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His neck stings where they jabbed that goddamn needle into it. The hot water washing over him irritates the bruises and cuts on his face, and down his chest and stomach. It feels like heaven against his scalp, though. Steve sighs, bracing himself with his hands on the wall in front of him when the ground seems to shift underneath him. The adrenaline that got him through the last couple of hours has seeped away bit by bit, leaving him exhausted and unsteady on his feet. The water doesn't help, even with the mat at the bottom of the tub.
Leaving the shower sounds like more trouble than it's worth, though. He watches the water running down the drain shift from red to pink until eventually it's almost clear. Turns around so it can stream off his neck and back next. The ceiling is blissfully still as he stares up at it; nothing like the swirling ceiling tiles of the movie theater. Hopefully that truth serum is out of his system now. It must be; he's sure he would have said something to get himself in trouble with Nancy and Jonathan if it wasn't.
The thought of them waiting somewhere in the house spurs him on to lather up some soap and start the painstaking process of cleaning himself off. Air hissing through his teeth, he scrubs from his neck to his chest and further down. His feet are a lost cause unless he wants to fall over. His calves, too. But the rest of him gets scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until he can't feel the Russian's fists against him anymore. Can't hear their questions in his mind or the answers he gave them—Dustin Henderson—over the blood rushing in his ears.
Shampoo is next. Lifting his arms is a challenge, one he almost gives up on—hasn't he done enough today? Does he really need to—but he won't feel right until he's as clean as he can get. Until there's no hint of the sterile underground lab or fear that had no doubt caked into the sweat along his hairline and at the base of his neck. Sleep is going to be hard enough tonight; there's no way he'll be able to rest if he can still smell that place anywhere on his body.
He's rinsing the suds from his hair, facing the ground with his hands braced against the wall again as he lets the water crest over the back of his head when he hears a soft knock.
"You okay?"
It's Nancy, her voice muffled by the door and the noise of the shower. Swallowing harshly, Steve pushes himself off the wall. He swipes the water from his face and combs his hair back with his fingers. His eye throbs with the rough treatment, but he's starting to get used to it. He hasn't made it out of any of these scrapes without a new bruise somewhere on his face.
Shutting the water off, Steve clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll be out in a minute."
A soft sound, not quite scraping but close, comes from the door. "Take as long as you need, I was just…"
Just checking he hadn't passed out standing up. That's fair; he's not sure how he's still on his feet at all except that he's stubborn and can't...can't do that when someone else is there to see it. When they leave; that's when his knees can buckle the way they've been threatening to do since they started the walk from his driveway to his house. The thought of seeing them to the door, of walking down the stairs again, is an unpleasant one. At least the living room isn't far from the front door. If his legs do refuse to keep working for him, he's pretty sure he'll be able to make it to the couch before he completely passes out.
Stepping carefully around his wrecked uniform—that thing is getting set on fire the minute gets the chance—Steve pulls the towel off of the counter. It's soft, one of the nicer ones that his parents bought for themselves. They aren't home to notice it's been used. Won't be back for another couple of days. They probably have no idea that the mall their son's been working in has blown up—wonders if they'll care at all when they find out. He's a fast healer, but his face will probably look worse by the time they get home.
Bruises are funny like that.
Almost better than letting the hot water loosen his sore muscles—he's sore all over; interrogations and crashing cars and running for his life should be separated by days, not hours—is sliding on one of his softest pairs of pants and a shirt that Nancy got him while they were dating. Anything is better than the Scoops Ahoy outfit, but the sleeves long enough to bunch his hands into at the end and the softness of the fabric against his skin is especially comforting after the last couple of days.
Towel sitting around his shoulders to catch the water he's too tired to rub out of his hair, Steve opens the bathroom door. Nancy is just outside, her own hair damp and hanging around her shoulders. He's glad they took up his offer to shower while they were waiting for him. She starts to smile, but her eyes drift to the side—where his face is a violent shade of purple and red—and bites her bottom lip instead.
"Nice shirt," he says, tugging at the sleeve of his Hawkins P.E. tee. The teasing smile he gives her hurts his entire face, but it's worth it for the way her shoulders relax. She glances down at herself, then back to him. Or rather, what he's wearing. The corner of her lips curves up on one side as she reaches out, tracing a finger down one of the sleeves.
"Yours, too," she says and he knows she remembers it was a gift from her. The summer heat should make it unbearable, but the air conditioning helps. He thinks he would have worn it anyway, though, for the memories he has the chance to relive when he puts it on. It's not something he's let himself indulge in much—it hurt too much, after, with the way things ended between them—but he's had a hell of a day, a hell of a year, and he'll take whatever comfort he can get.
The look on her face makes it clear that it doesn't bother her. That's good; he'd been worried it might be a problem, even if he isn't sure why. Nancy's happy now, at least when they aren't fighting monsters and more secret government conspiracies. Of course it isn't going to bother her that he kept a shirt she got for him over a year ago.
