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The blood on his face has started to dry and itch, and Ripley is standing in front of the mirror, exactly where he was ten minutes ago after he excused himself to the toilet to clean up.
Not quite in front of: more to the side.
There's a knock at the door. He expects it to be Schenk come to reassure him of debriefings and therapy being a comfortable time off, except it's Luther who pushes in, Luther who as a mentor used to be less hands-on. Ripley can't divine how much of this recent change is him paying off the debt for Ripley's late lamented career, deceased early June 2010, and how much is him missing his wife, deceased same time.
Luther's long legs eat up the space between them like always and he's suddenly close enough Ripley can see where the blood has started seeping through the bandage on his left hand. He stops himself, again, from asking the origin and meaning of the wound.
"Let me look at you," Luther says, holds his hands up like he's trying to persuade a strange dog in off the street. Ripley watches the blood on Luther's hand spread, some kind of hypnotist trick, and nearly yelps when Luther takes hold of his jaw with his right hand. Luther doesn't smile, but he looks calm, like this is his area. Then again, he usually looks like that, even through the scope on a sniper rifle.
Luther makes a quiet tsking noise as he turns Ripley's head one way and another, checking for hidden wounds, probing carefully the length and breadth of the gash above Ripley's temple. Not serious or severe, had just bled like it was.
Luther lets go of his jaw long enough to tear loose a few paper towels from the dispenser and dampen one of them. He moves to take Ripley's jaw in hand again, and the sudden flash of white towel in his peripheral vision is a plastic bag, and Cameron is leaving him in the sewer with a rope around his neck, and Ripley's fingers of their own violition clench into a fist. Luther sees, and stops, and waits for Ripley's breathing to slow. Ripley closes his eyes and tries to match Luther breath for breath. He's not having a panic attack in the men's room at the station. He's not having a panic attack anywhere.
When he opens his eyes again, Luther is watching him, not, thankfully not, as something fragile, but as something dear all the same.
"I'm ready now," he says, and since they've proved untrustworthy keeps his hands at his sides, in his pockets.
Luther nods, and grips Ripley's jaw, and begins to draw the blood off his face. He starts at the mouth of the wound, hidden in Ripley's hair, pressing the damp towel down carefully, blotting the blood as if he's restoring a painting. Assessing the damage to make sure he's salvageable.
The whorls of Ripley's ear, the jagged streak down his face and neck: Luther changes towels, and the cold press feels so good against Ripley's skin he sighs.
"Good boy," Luther says, absentmindedly. Ripley leans into his hand like he actually is Luther's fucking dog, like they started saying after he was knocked down to duty officer for protecting him, but it's only the two of them, and Luther has known straits more dire than this. Ripley knows where he is.
Luther wads up the dirty towels before tossing them in the bin. He claps Ripley on the shoulders and jerks his head toward the sink to indicate the shirt and tie he's brought from Ripley's desk.
"Get yourself sorted from here, all right, and come back out for your share of the paper trail," he says, and Ripley nods, and Luther leaves. He's out of the soiled jumper and the most likely ruined shirt, down to his undershirt, when Luther sticks his head back in, not quite meeting his eyes.
"I am very proud of you, Justin, I know you know," he says.
"Yeah," Ripley says. "I know."