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He hasn’t even made it all the way through the front door before he's greeted by the sound of something ancient, mystical, and dangerous shattering, followed by a long string of very creative curses. It’s not exactly the first time he’s come back to that, or, to be honest, worse, so he sighs, shuts the door, and steels himself for whatever minor catastrophe awaits him below.
He makes it down without incident, and everything he can see from the bottom of the steps, up to and including John, seems basically intact. It’s a good sign, but Chas knows better than to be lulled into a sense of security; John is, after all, currently hunched over the sink and muttering darkly to himself.
“Hello?” he calls out; John offers a grunt of acknowledgment, but doesn’t turn around. Chas shakes his head and walks over to him, scanning the floor for anything sharp, cursed, or venomous. On his way, he passes a broken clay pot on the table; he vaguely remembers it having been whole, unusually ugly, and perched precariously on a shelf when he left. He steps up behind John and glances over his shoulder; John’s right hand is a mess of blood and torn skin. “What did you do?"
“Oh, don’t fuss about, mate. Looks worse than it is, really."
“John,” he says, pressing a hand to the small of his back.
John sighs. “Why’re you alway so bloody quick to assume I did something?” he says, whining a little as he bleeds sluggishly into the sink.
“John."
“Wasn’t my fault, all right? No residual magic on it, I checked. Might’ve, mmm,” John makes a slight, pained sound as Chas reaches over to grasp his wrist. “Might’ve been too enthusiastic. Checking.”
“Might have,” Chas drawls, as he flips on the tap and guides John’s palm under the steady stream of water. John jerks back, straining against Chas’s grip but pressing himself tightly against Chas’s chest. Chas sighs. “Stop."
“’s fucking freezing, mate!"
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, even as he twists the handle to warm the water. John stops struggling and relaxes against him, behaving himself as much as can be expected while Chas cleans the wounds. It goes quicker that way, and he keeps surprisingly still even after Chas turns off the water. Chas presses a clean towel against his palm and John grimaces, but reaches over to hold it down with his other hand. He even lets himself be lead back to the table and sat down with only a minimal amount of grumbling under his breath.
“Keep pressure on it,” Chas says, and John sighs like a petulant teenager, which is to say, like always.
“Yes, daddy, ‘cos I’ve never cut myself before."
Chas does not engage on that, just sits and waits for a few minutes to pass, before pushing John’s hand away and peeling back the towel for a quick look. “It’s not that bad."
“Yeah, told you that myself, as I recall."
“But you’re probably gonna need some stitches."
John rolls his eyes. “Oh, am I, doctor? Jolly good. Just take myself down to the nearest hospital, get myself sewn up all nice and neat, yeah? Why don’t—"
Chas rises, willing to let John talk himself out while he goes searching for the first aid kit. It’d been one of the first things he’d moved into the mill house when John took possession and the one that gets the most use which, of course, means that it’s regularly impossible to find. He’s luckier than usual today, finding it tucked behind John’s spare coat, which has been folded up and stuffed in the closet they’ve otherwise been using for towels. He grabs one of those as well, just in case.
John is silent when Chas returns from the bedroom, still keeping pressure on his palm as he eyes the broken pot.
Chas sits back down. “What was it?"
“Soul vessel."
Yeah, it would be. John keeps those around like tupperware, and, as with tupperware, has a tendency to forget what’s in them. Chas opens up the kit and pokes around for what he needs, making sure not to look at John when he asks: “Yeah? Anything in it?”
“A soul, you mean?"
Chas looks up.
“A soul, a demon, an ancient curse—anything I need to look out for?”
“Nah,” he says, with a little shrug. Chas resolves to trust him on that but be extra vigilant for the next couple of days; generally speaking, this is a good approach to take with John.
He drops his gaze again, finding himself lining up the gauze, the surgical thread, the antibacterial ointment, and all the rest, almost on muscle memory alone. He can feel John watching him as he does, but he doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hand over before Chas even needs to ask.
