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Wally leans into you, and you lean into him as he dabs at your split lip. His actions are slow and careful, incongruent with his usual nature. You watch him intently, appreciatively, and a little fearful that this is going to be the last time he cleans you up.
But when his gaze flicks upwards, when he smiles softly, those feelings evaporate. He looks at you with a sliver of amusement, his concern buried beneath it. He likes to smother his sincerity.
“Now what am I gonna do with you?” he teases lowly, still taking care of your injuries, handling your jaw delicately despite his rough hands. With every syllable, every touch, the knees around his waist pull him closer. He likes the weight of you against him, knowing you’re ending the day alive.
You swallow and your head tilts, eyes ducking out of view. Wally brushes a fallen strand of hair aside, knuckles grazing your skinned cheekbones.
“You just like making me play nurse, huh?” he murmurs, his voice still soft, but somehow it’s also prying. He wants a reaction. He’s searching for your spirit, wondering if you’ve been split apart by hard work. He knows the dangers all too well. Been there, done that, and such.
You glance up with a flash of brashness and say, “You never complain.”
It’s almost a question.
But it’s true—he doesn’t. He tends to lick your wounds and take your losses for you, then tucks you in for the night.
“Guess I don’t mind,” Wally says, an honest twinkle to his eye.
He knows he’ll look after you until there’s nothing left.