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He was worried about her.
Everyone should’ve been worried about her, and he didn’t understand why they weren’t. Not as much as him, at least.
They simply didn’t acknowledge it, like not acknowledging the whole issue was going to make it disappear. But he couldn’t ignore it, not any longer. If not a single one of them tried to talk to her, it would’ve been like leaving her alone.
And he did know what it was like, what it was like to feel like no one cared about you, like no one wanted to help. What it was like to feel the need to disappear, to hide from the world. She would’ve never admitted it, not to herself, not to anyone else, but he knew that was what she felt like. Part of what she felt like.
The other, most terrible, dark and traumatic part, he couldn’t even have imagined it. He didn’t want to imagine it.
He had. He had, so many times before. It haunted him, it’d been haunting him for the four months she’d been gone, and it’d only gotten worse since she’d come back. He could see it from her eyes that—that she wasn’t there. That she’d never be the same person again.
She was sharper at the edges, like a mechanism she’d built to protect herself. She was angrier: angry at the world, angry at herself and, most of all, angry at them, though they all liked to ignore that; he couldn’t blame her, either.
She was less controlled, more impulsive, more deranged, like her rage and resentment were always on the verge of overflowing and drowning her. She wasn’t there; no matter how close she was, she always felt an ocean apart, from any of them, like her mind was lost elsewhere, her heart misplaced.
She was always so wary of her surroundings, apprehensive, skittish; like she expected someone to be following her, to be right there behind her.
She was unhappy, and she wasn’t coping with what had happened to her at all; she’d thrown herself into action once more because she didn’t want to think about what had happened to her, like she too believed she could’ve erased it if she pretended it wasn’t there.
But something had happened to her, no matter how all of them denied it, and he was getting afraid she’d collapse like a castle of cards, she’d explode and ruin her own life. Though he wasn’t sure whether it could’ve been called life, at that point, not when she seemed like a shell of the person she’d been.
It was rather selfish of him, maybe, but he felt so terribly guilty about what had happened to her; if only he’d gotten to the solution faster, they wouldn’t have had to take the decision to break the rules that had been imposed to them and, perhaps, nothing would’ve happened.
He’d woken up so many times in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares of what had happened. It was always rather confusing, but the common denominator in all of them was the end: Elle, in a pool of her own blood and him, standing over her, hands covered in that same blood.
Things had only gotten worse since she’d come back and he’d started seeing the scars that terrible experience had left her with. Not the physical ones, of course; she’d been incredibly careful not to let anyone see them, wearing more conservative clothes to the one she’d been used to before.
But the mental ones, were harder to hide. He saw it every single time, when he looked into her eyes and found nothing but turmoil. She was lost, and he didn’t know how to help her. What he felt for her (what he hadn’t stopped feeling for a single second, her absence only making his own emotions clearer to him) had nothing to do with that. Lately, it’d only felt like a bother, because he only wanted to be there as her friend.
That was the worst part of it: he didn’t know whether anything he could’ve said could’ve comforted her. He wasn’t good with words, despite speaking more of them than it was ever necessary. He wasn’t good with people, and that had always been clear.
Right now, now that he seemed like the only one who cared about how much she’d changed, it irritated him more than anything. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t know how. Yet, he couldn’t leave her alone to deal with this. He wouldn’t have known how to look at himself in the mirror ever again if he left her alone when she needed them the most.
Before he could change his mind, he stopped pacing, quickly stepped out of his room and walked over her door, rapping his knuckles against it, in a rhythmic beat. He bounced on his toes as he waited for her to open, feeling more nervous than ever; he’d acted rather impulsively, and he barely even knew what to say.
The only thing he knew was that he needed to say something, because he couldn’t pretend, he hadn’t seen the way she was behaving. The way she’d been behaving ever since she’d come back, to be completely fair, but it seemed the case hit a little too close to home and, though she lied about it, she didn’t know how to deal with it, other than with a constant underlying anger towards the world.
