Chapter Text
When he’s finally released from the hospital, Deb takes him home, her small suitcase rumbling along behind her as she matches his excruciatingly slow pace. Even with the walker—he’d fought against being taken out in a wheelchair until Kerry finally gave in—he’s out of breath, winded from the short trip to the car.
“You don’t have to do this, Deb,” his panting is cut off with a wince.
“John, the only reason they’re releasing you at all is because I’m going home with you.”
Intuitively, she seems to understand his need to get in the vehicle on his own, giving him the privacy to try by taking the walker and her suitcase and stowing them in the trunk. Arms and legs trembling, he lowers himself into the seat. His back screams at him, but he manages it, collapsing against the upholstery and letting his head fall back, eyes slipping shut as he catches his breath.
Deb’s door closes and she starts the car. There’s a beat of silence and then the air moves and the scent of her perfume washes over him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, not bothering to open his eyes.
“You forgot your seatbelt,” she answers, soft voice right next to his ear as she lifts his wrist away from the buckle and snaps it into place. As she moves away, her hand brushes his forehead in a manner that’s probably meant to feel accidental.
He can’t really blame her. He doesn’t have to feel his forehead to know how clammy it must be. The fine tremors racing with the chill up and down his back are indicators enough.
Deb is silent, but her thoughts are loud. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
“Just drive, Deb,” he mumbles, turning away.
He wakes to her face next to his in the open car doorway, the blue glow of March gloaming casting everything in hazy shadow.
“Hey. You ready?”
He nods, lets her peel him out of the car, too tired to be stubborn, now.
She settles in while he showers, gingerly washing the imagined smells of blood and antiseptic and sweat from his skin.
When the water shuts off and he doesn’t come out, she knocks on the door.
“John?” It’s soft, giving him the option to answer.
But it’s not really an option, because if he doesn’t, she’ll think he died in the shower and come in anyway.
“It’s not locked.” He doesn’t bother to raise his voice, but the door cracks open anyway.
Deb’s eyes comb over him where he sits slumped on the toilet lid, sweatpants sticking to his legs where he couldn’t reach with the towel, T-shirt pooled in his lap where he’d given up trying to get it on, his wrists still tangled in the sleeves. He can’t bring himself to meet her gaze.
“I couldn’t wash my hair,” he says, the unexpected threat of humiliated tears souring the words. He swallows. “Hurts to raise my arms.”
“Okay,” she says. Not judging. Not careful. Just okay. The bag he surmises contains her medical supplies become visible in one hand as she steps around the door and enters fully. She sits on the side of the tub and picks up his forgotten towel where it had fallen from his hands and gently wipes away the remaining wetness from his back, chest, shoulders.
“What is it with men and not actually drying off,” she teases, allowing them both to pretend he hadn’t been unable to maneuver enough to access most of his body. Cool fingers pull the tape and plastic wrap covering the dressing over his wounds away—she’d had to apply it herself before he showered—and get to work applying a new bandage.
He droops, head hanging, water dripping from his unwashed hair to plink on his forearms where they rest in his lap.
“Wait here,” she says eventually, and he does.
When he opens his eyes, she’s standing with her hand on his shoulder, a small circle of warmth against his skin, and a truly ridiculous sight behind her.
“Deb? Why are my couch cushions in the bathroom?”
He eyes the cushions in the floor—he can’t even bring himself to be alarmed by the loss of time—one laying flat, pressed against the side of the tub and the other on its side on top. The towel she had draped over both of them completes the odd sofa.
She grins, turning away and standing on her tiptoes to pull the showerhead from its mounting. “We’re going to wash your hair.”
“You are not washing my hair.”
“Listen, if I’m living with you for the next few days, the least you can do is smell good,” she shoots back, settling his shampoo on the floor next to the ad hoc settee. “Come on. Sit.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t have the energy to fight her on it. And honestly, he really just wants to feel clean.
It’s easier to shift over to Deb’s strange little couch than he expects it to be, and he sinks into it gratefully as she rolls up a towel, sets it on the rim of the tub, and guides his head back until it’s supporting his neck.
“This is ridiculous,” he complains without bite, feeling very exposed as she turns on the faucet.
“Just shut up and relax, John.” She frees a damp hand and rubs at his tense shoulders. He hadn’t realized he was guarding. “Hey, I’m not gonna waterboard you, relax.”
His mouth twists and he quirks his eyebrows, even as he deliberately commands his body to loosen up. It’s a vulnerable situation, yes, but it’s safe. Intimate. He can trust Deb. “Well, you did electrocute me that time.”
“Watch it, or I’ll get soap in your eyes.”
He smiles and lets his eyes fall shut as warm water cascades over his head. Deb’s hand comes up to his forehead, guarding the water from running into his eyes.
The shampoo bottle clicks and the sharp, piney scent makes his nose tingle. Hands replace the water against his scalp, firm and steady as they work the shampoo against his roots. It’s rhythmic, calming.
Unspeakably tender.
An uncomplicated, uncalculated act of love like he’s never received because he’s never deserved them.
One that Deb doesn’t even think twice about offering. Like to her, he’s worthy of it.
His chest hitches. He swallows harshly, but the tears slip free anyway and he smears clumsily at them with the back of his hand.
Deb pretends not to notice the tears or his uneven breaths, taking her time rinsing his hair, fingers scritching gently against his scalp while the water runs over it. Continues long after the tears stop and he relaxes beneath her ministrations.
He’s half-asleep when the water shuts off and she covers his head with a towel, folding the edge up to uncover his face and pressing a brisk kiss to his forehead.
“You awake in there?”
He hums.
She snorts and rubs vigorously at his hair. “Well, wake up. I’m not carrying you to bed.”
The mental image is ridiculous enough to garner a chuckle and he opens his eyes, blinking in the warm bathroom light. The tears are still wet on his lashes when he looks up at her. Smiles.
Her head tilts. “What?”
“Nothing. Thank you.”
Her lips meet his forehead again, softer this time.
“Always.”