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[alwaysroomforhope]

Someone drove a truck over Steph's head.

No, someone drove a steamroller over her head.

And then filled her mouth with fuzzy, crusty goop. And started breeding little creatures on her teeth. And now they're sitting on her head hammering at her temples with an actual hammer.

Possibly a nailgun.

"aaaaaaaugh."


On the upside, she's in bed, which is a good place to be. Even though it's midday, at least, the way the sun's flooding the room. And it's ...

... wait, it doesn't smell like her bed. It smells like ...



... and she's not wearing pants.

Oh, no.

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[notanoptimist.livejournal.com]

Wordless, Sokka points out the door, in the general direction of the shower. He's sure she remembers, he's just-- confused. Very confused.

Confused enough to look up at her with a frown, brows lifted high.

"...did you mean it?"

[alwaysroomforhope]

Steph blinks at him for a moment, trying to remember. It's terrifying -- she can remember going into the club, going to get a drink, and then things get blurry -- there was some girl dancing with Sokka, Steph half-remembers shoving her away, and teasing him a little, and then there was kissing ...

Her hand traces her lips for a second.

... and then ... and then it's a blank. Nothing. Flat-out nothing until she woke up in his bed.

Physical danger doesn't frighten Steph -- but this does.

And now he's ... looking at her, all bedheaded and ruffled and confused, and ...






... she's taking the coward's way out.

"Shower," she mumbles, red-faced, and grabs up the blanket to wrap around her as she hurries out.

[notanoptimist.livejournal.com]

Sokka blinks as she rushes out.

And flops back onto the floor again, hardly even reacting when his spine meets the rock again.

Serves him right for asking.

[alwaysroomforhope]

When he wakes again, it's later in the afternoon, judging by the sunlight. His bed is made neatly, and there's a pot of tea and a stack of toast sitting next to his makeshift bed on the floor, covered with a teatowel to keep heat in. The clothes they were both wearing last night have been washed and dried and folded neatly on their respective beds.


(He must have driven all night, Steph had realised, crouching to adjust the blanket over him, tucking his pillow a little more comfortably beneath his head. With me in the car, acting God knows how. I probably threw up on him. It tastes like I threw up on him.

Dear Diary: this is not my best day ever.)



By the time he wakes up, there is no sign of Steph herself, though. She's hiding in shame busy doing important stuff like flopping on the porch and wishing her head would quit hurting. See, important.