Improvise

by Melanie Rachel

  Elizabeth opened her eyes to a bright hospital room awash in white. White walls, white curtains, and a white ceiling. Her vision was blurry, and her teeth felt fuzzy. There was a muted, throbbing ache behind her eyes.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” came a deep voice from the foot of her bed.

  Elizabeth swallowed, grimaced at the taste in her mouth. “Sir?” she croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

  “Major Fitzwilliam, the one and only,” he replied, and she tried to focus on his face. She blinked. Better, but still blurry around the edges.

  “Well, you look like crap,” he said with a teasing grin. Then he asked, more seriously, “How’re you feeling?”

  She saw him more clearly then, as he moved out of the direct sunlight. His arms and neck were bandaged, and he had a few light scrapes along one side of his face, but otherwise he looked fine. She reached for a pink blob to her right, guessing it was a cup of water. She missed it the first time, and the major reached over to pick it up. He held it steady for her while she took a sip through the straw.

  “Like someone threw a pipe bomb at me, sir,” she said when she was through.

  He grinned again, this time appearing more relaxed, and moved closer to her bed. “You must be feeling better if you’re already giving me shit about that.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she sighed, returning to the question. “They’ve got me on some first-rate drugs. I am literally feeling no pain,” she said slowly, trying not to slur her words and leaning back. She held up her unbandaged hand in front of her and wiggled her fingers. Nothing. “Not feeling much at all, actually.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. She could feel her left leg in a machine that was making a groaning noise as it gradually but continuously bent her knee and straightened it. Oh yeah. Surgery.

  “You seem to have gotten off okay,” he said, serious for a moment. “Second-degree burn,” he told her, nodding at her hand. “The shoulder wound was superficial. You had surgery to remove some shrapnel from your knee, and you’ve got a concussion, which I’m pretty sure you already know. That’ll happen when you tackle teenagers and dive into tables headfirst.”

  Elizabeth grunted a little. With a sigh and a slightly elevated eyebrow, she asked, “How many stitches did you get?”

  He shrugged. “Lots. Too many. Why?”

  “I bet I had more than you.”

  He snorted at that. “Trying to explain why you’re lying around in bed while I have to work?”

  She cleared her throat. “Do I need to explain this again? B.O.M.B.”

  He laughed full-out this time. “You can still spell. A good sign for someone with head trauma.” He let out a breath. “I actually stopped by to see if you needed anything.”

  “I am in desperate, desperate need of a toothbrush.” She closed her eyes. “And my phone. I have to call my sister.” He glanced over at the side table and saw her phone was there. He picked it up, but the battery was dead. He looked in the drawer, but there was no charger.

  “If you give me her number, I’ll make the call.”

  “She’ll freak out if someone else calls.” Elizabeth forced her eyelids open. “But I guess if you tell her I’m busy being high . . .” The major shook his head. She recited the numbers, and he entered them in his phone. “I hope I got that right.” She half-sighed, half-groaned again. The meds were making her feel sick and stupid. Were they supposed to give painkillers to someone with a concussion? “Ask for Dr. Jane Bennet.” Her sister had earned a DNP—a Doctorate of Nursing Practice. It embarrassed Jane to be addressed that way, but Elizabeth insisted that she’d earned it. Jane would know she was all right if the major asked for her by title.

  “Doctor, huh?” he asked. “Clearly she got all the brains.”

  Elizabeth gave him a half-hearted scowl. “You are so lucky I was there yesterday, Major I-speak-a-dozen-languages. It wasn’t a scholar you needed.”

  The major chuckled.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes again as a wave of nausea washed over her.

  She could almost feel Major Fitzwilliam scrutinizing her. “Hey, you’re looking kind of green,” he said, after a moment. “You okay?”

  “No,” she said, grateful when he quickly grabbed a basin and held it under her as she sat up and heaved over the side of the bed. Dry heaves, in the end, for which she was thankful. When she was finished, he set the basin down and went the bathroom. He returned with a toothbrush wrapped in plastic and a tiny tube of toothpaste. He handed them to her.

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth muttered.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “I’m going to let the nurse know you’re sick to your stomach so they can give you something for it. Unfortunately, I have to make some calls of my own after that.”

  “What time is it?”

  He checked his watch. “Local time is 15:00.”

  “Wow.” She thought about that for a minute. “The shooting was yesterday, right?”

  “Yes,” he said with a small grimace.

  She picked up the pink cup in one try this time and took a sip. “And they’re just letting you out of debrief?”

  He nodded once. “About ninety minutes ago.”

  Elizabeth let out a short humph. “Sorry you had to do it alone. They spoke to me earlier, but I actually can’t remember what I said. Something about Rosebud.”

  He stared at her.

  “Yeah, that’s the look they gave me, too,” she said with a grimace. “Citizen Kane? Doesn’t anyone watch the classics anymore?”

  “You said that in debrief?” he asked. His cheek twitched and his lips quirked upward.

  “Well, we’d already sort of exhausted everything else. Multiple times. I figured they’d leave if they thought the meds were kicking in.”

