A soft grunt came from the room as Gale barrelled in, uncaring his socks and pant hems were getting soaked. The shower curtain was already open, and John looked up from where he sat naked under the flow, back against the wall and one leg stretched out in front of him. The side of his torso and hip were covered in huge, mottled, bruises—so dark in places they were almost black, with swirls of purple and greens spread further like a sick painting—and Gale’s heart stopped.

“What happened?” 

The words came out strangled and Gale turned the water off with shaking hands, snatching a towel from the rack and crouching to wrap it around John’s shoulders. John blinked, chest expanding and falling slowly as his tired eyes studied Gale. 

Gale sucked in a trembling breath and waited. He had learned to wait, since the time he first spotted John walking through the gates of the stalag, head nearly bashed in and a brain that would never be the same. They learned to live with the words that got tangled in John’s throat, with the unsteady steps and forgetfulness and headaches, and so much more. Maybe Gale was naive to think John was getting better, that he was alright by himself when Gale went to work.

“M’ok,” John said finally, licking his lips, and Gale grit his teeth.

“Really? What’s all this then?” He gestured to the ugly bruises, screaming up at Gale in harsh colors of harm, of his failure to care for the only thing he loved, that he had left. Vision tunneling, he took a deep breath and held it.

John reached out, squeezing Gale’s arm.

“Fell,” he rasped.

“What? When?”

Another long pause where Gale could only hear his own, thunderous heartbeat, and taste the bile building in this throat. He tore his gaze away from Bucky’s eyes back to the bruising, carefully settling a hand above the worst damage.

“Yesterday,” John managed. “Working on the patio.”

Gale’s head spun. John had said nothing about it last night when Gale got home, but now that he thought about it, John hadn’t moved much either, had already been in pajamas and on the couch, then gone to bed early without cuddling as usual.

“Head hurts sometimes,” John’s halting voice broke through Gale’s spiral. “Get…dizzy…” 

“I know,” Gale said, sighing. He reached up to pull the towel around John’s head, gently massaging the curls dry in silence. When he was finished, he cupped John’s face, brushing a thumb over the scar on John’s eyebrow, and John’s shoulders slumped, leaning into Gale. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Gale murmured.

John nodded, jaw working around words, yet none came out. A lump grew in Gale’s throat and he pulled John closer, pressing his mouth to the damp cheek. 

It was hard getting up and into the bedroom, slow going with pained hisses and grunts from John who didn’t have a reason to stifle them anymore. Each sound stabbed deep in Gale’s gut, and when he finally got John settled on the bed and sat next to him he was shaking too, apparently stricken enough for John to grab his arm and pin him with a look.

“Stop–” John said, voice tight. “Fussin’...too much worryin.”

“I can’t help it,” Gale muttered, pulling away. “I fucking love you.”

Bitter nausea churned in his stomach, and he shoved the blanket into place with more force than necessary, avoiding John’s eyes. He leaned away to dig through the bedside table for the soothing cream, and by the time he turned back John’s eyelids were fluttering slower. At Gale’s first touch on his wounds he only flinched slightly, and Gale did his best to spread gently and thoroughly. John’s hand returned to his arm, squeezing, and when the back of John’s knuckles trailed up his arm to his cheek, Gale’s eyes stung.

“Just rest,” he instructed quietly, dragging a palm over John’s ribs. “And you’re not hiding something like this again.”