John was up out of bed as soon as he heard the door of his flat creak open quietly. Gun in hand, he headed silently to the living room, clearing each room with a well-practiced precision. All seemed to be quiet, with the exception of his open door. He closed it softly, locking it snugly before going to make another round through the house. As soon as he turned around he felt her against his chest and smelled gunpowder.
"Sebastia," he questioned softly, his grogginess making it sound a bit rougher than he intended. He felt her nod against his chest, so he slipped the gun in his waistband and wrapped her in his arms. He could feel the slight stickiness of drying blood on her arm, and he gently pulled away to switch on a light and examine her. There were dark circles under her eyes and her lip was busted. He took her chin in one hand to turn her face, examining for other injuries there. Then his eyes moved down her arm and across her torso. The blood on her arm seemed to be hers, but the blood splattered across her torso wasn't, much to his relief. He intertwined his fingers in hers, leading her to the bathroom.
It wasn't the first time he had patched her up, though it was the first time she had woken him in the middle of the night. She usually strolled into his clinic, or was waiting in his flat when he got home. Once or twice he'd even found her curled up by the door on his way to work in the morning. She sat on the counter, legs dangling, watching his hands as he began to tend gently to her arm. He cleaned it and wrapped it, lifting to place a gentle kiss on top of the gauze. He held her hand quietly for a moment before questioning her softly.
"Why are you here?"
She simply shrugged, obviously not in the mood to talk. She was like this the few times she had shown up in the morning too. He gave her a soft smile, brushing her blood-stained blond hair out of her face before dabbing gently at her lip. After that was tended to, he tugged at the hem of her bloodied shirt. She peeled it off and tossed it in the bathtub, now perched on his counter in a black bra and dirty jeans. She had more scars than he did, and he couldn't help but run his finger across one. She watched his fingers, then gently brushed them away to stand and shed her jeans, tossing those in the bathtub as well. John pulled his t-shirt off, tugging it over her head as she pushed her arms through, ensuring she was careful around her bandaging. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her legs around his waist as she tucked her head in the crook of his neck. He carried her to his bedroom, laying her down and curling around her. Tomorrow would be morning showers and then disappearing into the crowd, but for now she was in his arms. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved falling asleep to the spice of gunpowder and metallic bite of blood in her hair. She was so soft and subtle, but he knew underneath all that a tiger slept.
He was in trouble.