At first Jean thought it was his imagination. But it is always there. When Levi was cooking, there is always a moment when his hand moves too close to the flame. Whenever he gets hurt, like if he touches the kettle when it's too hot or bangs into the corner of table, he never winces. Occasionally he draws in his breath sharply in surprise, but that was it, his calm demeanor never breaks, his gray eyes remain cool and detached, his thin shoulders upright but not tensed.
Jean didn't want to admit it, but this worried him. It worried him that Levi's skin bruised so easily, that his arms were so slender and his pale wrists were too thin and looked like they could break easily. He knew he was being ridiculous of course, Levi had a karate black belt and could easily take down opponents nearly twice his size, himself included. Jean has lost track of the number of times he found himself winded and gasping, a bony knee in his gut, during their many heated arguments, or sometimes, just overly passionate sex.
But it still bothered him. It bothered him that Levi chose to confront the two assailants instead of handing over their wallets when they were mugged in the park, even though the thugs both had knives. Well Levi was a thug too, in a way, 'just a businessman with some more aggressive tactics' he liked to say, smiling his charming crooked smile, always charming, always crooked. He certainly did not seem like a thug. Every morning, Levi wakes up early, makes some toast and black coffee, puts on a tailored suit and a cravat, and gives Jean a goodbye kiss in bed before heading out. Sometimes, just sometimes, after a long day at the station or a particularly bloody case, Jean lets himself believe that Levi is really nothing more than a businessman.
But it is difficult to give himself that luxury on nights like this, when Levi comes home with bruised knuckles or a deep cut on the side of his arm. What kind of 'business' he has been doing, or who would even have the ability to put a scratch on his boyfriend, Jean had no idea. Of course, his wounds would always have been cleanly dressed, and his face would be calm as usual, but Jean could tell when it hurt, when his face was paler than usual and his breathing was a bit shallower. Who dressed his wounds? Thinking about this always made Jean angry. Who had he allowed to touch him in his weakened state, skin damp with perspiration and blood dripping from a wide gash?
"Let's just order in food for dinner tonight. I'm too tired to cook," Levi says casually as he loosens his cravat with his good hand, and allows himself to fall onto the sofa. Jean presses his lips into a tight line and is silent for a moment. He rests a finger lightly on Levi's bandaged hand, it was already turning a little pink on some parts, it must still be bleeding. "Does it hurt?" Jean asks softly. "Not if you kiss it better," Levi replies, with a crooked smile, still always charming, always crooked.