Chapter Text
At some point, Steve had to concede that this night was completely and utterly fucked. This wasn’t like the year prior; Steve felt he’d handled the Demogorgon with much more grace than the sleuth of shit that had been thrown at him over the course of an evening. If asked to pinpoint a moment in which he finally admitted to himself he was in over his head, he would honestly struggle to parse through the obscenely large list of contenders.
Steve decided it wasn't worth considering anything that had occurred before his arrival at their house; chasing down a demodog with Henderson and subsequently warding off a pack with his bat hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the nightmare that was this evening. And so, if he had to choose a starting point for when the shitshow had truly begun, it was certainly Hargrove’s appearance on the scene: more specifically, his decision to hit Steve with a fucking dinnerplate.
Steve wouldn’t deny his bitterness towards the situation; had he thought he could win a fair fight against Hargrove? The possibility was there, and honestly, he had held his own against him. In fact, he would have gone so far as to say he was winning up until the other teen had smashed his skull with the plate. Steve knew then it was over; the disorientation was immediate and he found his footing unsteady. Thankfully, the pain that had immediately flared was very quickly remedied. In his boundless kindness, Billy had helped Steve forget he had just been assaulted with a plate by assaulting him with his fists. In his valiant attempt to pound Steve’s face into the wooden floor beneath him, he also succeeded in knocking Steve unconscious which, really, was a little victory because, for an undetermined amount of time, he had the edge taken off.
He supposed that was yet another fact worth mentioning: Steve hadn’t the foggiest idea regarding how long he had been unconscious. He knew that was bad; that losing consciousness for any length of time was bad. He could vaguely recall one of his basketball games: another player had gotten elbowed in the head and hit the ground. Their coach was concerned considering he'd been knocked out for a few seconds. Seconds. Steve had been out long enough for a gaggle of eighth graders to clean him up, stick some bandaids on him, drag his ass outside, shove him into a car, and then begin their drive out to the middle of bumfuck nowhere. All of that was to say, he had been unconscious for a long ass time and he knew that was not even remotely positive. And, after being unconscious and waking up extremely disoriented, it was to find a thirteen year old kid driving her psycho brother’s sports car.
Not that he’d had the time to dwell on it; no, just as he was catching his bearings–which was the biggest lie, he could barely stand straight before his bat was thrust into his hands and he was forced to play babysitter and squad leader as they fumbled through the maze that was the underground tunnels. Henderson had been sprayed in the face by something and Mike had been grabbed by something else–something was the only descriptor Steve could come up with considering all the fucked up shit he’d seen over the past few months. Something was all his scrambled brain could really manage given the circumstances.
When he’d hoisted all of the little shits back onto the surface, Henderson included, he had immediately shifted back into panic mode. It was immediately that Steve marched over to Mike and forced him to the ground while he bitched and moaned. Steve grabbed at the hem of the kid’s pants and yanked it back to get a look at his ankle. While it appeared to be bruised, it was hard to tell under the low light provided by the moon. Mike hadn’t complained of any additional pain when Steve manuevered it, so he assumed it was fine–because how the fuck would he know outside of his own experience? He’d rolled his ankle enough times in basketball and track but the difference was that he would have pushed through it, something he would not expect of the younger Wheeler.
Next, his attention had turned to Dustin; he forced the bandana from his mouth and held his chin in hand, eyeing him to the best of his ability. He could feed the swelling around his own eyes and just beneath them, never mind the vague blur that clouded his vision. Again, he looked fine, and he was acting fine, but he knew even less about the shit he’d been sprayed with then he did Mike’s ankle.
All things considered, they were alive; Steve had done a shit job at keeping them put, but they were alive and relatively unscathed. If he could get them back to the Byers’s in more or less the same condition, he was sure everything would be fine. He pulled down his bandana and stifled a groan as it irritated his battered nose. Removing the goggles hadn't gone any smoother, but it was a relief for his swollen face.
“Alright, what are we waiting around for?” Max likely would have attempted to return to the car had Steve not been immediate in his response.
“NO. No–ABSOLUTELY not–Max–keys. Now.”
“You look like shit, Steve! I can drive, I literally got us here fine.”
“After taking out that mailbox, yea. I said keys–unless you have a license I’m unaware of.”
“Fine.”
While he had held his hand out, expecting Max to hand them over, they were, instead, flung at him in her irritation. He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d caught them; in fact, he wasn’t sure how he had managed to return to the vehicle, deposit his bat in the trunk, and then slip behind the wheel without incident. Adrenaline was one hell of a drug and he was intent on keeping it pumping for as long as he could manage–so, naturally, he felt it beginning to wane.
