Page 11 of Assistant to the Assassin

“I’ll help you clean up,” I whisper.

I help him get to his feet, then I shuffle him into my apartment. I have two bathrooms, both of which have showers, so I take him into the nearest one next to my living room. I flip the lights on and get the water started; all the while H stares blankly at the floor, near catatonic.

“We need to get you out of these clothes,” I whisper, gesturing to his stained shirt, jacket, and pants.

He nods numbly, then he begins stripping out of his stained clothes. It occurs to me once he’s down to just his boxers that I should probably turn around, so I do, allowing him some privacy. I hear him shuffle into the shower, but I don’t hear the door slide closed. I dare a peek at him, only to see him once again curled up on the floor, with the water’s spray hitting him in the chest.

I’ve never seen Henry like this before, and I’m really fucking worried he’s had some kind of psychotic break. What happened at Erik Colt’s house? It was supposed to be a simple mission—in and out. He must have seen something that set him off. Henry is usually so guarded and closed off, it can be hard to tell what triggers him, though I’ve tried in vain to get some idea of what those triggers might be. If I can help him avoid them or help him through them, I would feel far less helpless than I do right now.

I leave him alone for a second so I can make a call to Dr. Bennett, the only person I can think of that could give me an answer on how to help him. Even at the late hour, she answers the phone after only a couple rings.

“Hey Dr. Bennett, it’s Bethany Reed, Henry’s assistant.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Reed. What can I do for you?”

I glance at the door of my bathroom, which sits ajar in case he needs me. “Henry showed up at my house after finishing…an assignment. He’s acting weird. He’s not very responsive, he’s in like this catatonic trance, and he mentioned something about his mother.”

“What did he say specifically?”

“He looked upset by the blood on his body because he thinks it’s his mom’s.”

Dr. Bennett says nothing for a moment, and then, “All you can do is let it run its course and be there to support him.”

“I’ve seen him experience flashbacks before, but it’s nothing like this. Usually he looks shaken and anxious, but this…”

“Think of PTSD like a shaken can of soda,” Dr. Bennett begins. “Anytime you open that can, it will burst uncontrollably. The goal in treating PTSD is to be able to open the can without it exploding, and the way you do that is by opening that can again and again, until all the air fizzles out.”

An odd analogy but I guess that makes sense.

“To heal is to face the pain, and Henry has avoided doing that for a very long time,” she continues. “He’s only now processing his feelings and emotions, so it will get worse before it gets better. But it will get better.”

From my own time in therapy when I was a teenager, I know what she’s saying is true. It’s a marathon not a sprint. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Healing is always harder when you’re doing it alone, Ms. Reed, something I’m sure you know. Your presence and care will help him just as much as therapy will.”

With her advice in mind, I go back inside the bathroom to find Henry still on the floor, with his head bent down towards his chest and his hair plastered around his face.

I unhook my insulin pump from my bra and slip the needle out of the port in my stomach, setting the device down on the bathroom counter. Without bothering to take off my Belieber PJ’s, I get under the spray next to him and sit, offering my silent support. I have no idea how long he and I stay there, but Henry’s body is completely free of blood, and he looks like he’s starting to come back to the present. He glances over at me with a broken, defeated expression, and the sight breaks my heart.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” I tell him, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

He gives me a shallow nod, and with that I leave the shower dripping wet, jogging into my bedroom. I have a lot of T-shirts, most of which I’m sure will fit him, so I pick one at random—a lime green shirt with a smiling avocado on it—then I grab a pair of grey sweatpants. I have no underwear that would be suitable for him, so he’ll just have to go commando. I doubt he would appreciate my hot pink thongs. I go ahead and strip out of my wet clothes, throwing on one of those thongs, a BTR T-shirt, and blue-and-white polka dot sweatpants.

When I return to the bathroom with his fresh clothes, I see him wiping himself down with a towel, his tattooed and muscled skin stopping me dead in my tracks. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him naked, so I had no clue how many tattoos he had on him. I only knew about the ones on his arms, which are a purple iris and a portrait of Mother Mary. But now I see that there’s a blue bird over his collar bone, Lady Justice with her scales and sword on his chest, an angel reaching out towards a falling Lucifer, and on his lower abdomen, there’s words written in blocky letters:

Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?

Without thinking, my eyes trail lower, and I immediately force my attention away, refusing to process the glimpse of Henry’s dick I got.

I sound a bit breathy as I offer him the clothes. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

After grabbing my pump and reattaching it to my body, I hightail it out of that bathroom and make a beeline to my couch, where I then proceed to hit myself in the face with a pillow. What the fuck is wrong with me? I scream internally. The man is reliving his trauma and here I am ogling at his body! I’m such a hussy.

I groan against the pillow, then I try to compose myself and act like a semi-sane human being. But of course, the universe fucking hates me, and Henry walks out of the bathroom to find my hair all messed up and me glaring down at my pillow like it had physically attacked me.

I don’t bother coming up with an excuse. “Don’t ask.”

He shakes his head. “Wasn’t going to.”

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