He had to suppress a sigh of relief when the door swung open; to hide it, and to hide the way he didn’t know what to say, he simply muttered a naturally rather awkward:
“Hey,” he crossed his arms, torn between showing how deep his worry run and giving her a way of escaping, though he knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to let it go that easily, not this time. They were far beyond that point.
Elle simply stared at him, not quite surprised but not quite smiling, either; her face didn’t betray any sort of emotion, but it was something he’d gotten used to, with time.
“Hey,” she answered, looking confused by his presence there in the middle of the night, like he didn’t have any reason to be there. But he had seen the way she’d been watching her back, in the parking lot, as if she’d been sure someone was just around the corner, as if she’d been sure her nightmares had come back to drag her down into hell, once more.
There were many things he wanted to say, but he didn’t even know where to begin. Things had gotten so complicated and she was constantly hiding behind those walls she’d built to protect herself, knowing there was no one else who could; knowing she was the only one who could help herself, because no one had been there when she’d needed it the most.
Everything he could say was probably the worst thing he could’ve said, because it was a question so easy to shrug off, ignore.
“Are you okay?” it wasn’t the first time he found himself thinking that, when it came to her, but he once more told himself there was no bigger idiot than him. So much for being a genius. Of all the things he could’ve asked, that was what he’d come up with.
No, of course she wasn’t okay. She couldn’t have been, after what happened to her, no matter how much she liked to pretend she was. There were things she couldn’t hide, no matter how hard she tried. The light in her eyes had turned to lightning. Her once teasing tone had become nothing more than bitter. And she always seemed so—empty. Like she’d lost everything she’d once been.
Rather predictably, her lips twisted into a confused line, though he felt like he’d caught the glimpse of something sour, as she answered.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” her tone was so matter-of-factly, if he hadn’t known her better, he would’ve probably believed her. But he’d seen enough of her to know it wasn’t the truth. She’d gotten so good at lying because, perhaps, if you believed in something hard enough, you could convince yourself it was true. Perhaps, she was okay, now. Superficially; but the problem wasn’t that, it was what was lying under the surface, constantly, unrelenting.
Before she could add anything else, or attempt to send him away, he walked into the room, completely ignoring the way she mumbled a “No, really. Come right in,” more to herself than to him, knowing he wouldn’t listen. She’d learned he could be rather stubborn when he wanted to be.
After closing the door behind her, she walked back to the spot she’d been before he interrupted her, grabbing two bottles of what was probably the cheapest alcoholic drinks the world had to offer, which also probably costed half of the price of the hotel room. Noticing how he was looking at her, she glared back a few seconds, before making her way towards the table, throwing a remark at him. “You want to check my ID?” she sat down, pouring herself one of the bottles, and he couldn’t help but notice those she’d already abandoned on the table, empty.
Still not knowing exactly how much he could dare, and wanting to keep some of distance she’d put between them, he leaned against the dresser, a few feet away from her.
“I thought—maybe you’d want to talk,” he didn’t like how unsure he sounded, but he couldn’t have sounded any different, considering he was unsure. He’d never been good at people, and, apparently, that seemed to apply even to people he considered his friends. And the woman he—no, that wasn’t the time to think that way. He only wanted to be there as her friend. Hoping he could at least do that, could find the right words to say.
He wasn’t going to tell her how she should’ve felt, but he wanted her to see that he was there for her; that he couldn’t ignore everything like everyone else seemed to do. Still, he was giving her a way to escape, while knowing perfectly he couldn’t let her pretend nothing had happened, not when he’d seen how unsteady she’d become.
“Don’t go all profiler on me,” she retorted, after staring at him in disbelief for a few beats, her voice rather biting, as if she was trying to push him back, as if she’d preferred when everyone looked the other way and addressing the issue wasn’t exactly something she was willing to do.
She took a sip of her drink, keeping her eyes on him, like something in her hoped she could scare him away with the intensity of her gaze. It wasn’t going to work. And he wasn’t being a profiler, right now. It didn’t take a profiler to know that something wasn’t right. He wasn’t trying to psychoanalyse her like she seemed to think, he just wanted her to know that someone would’ve been willing to listen, had she wanted to talk. He just wanted her to know that there was someone who cared, because it might’ve not seemed like any of them did much. First, they’d left her alone when she needed them and, now, pretended not to see that she wasn’t alright.
