oh when the clouds swirl and all the world is waking with the wind

[forthsofar]

It's only once it's all over, once Nick's been delivered into the far more capable hands of a doctor at Darrow General and there's nothing to do but wait and hope, that Rosie lets herself think about going back home. She could stay, she knows; clean off the dried and drying streaks of blood on her skin as well as she can in the bathroom by the emergency waiting room, look for something clean to wear in the hospital gift shop, stay with the remainder of the same small group that had convened outside the bar only a few hours ago. Maybe she even should, but the thought of a shower, of clean clothes that are her own, of seeing Neil and knowing that everything they'd just done had kept him safe too--all of that is enough to make up her mind.

She makes Charlie promise to text once there's more news, promising him in turn that she'll come back as soon as she can. Someone drives her to Candlewood, drops her at the door. There's a long mirror on one of the lobby walls by the elevator, some attempt at elegance or class that doesn't really fit with the rest of the building; spotted and streaked though it is, it's clear enough that Rosie gets her first proper look at herself. What she sees--rust-colored smears on her forehead and shins, hands gone crimson, stains on her blouse and skirt--makes her go pale and sends her stomach lurching unpleasantly. When the elevator chimes open, it's empty, a small miracle that she doesn't dare question, and she rides up to the eighth floor in silence.

Rosie unlocks the door to the flat, slipping inside as quietly as she can. Now, she just needs to get to the bathroom, get the door locked behind her and the shower on without Neil realizing she'd ever been gone in the first place. Once she's clean, she'll be able to face him, to start explaining what still seems to her more than a little unexplainable.

Comments

[forthsofar]

Rosie sees that twitch, brief as it is, the flash of concern for someone other than her that crosses his face. Concern for Harry, probably, or his bar or club or whatever it is he's got set up downtown. Even though there's a certain oily distantness Rosie gets from him sometimes, the few mornings their paths have happened to cross--almost like he doesn't want her around, even though he's the one in her apartment, which strikes Rosie as terribly rude--she knows Neil cares about him.

It wasn't his bar. Or, she doesn't think it was. She wishes she could be sure.

There's a reassurance on her tongue, something vague given her uncertainty but meant to soothe and calm; then Neil speaks instead, and the question's barely out before she's nodding. "Please," she says, again sounding so very young and so terribly old all at once. Setting aside her mug, she all but climbs into the circle of Neil's arms, practically into his lap. It's close and intimate and if it were almost anyone else, she might have been embarrassed by how desperately needy it is. Right now, it's very hard to care.

"I know it was so much worse for Sabrina," she says, her face buried in Neil's shoulder as he holds her. "She was the one who had to stab him, stab her boyfriend, but...after it was done, Charlie and I had to try to keep Nick alive and that was..." Rosie lets out a small, broken sob. "There was so much blood, and everything I did just seemed to hurt him further."

[shadows_have_offended]

Neil wraps her up tight, holds her close, presses a kiss against her head. He holds her, lets her sit on his lap and just tangles up with her like he can take the hurt and terror away. He can't, but he can share it, while she murmurs the horrors she's gone through and seen.

His fingers tangle into her curls and he rocks them both gently, closing his eyes. It's a touch that his mother used to give him, until he was too old for it. It's one that Charlie gave him back at Welton on more than one occasion, when things became too much and there was nothing else but to be held and cry as quietly as he could.

"But...he's okay now?" They got him to a hospital, and he's as okay as he can be, until they know different. "So you didn't hurt him more. You helped him. You all did."

[forthsofar]

She cries a little as she's held, her tears spotting the soft fabric of Neil's shirt, but there's something a little cleansing about it after everything that's happened today. When he sways, she moves with him, letting the motion soothe her further along with the touch of his fingers in her hair. If all of it reminds her of other small moments of gentleness in the aftermath of something awful only a few months ago, of being held close by a different boy until she fell asleep in his arms--and if that reminder sparks some kind of realization--it's only distant for now.

"He's okay now," she says, echoing Neil's words like the repetition will make them true. "Or will be, I think. They had to...I think he'll need to rest at home for a time, let the stitches heal, but." She sniffles. "Better than the alternative." That Nick's still alive at all still seems to her more due to the work of the doctors than her own clumsy attempts, but she doesn't have the energy, or the will, to argue with Neil about it now.

Lifting her head from his shoulder, she smudges a kiss against his cheek instead. "Thank you for this."