Chas gets to work: only two of the wounds are wide enough to really need stitches, and none of them are very deep. He’s seen worse, sewn up worse, and not just with John. John’s quieter than usual, not even complaining about the anesthetic, which Chas knows he’d be willing to go without, especially for something this minor. Chas, who always insists, is glad not to have to tonight.
He’s through with the first large wound and just started on the second before John speaks again: “I ever tell you how much I like the beard?"
Chas snorts and ties off another stitch. “You’ve seen it before."
“Yeah, but you were married back then."
Chas glances up at him. “And?"
“Can’t tell a man you like his beard when he’s with his wife, mate."
He furrows his brow. “Why?"
John raises his eyebrows. Chas blinks at him, then shakes his head, dropping his gaze again. "Funny."
"I thought so," John says, and Chas can hear him smirking.
“No, by the way,” he says, finishing the last stitch.
“No?"
Chas hums to himself, rubbing more ointment on John’s palm, making sure the smaller cuts get their share. “You've never told me how much you like the beard,” he says, wiping the excess ointment off his fingers with the fresh towel. He reaches for the gauze, and finds his chin being tilted up by John’s strong but careful grip.
“I like the beard,” John says, giving him a strange, soft look that Chas hasn’t seen in years and has to admit he’s not thrilled to be seeing now, no matter how much it warms his heart; it’s never led anywhere good, not with John.
“Good, ‘cause I’m keeping it,” he manages. He’s careful to meet John’s eyes, looking back as calmly as he can; John gives him a slightly lopsided smile, drops his grip on Chas’s chin, and shrugs his shoulders in that strange, wriggling way he does when he’s nervous.
Chas glances down, and gets back to work: folding up the dressing, pressing it to John’s palm, cutting precise lengths of adhesive bandage.
“Y’know I don’t need you for this, right?"
Chas holds back a chuckle. “I know."
“Can take care of myself and all that."
He traces his thumb along the last adhesive bandage strip. “Yeah."
John, who knows better, flexes the fingers of his right hand. “Don’t do that," Chas says, sighing as he presses his palm against John’s, pinning his hand to the table. “I don’t wanna have to redo those.”
John makes a face, still avoiding Chas’s eyes as he brushes his fingertips across Chas’s wrist. “Whatever you say, boss."
Chas doubts it, but he’s not about to say so.
He nods in response, not that John sees, and finds himself strangely reluctant to pull his hand back. Lets his fingers caress the bare skin of John’s palm for a second as he does. John’s gaze flickers back to him, and sticks, becoming that piercing, slightly suspicious stare John usually reserves for spells he hasn’t quite mastered yet. He keeps quiet, though, at least til Chas is through clearing up the medical detritus and has begun to, very carefully, pick up the bits and pieces of the broken vessel.
“Gonna need some help wanking for the next few days, aren’t I?"
Chas nearly drops the clay shards. “Jesus, John."
“Nah, not exactly his type, am I?” John says, smirking as he leans over the table and hooks his fingers under the collar of Chas’s shirt. “Yours, on the other hand…"
“John—“ is all he gets out, before his mouth becomes otherwise occupied.
It’s not unexpected, or at least, it shouldn’t have been: it’s hardly the first time John has kissed him like this, defensively, to avoid the kinds of questions neither of them wants asked, much less answered. And, Chas has to admit, there are worse things John could’ve done. He lets the shards drop and commits to the kiss, wrapping one hand around the back of John’s neck, twisting John’s tie around the other, and using his grip on both to haul him around the table. John lets himself be dragged, crowds up against him, and nips at Chas’s lip when he tries to pull back enough to speak.
“Is this what you need me for?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to John’s.
“Amongst other things,” John says, low and almost raw, before tipping his head back and practically demanding another kiss.
Chas gives it to him; there are worse things he could’ve done, too.
*
