Fracture (4 page)

     Or something. Something to keep him entertained. “Be right back.”

     The bookshelf in the living room holds Ryan’s textbooks and a handful of novels. The spines spark more memories, and I shove them aside, choosing a book at random.
The Master and Margarita
, one of the few Ryan didn’t like and couldn’t finish.

     Carrying it back into the bedroom, I lower myself to the floor. “Ever read
The Master and Margarita
?”

     “It’s a favorite of mine.” He sounds surprised. So am I. I’m always surprised to find others enjoy the same books I do. My taste is a bit…eclectic. “Are you on the floor again?” I ignore him and open the book. I’ve barely made it through the first paragraph when he interrupts me. “Get up. I’m in no condition to pull anything if you’re worried about your virtue.”

     My virtue is the last thing I’m worried about. I’m scared if I touch him it’ll send me into the spiral.

     I should have just brought him to my flat instead of here. I’ll never last a day, much less weeks. Doctor Gudelj says he should move his shoulder to keep the muscles from locking up. His sprained wrist and broken leg still make him incapable of doing much for himself until the worst of the damage begins to heal. With every object, every inch possessing a memory that wants to crash down and take me under, I’m useless.

     The bruises and bandages on Declan only make it worse. He could have been Ryan. Ryan could have been him.

     “You getting up?” I rise, circle the bed and edge onto the mattress next to him. “Good. Keep going,” he says. Settling a pillow behind my back, I open the book and resume my place.

     Page after page, my voice loud in the unnatural quiet of false dawn. No firefights tonight. I wonder which neighborhood they’re stalking through now. I read until my voice goes raspy and grey light fades to the bright white of day, another overcast sky devoid of rain. I read until the words blur on the page and my throat protests. I read through the death of Berlioz and the doubts of the MASSOLIT, excited to get to Woland’s magic show.

     And Declan is still awake. He’s removed the cloth, tossing it on the floor some time ago. His eyes find mine at odd moments, breaks I’d give myself to swallow. They’re still so swollen, the irises barely visible.

     We’ve made it a quarter of the way through the book when he stretches out his hand and closes it around my knee. His hand is huge, large enough to cover my kneecap and wrap around to the back if he wants. “Stop.”

     I mark my place and set the book aside. “You want to sleep?”

     “You should. Sleep,” he clarifies. He squeezes hard when I start to protest. “Sleep.”

     It’s a command, a siren’s call to my body, finally aware of the aches and small pains I’d been oblivious to from crawling and dragging and holding myself so rigid with fear that I’d end up watching another brutal murder. Sliding down on the bed, my mind goes blank.

     Maybe if I’m lucky I can avoid the nightmares.

     
Golden brown eyes, filled with agony and love and sorrow. Full of all the things we've lost. A sob threatens to choke me, my throat closing up, clenching tight. Then they're blue, still full of pain, but no love, no sorrow. Only pain and a fierce determination to understand why this is happening. They change again, golden brown once more opening wide. Watching them go blank shatters the world around me, and there's no sound save the high, keening wail coming from nowhere and everywhere.

     
“Nora.
”

     I bolt upright. Sweat skates down my spine, and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. The dream’s still fresh, the images playing before me whether my eyes are open or closed. I shut them anyway. It takes a few minutes, but my heart finally slows down.

     “Now that you’re awake, think you could get me some more ice?”

     Oh, for— Declan’s staring at me expectantly. Like I’m supposed to jump at his command. The raised brow on the swollen mess of his face somehow manages to come off as imperialistic. His “Well?” does the job, setting my temper at a slow burn. Ice. Ice because the patient can’t get out of bed just yet and get it for himself. I slide off the bed and stalk out of the room, slamming open drawers and twisting the ice tray with unwarranted viciousness. I fill a glass with water before carrying it and the ice pack into the bedroom

     But the temper and his treatment help. Most people would have moved to soothe, seeing someone shoot out of a horror like that. Declan chose to ignore it. My anger drains and leaves me feeling beholden to him in a whole new way. I don’t like it.

     He must be tired of lying on his back. I pause in the doorway. The covers are rumpled and strewn about, his left arm strapped to his chest in a makeshift sling, his right wrist encased in a bandage. Blues and dusky purples and reds mar his chest, bloom along one side of his jaw, mask his eyes.