Trying to convince himself there wasn’t something wrong he could’ve said (though it did feel like a lie, because the situation was complicated and things were hardly ever black and white), he went the easiest thing, which was simply stating a fact; he’d always been good at that, after all. But he hoped she’d understand he wasn’t treating her like she was nothing more than another serial killer they’d crossed on their path, and was asking as a friend. A friend who was very much worried about her.
“Elle, you got shot in your own home. And then you came back to the BAU like nothing even happened. Thinking you might want to talk isn’t profiling. It’s psych 101,” he tried to give her a small smile, showing her that he really didn’t want anything different, anything that his words didn’t outright say. He only wanted her to talk to him, because he felt she’d implode, if she didn’t; if she kept everything inside any longer. If she tried to pretend everything was fine as much as they did.
Her face remained as expressionless as it’d been until then, as she kept staring at him, eyes unblinking, and kept drinking; even now, she seemed on edge. He hadn’t missed the way she’d had to look through the peephole, before feeling safe enough to open the door. Like, in the end, something in her wasn’t even sure who she could trust.
“Please?” he added, when he understood she wasn’t going to speak. His voice broke, slightly, and he loathed himself for it, for sounding so desperate. Well, he was. He was desperate, because he couldn’t stand to see her hurting; he couldn’t stand to see her be so emotionless, because hers was a hurt that ran deeper than her scars. And wounds that were so deep were hard to heal.
She didn’t stop staring and, for a moment, he feared she’d tell him to leave her alone, that she was damn tired of having to deal with all of them, getting as bity and harsh and thorny as she felt she needed to be to defend herself. But then, she grabbed the only full bottle left on the table, offering it to him; it felt like sort of a truce, and it was enough for him to see a breach in the wall.
He took one of the glasses from the dresser, before sitting down in front of her and pouring himself the drink; he despised alcohol, to be honest, but he was willing to sacrifice himself to give some solidarity. For what felt like the first time since he’d walked in, Elle lowered her gaze, and sighed, deeply, like she was getting ready to plunge into dark, cold waters. He supposed it was something difficult to speak of.
“After he shot me—he reached into my wound so he could write on the wall in my blood,” her voice was steady, unyielding, as if she didn’t want to give the man who had almost killed her the satisfaction of knowing how much everything had changed her.
Yet, hidden behind that steel exterior, there was a hint of vulnerability, something she’d been unwilling to show any of them, perhaps fearing they would’ve thought her weak. His heart ached, filled with a sense of inevitable dread, because he couldn’t imagine—he couldn’t imagine how terrible that’d be. And selfishly, he felt a sense of guilt lodging itself into his throat.
“I was barely conscious but I—I could feel his hand in there. And sometimes it’s like I can still feel it,” her voice wavered, as she spoke those last words, and her brows twitched, like she could barely keep up pretences and keep showing no emotion whatsoever. She blinked, as if trying to hold back tears that were relentlessly pushing at the back of her eyes, as if she refused to cry, but this was something that broke her soul every single time she thought about it.
He raked his brain, attempting to no avail to find something worth saying, something that felt right; he could ramble on and on about things no one cared about and still, couldn’t finds words to comfort a friend. That was the problem, though: he doubted he could’ve said anything that would’ve made her feel better; he doubted anything could’ve had. Maybe, he simply didn’t know how to say anything else other than facts, and that’d never change.
“Elle—he’s dead. You’re—you’re right here. You won,” she smiled, then. But it was such a sorrowful, bittersweet smile and it truly felt like she was on the verge of breaking down, break down into pieces. He didn’t know how to interpret it, but he didn’t have time to let his mind linger on it for long, because she looked down, and her face fell, quickly, unavoidably (like she thought that, if even the only person who cared couldn’t understand, there was no point).
Once her gaze focused back on him, the breach in the wall was gone; she’d withdrawn back behind that protection of nothingness, any sort of emotion gone from her face. The shift was so minimal, so feeble, he couldn’t catch glimpse of it. Elle raised her glass, her tone back to being steady, firm, bitter.
