Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Forty-Three. The Art of Eye Contact

    He tossed the ice-pack to his bed. "I can clean my own wounds, you know?" Steve shrugged off his jacket. "It's late, and you're tired." He hit the bathroom light-switch. This light, in contrast, was white, and fluorescent. It buzzed, and shouted down at them, quiet dust-particles floating through its presence.

    Silently, she leaned against the bathroom sink. With her arms folded firm over her chest, she raised a brow. He did the same. "Well?" Lucy cocked her head. "Show me your wound-cleaning skills, Steve. I'm not so convinced from earlier."

    He exhaled. Steve turned the sink-nob, and dipped his hands below the faucet. The gush of water filled his open palms, and dripped down his wrists. He craned his neck down, and brought the liquid to his face. When Steve ran his fingertips over his eye, she winced.

    "Okay, okay," Lucy pried his hands away from his face. She turned the faucet off, and blinked. "I think you made it worse, actually."

He chuckled. Steve pressed a palm to the porcelain countertop, and looked at her. "Luce," he sighed, "I know you're tired."

The bathroom was a mess. The shower curtain was open, and she could see the clutter of shampoos and hair-conditioners and body-wash on a single shelf. The toilet-seat was open. His toothbrush had fallen over. A can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray was sat neatly in the corner. A heard him speak— a small, low, "Ah, shit," left his busted lip. Her gaze averted his way. His nose was bleeding, again.

"Point proven," she muttered, plucking a tissue from the box. "And, I'm not tired, Harrington. I could run a marathon, if I wanted to."

He held the thin tissue to his nose, while she searched the cabinet for supplies. A single bandaid, even. She grabbed for a towel that hung from the doorknob, and clutched it. "Is this clean?" Lucy turned to him.

He shrugged. She shrugged. She ran it under the faucet, watching as the warm water turned the rag soggy. Wringing it out, she turned to him. "Sit on the toilet," Lucy said, in a whisper. "It'll be easier."

    He complied, the toilet seat creaking below his weight. The above-head light buzzed, and he watched her move towards him. Steve's pupils dilated, and his brow twitched upwards when she neared. His tense chest fell— she stood between his legs, her lower-body close to his face. Her body heat radiated onto him, the warmth of her torso moving straight to the center of his face.

She winced. The dried-blood, from deep inside the cut, transferred onto the damp towel. "God, Steve," she whispered. "I've seen you beat up... three times, now. But, this is the worst," she widened her eyes, "by far."

    Steve chuckled. "Worse than Byers?" he muttered.

    "Worse than Byers," she nodded, lips cracking into a smile.

She saw his eyes move across her face. The honey-brown of his irises, his black pupils fluctuating with every longing glance. He took in her freckles, the purple-ish bruise on her temple, the dimples that deepened in her cheeks when she let herself smile. She brushed the cloth over his cheekbone, and her brow twitched. "Steve," she said, lowly.

He blinked. "Lucy," he muttered, equally quiet.

She cupped a hand around the back of his neck. "You're staring... you're thinking," she spoke. A moment lingered, and he moved his hands to the backs of her thighs. He tugged her closer, the palms of his hands pushing to the fabric of her jeans. "Tell me."