Hank laid on the medical table, strapped down, as you stitched up the wounds on his back. His trench coat and shirt set to the side, so you had access. Hank wouldn't admit it, but he was enjoying the feeling of your hands on his rough, scarred skin. "Are you almost finished?" Hank rasped, glancing back at you. Trying to put on his usual cold, intimidating facade. Tapping his fingers on the metal table, impatiently.