Chapter 2:

In the two weeks that Zoe had temporarily been staying at John's loft, she had seen him a grand total of two times, both times in passing. Either she was running out to meet with a client or deal with the restoration of her apartment or he was running in to pick up supplies from his closet of mass destruction, which she accidentally ran into one day looking for the linens. Not one to be shocked easily, she was still surprised by the sheer volume of the weapons stored in John's walk in closet.

They would occasionally text or call each other but because both their jobs had no set hours, and they could get called away at the drop of a hat, face to face time was rather sporadic. The only indication Zoe had that John even came back to the loft was that there was always a fresh cup of coffee already poured for her the way she liked it, black, one sugar on the bedside table when she woke up.

In turn, knowing John didn't eat while he was working Zoe always brought home something for dinner, even though she never knew when exactly he would be home. She would leave it in the refrigerator, usually with a few extras and it would always be gone by the morning. Whether he ate it himself or just took it to his homeless friends, she never knew.

Zoe stopped in her tracks when she saw a figure crouched by the front door of John's loft. Recognizing John's suit from two days ago, she ran to the eerily unmoving lump. "John?"

As he looked up towards Zoe, she had to stifle a gasp. She knelt by him and took his battered face in her hands. "John? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?" He shook his head no. "Okay, can you try to get up? I can help you inside . . ."

John released a breath through clenched teeth as he pushed hard and stood up. Gently, Zoe took his left arm and put it around her shoulders as she let them both into the loft. She sat him down on the side of and bed and knelt down at his feet. He struggled to try to get his shoes off, but Zoe softly stilled his movements. Looking into his eyes, she said, "Let me." Zoe was wearing the same elegant black dress she had worn during the convention but it didn't matter to her that she was on her knees helping John take off his shoes.

"Hit . . . by . . . car . . ." he said in between deep breaths. She nodded. "Bet it hurt like a son of a bitch huh?" Despite his condition, John let out a little snort.

John swallowed a litany of curses as she helped him peel his jacket off his shoulders and then started on his shirt. His undershirt though, bloody in some spots needed to be cut off. Several bruises and contusions were revealed, no doubt from his body making contact with the car.

"Let's take the rest of your clothes off in the bathroom and we can get you cleaned up, okay?" Zoe suggested with a slight tremor in her voice. She immediately bit her lip hard enough to taste blood; it was the only thing she could do to not cry.

Get a grip Zoe, she told herself. He's fine. This is what John does. This is who he is.

Zoe kicked off her shoes on the way to the bathroom. She started the water and asked John if he had a first aid kit.

"It's in the closet . . . "

" . . . Of mass destruction?"

Smiling slightly, he nodded.

John was standing in front of the mirror, leaning on the counter and started to assess his injuries. Thankfully, John's head didn't hit the ground when he bounced off the car, it did suffer a glancing blow off the windshield though. There was a large bruise along his ribs on the right side. His suit coat had provided little protection from abrasions and there were several large lumps on his forearms where he'd hit the ground. On John's right hip was another large and painful bruise caused by the initial contact with the moving car.

John hissed to conceal his pain. Gently examining the swollen area around his ribs he felt along each rib as he tried to find broken bones. After a few minutes, John determined that he did not break any of his ribs, possibly just some cracks. His breathing heavy, John wiped away the sweat from his forehead and gingerly stepped into the tub, sighing with relief as he lowered himself into the hot water.

"Those ribs are probably broken." Zoe said with a softly scolding tone, she had come back with the first aid kit and a small bottle.

"Just two and they're cracked, no breaks." He watched Zoe's face as she took in the large purpling bruise along his rib area. She couldn't hide her crinkled brow and the sad and fearful look in her brown eyes.

Kneeling by the tub, still in her black cocktail dress, she showed him what was in her hand. "Here, I brought you some Aleve," she said handing him the bottle. "I thought you might need it."

"Thanks," John said with a small smile dry swallowing the pills. "I do feel like I've been hit by a truck."

When she didn't react, John looked at her and realized that her lower lip was trembling and she was biting her lip hard to make it stop. "It's not f-f-fun-ny John!" she said with a gasp biting on her lip again, not caring that when he first came in she had quipped a similar sentiment. Sharply, she said, "You could have been killed! Dumbass!"

"You act like you care." John said with half a smirk on his face, wincing with pain.

Zoe gasped. "Of course I care. I don't want you dead, you jackass," she said quietly.

"Your language is getting much more colorful."

"Bite me!" she said, standing up and turning away from him, frustrated because he didn't seem to care about his life. John could see her reflection in the mirror. She was leaning against the counter, biting her lip; still trying to get a grip.

Cocking his head curiously, John asked, "Zoe?" The gentleness in his raspy voice affected her more than she would ever admit. Zoe fought hard to hang on to the iron-clad grip she had on her already strained to the limit resolve. She clenched her eyes tightly, battling with her emotions.

Shaking her head, she finally overcame her frayed nerves, and suggested to John, "Why don't you wash up, the water won't stay warm forever."

She watched him for a few minutes until she noticed that he was struggling to lift his arms. Taking off her own clothes, she slipped into the tub behind him. Picking up the sponge, she soaked it under the hot water and ran it along John's shoulders and squeezed, washing off dried blood and dirt. She continued with his back, then reached around and washed his chest. She could feel his heart was racing and his breathing was uneven. She pressed her body against him. To be close to him, to hold him, to offer comfort the only way she could at that moment.

"Zoe," John whispered.

Zoe put her hand over his lips. "Shh. I know John, its okay." They stayed that way, her arms around his waist, her head lay on his shoulder blades until the water cooled. With John finally clean of the blood and grime, she stood up and dried herself off, putting on a robe that was hanging on the back of the door. "Come on Rambo, let's get you to bed," she said quietly as she helped him up and out of the tub, dried him off and led him to bed.

"John?" Zoe asked as they were nodding off. "Zoe." She heard his smirk even though it was dark. "I would have run you over myself if I had known it was the only way to get you naked in bed again . . . "