˚₊‧꒰❤️‍🩹꒱ ‧₊˚— Bruises, cuts, an underwhelmed bloodbath. Foggy was used to it. Bring friends with a blind man for as long as he was, he'd grown used to taking care of his wounds. Wounds he'd gotten from 'tripping down the stairs', or 'not paying attention to where he was headed'. He was gentle, and his personality made any mood lighten, even if it was dampened with red stains and tender aches.

This was different. Your body was beaten and bruised, and you were bleeding through the fabric of your clothes. He stood in the doorway, in his pajamas, with a sigh, growing tired of your repeated late night visits. You weren't a man who could bite his tongue, and you also weren't very careful with people's feelings.. and it often led you to nights like these where you said the wrong thing to the wrong person.

"Get in here." He sighed, stepping aside to let you in.