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Jim had never once questioned why John had always taken so long in the bathroom, even when the sound of running water had long stopped. He didn’t dare ask anyway, as Ryder was an erratic man and any attempts at probing into his private life would probably end up with Jim dead in a dumpster behind a shitty motel. Though, the sound of John’s switchblade echoing from the bathroom (the walls weren’t often very thick) had always stuck with him, how it had been the very same switchblade that John had pulled on him on that fateful night. The malicious click would always come after the water had been turned off, and John would stay in the toilet for another 20 minutes.
The creak and slam of the door opening pulled Jim out of his thoughts. John stepped out fully dressed, his gray coat heightening his large frame. John had a startling attachment to his long coat, even as Jim would sometimes ask him to take it off, concerned by the possibility of the man having a heatstroke in the middle of the desert, but he never did. Even as he would go through multiple clothes due to a few messy deaths, but he always kept the coat, never taking it off in public. He couldn’t possibly be showering with that thing, right? Jim thought, chuckling quietly at the absurb image.
“What’s so funny, kid?” John’s eyebrows quirked up, a cold smile on his face. “Oh, nothing, sir.” Jim replied quickly. “Just something I saw a while back.”
John seemed to accept that answer, shrugged and made his way to his side of the bed. He lay down, and patted to the space beside him, signalling Jim to lie down too. Jim tentatively slipped under the covers, before the lamp was switched off, plunging the room into darkness. Jim could feel the warmth of John beside him, even if there was a small space between them. If John hadn’t been a killer hell-bent on brutally murdering him and everyone he encountered, Jim probably would’ve trusted him enough to cuddle into him, as the nights were cold and Jim was quite skinny with not much to insulate himself. For now, Jim laid on his own side of the bed, and fell asleep shortly after.
The familiar resounding click of a switchblade forced Jim back into groggy consciousness. It was still dark, but he could see light flooding from the open bathroom door. The bed was cold. Jim rolled out of bed unceremoniously, stumbling as quietly as he could on the carpeted floor to peek at what was happening inside the bathroom. John was sitting on top of the toilet cover, switchblade poised at the underside of his forearm, before dragging the blade agonisingly slow across his skin, opening a long wound. John stared noiselessly at his own blood, letting it drip onto the floor. Jim couldn’t stop himself from gasping. John’s head immediately shot up, and for the first time, Jim momentarily saw fear in his eyes. The switchblade clattered to the floor.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Jim stared at John’s arms, angry red lines covering nearly every inch of his skin. Some of them were healed, some fresh. Jim felt sick, he had seen many dead bodies in his time with John, seen the insides of once-living people. But it didn’t compare to this, seeing so many gashes and wounds on a living man. On John. Jim backed away from the door, tripping on his own feet. John stood up, collected his fallen switchblade, and walked towards the cowering Jim. “Sorry, sorry.” Jim whimpered repeatedly, watching as blood – John’s blood – dripped down the edge of the knife. John only came closer, crouching beside Jim’s trembling form.
“You shouldn’t have seen that, I’m sorry.” John’s voice came out strangely softer around the edges, quite nearly the closest he had sounded human to Jim. “A-are you alright, do you need anything?” Jim asked, “I have some bandages…” John hummed. “Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll need you to wash the wound so it doesn’t get infected easily, and I’ll get the bandages.” Jim said shakily, still afraid that he may have come off too demanding for John’s liking. To his surprise, John wordlessly obeyed, cradling his bloody arm to the sink, turning on the tap with his other arm. Water gushed out of the tap, washing away the blood that had dripped down the side of his arm. Jim rose shakily to his feet and went to search for the bandages. He returned to see John rinsing his switchblade. “Come on, I’ll wrap it up for you?” Jim asked questioningly, in case John wanted to take charge of his own bandaging. John shrugged again and held his arm out for Jim. Jim nodded, and began to carefully wrap John’s arm up. “Is this too tight?” Jim asked again, searching for an answer on the man’s face. John only smiled, and shook his head. “It’s okay. Thanks.”
Afterwards, John returned to his spot on the bed with Jim carefully trailing behind, making sure that he was alright. John had given Jim his switchblade for the night, to assure him that he wasn’t going to hurt himself again. Jim tucked the blade in his back pocket, and hovered over John for a while longer until he was sure that the man was comfortable. “Hey, if you need to talk about just now you can tell me okay? Or we can never speak of it again, if that’s what you want.” Jim said gently, to which John closed his eyes and gave him a small smile. “Come here.”
Jim made his way over to his side of the bed, but this time he wrapped his arms around John’s figure, a protective gesture. And for the first time in a long while, Jim fell asleep, warm.