What had once been a dull throb behind his eyes, easily ignored when faced with the slew of other horrors presented before them, was becoming increasingly harder to tune out. Steve already knew he was going to have one hell of a come down and so he attempted to hold on to the vague anxiety that still plagued him; it provided the little reprieve he would have before the weight of his injuries hit him.
Suddenly it occurred to him that his feet weren't properly hitting the pedals. Brows knitted, he craned his neck until he spotted the contraption Max had set up to properly reach. He popped open the door, pushed the seat back, and leaned forward so he could peel the same damn things away. He tossed them onto the grass, and his head swam as he sat back. He took a moment to close his eyes and force a steady exhale through his aching nostrils. It was only then did Steve vaguely register the shouting outside the car.
The passenger door opened and one shit head climbed inside and slid into the back seat–Sinclair.
“What the hell are you all doing?”
“Fighting over shotgun.”
It took a moment for Steve to fully process what he had just been told because, frankly, the idiocy of that very notion refused to set in. When he recognized Lucas was not, in fact, fucking with him, he sucked in a tight breath through clenched teeth.
“Holy shit.” He practically threw himself out of the seat and, once his feet hit solid ground, turned to face the three engaged in their heated debate.
Steve slapped a hand on the top of the car, drawing their attention. Thankfully, his perceived anger disguised how heavily he leaned against it to keep his balance.
“Hey–HEY, HELLOO, DUMBASSES. Get in the CAR.”
“But he–”
“I was the one that–”
“It’s my–”
“SHUSH. SHH. ASSES. In the car. Now.” And with that, he slumped back into the driver's seat and slammed the door with too much force; his head throbbed in protest.
Thankfully, the kids filtered in without further protest, and Steve was able to finally start the damn car.
“I hope one of you knows the way back.”
“I can get you there.” Sinclair called, and Steve gave a gentle nod.
“Alright, then let's go.”
Steve came to be acutely aware of how dire his situation was about midway through their drive. Each raised voice sent shockwaves through his battered skull. Turning his head without slow, careful precision (the exact opposite needed when fucking driving) caused the interior of the car to spin so violently he was sure he was no longer pressed into the damn leather. He couldn’t even enjoy driving this sweet ass ride because he had to focus on staying conscious; consciousness felt like a better goal than alertness because that was rapidly slipping through his fingertips.
When they'd turned back into the Byers's driveway, Steve had struggled to hold back a relieved sigh. Managing that drive made him feel as though he deserved an award. Dustin had instantly gone for the door handle and Steve’s head whipped to the side–bad idea. The world swam and his stomach gave out a lurch in protest. He swallowed the bile playing at the back of his throat and narrowed his gaze.
“The hell’re you doing? You’re all staying right here.”
“What?” It was an eruption from the kids, and this time, Steve couldn't stop his eyes from wrenching shut in response to the explosion behind them.
“I'm not arguing! I don't know what I'm going to find when I get inside of that house and if Hargrove is back up I don't want any of you involved.”
“No offense–”
“No, full offense!” Mike quickly cut Lucas off. “Dude, he beat your ass when you were able bodied! What are you going to do now?”
“Now,” Ah, there was the adrenaline–fear would keep him on his feet, “I have my bat. And I'll be sure to take advantage of the fact the dude is probably still higher than a kite.”
“Okay, that's a huge what if!” Dustin cried at his side and he swore the kid’s voice had never sounded so shrill before.
“Right, and it's a what if that I'm going to risk. Stay in the car–that’s not a suggestion, it's an order. I'm not screwing around here. Got it?”
The kids stared silently, fuming in response.
“I said, got it?”
That time, he was met with begrudging grumbles and affirmatives. Finally satisfied, he fumbled with the key ring until he successfully slipped the cylinder key from the loop and gripped it tightly in his hand. He pushed open the door and was more careful with closing it this time around before he stalked over to the trunk, unlocked it and yanked it open.
Steve could feel his heart hammering hard against his ribs; sure, he had been able to act tough in the car but it would be a lie to say he wasn't scared shitless. Steve felt he stood a fraction of a chance before. Now, with his head thrumming in time with his heart and the perpetual wobbling of the world around him–he really did not want another fight. While he hadn't wanted to fight Billy again, he was willing if it meant keeping the kids safe.
