i just know that john winces every time you clean his wounds up for him. that's all.
ugh i love this trope so much you have no idea
the bathroom lights are stark and making john's head pound. they buzz overhead incessantly, and if it weren't for your gentle hands guiding his shirt off, he'd surely be going mad. his undershirt is sticky with blood and debris, catching on every small scrape and cut.
"my back's the worst of it," john manages, voice stretched thin. he turns to face the sink and sees your eyes in the mirror fall to the various injuries on his back. he'd been dragged across glass and gravel, and he's feeling every inch of it now. "i'll be fine, just need your help cleaning up, okay?"
you nod once, and he braces his hands against the countertop. it isn't the first time you've cleaned him up after a rough fight, and it certainly won't be the last. with a practiced hand, you take the damp washcloth he passes you and start to clean away the dirt and blood covering his back.
"sh-shit-" his back tenses when you press onto a particularly deep cut by mistake, muscles rippling beneath your touch. it's a miracle the counter doesn't crumple beneath the hold he has on it.
"sorry," your voice is soft, placating, and when your hand returns to the same spot, it's lighter.
"'s okay, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth. "has to be done."
you spend the next few minutes cleaning him up, and something about it has john going warm in all the right places. one of your hands is braced against his hip to steady yourself—or maybe to steady him. he can't be sure with you so dizzyingly close. "some of these need bandages."
he hums, fumbling with the clasps of the first aid kit. his hands are shaky—he'd be glad to blame the hit to the head he took earlier, but he knows it's because your thumb is rubbing small circles into a knot in his back.
"i got it," and then your hands are gone. he watches you in the reflection as you open the kit and pull out an antibiotic and bandages. your eyes are focused, and in his post-adrenaline haze, john's are anything but. they wander from your hands to your lips to where your collarbone peaks out from his shirt that you're wearing. "i can feel you staring, john."
your eyes meet his for a brief moment that he swears lasts a lifetime, and then your hands are on his back again, tender against the various scrapes you patch up. each one sends a flash of pain across his skin that makes him hiss, and you follow them up with a quiet apology and a promise that you're nearly done.
but if john could have your hands on him like this for an eternity, he would.
