A/N: Here's a sweet, short oneshot about the kind of intimacy that, I think, we all could use more of. It's on the shorter side, but it was weighing on my mind.
This is set in 1x16, Tamerlane, between when we see her coming home and when we see her (what I presume is maybe two days later) at Fred's wake/funeral/memorial.
(If you follow me on tumblr, you'll know I announced a break. And, in some ways, I am breaking...but writing about what's hurting me most is how I cope sometimes, and right now this has been hurting me most. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't, but I hope you remember to always write it out if that helps you.)
Though she still felt the impressions of her kids hugging her neck, the way she held them tight in her arms in the hallway just an hour before, she also felt the wound in her back stinging.
She'd slipped away from everyone tonight after telling them she was really tired, which was the truth. But the full truth, what she hadn't told them, was that her eyes kept burning whenever she'd move against the couch and her clothes would brush against the stitches in her back.
When she made it upstairs, she took her shirt off first, careful to not let the material scratch and sting her. Once she set her shirt down on the bathroom counter, watching from the corner of her eye as it slid to the floor, she forced her hands to meet behind her back and attempted to grab her bra strap. Her fingers reached and fumbled until she finally found the clasp, a quiet whimper escaping her lips as she felt the soreness in her chest remind her that Fred had thrown his entire bodyweight on top of her.
That Fred had saved her life.
That Fred had given his life to save hers. A life for a life.
She let the straps slide down her arms slowly, her vision blurring as she took them from her wrists and gave up, letting the bra fall down with the shirt. She wasn't going to pick it up right now—she knew she wouldn't—couldn't—stand back up if she did.
Her eyes avoided the reflection in front of her, but they deviously caught the tiny image reflecting in the faucet occasionally. She couldn't see herself well, but she could see the outline of her body, and even that made her feel tense. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, she kept thinking over and over.
She let her pants fall down around her ankles after unbuttoning them, giving them a little push before the slid quickly with a swooshing sound. Though she wasn't moving in slow motion, she felt like she was. Every time she lifted her arm, she felt like she had weights tied to it somewhere and had to pick them up. But there was nothing, just the weight left over from Fred's dead body on top of hers.
Standing in her underwear, she finally let her eyes catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. They flicked away quickly, as though they were looking at something they hadn't been given permission to see. But she turned back, took a deep breath, and then turned her body slightly to see the wound on her back. No one had told her how bad it looked; they just told her it would heal nicely. The perk, she supposed, of being a high-ranking cabinet member—they over-baby you on occasion.
As she leaned against the counter and just let her eyes fixate on themselves, she exhaled tiredly, feeling the weight of the exhaustion starting to weigh on her, too. She'd only gotten little pieces of sleep here and there, nothing adequate, for certain. The mirror was starting to steam up now, so she slid the rest of her clothing off and just stood in the middle of the bathroom.
She faced the shower, trying to will herself to move toward it and stand under that hot water, stand in the steam and let it soothe her. Why should I get to be soothed?
The thought crossed her mind and she shut her eyes defensively, trying to squeeze out her own voice from her head. Of course, she's never been able to do that, she's never been good at shutting her mind down.
She heard the door hinges squeak before she saw it moving, and she whipped her head around.
"Oh," Henry said softly, "I figured you were in the shower," he said, peeking around the door.
She just stood there and stared at him, her eyes burning once more as she saw her husband trying to not look at her. Her hands were perfectly still beside her thighs, her feet planted into the floor firmly and tiredly while her toes just barely touched the rug in front of her.
Elizabeth noticed Henry's eyes drop to her back, and she shut her eyes. She hadn't even told him about the wound—she was hoping it could just heal a bit before he had to know. Even though no one had told her how bad it really was, she also knew it wasn't exactly just a minor cut—she could feel the searing in her back and saw how much pain medication they were loading her with.
She turned her head away from him and back toward the shower, trying to will herself once more to step in, but she couldn't. She couldn't even get herself to step on the rug.
"Babe," he said, almost a question. She couldn't bring herself to look at him again, so she just closed her eyes and let out a quiet exhale, almost a whimper, and her fists balled up at her sides. "Babe…" he breathed, much softer this time as she heard the door squeak again and his footsteps coming toward her. He gently ran his fingers across her upper back, above her wound, and it made her flinch. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
She shook her head, her eyes still closed, "It didn't hurt," she replied.
Then she pressed her lips together. It didn't hurt, but it startled me. I don't know which is worse. Actually, I'd rather it would've hurt.
She wasn't looking at him, didn't even have her eyes open, but she could tell he was studying her. His fingers were gently resting on her hipbone now, his other hand holding her arm. "Are you allowed to get it wet?" he asked.
She nodded, sniffling and wiping her nose on her forearm as she opened her eyes. "Yeah," she said, her voice cracking as she made herself look back over her shoulder at him. She saw the concern in his face, and she wanted to retreat all over again. "You can't even look at me," she whispered, breathing it out without even thinking about it.