Before entering the house, he'd given an unannounced tug on the passenger side door and hummed affirmatively when it hadn’t budged: at least they'd listened to him in that regard. He gestured for the kid to roll down the window, allowing him to toss the key inside.
“Steve!” Dustin called before he could fully pull away.
He paused and turned to meet the kid's gaze.
“Be careful.”
Steve forced a smile–it stung his split lip. The taste of iron invaded his mouth as he stepped onto the porch and pushed open the front door.
It was quiet; he couldn’t decide whether he considered that to be a positive. He proceeded further into the main portion of the home, intent on turning the corner to check (and praying to find) Billy’s current state.
“Done with your little joy ride?”
Every muscle in Steve’s body tensed. What he had not expected was for Billy to be silently fuming in the living area. It stood to reason he would not only be awake, but far more coherent than Steve had initially anticipated. It just went to show Steve didn't know shit about anything. The couch creaked as he stood; his footsteps were heavy, each one sounding far too loud in his ringing ears. He was slightly off centered–sedatives were at least doing something, Steve thought. His grip on the bat tightened.
“Get out.” Steve’s tone was dangerous; low and steady. “I won't ask again.”
Billy let out a crude laugh; Steve swore he could hear the venom dripping from him.
“That’s the funny thing, Harrington–it’s kind of hard to leave when I don’t have a fucking car.”
Right–he supposed that stood to reason. Regardless, Steve hadn’t shown an ounce of emotion in response; he continued to stare him down, unwilling to break the gaze.
“Well, you do now. And you had some time to wake up. Leave.”
“I’m not leaving without Max.”
“Like hell am I going with you.”
“Jesus CHRIST.”
He knew–he knew he needed to stay calm and level-headed and not have a meltdown in front of Billy but Christ almighty, could they listen to a single God damn thing he asked of them?
“I told you to wait in the car.” Steve hissed, and Max defiantly moved to meet at his side.
“Yea, a lot of people tell me a lot of things–go HOME, Billy.”
“Your mom is worried about you.”
“Okay, all she does is worry about me, tell me something new!”
“Neil sent me.”
Silence fell; Steve listened to the rhythmic pounding of his heart, waiting for one of them to say something. A silent conversation was occurring just by their looks. There was clearly something going on there; while Steve wouldn’t speculate, it was clear it had something to do with their father. He knew enough about that to turn the other way.
“Tell him I’m having a sleep over or something–I’m not going back with you.” Finally, Max broke the silence.
Steve’s guard remained raised; he’d seen how easy it had been for him to fly off the handle. It felt reasonable he would do the same for less–more? He saw the tightening of Billy’s muscles; the clenching of his jaw. He may not have had the best track record with winning fights, but he sure as hell knew when someone was ready to swing. His grip on the bat tightened.
“Well? GO.” Max gestured back to the still-open front door.
While his nostrils flared, and he gave Steve a look that would have undoubtedly made him drop dead if possible, he moved. He slammed into Steve’s shoulder, knocking him back and nearly on his ass for the third time that evening. Although his head swam, he forced himself to fall in line behind him, following him to the front door and onto the porch. Unsurprisingly, the other three shitheads had ignored his order and were standing beside the car. Upon seeing Billy, they quickly scurried past both him and Steve and stood cautiously behind him within the house. He hadn’t moved from the doorframe until he had watched the car completely exit the driveway and hit the main road. It was only then that he had turned and glared. Without a word, he turned back around, promptly locking the door and resetting the chain. When he’d turned back around, the glare had somehow sharpened.
“When I say stay put I mean stay put.”
“Okay, he left, didn't–”
“This isn't an argument, Max! Jesus Christ, you all could have died multiple times tonight and it would have been on my watch–can you even comprehend that? Do you know what I would've done if one of you little assholes got yourselves killed!?”
Silence; that, and they had refrained from meeting Steve’s gaze. Any will they had to fight back had quickly been sapped by the lecture. A sigh followed; of course he hadn’t wanted to yell at them–frankly, he would blame that outburst on his anxiety. He’d taken out his frustration with himself on them. He turned to prop the bat up against the door frame and stopped himself before he ran a hand over his battered face. Instead, he settled on brushing back his drooping bangs. Even that wasn't advisable; he snagged a glass fragment on his scalp and did his best to resist the urge to wince. Great, he briefly thought, because it was something else he would have to deal with. It was unsurprising it went unnoticed; he was sure his face was enough to discourage further prodding. Regardless, it hadn’t helped him wishing the kids would've yanked them out when he was unconscious.