“Then here’s to winning,” he raised his glass as well, still attempting to give her a smile, though he knew she wasn’t going to reciprocate it. For a while, neither of them said anything more, and only kept drinking, until the air in the space between them started to feel suffocating.
He didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone, but there wasn’t much else he could’ve done. It still didn’t feel like enough, but he was glad she’d opened up to him, at least a little bit. He was afraid he’d said all the wrong things, but it was something so difficult to give an answer to.
He’d only wanted to show her that he empathised, and hoped she’d find the way to leave everything behind and keep going, keep living. He’d only wanted to show her that he was there, and that he’d always be there, had she ever needed to speak with someone again.
That he was never going to judge her, that he was never going to see her differently, that he was never going to think of her less because of her fears, or her anger. That he still thought she was one of the bravest people in the world, and he admired her for surviving what she’d gone through. That she meant so much more than he could say, to him. That he cared about her, and nothing she could’ve done or said would’ve ever changed it.
He truly hoped he’d succeeded in conveying part of what he’d truly wanted to say with his words. He wished he could’ve done so much more, he wished he could’ve taken her pain and make it his own, so she’d never have to feel it again, but he didn’t have that much power. Everything he could’ve given her, was a shoulder to lean on.
He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he knew he needed to, even though the mere thought filled him with such a sense of dread he could barely even contain, something that threatened to spill over. But he knew he couldn’t go over the top, he knew it. This wasn’t about him and how he felt about what had happened, it was only about her.
He had to give her space to heal; keeping a constant eye on her would’ve only made her feel more enraged, and she was already so fragile, though she would’ve never admitted it. Still, she’d let him see the cracks in her façade, barely even realising she was doing so, and what he’d seen in her gaze had scared him beyond reason. Another reason why he knew he needed to leave, and didn’t have any other choice.
Before he could change his mind, before he could regret it, he finished the content of his glass in a single swig (immediately hating himself for it when it burned his throat), placed it back down on the table and tried giving Elle another soft smile, one she not-so-unexpectedly didn’t reciprocate, if not with a smirk that seemed more like a grimace than anything else.
He moved his fingers closer to her hand, but didn’t find the courage to take it, afraid she’d be startled if he did, and making her feel uncomfortable was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to ask her to promise she’d stop drinking that night, but he had his doubts it’d work; she’d never liked being told what to do, and he was sure she’d do exactly the contrary just to spite him. Instead, he let a faint sigh escape his lips.
“Try to sleep tonight,” he tried to make her understand that he wasn’t trying to order her around, but simply attempting to give her some friendly advice, seeing her current state. Attempting to wish her a dreamless night, a peaceful night, though he feared it wasn’t going to be that easy; he could only hope the alcohol in her system was going to knock her down before she could begin thinking too much about what had happened to her. It must’ve been terrible, to relive over and over again one of the worst moments of your life, a trauma so deep it was impossible to forget, and he so selfishly hoped it was something he’d never have to go through.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him, and simply shrugged, like trying to tell him she was going to consider it but couldn’t promise anything; the fact that she was avoiding his gaze was so incredibly out of character he felt a pang to his heart he tried to ignore.
Then, without a word more, forcing himself not to look back, he got up and began walking towards the door. Right when he reached it, when he’d already stretched his hand out to open it, her voice finally broke the silence, that suffocating silence that had fallen between them minutes before and that not even what he’d said had been able to dissipate. She only said a word. A single word, but enough to stop him in his tracks.
His name.
He didn’t know whether she’d ever called him by his name; in his memory, she’d always called him by his surname and not once had said his name. Which meant this had to be important.
Her tone was surprisingly, almost eerily, calm; worse than that, it barely even betrayed any sort of emotion. Which made him worry even more than he already was; and he’d been losing his mind worrying about her those last days.
There was no indication of what she wanted to tell him, reason why he turned around, to try and figure it out from her face, though he suspected it wouldn’t have helped much. She always wore a mask of nothingness, those days.
