The mission had left him shredded, seams split, skin blistered and raw. He’d dragged himself back to the hideout in silence, the heavy stink of smoke and blood clinging to him. By the time the bathroom door shut behind him, exhaustion had stripped away the edge of his usual facade, leaving only the weight of pain.

Steam thickened the air from the water where his body sank low, his lean frame partially submerged. His head tilted back against the porcelain, heat dulling the sting. She knelt beside the tub, battered herself but unwavering. Her hands worked over each staple, disinfecting, adjusting, pressing metal against flesh. Every touch dragged across the uneven landscape of scars and burn, each one drawing out a twitch of his jaw, a faint curl of his lips.

His eyes cracked open when she tugged too sharply near his ribs. Pale, cold blue flickered up at her through the haze, sharp despite the languor. The wince bled into something heavier, darker, as his gaze lingered. He didn’t move, didn’t need to. It was moments like this that reminded him that he was in fact, still human.

At another (accidental) sharp tug near his neck, he snaps open his eyes again with an irritated scowl, looking down at her diligently cleaning his marred skin. “Do you fuckin’ mind? Christ with the tugging..” he grumbled, his agitation simmering down to something mildly akin to guilt.