     I wonder what he looks like without the bruises.

     “You just gonna stand there?”

     “No.”
Yes
. Staring at him, imagining what he looks like when he’s whole is appealing, and disturbing that it’s appealing. The groan escaping his throat when I lay the ice across his face carries a note of pleasure that zips right through me.

     I join him on the other side of the bed, and we sit in silence for a while. His wrapped right hand gropes over the bed until it finds my hand. He laces his fingers with mine. Comfort. Comfort after the storm, waiting for the heat of it to pass.

     The gesture sluices away the dregs of the nightmare still taunting me, the anger, the fatigue. I’ve no idea how long we sit in silence, our hands entwined, ice melting over his eyes. My water is long gone by the time I shift to remove the towel. I set it on the table so I can check the swelling.

     He doesn’t hiss in pain as I press the ridges of his eyes sockets, the bridge of his nose. “You’ll probably be able to open your eyes fully soon.”

     “Yeah, well, not sure how much of an improvement that’ll be.” He has a point. With the broken leg and a bum shoulder, he won’t have much mobility for a few days, and even after that, without crutches he won’t be able to get around until the cast comes off.

     A few days. I can handle a few more days. Then I’ll see about moving him to Murat and Ismael’s apartment. They’re stronger than me. If he falls, they can lift him. I can’t.

     My fingers drift over the line of his cheekbones, down to his jaw. “You want to take a shower?”

     “No sponge bath?” His eyes slit open.

     “They cover that in advanced nursing. I took the remedial class,” I quip. “Doctor Gudelj should be coming around later to check on you. Something about exercises for your shoulder.” Climbing off the bed, I retrieve the soaked towel and take it to the kitchen, hanging it over the lip of the sink. “You want a shower or not?”

     “Yes,” he calls back.

     I hunt down a plastic bag big enough to cover the cast, uncovering a few more books, a sweater I’d forgotten about, and enough dust to fill a small sandbox. Motes catch the dim light filtering through the blinds, drifting like sneeze-inducing snowflakes.

     “Here,” I say. He’s pushed back the blankets and sat up, legs hanging over the side of the bed. He waits while I unhook the sling, rotating his shoulder and grimacing while I unwrap the bandage around his wrist. “Watch your fingers.” Bending down, I fit the bag around the cast.

     “You really are small. I thought I was imagining things.”

     His eyes are open, scrutinizing every inch. Or every inch he can see. Hunched over as I am, trying to secure the bag so his cast doesn’t get wet, I’m even smaller. Throw in a skinny build and dark hair I keep as short as a boy’s, and I don’t look like much. “Elfin” is a word that gets tossed around a lot. Ryan used to tease me with it, knowing it irked me. “And?”

     Confusion clouds his face. “And what? It’s an observation. I could snap you in two.” With a wince, he pushes up on his good foot, hand on the bedside table for balance. “Fuck,” he mutters and begins hopping slowly across the small distance between the bed and the bathroom.

     Trusting he’ll be able to get out of his boxers and into the shower on his own, I turn away and straighten the blankets.

     “Shit! Bloody hell.” A thump, followed by more curses. “Aye, fuck me.”

     Quiet. It lengthens, and I’m about to leave the bedroom, take stock of what else might be needed for a few days, when he breaks it. “Nora?”

     I’m not going to like this. I just know it. “Yeah?”

     “I need—” More muttering. Another thump. “Fuck!” He yanks the door open. “I need some help.”

     One brow goes up. “Help doing what? I’m not giving you a sponge bath.”

     “Ha ha.” His face is grim. “I think I can get in the shower okay. It’s these —” He waves a hand at his shorts. “—that I can’t seem to get rid of. I think if I try to bend over far enough to take them off I won’t be able to stand back up.”

     Oh dear god. It’s bad enough I have to deal with him being charming and then growly, mostly naked and morose because he’s so dependent, but now I have to take off his boxers for him?

     
Suck it up, Nora.

     “Turn around,” I say briskly. 