“Okay.” He started, slowly. “Sinclair, Max–would you at least try and clean up some of this mess for Mrs. Byers? Mike, sit your ass down–I don’t care where, but I want a better look at your ankle.”
“Dude–”
“Do I look like I am in the mood for a debate here, Wheeler?”
Again with the silence: while Mike glared, he begrudgingly moved to throw himself down on the nearby armchair. Steve stifled the sigh of relief he was holding onto and, instead, slowly turned to Dustin.
“Henderson: bathroom. Just–clean yourself up. See if they have mouthwash or something just to make sure that shit isn’t like–I dunno–in your system.”
“Yea, fair enough.” He grumbled before trailing off himself.
When Henderson disappeared down the hall, it gave Steve a brief moment to breathe. It gave him a moment to take inventory; it was undeniable the room was spinning. He wanted desperately to press a hand into his eyes, instead, he settled on pressing his palm into his forehead. He hadn't noticed it before, but there was undoubtedly a queasiness that had settled in the bit of his stomach–that made him nervous. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was throw up, especially in front of the kids. Anything else he could downplay, but vomiting?
He forced a steading breath through flared nostrils. It ached, but the pain was sobering–at least, that's what he would tell himself. If he could ignore the way his entire head felt like it was being repeatedly smashed by a battering ram, perhaps he could pretend the slight sting of flaring his nose was keeping him aware.
Forcing his eyes open, he finally proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping over Max and Lucas who were sweeping up the remains of the broken glass; he would pretend he hadn't seen the specks of red sprinkled around it. He hadn't considered the fact his blood would need to be cleaned off the hardwood; he did his best to swallow the bile that burned the back of his throat as he pressed forward.
If there was going to be a first aid kid anywhere, it would likely be found in the bathroom. He pushed back the door to find Dustin patting his face down with a towel, then redirected his gaze on the rest of the room. It was–a lot smaller than his own bathroom, with a lot less room for storage. He spotted a small cupboard above the toilet and trailed over, then promptly reached out to grab the knob and–nothing. His brows knit together; once more he reached out and his fingers grazed the plastic. Steve closed one eye, then attempted the action again, this time grabbing hold of the knob. That was–not good. It was yet another symptom of a serious head injury he chose to ignore as he scanned the contents within the cupboard. One eye closed, he grabbed a bottle of peroxide along with a roll of bandages. Before leaving, he also snagged a nearby washcloth, and nudged Dustin’s back.
“Make sure you really gargle, Henderson, I don’t want you turning into a monster or some shit.”
“Ah–ahm!”
The hallway tilted as he returned to the living room to a still-fuming Wheeler. He put himself between the kid and the coffee table then pulled it closer so he could sit. Once down, he took Mike’s ankle in hand, slipped off the kid’s shoe and rolled back his sock before resting his ankle on his thigh. Steve’s nose scrunched–pain exploded behind his eyes. After taking a steadying breath, he moved to grab the peroxide. It wasn’t horrible, but under the dim lights, he could finally see the wounds left behind. If he had to compare them to something, they almost looked like rope burns; nothing terrible, but anything felt monumental when it came from those creatures. He lifted Mike’s ankle to cover his own pant leg with the washcloth; it would still probably seep through, but it was better than nothing. Once more, he rested his ankle against his thigh and screwed off the top of the peroxide bottle.
“It’s not even bad.” Mike complained.
“No, it’s not.” He seemed surprised by Steve’s confirmation. “Still, don’t feel like taking any risks.” And, with that, he doused the burns in peroxide.
Mike squirmed slightly, though overall didn’t have too much of a reaction. Steve allowed the wounds to bubble and foam before removing the wash cloth and blotting them. Properly dried, he took the bandages and carefully wrapped his ankle.
“Too tight?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Good.” Steve yanked down his pant leg once more before he was throwing his shoe back at him. “Then put this on before you gas everyone in here.”
“Screw you.” Ah, but Steve didn’t miss the soft smile he’d gotten; a win was a win.
With a smirk of his own, Steve pressed his hands into his thighs and stood–or, at least, he had tried to stand. It was too fast; he had been careless and the room violently twisted around him in his attempt to stand upright; he quickly found his ass hitting the table behind him.
“Whoa–Steve, are you alright?” Mike jolted.
“What happened–oh Jesus, his face went white–”
He wasn’t sure who said that second bit; the sound around him was overtaken by the aggressive ringing in his ears and rapid pounding of his heart. Bile burned the back of his throat and he knew his breathing hitched as he tried to will it back down–he didn’t want to throw up. He really didn’t want to throw up. His vision began to tunnel, only causing his heart rate to increase in his panic. He had to hold it together–just a little longer; just until the chief and Mrs. Byers were back. Long enough that he could drive back to his house.
