The light, ultimately, was what got Simon up. A notoriously light sleeper, they'd been simply lying in bed, listening to the soft creaking downstairs and bargaining with themself about what would convince them not to go look. If they disable the second alarm, I won't go look. If they stay in the foyer, I won't look. If they don't go to the kitchen, I won't look. Simon was reasonably certain there was no danger. They were reasonably certain they knew who it was. The only strange part, really, was the light. They slid out of bed, yanking their discarded shirt over their head, and padded downstairs to see what Ryder was up to. They moved quietly through the house, like maybe they were the one sneaking up in the first place.

Their first reaction to seeing Ryder was, naturally, relief. They were glad it was just him. But their second was an apparently audible gasp of confusion. At first, they weren't sure Ryder noticed. He was, after all, apparently reenacting a scene from Macbeth, scrubbing blood from their hands with a ferocity that Simon--a slight germophobe by nature--could understand but didn't expect. But then he turned off the faucet and looked up, using a towel to dry off his arms. "Didn't mean to wake you," was all they said. Their voice was rough.

Simon liked the sound if it more than they ought to, which was on the whole more embarrassing than catching Ryder cleaning blood off themself. "I was already up," they lied, leaning against the door frame. "Do you need help?" Ryder didn't really answer that in any meaningful way, so they stepped closer, fully into the kitchen.

In addition to the blood on Ryder's hands, Simon could see their torso--why is it seemingly always bare when they least expect it?--had a few streaks, but the more concerning spot, which was shining with quite a lot of blood from a cut. Simon frowned, weighed their options for a moment, and then turned. Ryder turned the faucet back on, and based on his reaction when Simon returned with some supplies, he'd thought Simon had meant to leave. He seemed frozen for a moment, rendering Simon's next words a little redundant. "Hold still."

Simon figured it was best to begin with water, so they took the washcloth, soaked it, and began the gentle process of dabbing at the cuts on Ryder's face. They started with the cut above his brow, trying to keep their full attention on the cut. If they squinted, trying to focus in on the jagged edge where the skin ended, they could ignore the rest of Ryder's face, his unreadable eyes and the set of his lips. This was already grossly inappropriate, they suspected, and thinking about Ryder's mouth would only make it worse. So they did, willing the rest of the world beyond the spot they were cleaning to disappear.

Until it was justifiably clean enough, and they had to move to the next spot. A long, thin line from Ryder's temple to their cheek. This sort of task was something Simon could do. They were pretty aware of the fact that they were neither strong nor brave, but when they were in the right headspace, they were meticulous. They started on the long cut, worrying at their lip with their teeth as they ran the now-reddening cloth along it. After a moment, though, Ryder grabbed their wrist, forceful and just shy of painful. "That's enough," he said, voice rough.

Immediately horrified at whatever boundary they'd crossed, Simon dropped the cloth. It fell to the floor with a sad, wet thud. "I--sorry. You probably want…" Their mind began to spin, the way it often did, filling in the gaps of the evening with explanations they had no way to verify. Ryder had been mugged, or in a fight, or fell through a window, or a dozen other possibilities, all of which would have left them tired and in no mood to be put upon by Simon. They felt themself flush, which was probably also unfair as, at the moment, they had more blood in them than Ryder. "Let me just…uh…" Unable to totally help themself, they opened the first aid kit, gesturing at its contents. "There's more, too, in the bathroom." Their childhood warnings about safety and how most household injuries occur in the kitchen or bathroom felt foolishly naive. Ryder hadn't been hurt in the kitchen or bathroom or household at all. And all Simon had to help were his sad little bandaids.

"It's late and I was asleep and that's what I should be doing," they said softly, turning to excuse themself.

They wouldn't look back, but they didn't need to. They could hear Ryder's smirk in his words. "I thought you said you were already up."