“i told you not to wait up,” jason says, voice low, rough, ruined from yelling or running or both. he's peeling his jacket off one shoulder, the kevlar sticking where the blood’s dried tacky and brown, and you’re already crossing the room to him with a frown and a half-empty bottle of peroxide.
“yeah?” you say. “and i told you not to get stabbed again. guess we’re both bad at listening.”
his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. doesn’t. his whole body sways like the adrenaline’s leaking out of him, and now there’s nothing holding him upright but pure spite and habit.
you grab his wrist. gently. “sit down.”
he does. mostly because you said it like that. partly because he’s tired. mostly because you’re touching him again.
the cut on his side is shallow but ugly, right under the ribs, still leaking a little. the sight of it makes your stomach twist, like maybe if you’d called him one minute earlier, if you’d kept him talking, if you’d just begged a little harder—
whatever. you’re not crying. you’re not.
“what happened?” you ask, even though you probably don’t want to know.
he shrugs, flinches. “guy had a knife. i had bad reflexes.”
“your reflexes are never bad.”
he looks at you. for a second. and then away.
you clean the cut. you don’t say anything about how he hisses through his teeth. or how his jaw tightens like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t feel you, doesn’t care that you’re here, doesn’t want to grab you by the wrist and kiss you so hard he forgets how to breathe.
“you could’ve called for backup,” you say. softly. the gauze sticks a little. you don’t apologize.
“i didn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“and you getting hurt is fine?”
that does something awful to your chest. you press harder than you mean to. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you with those stupid storm-cloud eyes like he’s sorry but also not sorry at all.
“idiot,” you mutter. not looking at him.
“you love it,” he says, smirking with blood on his teeth.
you glare. “you’re literally bleeding out and you still manage to flirt.”
you hate him. you love him. you hate that you love him. you love that he’s here, still, bruised and reckless and real and breathing.
you lean in before you can stop yourself. just enough to rest your forehead against his. his skin is hot. he smells like smoke and metal and something that might be yours.
“please don’t die,” you whisper.
but his hand finds yours. bruised knuckles and all. squeezes once.
“i wasn’t planning on it,” he says.