“–eve? STEVE?”
He’d lurched forward; two hands were pressed into his shoulders, pushing him upright. Steve blinked, and slowly, his vision returned, though the room remained on a tilt. Dustin’s panicked face came into view, and Steve cleared his throat before swallowing the abundance of saliva in his mouth. Gross.
“Yea I’m–okay. I’m fine.”
His gaze slowly trailed over to Wheeler, hovering over to his left–apparently he had been the second set of hands that kept him from hitting the floor. The other two were close by, eyeing him skeptically after his response.
“Shit. He’s definitely concussed.” Mike was the first to break the silence.
“No shit he’s concussed–you saw what my asshole brother did.”
It was suddenly that a hand was thrust in front of his face.
“How many fingers am I holding up, Steve?”
Steve stared blankly at the fingers held in front of his face. He saw four, but he was almost positive it was not, in fact, four considering how god damn blurry it looked. After his trouble with the cabinet earlier, he already knew the results of this activity.
“Hey.” Dustin was snapping in his face; Steve hadn’t realized he was staring into space. Once he’d regained his attention, they raised once more. “Fingers, Steve. How many?”
“Uhhh–ff–t–two?”
“What? Steve–”
He was saved from further grilling by a sudden pounding on the front door. It gave Steve the opportunity to press a hand into Dustin’s shoulder and push him back. He succeeded in rising that time, though it was clear he was still unsteady on his feet. His stumbling as he headed towards the front door had not gone unnoticed. With a hand on his bat, he clicked the lock on the door and pulled it open with the door chain still in place.
“It’s me, Harrington, open up.”
Thank God. Never in his life would he have thought he would be so relieved to see the chief. The door closed, the chain was removed from the slot, and then he tugged it open again, allowing both the chief and his kid (because apparently he had a kid?) entrance. Once inside, Steve closed the door behind them. Mike had instantly bolted to the girl–El–and the other kids filed in soon after. It left Steve alone with Hopper, who was eyeing him so closely it made his skin crawl.
“The hell happened to you, Harrington?”
Steve sniffed. The bout of adrenaline he'd felt upon his knocking had cleared his head a bit.
“Max’s brother came looking for her.” Steve pointedly kept his voice low. He fucking hated that they had been subjected to that mess–which, admittedly, was weird for him. It wasn’t that his pride had been hurt but, rather, he couldn’t imagine how horrifying a sight that had been.
“He went for Sinclair. I tried to get him to leave without swinging but–I think he was looking for a fight. I was stupid and gave it to him.”
Hopper continued to stare at him, looking him up and down.
“The kids are alright?”
“Yes, sir. Shaken up a little, but he didn’t do anything to them.”
“And you?”
That one was a bit harder to answer.
“Eh, looks worse than it is. I think my pride got hurt more than anything.”
Hopper released a puff of air in response to that, and Steve made sure not to get too excited; he wasn’t out of the clear yet. On top of that, he’d just lied to the chief of police–at least by omission. He wouldn’t say it was out of the kindness of his heart that he covered for the shits; after all, if the chief knew he’d allowed himself to be pummeled into the floor to an extent that permitted them to drag his ass to the tunnels? Steve didn’t want the repercussions. It was easier to just cover for them.
“Alright, well–I still think we should check you out later. Looks like you took a real beating.”
Steve’s shoulders raised and fell.
“Like I said, it looks worse than it is.” Steve was surprised he’d manage to utter such a remarkable lie. It was about as bad as it looked, he just wouldn’t admit to it.
He was thankful that, for the time being, Hopper had let it go and trailed over to the kids. Steve decided to remain posted closely by the door. Upon prompting, he’d explained he wanted to be ready for Mrs. Byers’s return. However, the truth was that if he allowed himself to take a seat, he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to get back up. What had once been a dull thrum was consistently ramping up on the pain scale. Just moving his eyes stung. It was hard to keep himself grounded–the voices, once a dull roar, were slowly bordering on unbearable. The kids were excited, and of course they were, but fuck their shouting was literally killing him.
Mrs. Byers’s return did little to help the situation. Upon spotting the headlights, Steve had preemptively swung the door open for the second crew. As soon as they'd crossed the threshold, chaos unfolded–at least, for Steve's thrumming head.
