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“Why do we have to stay here?”
Jason sits beside you on the foot of his childhood bed, his left, bandaged shoulder lightly bumping your right. His back is slouched at the lack of support. He’s heaps cleaner than he was three hours ago, nearly leaving a trail of his blood on the way to the manor against his will.
You haven’t had the privilege of meeting Jason’s family formally before you received a phone call from his brother, Dick, alerting you of Jason’s borderline critical injury. More times than not, he handles his battle wounds by himself, despite your reassurances that you’re always willing to help him out; the fact that you had to find out that he was alive but badly hurt from someone else unsettled your whole being. It unsettled you to the point of nearly earning a speeding ticket.
The moment you got out of your car, Dick was already there, ready to lead you to where your boyfriend was being held. He planned to interrogate you about your relationship, but fought against it, seeing as you were barely balancing on the fine line between distress and tactfulness. He had some semblance of sensitivity when it’s called for.
As you entered the cave and approached him with haste, Jason had sensed your uneasiness in the way your arms were tightly tucked over each other, your eyes attempting to look at his gushing gunshot wound for more than five seconds, but could not last even after four. Instead, you diverted them to observe the cutting-edge interior of the cave’s medical bay.
You were well aware that the blinding panel lights were necessary for the on-going procedure that’s practically muscle memory to Alfred, but you could still squint your eyes at its brightness in irritation.
“Hey,” your head turned quickly to look at Jason properly, “nothing that I’m not used to.”
He tried to reassure you, his right hand wrapped around one of your tensed forearms. Under his touch, your arms unraveled to intertwine your hand with his properly. The pulse in his wrist was a kind reminder that you needed at that moment.
“What about my standard of what I’m not used to?” You weakly replied, an attempt to match his humor, your thumb caressing the side of his finger to ground yourself.
He squeezed your palm, one that you reciprocated. “I’m in good hands.”
Your head shook fondly, a sliver of worry remaining. From the bandage on Jason’s cheek, you observed Alfred’s precise movements. Mesmerizing, you thought to yourself.
“Oh, I have no doubt in either of you. God forbid I be a little worried in a general sense.”
“Your trust is much appreciated.” Alfred’s response sounded practiced, but genuine nonetheless. You’d taken a liking to him, even through the mere memories Jason had been vulnerable enough to share with you.
“No. Thank you, Alfred.” Dick snickered at your quaint, yet earnest delivery, making you remember that he was there at all, observing you and Jason the whole time.
“Because neither you nor I have the proper and sanitized facilities to nurse your injuries at home. Also, I wanted to see the manor for myself.”
“What do you mean? Anywhere you are is home.” He quips, completely disregarding your latter comment.
Your eyebrows furrow, squinting at the woozy man sporting a subtle smirk in front of you. This prompts you to double check the Tylenol bottle in your hand, “Did I give you a double dose? Why are you… like… this?”
He leans into your hand that you rested on his unbruised cheek. You frown at the sight of the other. The symmetry of having a bandage on his left shoulder and one on his right cheek is not lost on you.
Jason sighs, his system releasing any of the teasing he had in him, simultaneously bringing you back to reality.
“I’m really tired.”
“I know you are,” you acknowledge, moving your hand to rub the safe area of his back. It’s not enough to relieve the knots in his muscles, but it’s an honest attempt. You ghost your lips over the shell of his ear, making him shiver at the sensation.
“Knew you’d pull through, though.”
His head drops on your shoulder; your protest against the awkward position in the fear of his body aching further goes intentionally unheard. “‘M always thankful for your faith in me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” You reassure, followed by a proper kiss on his okay cheek and a hand brushing his damp hair, nails slightly scratching his scalp. If he ignored the burning pain of his body, this would be heaven on Earth.
“Even if I don’t deserve it.”
“Your initial sentence was good as is.”
The head on your shoulder raises the slightest. “Who’re you, my English teacher?”
“Jason.”
“Right.” He has a feeling that you’re biting your tongue about everything for his sake; he’s not sure how he feels about it, but for the most part, he supposes it’s gratefulness.
That night, Jason slept like a log, any adrenaline he had left went down the drain the moment his head hit the pillow. The need to balance the feelings of familiarity and bitterness, all while readjusting to the environment was a problem for him after he wakes up.
A problem for later, then, he mentally reschedules as you stand between his legs in the restroom he remembers so well, yet so faintly. The loneliness he felt from his early years reentering the tiled room dissolved at the sight of you waiting for him by the broad bathroom island. Hollowness was no longer the forefront of his nervous system the moment you came along, and it scares him.
