"John?" he whirled around, turning somewhat red. Molly paused in the doorway of the bathroom, frowning at him. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing, nothing, what is it?" he asked quickly. A knowing smile grew, and he nearly groaned.
"Were you checking yourself out in the mirror?"
"What? No!"
"You were!" she laughed.
"Oh, like you don't do the same thing!" He retorted as she stepped over the threshold, wicked grin gracing her lips.
"Frowning at the cellulite on my thighs is one thing," she squeezed his biceps. "Flexing is quite another."
"I like your thighs."
"Ugh, liar." He gathered her in his arms, pinching her bottom and she yelped, jerking out of his arms.
"Is that so, madam?" he pinched her again and she shrieked, laughing. "Well I happen to like your bloody cellulite, and your arms, and your supposedly small breasts, and hell I even love you for your mind," he kissed her and she let him.
"You won't admit you were checking yourself out will you?" she asked when they parted.
"Ugh. Yes. Okay fine, but look," she plopped down on the closed lid of the laundry basket, sighing as she laughed and he rolled up his shirt sleeves, never mind that he hadn't even finished buttoning it up the front. "Look at that, five weeks at the gym, eh?"
"Very nice," she said, attempting a straight face. "So strong, now I'll never fear anything again." He pulled a face and she sobered. "Really, you look good. I know this arm was hard for you to work on." She traced the scar on his shoulder with her fingertips.
"Doesn't hurt half as much now, the water physio really is helping," he said quietly. She grew serious then, her eyes drifting to the scar under his collarbone. Tracing where the bullet had broken the skin, she stared at the spot. His hand came over hers.
"This wasn't your fault you know. They were going to shoot me anyway, whether you got there or not."
"I know," she nodded. Stepping into the circle of his arms, she smiled up at him. "Your 'battle scars'." She kissed the one on his shoulder and the one under his collarbone. "You flex all you want," she murmured. "I like it." He blew a raspberry before he picked her up, carrying her back to their bedroom.
"We're going to be late!" she attempted to wriggle out of his arms (not really) and he laughed, kicking the door shut behind them.
"That, my dear, is entirely your fault!"
Molly did admit later on that it most definitely was her fault they were late to the party. And she wasn't one bit sorry.