But he barely caught a glimpse of her, before she abruptly, harshly, violently, placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back, against the door, her lips on his. That caught him off guard more than anything else could’ve done.
The last time they’d kissed had been months before, a few hours before everything went wrong, and he was still twisting the memory around in his mind, dissecting it in smaller parts, still so desperately trying to find a meaning, though it was nothing but useless, at that point.
Elle wasn’t the same person she’d been back then. Things had changed, and lingering in the past wouldn’t have done either of them any good. He’d given up any hope that there could’ve been for them, back then, and simply wanted to be there as her friend; and nothing more, because that was what she needed.
Yet, she was kissing him, and his heart began beating so fast he almost lost control of his mind. He couldn’t. He needed to remember she wasn’t in her right mind, and kissing her back wouldn’t have been right at all. For a second, a second that felt both like an eternity and nothing at all, he felt completely frozen, unable to move, unable to understand what was happening.
Unable to understand why this had come so out of the blue, when she’d almost let him leave. He didn’t understand what had changed. He didn’t understand the meaning of this. It didn’t make any sense. It felt wrong, so wrong.
For a second, he couldn’t do anything, his mind clouding over with dazed thoughts, but then, he fully realised what was happening, and that it couldn’t have been anything but wrong. Trying to muster all the determination in the world, trying to be strong enough to tell her this shouldn’t have been happening, trying to be as desperately confident as he could’ve been, he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her back, forced her to stop.
With some resistance, she finally moved away, but, when he looked at her, he noticed she was scowling, like he’d committed a terrible crime against her. But—but he didn’t want to take advantage of her, not when she was so vulnerable, so uncertain of what she wanted from that life, from that world. He attempted to mutter something about how the whole situation wasn’t right, that she wasn’t alright, and this wasn’t what she wanted; he sounded so feeble and insecure he hated himself.
Why couldn’t he just be confident, for once, when he knew he was saying the right thing? Elle seemed to despise every single one of his words; her hand was still on his chest, and she pushed him back with some violence, still looking terribly irritated.
“Don’t tell me how to feel,” he stopped in his tracks, realising he had indeed done something he had tried to avoid with everything that he had, while they spoke. And it wasn’t truly that he’d wanted to tell her how she was feeling, when no one else could’ve known that but her, but he didn’t think he could take that situation a second longer. Not when it felt like a distorted mirror of everything they’d once been. That was the most terrible part of it all: she had been kissing him, a reminder of a different time, but she hadn’t been there.
No matter what she did, she was never there. It’d felt like he was kissing a ghost, and it’d been so terrifying, so harrowing. He’d known she was different, almost gone, from the very first moment he’d seen her walk back into the office. There had always been something about her that was magnetic, alluring, and she’d always been perfectly aware of it; there had always been the shadow of an assured smirk on her face, even when she wasn’t smiling at all. That was the first thing he’d noticed, the first he’d noticed was missing.
Then, with time, he’d realised that so many things about her were gone, and it’d broken his heart every single time. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to go through something so horrible as she had. He supposed no one could’ve stayed the same, after something like that. Still, it was painful, to know that her life had been irreparably ruined, and her scars run deeper than her skin. He hadn’t meant to tell her how to feel. But he couldn’t merely accept something when he’d seen her how unsteady she was, when she’d just let him see that.
He tried to speak, to explain himself, to explain he was simply worried about her and had never meant to say the wrong thing, but she placed a hand against his mouth. Everything he could do was stare at her, with what he was sure was what she’d described as the lost-puppy gaze.
“Don’t speak,” her voice was harsher, harsher than the moment would’ve entailed, but she could hardly deny that she was lost. She was lost, and was trying to hold onto him, like he could prevent her from drowning. He doubted he had that much power, for how desperately he wished he could’ve. Perhaps, he thought, everything he could do was stay with her as long as she needed to. Was give her everything she wanted.
“I know what I want,” she almost purred those words out, but it was a terrifying distortion of the way she used to do it; there was something dark, and hopeless in her tone, something she’d tried to mask, to no avail. It was heartbreaking.
