@mollokoplus 97 I’ll pick you up at the airport
He examines the wound just above the hip bone, leaning against the bathroom sink. The stitches are fresh, made by a nurse. He peeks under the bandage, phone jammed between his shoulder and cheek. Gaby waits his answer fifteen hundred miles away. “It is small, neat,” he lies.
Gaby huffs, her own phone jammed like Illya’s, the curly cord stretching from the other room. The fluffy rug tickles her bare thighs when she paints the last toenail. “Will it leave a scar?” she wants to know.
“No,” Illya lies again. He sets the bandage back and covers it up.
“You deserve a scar. It was stupid to go by yourself,” she mutters. Her knees bend when she leans forward to blow on her nails. “Stupid and irresponsible,” she carries on. She has the right to say so, she hasn’t done anything irresponsible all day.
Illya wants to argue, but the stitches remind that Gaby is right.
“You back tomorrow?” Gaby asks. “I’ll pick you up at the airport,” she promises as soon as Illya has given her a short hum. She forgets about her toes and grabs the phone. “I want to see myself how small and neat that cut really is.”
It hurts when Illya frowns to his mirror image. He wonders will Gaby be more upset about the real size of the wound or the black eye, already swollen shut, he hasn’t even mentioned yet.