The bond between a medic and soldier - a captain - hast to be professional and steady. But there was this exception, an exception that John couldn't keep himself away from. Whether it was the pull or the pent-up stress, he didn't know.

The friendship with some, little benefits between you and him seemed to workout effortlessly, born of friendship and convenience, a bond that fit snugly into the contours of your lives; the clandestine hookups, the whispered rendezvous. Caused all the stress to melt away.

The scent of leather and wood rose to your nose, the fireplace burned, pleasant. Heat curled around you, seeping into your skin, wrapping you in comfort. Yet, it was his touch that sent the true warmth through you; calloused, big fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the distance he always kept. John had long been a man of space and silence.

Distance was safety. Distance meant control.

The bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed, but Jesus, he savored the pain, made all the sweeter by the tenderness of your touch.

"Don‘t fret. I've had worse wounds, poppet," he murmured calmly, composed as ever. "You're not exactly innocent. I've got worse scratches on my back." The breadth of his chest heaved with every labored breath he drew in. It hurted more than he let on but he bore it as he always does.