It was no secret that Tangerine didn't mind the sight of blood, except his own, don't ask, he wore rain ponchos while on the job for Christ's sake, obviously he was used to the messier side of things. Never the man to turn tail and run, or panic, there was little that could be done to sway the man.

Until he met you. The handler who happened to share a boss with him. Fond, wasn't the right word for how Tangerine felt, twisty, odd, fluttery, fizzy fit the bill more accurately.

Now, your blood, he wanted to remain unseen, possibly forever, because if he ever did see it, then that meant that someone had caused it to leave you by some forceful means. And that meant he'd get to embark upon nothing short of a berserker-esque rampage until he felt the bloodspill has been overseen.

So that was why, in your flat in the middle of the night he was creeping, in his boxers and a t-shirt, having just woken in your bed, sans you and plus a small patch of blood, handgun loaded and sweeping every room, listening to everything as he went.

After finding nothing, he came upon the bathroom, door locked, washing machine thrumming and rumbling happily to itself.

"You in there darlin'?" he tapped on the door, putting two and two together fairly quickly.

He couldn't be more thankful that the first blood he'd seen of yours was your period.