It’s the last thing she wants and the last thing Eli deserves right now, but he offers her his comfort because he cares about her. Because he swore to her over the phone that he loved her, that he probably always has. It makes her feel selfish, that guilt sinking lower in her gut that she can’t even answer his question on what happened to Lia. He must move for her but her eyes are shut too tightly to block out tears she didn’t want him to see that all she catches is the hiss of pain.
It’s only then that Charlie moves, swiftly on her feet and hovering over him like she could help him in some capacity, and latex-covered hands suggest she can, even if the material makes her palms sweat. Eli eases himself back into a more relaxed position and she’s careful to tug the blanket away a bit more to check if blood has soaked through the bandage. But it doesn’t look as though he’s truly irritated the wound - just frustrated his healing skin.
“That’s not all that matters,” she states through clenched teeth as she sniffles back tears so they wouldn’t fall onto his chest, because perhaps today she’d learn they’re made of acid too. She gingerly tugs at the bandage, satisfied when nothing red sinks through and straightens her spine.
Suddenly, it’s a mistake to have attacked the Initiative, even if later she won’t believe that. Because they’ll always be in danger just because of their DNA. Each of them will experience another raid, another injury, another loss. Their greatest prayers can only be selfish ones - that this time they aren’t the ones buried six feet under, this time they aren’t the ones black-bagged. She shoves the heels of her palms against her eyes like she could erase the memory of Eli’s blood painting the wood floor a new shade of red.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats again, never clarifying what the apology is for because it could be because he’s hurt or even simply because she can’t stop these tears from falling. But it’s only the start of the war and there would be more nights like this. She doesn’t want to get used to that.
But there’s an invitation to take that all beside Eli. And if it’s still frightening to face, it’s a place she wants to belong even when her skin says she cannot. Kicking off her shoes, Charlie cautiously climbs into the bed, careful not to irritate Eli’s injury which causes her own discomfort in the pull of muscles in her arm. She winces quietly before settling beside him on the soft mattress, an expensive one and it feels like it. With arms tucked underneath her to keep them from Eli, she settles on her chest, cheek pressed against a different pillow as she watches him with all the attention of a child in awe.
And with a few deep breaths, she resolves to settle her nerves to grant him the conversation he needs. “Lia’s okay,” she answers finally, “A few people are still unaccounted for but Seamus is making house-calls now. How are you feeling?”
She’s quick to check on his bandages, though with enough caution to ensure she never makes any real contact with his skin. It’s a familiar game, but it had gotten so much easier to buy into the hope that it wasn’t one they’d have to play anymore. Every moment he’s stolen, every kiss or brush of fingers that he couldn’t have claimed from her years ago, right now they’re just as distant as they’ve ever been. But she settles next to him, and there’s something equally as familiar about pretending he doesn’t notice gloves or hoodie sleeves pulled down to keep them apart.
It’s no small relief when she ensures that his sister’s okay, and if it’s selfish that he doesn’t ask about more he’ll accept that title. He knows there are more he should be asking about, but his energy’s failing as quickly as it came, that constant ache in his chest a draining thing, and moving hadn’t done him any favors. It’s hard enough just to try and offer her a smile at the question.
“Like I’ve been shot.” It’s said with a familiar, dry sarcasm, as though it wasn’t one of the more terrifying moments of his life. Tomorrow it won’t be. It’ll be just one more scar, and he’ll try not to look at it and wonder why he’s still alive when it’s the same thing that had killed Cal.
For now he’s just careful when he shifts to give her space, the wound still too raw to risk more movement than that. It’s not until she settles that he says anything else, head tilting against the pillow to look over at her. He doesn’t want her apologies, uncertain what they’re even for, but especially not if it’s for her still being alive. “Alright, maybe it’s not the only thing, but it matters a lot.”
Eli has to stop himself there, because whatever else might follow sounds too much like dying confessions he’s already emptied into a bloodstained phone like some form of last rites. Only he hadn’t died, and now he can feel those words sitting between them in that space he doesn’t try to breach right now. He couldn’t take them back if he wanted to, some pacing monster settling in his chest the moment he’d admitted it to both of them. He’d put miles and years between them, and all it had done was leave him with more regrets and too many questions of what might’ve been.
Only they’re followed now by the cold realization that she hadn’t said them back. It matters less right now when she’s still settling in next to him, and there are a thousand other horrors to try and focus on. He doesn’t know who was hurt or killed in the fallout, who might’ve been taken, or what they’re going to do next. If he’s killed a Corinthian before, he’s in no shape to go after one now.
He’s hurt, his family’s hurt, and Charlie doesn’t love him back. He’ll take what comfort he can just from her presence next to him and deal with the rest when it comes.
His hand lifts, fingers hovering for a moment over the wound on her forehead that’s being held together with white tape. But there’s no healing grace in his fingers, just a regret that she’s hurt at all. If he could he’d try and quiet that pain, but he can recognize when her walls are up, and maybe it’s for a good reason. He settles himself for reaching down and tugging at his blanket instead, drawing it up over her waist before he rests his hand against the fabric. It’s close enough to holding her for now, and maybe close enough is the best he can ever hope for. “I’m glad you’re okay.”