     After a moment’s hesitation, he obliges, bracing a hand on the sink. Without giving myself the chance to build up to it, I grasp the waistband and yank. Sure enough, they catch at the top of his cast. I crouch down, keeping my eyes trained on the cast. Not on his ass. Or between his legs. Just the cast. Seconds slip by as I tug the boxers carefully over the plaster.

     As soon as they’re off, I rise and turn around, cheeks burning as I step out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

     I’m human. I’m not immune to hormones, and ones I thought were long dead are waking and starting to mutter. It’s horrible, because it’s only temporary. He’ll leave soon enough because
he
hasn’t been branded a terrorist.

     Reality wipes away those soft, squishy thoughts, leaving behind a cold, harsh truth that’s never far from my mind. I am alone. I’m alone, abandoned by my country, forced to stay because I have nowhere else to go.

     The air in the apartment’s too close. Too stale. I grab the sweatshirt I dropped on the floor earlier and head for the door.

     I steal down the stairs, trying to remember which ones squeak. The back door opens onto an alley, the front door to the quiet side street we’d chosen for its distance from the university. I check both doors for soldiers. The alley is clear, and I hurry down it, hugging the building as I turn onto the next street, weaving through the blocks, away from the center of the neighborhood.

     Cristian likes to wander the blocks, searching for me if it’s been more than a week, and it’s going on two. He’ll be making a push for my help soon. Sidling through the courtyard of a nearby building, I check the street before I step out.

     “Nora?”

     Months of Cristian getting the drop on me has taught me not to jump when he sneaks up behind me. He’s good. Better than me, yet he only caught me once. Once was enough. He thought I was a child, stealing food, when what I was really going for was the packet of pills on the other side of the apples. He handed one to me but I swiped the packet when he turned away, and I became a better thief after that.

     “Hi.”

     He busses my cheek, a gesture I’m used to by now, then frowns. “I have not seen you here before.”

     My old flat isn’t close to where I live now, not that Cristian would know. I’ve gone out of my way to ensure no one knows where I live. “Checking out the neighborhood.”

     He scrutinizes me a moment longer. “How is my favorite thief? You are not eating again. Here.” He thrusts a small plastic bag at me, and I peek inside. I allow him to see my grin of delight. Nectarines. Fresh vegetables are hard to come by, but fresh fruit? Almost impossible.

     “Thank you. And yes, I have been eating. Just had a difficult night last night, that’s all.” He crowds me into a doorway, away from any curious eyes. “Ah, the firefight.” He nods.

     
Firefight?
“Yes.” The lie rolls off my tongue. “It sounded close.”

     His expression turns grave. “Two blocks from here. My apologies for keeping you up. It took a while for my unit to push the rebels back.”

     Shit. I’ve been lucky so far, the fighting limited to seconds–long skirmishes in the blocks surrounding the flat I moved to after Ryan’s death, the lengthier fights taking place farther away. But I’ve seen what happens when those skirmishes turn to brawls. Bricks crumble, buildings ignite, and innocent people stream onto the streets, caught in the fight to keep communism from overtaking the country again.

     “You should come in. I’ll keep you safe.” His touch no longer makes me flinch, but it isn’t welcome, either. The fingers trailing along my jaw make my skin want to drop off my bones and run away.

     I make a noncommittal noise. “You know how I feel about that. I’d be taking advantage of you.” Convincing Cristian I’d be a terrible spy so he’ll leave me alone hasn’t gone well, not from the start, though he keeps at it. I think he likes the challenge. Just because I can get into places I shouldn’t without being seen doesn’t mean I’m cut out for snooping.

     “So sweet,
pile moje
,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to my shoulder. “It’s getting more dangerous, though.”

     “How so? Seems like it’s been pretty calm for a while now.” The main reason I don’t try harder to avoid Cristian at all costs is because he gives me information unknowingly. I’ve heard about medical supply shipments, food shipments, communications embargos being placed and lifted. I knew when the cell towers were knocked out to prevent the rebels from communicating, same as they’d tried to knock out the phone lines.

     He shakes his head. “No. They’ve moved in on this neighborhood. We’ve managed to keep them on the fringe, but it’s taking more force than we’d anticipated.”

     Oh, not good. Not good at all. I need to move, and soon. Now.