Fatigue tugged at the edges of her vision. Something told her this was important though, and she fought giving in as she surveyed the person in front of her. Memories seemed to rush at her before she knew what to do with them; but they were blurred, out of order, as if she was trying to remember a dream after waking up. Irene stared at him as he stammered out a response. He looked quite relieved, and she couldn’t help but softly mirror his smile.

It’s been a while, he’d said.

Irene frowned at him, searching his gaze for something. Something familiar. “I know you…” She did, she knew she did. But grasping for the proper memories - even the proper words - was like pawing at smoke in front of her. “Elias.” His name slipped from her lips before she could have time to question where it came from.

And then everything hit her at once. Realization at where she was; memory of the accident; and some faint feeling of desperation clawed at her chest. It was a tidal wave, something pressing deep onto her chest. It hurt. Irene wanted to go back to sleep, to not let the memories back in. Would that be okay with him though? Elias. He seemed distressed enough that going to sleep now might do more harm than good.

“I’m awake. I’m here.” She said it to herself as much as she said it to him, pleading with her mind to freeze its barrage of demands so she might gain some more clarity. They did so, retreating swiftly as they came. But with it went the memories and the knowledge of what was happening around her. “Where…where is here?”

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

She seemed confused. Elias supposed this made sense, given the accident she had had, but he felt his stomach drop out at her first sentence anyway.

And then she said his name. He let out a quiet gasp without meaning to, and with it let out a rush of built-up tension in him, something calcified in his chest. The fear of losing her. The fear of losing her entirely, not just the way he already had.

Irene looked like she was in pain too, but hers was of a different magnitude and, right now, certainly a different cause. “You’re in St. Mungo’s,” Elias explained, doing his best to sound steady. “You were coming home, into London on a ship.” He hadn’t been there to explain the rest to her, the near death experience, but he had to say something about just how long it had been. “They – weren’t sure that you’d wake up again,” he said quickly, exhaling heavily again. “It’s been months, Irene. But you’re...” here, he wanted to say, when he meant awake.

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   Irene Crawley

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“St. Mungo’s.” Irene breathed, blinking like the sun had just been shone in her eyes. She was in the hospital in London, Like that girl had said she was in her dream. “But I’m supposed to be in Italy,” She responded, hoarsely. Her lips were dry, and her entire body hurt as if she’d been flung from her bed across the room. The only thing she could focus on that made it better was his voice. He sounded relieved, but distressed and she felt the urge to make it go away.

So she raised her arm, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. “But I’m here.” She murmured. “I’m here, I’m alive. I’m…I’m okay.” In fact she was very much not sure she was okay, but it seemed like the right thing to say to him. “How…how long have you been here? Where’s —” Cousin Cecilia. Penny. Gus. Soph. Daffodil. Rémy. Hélène. Molly. Matteo. Names flew through her head, too fast for her to catch their meaning or why she was asking for them. She could only stare at him, lips parted as she tried to figure out what to say. Like her thoughts were moving at the speed of molasses.

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

Oh, so she – had some awareness, some memory. She was supposed to be in Italy, Elias thought fervently, but they had not been in contact since she had left, so maybe she wasn’t, he didn’t know. She had returned, for some reason – he didn’t know it, so could not enlighten her.

Irene being awake also brought back, like a sudden rush of bile, an awareness that perhaps he shouldn’t be here. They had been friends for so long that it had felt wrong not to come see her, not to sit here with her from time to time and hope that she would wake up, but – their friendship had been as good as over when she’d gone. He had been half the reason for her going. Maybe it was wrong for him to be the one here now, to be with her in the waking.

“I’m so glad you are,” he said first, although that went without saying – he was glad she was back and alive even if it meant that she was here, in London, and he didn’t know what that meant for her or for him. But at where’s –, he drew back slightly, nodding and – brisker now, trying for detached. “I, er, can get whoever you want to come,” he declared, insistent. The healers would know how to find her other regular visitors, if she wanted someone among them, even if he did not know who they were. “Just tell me who you need.”

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There were so many different things that should have taken priority now: getting another healer, asking about her condition, asking what happened — Bear, who had Bear gone with? — but none of those felt pertinent in this moment. Instead, they were all pushed towards the back of her mind with surprising force, and Irene could only focus on one thing at a time. That thing, in this moment, being the fact that she never thought she’d see Elias ever again, and yet here he was at her bedside. She’d woken up from a dream about him. She couldn’t remember what in the world the dream had been about, but…that...that had to mean something, didn’t it?

So when he withdrew, Irene felt the warmth leave her fingertips as she saw something come down in front of his eyes. A guard. Something she knew instinctively because despite her confusion about who he was before, knowing him —knowing his habits, his expressions — it all came back to her as quickly and naturally as taking a breath, and she looked at him longingly, her fingers still outstretched. “Don’t do that.” She murmured, lowering her hand to rest on top of one of his. All the names that had flown through her head just moments before had left just as quickly.

“Please, don’t Elias.” And then all of a sudden she had to say something: “I’m sorry I drew away before. I was just. I couldn’t take it, I saw an escape and I took it. I shouldn’t have, I was too worried about being hurt once again but I should have stayed and fought for you instead.”

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

Don’t do that, she said, reaching out for him. Elias let her restore the contact, that touch of her hand on his, struck by the painful clarity of a bittersweet feeling, that Irene was still in there, still perfectly herself in spite of the coma; and that that meant they were still as they had been, a friendship torn apart. The relief and the sadness were doomed to coexist.

And then she was apologising to him, and Elias didn’t know if that was what he had wanted or needed before she’d left, an outcome they could work with, but – he didn’t need it now. “Irene,” he said, and again, hushed or soothing; his forgiveness, if forgiveness was called for, implied. “Irene. Don’t. We don’t need to talk about it now. I’m just – I just don’t want you to hurt. I just want you to get better.” Physically, emotionally, all of it: he didn’t know if he would make things worse or better, trying to be here for her – but he would leave, if it was the only thing that helped.

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   Irene Crawley

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Even his voice was soothing, a balm against all those burns she had suffered through in her dreams. And she missed him. She missed her life the way it was before everything, and there was no way to get it back. And before she could even respond to him, something struck her as she remembered from her dream. That Elias and Daffodil were engaged to be married. He’d told her so in her dream, and even though it had only been in her dream, there was nothing that could convince her how real that statement had been. That he was lost to her, and gone to someone else, and that there was nothing she could do about it.

Perhaps that was the most painful thing; that she’d had time taken away from her as she lay here in the hospital, and as a result, the world had moved on without her, and would still move on regardless if she died here and now, or if she lived and built her life back up again.

It was an overwhelming feeling, one that brought a blinding pain behind her eyes. It was a different kind of pain than before though, one that seemed to pass through her like a wave. Elias had only whispered kind things to her, but her mind was saying the exact opposite: that he was only here because he felt guilty, and would have preferred to be off spending his time with the young, fair florist.

I just want you to get better.

How was she to do that? Irene wanted to wail. But instead, she squeezed his hand. “Okay.” She whispered, her voice hoarse. She nodded. “Alright.” And she just held onto him, just like the last time when she’d left. Except this time he’d be the one to leave and she would need to stay, and figure out what she was going to do now. By herself. Just like last time, and just like always.

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders