC bar.
Counting the number of drinks she could slam down after the last call.
Counting the number of times she had to stop and puke on the walk back to the apartment.
Counting.
Counting.
Counting.
Numbers. Throughout her mind. Waiting for the deafening numbness that came.
Weeks. It only took weeks for Charlotte to tire of her. To stop spending time at the apartment. Weeks.
Longer than most lasted around her, Emma toasted when the door slammed as Charlotte left for work.
Or for a night out. Emma lost track of the daylight.
Because.
She was counting.
Counting the drinks. Counting the steps. Counting the space between the silence and the voices.
Well. The voice.
The ghost that haunted her. She knew it was just in her head. She knew it was the drinks. The empty bottles at the bottom of the garbage can she hid outside screamed her guilt.
She knew that the voice wasn't real.
She'd seen the body buried. She'd seen the empty room.
But still. The pale woman – the woman masquerading as her friend – she appeared and disappeared with the ebb and flow of the alcohol.
The words were always the same.
Cautioning.
Telling her to stop.
That this wasn't how she should live her life.
Emma ignored the voice.
Most nights.
She could hear it. Tugging at her.
You can't waste your life like this, Emma. You have more to give. Don't waste it.
And Emma answered her. Answered the voice in her head. Stuck alone in the apartment, sitting in the armchair, still in the clothes she'd had on for days. She'd just poured another drink. And she was done with the voice.
Don't. Waste. It.
And she'd yelled through the silence around her. Around the haunting.
"What the FUCK am I supposed to do?" Emma had staggered to her feet, screaming at the air around her. Perhaps wanting an answer. Perhaps wanting more silence. She didn't know anymore.
But she yelled.
"Don't tell me not to waste my life, you coward." Emma yelled. Her heart pounded, and the room spun around her. "You left me here – left me to survive. Left me." She'd thrown her glass against the wall, anger spewing from her entire body. "And you have the NERVE to tell ME not to waste it?" Spittle flew from her lips, tears streamed down her face. When she couldn't stand any longer, she fell to her hands and knees, feeling glass cutting into her skin.
She'd pounded her fists into the carpet and screamed. "Tell me! TELL ME!" Her body shook with vengeance and grief. "DON'T HAUNT ME AND REFUSE TO ANWER MY QUESTIONS!"
The voice never answered her back.
She'd woken up the next morning to find her hands bloody. The carpet a burnt brown.
That was the morning she found the note on the fridge.
I can't watch you drink yourself to death. I love you. Charlotte.
One more person who couldn't hurt her anymore. At least with her leaving, Emma didn't need to wait and worry when the leaving would happen. It always happened. That was how it worked.
Except the silence.
Soon. She didn't know how long. But soon.
The cast on her arm started to itch. Which – since Emma didn't know exactly how long had passed – probably signaled it was time to get it taken off.
Knowing she couldn't go to her doctor – the White House doctor – without him alerting her parents about her activity, Emma had to come up with a different plan.
Which was why she'd taken a shower. She was glad for the fog on the mirror after the shower. She didn't want to know how bad she looked. She didn't care. But she needed to get in and get out of the hospital.
And why she found herself walking down the white-washed halls of Walter-Reed Hospital. She was following the instructions from the receptionist, who gave her directions to where her uncle's office was.
Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
She hadn't been this sober for a while. Not sure how long. But she could feel her hands shaking. And she felt clear-headed. Something she didn't want to feel.
Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eight-five.
Then she met a nurse, who asked her if she needed any help. When Emma said something about meeting her Uncle, Will Adams, the nurse had opened the door to the office, and said she'd go let Will know that she was there. All Emma had to do was wait for him.
The couch in the office felt weird. But she sat in the corner, curling both feet underneath her. And she tried to bring her steel armor around her. While she knew her uncle was not a worrier, she knew he wouldn't hesitate to call her out on her shit. She had to appear to have things under control. Acting. So tiring. But she was good at it, right? After all, she'd been a CIA agent.
Silence.
Been.
She looked up when the door opened.
Will was surprised to see his niece sitting in his office.
Henry had let him know about the situation with Emma a couple of weeks ago. Will had just finished putting Annie to bed when Sophie informed him that his brother-in-law was at the door.
