[ Dean's sitting on the toilet and facing away from her, which means she can take a moment to close her eyes and take a few steady breaths to settle. This is how she used to feel before a big show, back when the most important thing was pleasing Tom, never mind what it cost her. But this jittery feeling is different. And as she eases his ruined outer shirt off, tosses it into the tub, and starts cutting his black tee open from hem to collar so she can see what she's working with, she reminds herself that giving in to the nerves is counterproductive. But that they also mean she cares — not about pleasing anyone, but about helping. (She cares about helping Dean.) And she actually can help here. She'd felt so goddamn useless when they saved Eddie and ashamed of how ready they were to leave him behind. If it wasn't for Richie... Yeah, she's going to do the best she can this time.
The shirt falls open. Beverly has to gingerly peel away the section clinging to his shoulder, sticky with blood, and her lips press together when she finally sees the gash in his skin. In an instant, she's flashing back to wherever she was in her dream, flickering between this bright bathroom and the dark woods, the rush of wings overhead, and then — the slash of claws, biting into her back, just like — no. She blinks the memory away, like so many of the others that blindsided her in Derry and in the months after, and she tries to ignore the cold prickle of sweat at the nape of her neck. Holy shit. Let's not go crazy here, Bev.
It's Dean's comment about operating rooms that brings her focus back, warms her cheeks with the surprising honesty behind the words; she huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, and sets her fabric scissors down so she can crack open the bottle of saline. ]
Really says something about your standards, [ she tosses back, voice lighter than she feels. But then he tacks on the next thing, and God, she wishes she could look him in the eye when it lands, easing some tension from her shoulders. His sincerity doesn't go unnoticed. Far from it. Because even if she hasn't done anything yet, apparently coming here could have been enough.
Beverly rests her free hand on his good shoulder, steady and reassuring. ] Any time, [ she says, and she means it. She almost laughs, just for a release of tension. ] I mean, I wish you'd let me drag your ass to Urgent Care, but getting you into this bathroom was enough of a struggle, so... [ She exhales slowly, shaking her head. Then the grip on his shoulder shifts, becomes more bracing. ] Incoming.
[ An idle warning, right before she pours the bottle of wound wash over his shoulder, flushing it out. It's messy, saline and blood trickling down his back and onto the tile floor. But as angry and deep as it looks, the gash is a cleaner line than she anticipated, which makes her job a little easier. That done, she goes to scrub her hands in the sink, dry them off on a clean towel, then pull on some gloves.
She feels dumb. Like she's playing dress-up. She read a few frantic how-to's on the drive over, watched some videos just in case, and she remembers that one time her friend Emily busted up her chin after a bad fall and she watched her get stitched up. As a seamstress, she'd been fascinated by the process. Asked questions. But that was a couple years ago. ]
You're gonna have to walk me through this, Dean. [ She's got the kit, staring at the components. ] I mean, I – I've got the basics, obviously. [ And binge-watching Grey's. Not a reassuring thing to say, probably. ] But if you've got any tips, now's the time. Or we could call your brother?
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The shirt falls open. Beverly has to gingerly peel away the section clinging to his shoulder, sticky with blood, and her lips press together when she finally sees the gash in his skin. In an instant, she's flashing back to wherever she was in her dream, flickering between this bright bathroom and the dark woods, the rush of wings overhead, and then — the slash of claws, biting into her back, just like — no. She blinks the memory away, like so many of the others that blindsided her in Derry and in the months after, and she tries to ignore the cold prickle of sweat at the nape of her neck. Holy shit. Let's not go crazy here, Bev.
It's Dean's comment about operating rooms that brings her focus back, warms her cheeks with the surprising honesty behind the words; she huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, and sets her fabric scissors down so she can crack open the bottle of saline. ]
Really says something about your standards, [ she tosses back, voice lighter than she feels. But then he tacks on the next thing, and God, she wishes she could look him in the eye when it lands, easing some tension from her shoulders. His sincerity doesn't go unnoticed. Far from it. Because even if she hasn't done anything yet, apparently coming here could have been enough.
Beverly rests her free hand on his good shoulder, steady and reassuring. ] Any time, [ she says, and she means it. She almost laughs, just for a release of tension. ] I mean, I wish you'd let me drag your ass to Urgent Care, but getting you into this bathroom was enough of a struggle, so... [ She exhales slowly, shaking her head. Then the grip on his shoulder shifts, becomes more bracing. ] Incoming.
[ An idle warning, right before she pours the bottle of wound wash over his shoulder, flushing it out. It's messy, saline and blood trickling down his back and onto the tile floor. But as angry and deep as it looks, the gash is a cleaner line than she anticipated, which makes her job a little easier. That done, she goes to scrub her hands in the sink, dry them off on a clean towel, then pull on some gloves.
She feels dumb. Like she's playing dress-up. She read a few frantic how-to's on the drive over, watched some videos just in case, and she remembers that one time her friend Emily busted up her chin after a bad fall and she watched her get stitched up. As a seamstress, she'd been fascinated by the process. Asked questions. But that was a couple years ago. ]
You're gonna have to walk me through this, Dean. [ She's got the kit, staring at the components. ] I mean, I – I've got the basics, obviously. [ And binge-watching Grey's. Not a reassuring thing to say, probably. ] But if you've got any tips, now's the time. Or we could call your brother?