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

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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.

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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."