"That's not true," he said softly, turning her by the shoulder that had been resting in his palm. She made her feet move, but he met her around the front side of her body and stood between her and the shower. The steam rose above the doors, pricking at her face. "I don't want to…" he paused and furrowed his brows, "It's not that I don't want to look at you, or can't, but it's just that…Elizabeth, I almost lost you," he breathed, his hand squeezing her shoulder and releasing as though it was holding onto her and keeping her from drifting. Her body was too frozen still to go anywhere.
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but instead he just let his hand slide down her arm. It brought chill bumps up to the surface, and she sniffled and closed her eyes. She was about to force herself to take the steps toward the shower when she heard his belt buckle, and she opened her eyes to see him naked in front of her. "Come on," he said, holding his hand out.
She looked at it and swallowed thick, then tiredly brought her heavy arm up and took his hand. Her fingers curled around his, but she was still frozen.
He didn't pull her, didn't tug on her hand and try to open the doors, but he just stood there and waited. And finally, her legs moved, and she stepped toward the shower while he opened the door for her, and she finally just let him guide her in. He was extra careful with her, she could feel it in the way he would place his hand on her waist, making sure she stepped over the slightly little ledge.
And then the hot water hit—hot, nearly scalding. But she didn't flinch. Instead, it felt like it grounded her, pounding her into the porcelain floor and causing her to shut her eyes and just be put in her place. It reminded her that she was here, in this room, in her home, where her family resided, and not back in that place where she had laid in glass with Fred's body on top of her.
She exhaled and tilted her head forward, facing the faucet as she let the water soak her hair. She felt the hot drips slide down her jaws, tickling her ears on their journey down to her neck and chest. Henry was behind her, his hand still on her waist and his other hand still in her curled fingers. He reached past her and adjusted the temperature just slightly, and then his hands both found her shoulders.
"You're holding yourself so tight," he whispered, his fingers digging into the back of her neck.
She let her head fall further until her hair was dripping in her face, but she didn't make an effort to move it. "Occupational hazard," she murmured, blinking a few times as the water tried to flood her eyes now. She lifted her head up slightly and pushed her hair back from her face so that it wouldn't keep getting drenched.
Henry hummed. Not exactly an argument, but a murmur of disapproval, certainly. His hands traveled lower into the place between her shoulder blades, his thumbs massaging circles in those tender spots as she arched her chest into the water.
He reached around to her side and grabbed her shampoo off the shelf. She heard the click of the lid, and then she felt his fingers massaging her scalp in slow, deliberate, almost mapped out circles. The action was so familiar—so achingly familiar that her throat tightened as she shut her eyes again. She had felt these hands, these well-known hands, so many times over the years.
When she was pregnant with Alison and was so big and tired and could hardly stand long enough to shower, Henry had knelt beside the bathtub, rinsing her hair while she leaned back against the edge. She could barely breathe with the way her swollen body seemed to press against all her organs, but the warmth of the bath and the way he'd massaged her head made her feel, for once, slightly relaxed.
When she had the flu so badly that she could barely lift her head, let alone take her own shower, he had stood behind her just like he was doing now and let her lean against his body while he bathed her, letting the water rinse her fever away while he gave her reassuring whispers.
When she was beyond exhausted after a thirty-six hour labor with Jason, when every muscle in her body had given out and been used to their max, Henry washed her hair in the hospital sink. It had been so sticky with sweat, but he carefully shampooed her hair and would press a little kiss to her forehead every once in a while, telling her how good she did. Telling her how thankful he was for her. Telling her how beautiful their little boy was. Telling her, essentially, that he was there and that he saw the efforts she made to make their family what it was.
And he was always there. He always had been, and he was again.
These hands were so devoted to her, so gentle and loving.
Her shoulders finally sagged a little as she took a breath, letting the steam fill her lungs while her body finally gave in to the exhaustion it had been working so hard to fight off. She felt his fingers pause, felt the way he sensed the shift in her, and then she felt his hand on her shoulder, tugging gently to pull her back into his body until she was resting against his chest.
She let out a breath that felt too heavy to carry any longer, her eyes still shut, and then she craned her head around and looked at him while she felt the hot water showering down on her. He wrapped his arms around her, the shampoo still sudsy in her hair, and he leaned his cheek against her ear. He slowly turned them so that his back was taking the heat now, the shower no longer burning Elizabeth's skin, "I've got you," he whispered, gently tilting her back so that her hair was underneath the shower head.
Methodically, he rinsed her hair out and made sure to rinse behind her ears, rinse her neck, her forehead where some suds had dripped. When she felt his hand reaching for the conditioner, she stopped it mid-air and grabbed it gently, pulling it so that it just wrapped around her waist. She held her hand on top of his somewhere around the front of her hipbone, just leaning back into him and letting the steam rise around them.
She didn't say anything, but she was grateful. She would thank him at some point, just not right now. She couldn't talk without it sounding strangled and without the reminder, unfortunately, of Fred's body falling on top of hers. So she just let herself be held, let their bodies mesh into one once more in this shower, and waited for the time to pass until she felt strong enough to not have to be wrapped up in the cocoon of his arms.