Work Text:
it’s become a routine.
a light knock at the door. you’re already there, opening it without a second thought. he stumbles in. no hello. no thank you.
the hydra ones are the worst.
he makes his way to your bathroom with you trailing closely behind. he stops when he reaches the middle. it’s pretty spacious. thanks, tony.
he stands still. you can see the exhaustion rippling through him, his breath, his muscles, his silence.
you move to face him. your fingers find the zippers and buttons with ease, memorized. you start to undress him. leather sticks to his skin, to his metal, to his blood. you peel it all off, so slowly, so softly, as if the fabric is a light coat of paint and he is a marbled sculpture, hardened to the eye, delicate to the touch.
he sighs when the last layer is finally off.
now, you get to inspect all the damage. it all seems very superficial. no bullet holes. no deep cuts. just a mix of purple, blue, and red tinting his skin here and there. morose, you’d call it. your thumb smudges the blood across the bruise. it’s the color of morose.
he doesn’t flinch at your wondering hands. he’s used to your touch, so gentle, so featherlike. he yearns for it. he wants it to be the touch that lulls him to sleep and the touch that wakes him up.
he settles for the touch that heals him.
he frowns at the loss of contact. you’ve moved away to fiddle with the drawers under the sink and to find the first aid kit. now, it balances on the edge of the sink. now, it’s his turn to sit on the edge of the bathtub.
he patiently waits while you prepare the shower. you turn the faucet on, sticking a hand underneath the running water. it’s too cold. so you twist the knob. it takes a little while to run lukewarm. when it finally does, you squeeze his thigh and gesture to the tub.
he moves to sit in the shower, his back facing the faucet and knobs.
you grab the shower head and unhook it from its place. you flick the lever on. lukewarm water falls from the head onto your palm. now, it’s your turn to sit on the edge of the tub.
the water drizzles over his form, washing away the sweat, the mud, the blood. it swirls at the bottom of the tub. your eye can’t help but notice the contrast of the red and the white, the hint of brown, the transparency. it’s beautiful.
it’s painful.
once he looks thoroughly soaked, you grab the shampoo and squeeze a good amount on your hand. you lather it into his locks, gently massaging his scalp. your nails lightly scratch at his itchy follicles.
he hums in content. eyes closed. a ghost of a smile.
he’s beautiful.
he’s painful. so full of pain. he doesn’t show it. he doesn’t say it. but, you know that he’s brimming with it. if only you could wash it all out with the shower head, watch it swirl away down to the pipes. gone.
you settle to wash out all the grime.
“tilt your head back a bit,” you whisper. he obeys. the water trickles down from his temple to his neck. you make sure to get rid of all the shampoo residue.
once that’s done, you grab the sponge. a good amount of body wash. a good squeeze to lather it up. you gently caress it again his skin, pressing ever so slightly on his wounds. this takes longer, but you don’t take any breaks. you make sure that the sponge has traced every inch of his skin and has gotten rid of every last drop of grime.
once you’re done is when he begins to help. a hint of him feeling like his old self. he stands up on his own accord, grabbing the towel from the rack and drying himself. you take this time to leave with the kit in hand and to collect a fresh set of clothes.
you place the kit and the set on the bed. your bed. you search for the right things as you hear his footsteps approach.
after putting on a pair of boxer briefs, he sits on the edge of the bed. a smaller towel hangs from his neck, attempting to catch the water droplets dripping from his hair. some still stain the sheets.
with the disinfectant and the gauze in hand, you stand in front of him. your hand sprays the chemical onto a wound that’s still fresh with blood, despite the shower. he hisses at the sting.
“sorry.”
he shrugs so slightly that anyone else would’ve missed it. but your eyes are tuned to him. they notice everything he does, down to the flicker of his lips that often fight a smile to the tension of his muscles when he perceives any sort of uncomming threat, real or not. you observe him with the intensity of a sculptor that’s learning to love the imperfections of his muse.
the wound is on the side of his ribs. a bullet graze, you presume. he never tells you what each wound is. he never says anything. you don’t need him to say anything. you gently dab the gauze on it, collecting the scarlet and clear liquids. they drip onto your digits, warm and cold. like him. when the wound is dried enough, you squeeze out an antibiotic paste onto a cotton ball. carefully, you apply a generous amount and then place a white rectangle bandage on it.
the next minutes tick by like that. you tend to each of his injuries. disinfectant. paste. bandage.
he simple stares. breathes. rests.
“all done,” you mumble when you cut the last strip of gauze that’s wrapped around his palm and stick it in place.
he smiles.
you freeze at his bandaged hand lightly holding your chin. leaning up, he brings your face to his. cold chapped lips meet warm soft ones. it sends a shiver down your spine but you can’t help but relish. relish in his coldness. in his proximity. in his breath. the way his mouth moves against yours and his palm cups your cheek. it sends you reeling, spinning, falling.
you’re falling.
and he’s catching you.
you break away to breathe. your temple thuds against his rather harshly, making him chuckle. you smile and so does he. there is only the silence of beating hearts.