  He chuckled. “Not a bad strategy.”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said abruptly, her eyelids dropping shut. The pain meds were putting her to sleep again. “I’m not trying to pull a Rosebud, but I have to stop talking now.”

  Major Fitzwilliam grunted at the announcement. She felt him lift the cup from her hand where it was beginning to tip over and replaced it on her tray. “Okay,” he said.

  She was drifting off when she felt the toothpaste and toothbrush leaving her hand and heard him setting items down on the table.

  “See ya, Staff Sergeant,” he said quietly. She was asleep before the door closed.

  Richard found a courtyard wedged between two buildings in the medical complex and took a seat at one of the small outdoor tables. At this time of the afternoon, the area was deserted. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed his portable charger on the table, ready for use.

  First, he tried the number Bennet had given him.

  On the second ring, he heard a soft “Hello?”

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m calling for Dr. Jane Bennet?”

  There was a soft huff on the other end, then, “This is she.”

  This is she? He thought. Pretty formal for a sister of Bennet’s.

  “Dr. Bennet, this is Major Richard Fitzwilliam, US Marines. . .” Before he could continue, he was interrupted.

  “Is Elizabeth all right?” the voice asked, thoroughly panicked.

  “She’s fine, Dr. Bennet. She asked me to call you.”

  “Why isn’t she calling me herself?”

  Richard shook his head. Bennet was right, he thought. Her sister is freaking out. What had she told him to say? “She told me to tell you she was busy being high.”

  There was silence for a moment, then a humph that sounded nearly identical to Bennet’s. “I’m sure she thinks that’s funny. Is she really all right? What are they giving her? Does she have a concussion?”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of questions in a row.” Richard ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his jumbled thoughts. How’d she know about the concussion? “Uh, she is going to be all right, I don’t know, and she does. Did someone already call you?”

  “No, I think they called my uncle. I saw her
photo in the paper.”

  Huh, he thought, impressed. Despite his crack about her sister having the brains, he knew from the few conversations they’d had that the staff sergeant was no slouch. The Bennets seem a pretty smart bunch.

  Silence again, then, “Thank you for calling me, Major Fitzwilliam. Do you know when Lizzy might be able to call me, or is there a good time to call her? Her phone is going straight to voicemail. I’m afraid until I hear her voice . . .”

  He felt a surge of sympathy for her that extended to his own cousin. “Sorry, I don’t know. Her phone was dead, and she was sleeping when I left her. The meds are really knocking her out.” He gave her the name of the hospital and Bennet’s room number.

  The next question was clipped, clinical. “What can you tell me about her injuries?”

  He went through what he knew, and then, after another round of thanks from her, he hung up. Then something struck him, and he lifted his eyebrows.

  “Lizzy,” he said with a small chuckle. Bennet didn’t look like a Lizzy to him. He was sure it would bug her. Yeah, he could have some fun with that.

  He checked his battery and plugged in the mobile charger before checking the message icon for the first time in a full day and realizing he had over thirty messages.

  “God,” he groaned, scrolling through them. Most were numbers he didn’t know, but it was easy to pick out Will’s. He listened to the messages and tapped the screen to return the call. His cousin picked up before the first ring was complete. Predictable.

  His cousin’s baritone was taut, sharp. “Richard?”

  “It’s me, Will,” Richard said. “How hard are you hitting the scotch?”

  There was a pause. “Whiskey, actually.”

  “My mistake.” He sighed. “I’m okay, Will. Really.”

  Will cleared his throat. “Your dad called.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that went well,” Richard replied, resting his head in his hand. “Crowing, was he?”

  “Do I need to answer that?” Will asked with a sigh. Richard imagined his stoic cousin running his hand through his hair. He always did that when he was unhappy or stressed.

  He sounds wrecked. “No. Sorry I didn’t call right after. My phone was confiscated when they heard me leaving a message for my dad. Just got it back and had to charge it.”

  There was a release of air Richard identified as anger, and then Will said, “Okay.”

  “Will,” Richard said wearily, “I didn’t go looking for this, you know. It might have happened in New York as easily as here.” I am too tired for this conversation.

  “I doubt it. You’re in Brussels, Richard, a European hotspot for terrorist activity.”

  Richard almost laughed out loud but swallowed it. Sometimes his cousin sounded like he was eighty. “Hotspot?”

  “Argh,” Will groaned, frustrated. “You know what I mean.”

  “Sorry. You make it too easy sometimes.”

  “Richard . . .”

  “No, honestly, I am sorry,” he said, and he was. “I know you worry, Will, but really, I’m okay.”

  His cousin went straight to the heart of the matter. “Are you staying in?”

  “I don’t know,” Richard replied bluntly, “and I can’t think about it right now.” I really can’t. Sleep. I can think about sleep. He gazed up at the sky. “I tell you what. Send me a list of the jobs you’re always nagging me about, and I’ll look at them.”

  He could hear Will breathing for a moment before asking, “Really?”

  It was difficult to believe one word could convey such a strong, quiet hope. Richard frowned. “I will look at them. No promises.”

  “Okay,” Will replied quickly.

  Richard suspected he was being handled. Will always seemed to know when to push him and when to back off. Still.

