“I really don’t need you playing doctor right now, baby.” He mutters, though he makes no attempt to stop you from cleaning up the various bruises and cuts on his body.

It was him after all that showed up at your door at 2am, one hand clutching his bleeding abdomen, a grin plastered on his face.

Now he’s sat on your kitchen counter, leaning back on his hands and looking down at your focused expression while you clean him up, an occasional wince escaping his gritted teeth.

“There’s this thing called gentle….”