The kids were thrilled to see Will; they bombarded the clearly exhausted boy with questions and showered him in attention as he was carried off into his room. Nancy and Jonathan, quite frankly, looked as if they’d seen ghosts, with Jonathan refusing to leave his brother's side and Nancy not leaving him. Everyone was back, they were safe, and Steve knew he had a very fine window of time if he wanted to make it home. Making himself scarce had been intentional; it meant he easily slipped past the front door and stumbled back to his car. He so desperately wanted to close his eyes, press his forehead against the steering wheel and take a moment to relish in the silence but he knew he didn't have the time. Instead, he backed his car down the driveway without headlights, only throwing them on when he’d hit the main road and promptly sped off towards Loch Nora.
If he’d thought he shouldn’t have been on the road before, he knew it to be the case now. Every bump, every shift of his head sent shockwaves through his skull. The road was split–he struggled to find his lane and on more than one occasion had been startled by the sudden vibration of rumble strips. Saliva continued to build in his mouth and he willed himself–just a little longer–just a few more miles–and then suddenly he was home and he didn’t know how he’d gotten there so quickly and, quite frankly, he didn’t remember most of the drive but he hadn’t cared as he peeled into the drive way, stumbled out of the car and vomited on the front lawn. Not a new sight to behold, regretfully. A cry choked him between gags–his head exploded with each subsequent one; his vision began to tunnel, and with the searing pain he suffered through, he wondered if passing out on the lawn wasn’t a kinder alternative.
But, no, Steve couldn’t rest yet. He couldn’t risk being found by some passing stranger–or worse, one of his neighbors calling the cops; again, not an uncommon occurrence, but one he cared to avoid. He gave himself a minute to recuperate which, honestly, didn’t even fucking help because the world was spinning so violently he was sure he would vomit again. While his footing was unsteady, he managed to pull himself onto his feet and stumble his way into his home. Empty–he wasn’t sure why he had expected anything less. It was always fucking empty. Empty and quiet, save the thrumming of his heart in his ears. Steve kicked his shoes off by the door and quite literally crawled up the stairs; multiple times he’d stopped and forced some steadying breaths through his gaping mouth, pressing his back into the step behind him, willing the world to just stop spinning for ten seconds.
Upon reaching the top step, his initial plan involved going into his room and changing; he, too, after all, had been exposed to whatever shit had lined those tunnels. His stomach, however, had a different plan which led to him gripping the porcelain toilet and retching once more. Each heave set a firework off inside the confines of his skull, quite literally blinding him from the pain. Tears naturally welled in his eyes–he wanted to tell himself they were a response to vomiting, but fuck, he knew better.
He missed his mom–he missed a mom who hadn’t been around for ages. His hands shook as he clung to the toilet seat; faded adrenaline mixed with fear, genuine fear–fear he had not been allowed to show previously because he was the adult and if he was scared then what would that do to the kids? He was hurting, worse than he ever had, and he was tired, and he was scared, and he just wanted someone to be around after being alone for so damn long. Again, he heaved, and an actual cry escaped him that time; a choked, messy sob, mixed with foam and saliva and suddenly he was glad to be alone again because he could hear his dad’s clicking in disapproval and the insults marinating on the tip of his tongue.
Steve slumped against the floor, too tired to hold himself upright. He fell asleep at some point–at least, he was pretty sure he had, considering the sky outside the window had changed to a light purple and pink but, otherwise, the state of his head had remained painfully constant. Somehow he’d managed to strip down and drag himself into the shower. He sat under the water and watched as pink swirled beneath him.
The shards were still there. He had to pick them out–he hadn’t the energy. He hadn’t the energy to do much of anything aside from weakly running the bar of soap over his body. The bandaids that had been stuck to him peeled and fell into the pink-stained water. He was too scared to touch his head as it pulsed in rhythm with his heart. He was convinced that a wrong touch would knock him unconscious again, and so he’d just settled on the water running over him until it ran off mostly clear. At that point, he forced himself to walk, however slowly, to his bedroom. He grabbed clothes, whatever he could get his hands on that wouldn’t drive him insane, and pulled it on. Slowly, he crawled into bed, careful not to jostle his head as he rested against the pillow. He forced his eyes shut and practically willed himself back to sleep.
Some part of him recognized he probably should have gone to the hospital, but Steve sure as hell wasn’t going to. No, he was going to treat this concussion just like every other injury; sleep it off, and hope for the best. Based on his track record, it had been a decent fix up to this point. Regardless, he hadn’t the bandwidth to fret any further as, slowly, he drifted off into blissful slumber once more.