  Maybe it was just the blood loss or the lack of sleep, but for the first time, Richard was starting to relent. While he had admitted that he needed to get out of the field, his work at the embassy had been unfulfilling. At this point, his cousins—Will in particular—likely needed him more than the Marines.

  His own family didn’t need him in the same way. Richard knew his father loved him, but Senator Fitzwilliam was a politician through and through, never averse to taking advantage of a good crisis. This was a really good one, Richard thought sardonically. He’ll get all kinds of points for having a son in the mix.

  That was probably unfair. His father did support Richard’s military career, and he did care. It was just that once he was assured of Richard’s health, he would move to wringing whatever he could from the publicity. There was no reason to call his older brother. Oscar had a highly developed network in the capitol. What with the attack being so close to the embassy, he’d probably known what was going on immediately after the Brussels police got the call.

  Will—and, to some extent, Georgiana—sat at the other extreme. They’d likely be brooding over all the things that might have happened. When Aunt Anne and Uncle George died so suddenly, they had both handled things as well as could be expected, drawing even closer to one another than they had been. But their fears of losing someone else were always lurking just beneath the surface. Then, only two years later, his own mother had died. It had hit the entire family hard, but he suspected Will and Georgiana were terrified that the losses would just keep coming. Now, three years after her death, everyone seemed to be moving on at last. Except Will.

  Will’s worries seemed to be intensifying. Richard supposed it made sense. Georgiana had recently left New York for the summer business program Stanford offered to incoming students. Will was already having a hard time adjusting to his sister living on the other side of the country. Richard had not been at all surprised that she had chosen to attend Stanford over Harvard, or even NYU. As much as she loved her brother, she needed to establish herself on her own. She emailed and texted Richard constantly, telling him about her friends and classes, though she now seemed to be studying more than socializing. Richard thought she was probably even more circumspect with her brother, who, unlike him, could and would fly out to California the instant he thought she needed him.

  He can be aggravating, but it’s also nice to know someone cares that much. “Will?” Richard asked.

  His cousin answered, his voice gruff. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  After a brief, embarrassed silence, they moved on to talk about Georgiana, her studies, and how Will should discuss the news with her. The call lasted over an hour, and Richard decided he would return home and crawl into bed before trying to make any others.

  Chapter Four

  It was still dark outside, and Elizabeth pressed her hands around a cup of coffee, trying to get warm. She’d always done her work late at night or early in the morning—that was when the online chatter she used to track her targets really heated up. Once at the embassy, she’d re-trained herself to sleep at night and work during the day, but her stay in the hospital and the pain she was still experiencing had her sleep patterns in tatters. So she was tired and more than a little irritated that she’d been ordered to report for this appearance at four in the morning. She hadn’t slept much, worried about being on time, only to have to wait for the major to arrive.

  When he finally dragged himself in and dropped in a heap onto the dumpy little waiting-room sofa, tilted his head back and closed his eyes, she lifted an eyebrow and said, bitingly, “How did you become an officer when you’re always late?”

  “Don’t start on me, Bennet,” he groaned. “I got a wake-up call from the general at oh-two-thirty complaining that my ‘celebrity tour‘ is causing her grief in the office. She was closing down some bar somewhere, and I couldn’t get her off the line.”

  “Celebrity tour?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Precisely.” He opened one eye to look at her. “How’s the knee?”

  She tapped the brace. “Better. They have me back at work.”

  The major shut his eye again. “Head better too?”
/>
  She shrugged. Ongoing battle. “Mostly.”

  “I still owe you that beer,” he said, half-asleep.

  “Damn right you do, but I can’t drink with the concussion. Trust me, I’ll let you know. And I don’t want any watered-down lager or cheap white wine. I want Fou’Foune.”

  That caused a small grin. “All right. You’re on.”

  She rolled her shoulders and yawned. “You’re so lucky this is radio. I am not in the mood to be shoved in a makeup chair and expected to make small talk.” She finished her coffee and poured herself another cup. “How many more of these do we have to do? I mean, really, what is there left to say? We’ve talked about it for three weeks already. The whole thing was over in three minutes.”

  Major Fitzwilliam was half-asleep, head resting on the back of the couch. “Three minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

  Elizabeth considered that. “Three-three-seven. Kind of like that. Lucky numbers.”

  He grunted. “Strange kind of luck, Staff Sergeant.”

  Elizabeth shrugged, even though she knew he wouldn’t see it. “We’re both standing here, sir.”

  He shifted, trying to get comfortable. “Sitting, actually. At four-thirty in the morning, thank you very much. After getting drunk-called by a general who thinks I’m her secretary.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Are you sure she doesn’t like you, sir?”

  “Shut up, Staff Sergeant.”

  “No, I mean really like you. You’re a catch, you know.”

  Major Fitzwilliam didn’t open his eyes and his was voice calm and even. “Seriously, shut up. I’m too tired to crush you now, but I will retaliate. I know plenty of Marines who’d love to ask you out. Some even shower. Occasionally.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Okay. I’ll lay off since I’ve seen you throw a knife and I can’t exactly run away.” She sipped her coffee and sighed, content. “Between you and the coffee, I’m starting to feel almost human.”