When her eyes drift back up to meet his, her smile grows. She reaches up to flick some of the hair drooping down the side of his face. Nodding towards his bedroom, she curls a gentle hand around one of his wrists. "Come on, you've got to be exhausted."
He is. His bed is so close and he's so tired, but she shouldn't have to help him over there. She's got to be nearly as tired as him—Jonathan, too. They didn't get interrogated by evil Russians, but he remembers hearing something about an attack at the hospital. After getting out of the ambulance at the mall, he knows Jonathan was walking stiffly, like his back was hurting.
"I'm not, I mean yeah, but I can still walk you out—"
She looks at him over her shoulder, eyebrows high on her head. "Do you want us to leave?"
His teeth click together when he shuts his mouth. Yes. It should be easy to say. Hell, it's selfish not to. They should be at home with their families, or sneaking into one of their bedrooms to stick close to each other. Steve can handle being alone tonight. He's done it before; just last November—are these things happening closer together now? Is there going to be another attack later this year or—
The word won't come, though. He swallows hard and looks away, but can see the way she nods out of the corner of his eye. She moves closer, letting go of his wrist to take hold of his arm instead. Her cheek rests against him, rubs over his sleeve in one of the only places on his body that doesn't hurt to touch. They stand there for a minute, until he loses his balance. His legs really don't appreciate the fact that he's still standing up.
She leads him into his bedroom. The sight of Jonathan on his bed, leaning against his headboard, is almost enough to draw him up short. He swallows, returning Jonathan's concerned smile with a nod before looking away. His eyebrows start to scrunch up in confusion—until he realizes it hurts and forces himself to smooth them out again—when Nancy takes him not to his bed, but to the chair he keeps at his desk. There is a pillow on the seat and a blanket draped along the back of it.
Sitting is sitting, though, so he follows the gentle push of her hands against his shoulders and sinks gratefully off of his feet. The next thing he knows, she's standing behind him and rubbing his towel over his soaking wet hair. Her touch is gentle, hardly irritating the bruises along his head. She apologizes softly when she catches the needle mark with the towel. It takes her a few seconds to start back up again after she sees it. He can't get a good look at her from this angle, only through the corner of his good eye, really, but he gets the feeling she's exchanging a look with Jonathan.
They know about the Russians, but it occurs to him as she continues drying his hair that they don't really know. Just like he isn't sure what exactly happened to them before they met up at Star Court. The idea of talking about it, though, when he's finally feeling...not good, but better? Sounds like hell.
Thankfully, she doesn't ask. She's careful to avoid that side of his neck, just as careful around his head. "There."
"Mmm," he can't seem to form an actual word. It's embarrassing, the way he's so out of it that she had to dry his hair before helping him into bed. Still, he wants to thank her. Thank both of them. For not making him be alone. Before he can try, though, she surprises him again. Gently, so gently that no tangles catch, she brushes his hair out.
"Shh," she says when he tenses up—it feels too good. The fingers of her other hand hold his head still while she slides the brush through his hair. "We'll go to bed in a minute. Let me just… I remember…"
That it makes him feel better. His heart aches at the reminder of when they were together. It's a good ache, he thinks. It's always going to hurt that he wasn't what she needed—that he didn't let himself be what she needed. It's bothered him for a long time now. The fact that she had never loved him. Made him wonder whether any of it had been real for her, had mattered to her.
This feels like proof that it did. That maybe it still does.
He lets himself relax into the feeling, the teeth of the brush along his scalp and against the back of his neck—still so careful of the side that's hurt. His eyelids are as heavy as lead by the time she's finished. He's pretty sure there's no way he'll be able to stand up on his own to get to his bed. There's hardly any distance, but it feels like one of those dreams where the hallway stretches and stretches until he's sure he'll never be able to reach the other end.
Movement draws his attention slowly to the side. Jonathan is standing there; his hand lands carefully on Steve's shoulder. The shirt he's wearing is another one of Steve's—of course it is, it's not like they were going to go through his parents' dresser for something to wear. There's something about seeing both of them in his clothes that makes it hard to look away, though. Jonathan meets Steve's eyes and Steve feels wide awake again. As gently as he can, Jonathan lifts Steve's arm and helps him up onto his feet. "I've got you."
Nancy takes his other side and between the three of them, they're able to get him onto his bed in hardly any time at all. He groans loud and can't bring himself to be embarrassed about it despite his audience. The mattress feels so good against his back—would feel better against his stomach if only he wasn't bruised to hell along his entire front. The bed dipping on either side of him is enough to force his eyes back open, but just barely. Sleep is dragging him down and it's hard to fight even with his confusion over the sight of Nancy and Jonathan joining him in bed.
"Go to sleep, Steve," Nancy whispers, her lips grazing his shoulder. She's lying on her side as she presses a small, quick kiss over his sleeve. Steve swallows. Jonathan rests on his back, but his hand curls around Steve's wrist and doesn't let go.
Steve falls asleep to the rhythmic rubbing of Jonathan's thumb across his skin and the sound of their soft breathing so close by.