Henry had poured his heart out to Will – frustration and anger mixed with deep hurt. Four weeks was a long time. They'd shared a few beers. Will had seen the toll the entire situation had taken on Henry – how the rift between the couple had fractured – how broken the normally stoic man had been.
Henry had asked Will for advice – insight into Elizabeth. Will had offered him the only thing he thought might help.
"Elizabeth is the most stubborn person I know. But she loves you, Henry. Just be there."
And Henry had replied, "Emma just might give Elizabeth a run for her money on the stubbornness front."
So seeing his niece there in his office unannounced was both a surprise and a shock at the same time.
"How's my favorite youngest niece?" He said, smile on his face as he walked into the office.
From where she sat on the couch, Will could see how broken she was. Normally, Emma was a force to be reckoned with, not unlike her mother in that realm. Even when she'd been wheeled into the trauma section of the hospital with blood covering her from head to toe, she'd still had that spitfire whit, the glint in her eye. She could always give the jabs and jokes right back to him.
But here – she looked small in the corner of the couch. She'd made herself as small as possible, pulling her feet underneath her. Her hair hung around her face, longer than the last time he'd seen her. Her cheeks were slightly sunken in, but nothing to be alarmed about, medically, he deduced. Her eyes followed him across the room, and her voice was quiet at first. Not the "take control of the room" tone that she normally had.
She held up her left hand, still wrapped in a cast from the elbow up. "I figured you might be able to help me get this off?"
"What, you don't want to know how I'm doing?" He asked, sitting down in the chair at the corner of the couch.
"How are you, Uncle Will?" She mimicked him, then she smiled. A smile that barely spread past her lips.
He leaned forward, "Classy." He commented, and then held his hand out to take a look at the cast. "How long have you had it on?" While he was looking at the aged cast, he was also looking at her fingers. Noticing small lacerations, he looked up at her and asked, "What happened here?"
She rolled her eyes again and tucked her hair behind her ear with her right hand. "I broke a glass and then, trying to hold the pieces in the casted hand and pick it up with the other one, well…"
That added up, from the nature of the tiny marks. Nothing to be alarmed of, from a medical standpoint. "Well, just keep those clean, ok?"
She nodded. "It'll be easier without the damn cast on."
He sat back in his chair. "Yeah, that adds up." Then he asked. "How are you doing?"
She looked down at the cast. "So. Mom's already gotten to you, huh?"
"Naw." He said honestly. "Your mom's too busy to talk to her kid brother." She didn't look up. Didn't make any movement. So he fished, "Your dad's worried about you."
"I'm actually doing really good." Her tone did not match the words. She played with her fingernails, biting her bottom lip. "I mean, as good as can be."
"Sounds like adulthood."
"Yeah. Pretty much."
They sat there for a few seconds. He wanted to make sure if there was something else she wanted to talk about, that he was there for her.
But he wasn't a mushy guy. He did things. That was how he worked through his issues. So when there was nothing else said, he stood up and said, "Let me go get some equipment to get that cast off, and we'll get you on your way, sound good?"
She nodded. "Sounds good. I … need to get to work."
Work. That sounded profitable. Or at least – something for her.
He just stepped outside, the whole time trying to figure out if he'd tell Elizabeth or Henry about the surprise visit. Family dynamics hadn't always been his strong point.
He walked down the hallway, finding the equipment he needed – a saw for the cast, a cleaning cloth, and a brace. Emma was standing in front of his desk, leaning against it, waiting for him.
Within a few minutes, he had the cast off, had gotten a few smiles, and told her about wearing her brace for a few weeks just to help as she worked to strengthen the muscles in her arm.
"Thanks, Uncle Will." She said quietly. "I don't know what you're going to tell my parents, but…"
"How about…" He interrupted, seeing how nervous she was, "… I just tell them that I helped you take off your cast. But only if they ask. How does that sound?"
She nodded. "Thanks. It's so weird."
"I know they miss you."
She shrugged. Then gave him a quick hug. "Thanks."
"Now, no more climbing trees or scaling buildings – whatever you did to get that cast in the first place."
And then, just as fast as she'd shown up, she was gone.
Leaving Will with something tugging at his gut.