He couldn’t leave her. He just couldn’t. Unfortunately, that meant he had to play along. He didn’t want to kiss her, he didn’t want her to kiss him, but from the way she’d tightened her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, he understood she wanted, needed to. Like she hoped kissing him could stop her most terrible memory from taking over her mind. Give her enough of a distraction to sleep easier, that night.
She wanted to use him. She wanted nothing more than to use him. And yet, something in him told him he wanted her to, because he wanted nothing more than for her to feel alright, at least for a moment.
He sighed, closed his eyes for a second, and then, nodded, to make her see that he wasn’t trying to undermine her. Quickly, as if afraid that he’d change his mind, as if afraid he was somehow trying to trick her, she let her hand fall from his mouth, curling around his nape and kissed him, with much more strength than anticipated. He couldn’t do anything else but comply, because he’d never had much strength against her.
She kissed him with all the despair she was feeling, with all the emptiness she had inside, and it felt suffocating, to feel her so different from what she’d been. He kissed her back as much as she asked, but kept his arms firmly against his sides; he didn’t want to touch her, because he felt like she wouldn’t have wanted that. And this, this was solely about her and what she wanted.
If kissing him could bring her some comfort, he was going to let her, but she had to set the rules, to guide him. He was merely doing what she wanted, and nothing more. His feelings for her didn’t matter. They’d stopped mattering a long time before. That, made him realise that, perhaps, what he felt for her was more than mere infatuation, but he didn’t want to entertain the thought for too long, knowing what it’d imply.
Whatever he might’ve felt for her, he needed to forget it, because it wouldn’t have been fair, not after what had happened, not after he’d left her alone and she’d almost died. Perhaps, that was the whole reason he’d kept a close eye on her ever since she’d come back; to thaw a little bit of his guilt, that guilt that had been eating him alive from the moment he’d heard she’d been shot. Constantly telling him he should’ve done more, he should’ve been smarter, he should’ve gotten to the solution quicker, everything had happened because of him.
She’d almost died because of him.
She was gone because of him.
He was the one she should’ve been the angriest at, he was the one she should’ve focused her barely contained rage towards. Kissing him simply because she needed a distraction from her mind was probably the tamest thing she could’ve done, when, truly, she should’ve screamed at him, she should’ve hit him, she should’ve hurt him.
He deserved to be used, in the end. Even more so, considering what he felt for her, as it could only injure him more than anything else could’ve done. Perceiving that she wasn’t there at all. Because love (or whatever else it might’ve been) couldn’t stitch together such deep wounds. Despite what cheap romance books and movies would’ve led you to believe, love couldn’t magically fix everything; it was the easiest emotion to succumb to other, more painful ones. And that, that was a kind of pain hardly anything other than time could’ve defeated.
Still, if he could help her, even for a single night, he was willing to. His own heart had been gnawing at itself from the inside out, ever since she’d come back and he’d started noticing how different she was, and he’d been desperately trying to find a way to show her he was there for her. This was a good way as any other, because she’d made it clear that she didn’t want words, she didn’t want to speak, no more than she’d already done, no more than she’d already revealed.
Maybe, though she would’ve never admitted it, as she seemed to withdraw from any sort of physical contact those days, she’d been dying to feel someone close. But she’d wanted to be the one in charge, she’d wanted to be the one deciding the stakes; to be in control, like it could somehow win over her fear and her pain (the only things no one could control).
That was why he wouldn’t touch her. Especially not after what she’d just told him, what she’d painfully revealed to him. He was afraid feelings hands on her would somehow unlock the memory of what had happened to her, something she already couldn’t shake away, and she’d crumble. He’d been terrified of seeing her crumble every second that had gone by, because he knew it would’ve happened, at some point.
Everyone seemed to be simply watching, waiting for her to reach her breaking point, and he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how everyone could merely stand back and do nothing, pretend nothing was happening. How could they claim they cared about her, when they weren’t doing anything? Even he, had done the bare minimum, and hated himself for not knowing what else to do. How to do better. Perhaps, had he been better at interacting with people, it wouldn’t have seemed that hard. But he wasn’t. Not knowing how to truly help her, he could only give her what she wanted.