A determined look laces your features as you work an unnecessarily expensive electric shaver you found in the cabinet through his upper lip area, a can of shaving cream in your nondominant hand. He hadn’t said anything aside from a groggy “morning“ to you before he complied with your unspoken suggestion to help him shave. The night before, your nonnegotiable was that he was not to make any rigorous movements nor motions that required using his shoulders. He didn’t realize how restricting that was until now.
You break the comfortable silence with a low voice, afraid of spooking the six foot man.
“I read that electric shavers don’t really need shaving cream, but I kinda wanted to lessen the skin-to-blade contact as much as possible.”
He swallows a yawn, closing his eyes hoping to catch some more sleep, “Thoughtful.”
You tilt your head from side-to-side in response. “Better safe than sorry. You’d consider the same for me.”
“That, I definitely would.” He hums.
The buzzing shaver, chirping birds, and sunlight leaking into the bathroom was an utter contrast to the dingy, damp walls he had been accustomed to. The persistent droning sends him into a trance-like state, giving him room to daydream what a shared future with you would be like.
If it was anything like this, who was he to refuse?
“Oh, no…” Your trailing voice brings him back to the coolness of the tiles beneath his feet and the hardness of the counter he was leaning on. The shaver-wielded hand backs up from its place on his cheekbone, sliding the mechanism off.
His eyes are now open and alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Um. I forgot to consider your bandage.”
“Oh,” he blinks at you. He’s not sure what the issue is. “Then, remove it.”
You hesitate, free fingertips grazing the gauze. “Is it a proper wound? Like, splitting?”
He shakes his head no, his bedhead flopping around at the motion. “Just a scratch.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Oh.
Oh.
He wants to kiss the pout off your lips, but he holds himself back, well aware of your distaste towards morning breath, including your own.
“You won’t.” He pauses, “you couldn’t.”
Your head turns to the side, blowing out a breath. While he wasn’t in your line of sight, he could still smell the minty hint of toothpaste.
“Okay,” you look back at him, nodding to yourself, the right side of your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Jason frowns, his index finger and thumb raises to release your lip from your self-inflicted abuse; you peck the side of his nail before it’s out of your reach again.
“I’ll be gentle.”
The worn adhesive thankfully peels off with ease, your worry lessening by the smallest fraction. But you’re more concerned about your movements hurting him.
You pick the shaver back up, turning it on to the lowest setting to be extra careful. Jason holds your free hand (he should have done this earlier); the side of your mouth lilts up at his warmth. The hand-holding is short-lived, however, because you do have to tilt his head around to cover all the surfaces covered with stubble.
He grunts at the loss, his lonesome hand tugging your waist to pull you closer. You grin at his amplified clinginess.
“You’re distracting me.” There’s barely any bite in your warning.
“Kinda the point, sweetheart.” He murmurs away, head tilted upwards so you could finish up on his chin’s underside. As a child, he had always thought this restroom was massive; seeing it at this age makes him realize that it was still big, considering how he always bumps into his own bathroom’s doorway. The manor has instilled his preference for high ceilings.
A few more minutes pass of the buzzing, Jason’s steady breathing, the songbirds singing, and the faraway morning chatter of the rest of the household awakening only now before you conclude, “I think I’m done. Can you check?”
Your boyfriend plants a chaste kiss on your forehead before pulling the magnifying mirror on the side to its full length, evaluating your handiwork. He plays faux judgment as much as he can, your eyes rolling at his exaggeration.
He takes a step back from the counter to look at himself at the full mirror, taking in his gauze-wrapped appearance. If this were any other instance, he would have looked and felt like hell. With the preciseness of the dressings that shield his bullet wound and the unfamiliar, but not unwelcome freshness of his face, it serves as a reminder that he does have people in his corner, he has you, making the hell easier to bare. The readjusting, he recalls.
Being back here was awkward and stiff at best, but he had you this time around.
You mistake his long reflection for distaste, internally panicking. “Did… did I do something wrong?”
He faces you at an instant, features recovering from deep contemplation. “No! I just, uh… I’ve never been treated like this before…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, making sure to use his right palm to do so.
Why it was embarrassing to admit, he did not know. Maybe it’s because life did not deserve to be a gentle experience for him, that it’s his karma for having so much rage and unprocessed distress stored in his body, that in the end, he was his own worst foe.
“Treated like what?” You ask genuinely; he sees the gears running in your head and shuts down any negative connotation his words may have at an instant.
“With so much tenderness,” he mumbles something at the end you didn’t quite catch.
“So much...?”
It’s a look reserved only for you, his gaze completely unguarded, windows to the depths of his barrage of feelings. You admire how his eyes catch the sun rays, details that you typically couldn’t see are now visible to you, and to you only at this moment.
“Love.”
You melt at his vulnerable admission, never wanting to take it for granted.
“That’s because I do love you.”
He hums. “And I, you.”