𝐖𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍. ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉ ʰᵃʳʳⁱⁿᵍᵗᵒⁿ ¹

038

038. 𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲
𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝗺𝘀.

  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 to explain just how Lori felt that night, sitting there on Steve's lap in the warm light of his bathroom, in his big empty house after everything that happened. For a good moment she'd almost forgotten about everything that happened only hours ago, she'd almost let herself forget about the monsters and the roars and the tunnels and the crazy interdimensional shit. It was insane to think about how much had happened in the last fourty-eight hours, but it was even crazier to think about where she wound up— in none other than Steve's bathroom. And how safe she felt now. How comfortable he made her with just his presence alone.

She couldn't really forget about the interdimensional stuff completely, and she figured she never would. But it was over now. And it was still beating at the back of her mind as she stared at Steve's bruised and bandaged face— a grave reminder of what they'd gone through. But his big brown eyes had a glimmer in them even though his under-eye was throbbing beaneath a bandage, and he could still smile despite the gashes on his chin and cheeks so she figured it wasn't all that bad. Besides, he could take it, as he'd said. She thought about what she would do the next time she happened to see Billy Hargrove. In a negative way.

With his hands still wrapped tightly around her waist, she let out a light laugh, and finally tore her eyes away from his face to look at the sink. She reached over and grabbed the last small bandage lying on the counter, bringing it over to her. Slowly, she unwrapped it, and he watched her with close admiration as she brought it up to his jaw, placing it ever so delicately there. Over the very last open wound.

"There," she placed her hands on his shoulders and smiled sweetly with a breath of fresh air. "You're all done. All patched up."

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Do I be completely honest?" she bit her bottom lip, squinting.

"Yes." he nodded.

"Terrible." she said, with a growing smile. "But don't worry, everything'll heal in no time— and you'll be back to your pretty face again very soon," she quoted him from earlier.

He let out a humorous scoff, and his eyes darted elsewhere. He looked around her face, landing on the bandaid still there on her forehead. An instant flashback of the bus flashes into his mind— an image of her sitting in the driver's seat with blood dripping down her temple. How badly he'd wanted to help her. How it practically ached in his bones to just help her. How the only thing holding him back from wrapping her up in that bus was his sheer and utter denial. The bandaid was stained deep red now, completely absorbed with blood. And he wasn't in denial anymore.

"What about you, Philbs?" his voice came out gentle.

Her eyebrows twitched a bit, "What about me," she said, sort of laughing a bit in confusion.

Slowly, his hand rose from the curve of her waist and traveled up to her head. Carefully, he grazed his finger over the bandaid as he studied her face in depth.

"Oh, that," she realized. She'd kind of forgotten about the cut on her forehead for a while, and she didn't even recognize it in the mirror when she'd walked into the bathroom. Probably because she'd gotten used to the feeling of it plastered there, and the way it fit into the new version of her reflection made it difficult to notice.