Elle still had one hand tightened into the fabric of his shirt, and the other had grabbed at his tie, quite forcefully, dragging him to the bed and pushing him down, until he was sitting with his back against the wall, and then, she climbed on top of him, kissing him in such a harsh way it almost hurt.
He supposed it was something she might want, to hurt someone, after what had happened to her, even unconsciously, to claim victory over her trauma. That was what she’d said, after all. To winning. Though her tone had been anything but convinced, then. Like she couldn’t truly consider surviving a victory, though it wasn’t something he wanted to let his mind linger on; almost as if there was a part of her that told her it would’ve been better for her to die, that night, so she wouldn’t have to live with the memory of what had happened.
He’d tried to convince himself he was reading her wrong, because he wasn’t good at reading people, but he couldn’t be sure. In the end, though, he knew she was way overly enraged with the world to ever wish death, like she didn’t want to let what had happened to her win, either. If she hurt him, he wouldn’t have cared. He told himself he would’ve deserved it.
Her kisses were different than how they’d always felt, before everything changed. She seemed to be kissing him with the same anger she’d started to live through life, nails sinking against his skin, fingers pulling at his hair, teeth biting at his lips so mercilessly he sensed blood, his glasses long thrown somewhere in the room.
It was strange. To feel her so close and yet, so distant. Her body was impossibly close to him, holding onto him with violence, but her mind was, ever, elsewhere, like she was locked inside herself and didn’t know how to escape. How terrible, for human beings to be trapped into their own mind, unable to run; knowing that they all had to live with themselves, no matter what. Neither of them was immune from that, unfortunately.
She was kissing him with a resentment she could barely contain (and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was directed at him or simply at the world as a whole), but there was something else, lurking beneath the surface, something even strong, overwhelming, threatening to drown both of them. Something dangerously similar to anguish, sorrow, an intense heartbreak. She was letting him see how she truly felt, and she didn’t even know. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, he was sure, but it wasn’t something she could’ve hidden.
After a while, she seemed to realise that he wasn’t exactly kissing her back, but was only giving her as much as she asked, and she pulled away. From the scowl on her face, it was evident she didn’t like that, it was evident she’d wanted him to play along, to also pretend that everything was alright. To, at least, pretend he hadn’t noticed the way she felt. But he had, and no matter how much he wished he could, if it made her feel better, he couldn’t. Not when everything about her was so different. Not when she wasn’t there. Not when she was still bleeding and he didn’t know what to do to stop it; there wasn’t a thing he could’ve done to stop it. The words he’d said had been for nothing, and he knew it.
That was something he couldn’t understand, he would never be able to understand, and, damn, he’d tried. He’d tried. He never knew what to say, ever; it shouldn’t have surprised him that he hadn’t known what to say when she’d opened up to him. She’d withdrawn from him, the moment those words had left his lips, she’d pulled back behind those walls made of sharpness and anger and aggressiveness. He’d wanted nothing more than to help her, and it was the only thing he seemed completely unable to do. Long before, he’d told himself he didn’t have to know everything, he didn’t need to know everything. Yet, he wished he knew how to soothe her pain.
Maybe, there wasn’t anything he could’ve done, because he was just—he was just a genius too stupid to say comforting words to a friend. He knew perfectly well something was wrong, that she wasn’t alright, but he didn’t know how to help her. What was the good in an IQ as high as his, when he couldn’t even help someone in need?
He sighed, feeling sudden and treacherous tears stinging at the back of his eyes, a sense of dread he couldn’t push away lodging itself into his throat. Still, feeling pathetic, and ridiculous, because he’d only wanted to be there for her, but there he was, on the verge of crying.
Elle frowned deeply, her face completely unreadable, like it’d started to be ever since what had happened to her. He’d only noticed it now that it was gone, but there had always been a spark of something into her dark eyes, a pull towards life, a joy in knowing she could do something for the world; that light had died. Like it was a part of her she’d lost that day.
