Daaron lapses into silence, unsure how to go about a proper apology, so he leaves it unsaid in the air as Emmit slowly pulls out everything he needs. A cold cloth to wipe the blood off his face, ice to help the swelling go down, and lots of ace bandages.
"I figured he'd be a lot meaner. It has been five years, Storm. He probably missed you."
Daaron lets out a discontented hmph deep in his throat, refusing to meet his old friend's eyes.
"Yeah, since all fathers welcome their wayward sons home with a swift fist to the face the moment they walk in the door."
"You hurt him."
"And he hurt me. A lot."
Daaron doesn't notice that the longer he talks, the more Emmit bristles, and as soon as he's done with the very basics of repair on Daaron's hand, he snaps the first aid kit shut and climbs to his feet.
"That's still no reason to do what you did. Go shower." Emmit's finger points for the downstairs shower in the guest room, the one Daaron's all to familiar with as the other's father refused to let him stay in Emmit's room when they were kids. He was kind, but overprotective to say the least.
The hot water feels nice and novel on Daaron's callused and dirty skin. When he steps under it, it's like the years of dirt and grime he's caught up just falls away down the drain. For the first few minutes, the water is dark, but after a little it turns crystal clear. He shampoos his hair, delighted by the sharp smell that emanates from the bottle.
After some precursory cleaning paired with some scouring to get some particularly bad patches of dried blood off, he pushes his back against the far wall and slides down it, bending his head forward so that the water runs over it. He isn't sure how long he's in there for, but his mind wanders to the point where he almost falls asleep, brought back to reality only by three sharp raps on the door.
"You'll shrivel up like an old man if you don't get out. I want to look at your hand again."
Daaron sighs and turns the water off, shaking his hair out like a dog as he wraps a white towel around his waist. His old clothes are disgusting but he picks them up anyway, planning to put them out in the guest room.
Emmit is outside the bathroom door holding a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt.
"They're my dad's, but they'd fit you better than if you tried to squeeze your bulk into my clothes"
It's true. Emmit is a good head shorter than Daaron, and of considerably smaller structure. Where Daaron is muscular and strong, Emmit is dainty and slender.
"Thanks."
"You can sleep on the couch, I'll be up in the master bedroom. Dad's letting me sleep in there since he's hardly ever home."
"Thanks" Daaron repeats, beginning to sound like a broken record "Emmit I-"
"Save it." Emmit holds up his hand and leaves Daaron in the hallway with the pile of clothes in his hands.
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