Send me “bruises?” for my muse’s reaction to yours catching them secretly tending to their wounds.
He’s snuck into her clinic to ‘borrow’ some of her supplies. The med center is all the way across town - and he could reach it in a single flash - but if he stops there, he’ll be detained and he’s got a report to give.
That’s his excuse. Really he just wants to get patched up just enough to keep from bleeding on the Sandaime or his office floor and then go home and sleep for a week or more. If he stops at the clinic they’ll want to do indepth healing and he won’t get to the Sandaime, or his small apartment, for hours. This is faster.
He’s low on chakra though and that’s why, when the door to the small supply closet swings open, his blue eyes, electric in the dim interior as they jerk up, are wide with surprise and so she catches him, shirt off, teeth on one bandage to pull the knot in it tight across a bicep, other hand full of blood soaked padding he’d just finished stripping off a nasty claw mark across his ribs. It freezes him for a second, his recognition of her clashing up against his instinctive response to being surprised, keeping him in place so the trained violence doesn’t surface. And then he manages a smile, over the bandage, something trying for casual friendless and coming off sheepish and a little like a small child caught doing something they know they shouldn’t.
“Hi?” is the height of his verbal ability when he manages words a second later.