She used to be so full of happiness, passion, drive; always ready to tease, and joke, and throw herself into action. The only reason why she threw herself into action now, seemed to be because she was chasing that same feeling, something she’d never get back. So many times, before, he’d asked himself why it’d had to have been her. He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone else, because it was truly harrowing and painful, but he still couldn’t help but ask himself that question.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair.
After a few beats of silence, she seemed to be fed up with whatever was happening to him, as she pushed herself forward to kiss him once more, but, this time, he realised he couldn’t let her do it. He had to say something. Even though she seemed to despise the sound of his voice (whether it was because she simply didn’t want anyone to say a word to her, or because he’d been thoroughly unhelpful, he wouldn’t have been able to say).
Her lips collided with his cheekbone, and she huffed, softly. Still, she mercilessly grabbed his head, to force him to look at her. For a second, then, she seemed to hesitate, like she was slowly realising he’d been right, and she didn’t want this. Though he certainly couldn’t blame her for desperately looking for a distraction, something that’d stop her from feeling that way. Empty. Every time he looked into her eyes now, everything he found was an inevitable, yet suffocating, nothingness.
The reason why she stopped didn’t matter, the important thing was that she gave him the time to speak, voice more broken than he would’ve liked it to be.
“I’m sorry—” he didn’t know what else he could’ve said, what else would’ve felt right; somehow, it was hypocritical, because it was way too late to apologise. Reason why he’d expected her to slightly roll her eyes or, if nothing more, be as apathetic as she’d started being, and leaving, unwilling to listen to another second of his words. But she didn’t. She only stared at him, seemingly searching his face, though he wouldn’t have been able to say the reason.
“I’m sorry we weren’t there when you needed us the most. I’m sorry we left you alone,” he knew he could speak for the rest of the team, although they seemed to think that pretending nothing had ever happened was the best way to keep going; as if pretending could make everything be forgotten easier. It wasn’t that simple. It hardly ever was that simple.
“I know it’s no use, but I truly am sorry,” he didn’t know why he couldn’t say anything else, anything more. He didn’t want to speak empty words, more words that he should’ve had.
Everything he wanted was for her to know the truth, to know that, despite everything, despite his total inability to say the right thing, despite him not knowing how to help her, he was sorry. Maybe, there didn’t even need to be anything deeper than that, though everything was so damn complicated, human beings were so damn complicated and he understood emotions less than he wished he had; so much, a single sorry couldn’t magically fix everything and he knew it, he knew that perfectly.
But, whatever happened, he wanted her to know that he was being honest. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could give her. Honesty.
She was still staring at him, unblinking, seemingly frozen on the spot. He so desperately wanted to reach out and brush her hair away from her eyes, graze her cheek to let her know he was there and would’ve always been, but he couldn’t dare to touch her; his hand uselessly hovered close to her cheek.
Somehow, that seemed to make her snap out of the immobility she’d so incomprehensibly fallen into. She almost collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding so tightly onto the fabric of his shirt, her head on his chest. Her breathing was uneven, like something in her wanted to cry, but she still couldn’t bring herself to. Like she was fighting against the numbness in her heart, but it was a losing battle.
He knew it wasn’t enough, he knew he wanted to do so much more for her, yet, he didn’t want to speak, he didn’t want to say anything more, because he didn’t want to start rambling, to start speaking out of line. Everything he could do was let her stay like that until she felt alright again (but that’d mean staying there for the rest of their lives).
Tentatively, cautiously, afraid she’d react negatively to being touched, he reached out his arms to hold her, to try and make her feel some warmth, feeling the way she was shivering. He’d believed she’d be startled, but instead, simply buried herself against him, fingers digging into his sides, like he was the only thing keeping her ashore, like she’d been dying to be touched but had been afraid of what it would’ve feel like, of the sense of dread it would’ve filled her with.
Biting down on his bottom lip, feeling tears so stupidly pricking at the back of his eyes, he softly caressed her back, trying to make her feel his presence.
He couldn’t fix her, because she wasn’t broken, just bruised, but he could try to soothe her pain, even for a brief moment.