A/N: The harbor in the tempest. Enjoy.
Shot No 4: Solace
The warm water shot out of the taps steady and sure, its steam soon enveloping the bathroom in a haze that lightly coated the mirror and left droplets on the blue tiles of the bathroom. Joss waited a few minutes to make sure it was just so before turning the jet on the shower. Few things worse than a shower where the water wasn't right.
Taking a deep breath, she went through the motions of disrobing and pinning her hair before slipping a slender foot into the side of the porcelain tub and pulling the curtain back, careful not to let the water splatter too much on the rug.
She hadn't been in the steaming space long before she felt a familiar presence enter the bathroom, then the shower, to wordlessly slide up behind her like a wisp of a feather, his nudity and embrace a forgone conclusion. She smiled in her knowledge of him—until she turned around and saw his face.
"John? Hey. Are you okay? How did it go tonight?"
She actually hadn't needed to ask that. She could see how it went. He was haggard, drawn. His hair was loose about his forehead. Battered and bruised was he, the latter most apparent on the right side of his face, right at the cheekbone, as well as his right shoulder, where a finely visible black and blue mark marred the skin there. His ribs also showed the signs. The battle had indeed been brutal.
"Yogorov must be paying his boys to take fighting lessons. Or he's getting newer recruits with better instincts. It was a tough one tonight. Real tough. Could have used your help," he joked.
"What happened?" she asked.
"He's dead. That's what's most important. He's dead and I'm not." The joke was no longer.
"Who, John? Yogorov?"
"No. Not Yogorov."
"John, what happened?" she reiterated, a touch of worry in her voice.
"Babe, I'm tired," he replied softly over the spatter of the water, his chest rising in resignation. "Not right now, okay? I just want to get clean." He shook his head with those words, and momentarily looked past her, until his eyes, slowly, almost dazedly, found hers again.
She nodded her head, the steam forming droplets on her lashes, the water rivulets down her back. She'd pick Szymansky's brain about it all, anyway, once she was back at the precinct.
"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, that's all right, John. How can I help now?"
"The loofah," he said, arching his gaze towards the wall before returning it, full tilt, towards her.
She found what he'd asked for on the little shelf next to the shower head.
"Here. Turn around, John."
Immersing it in the spray before adding bodywash, she took the loofah to his back first, rotating and gently scrubbing its expanse over and over, until she moved to his shoulders and neck. From there she found his arm pits, chest and belly, the wounds he received painful yet soothed by her attentions. John leaned his head back, eyes closed in relief, a silent gasp escaping his lips as her tiny fingers found his member and caressed it carefully, lovingly, the rigidity unmistakable despite the other aches in his body. The water pelted his face and shot darts of moisture through his hair.
After fully rinsing his body of the soap, she reached over to the shelf again and found his shampoo and while lifting well above her own height, lathered it into his hair, her finger massage of his scalp nothing short of a tiny bit of bliss on earth.
He hung his head low as she continued, the soap running down his neck and face and into the drain. She could see the pores in his skin, the long sooty lashes, the crook of his nose, the hairline and straightness of his salt-and-pepper hair.
"Ahh, baby," he whispered aloud, a heavy sigh cutting through the spray, "thank you."
"For what?" she asked.
"For you," he replied. "Just for you."
Catching her lips in a light yet empassioned kiss, John pulled her into his arms, his hands now exploring their way across her body. He tucked his head into the crook of her neck, his muffled yet audible breathing in that same space was heavy, weighty in her ears. The water streaked and cascaded around them both then, its cathartic balm remaining until the hot water ran out. The warmth of their bed awaited.
A/N: A postscript of sorts:
John fell into bed, his hair still damp, the bruises on his ribs now screaming to the touch. He would allow Joss to put muscle rub there beforehand, but anything else was out of the question. No questions. No answers. She had tried again to better understand what Yogorov's man had meant for John out there, but he merely smiled, stroked her also dampened hair, and kissed her soundly before falling into a heavy, welcome slumber on his back.
She watched him sleep once the sandman took hold of him, and while another woman might think he was shutting her out, Joss didn't. Having been in her line of work, having been there herself, she understood his need to process, to reassess what had happened that night, whatever the minute details were. She didn't rest for a long while after going to bed. Instead, she watched him, watched the interplay of emotions on his face in his unconsciousness, listened to him breathe and snore, and heard the mumbles symbolic of real-world dramas not yet finished.
Tomorrow would begin it all anew. Until then, she would keep vigil. She would protect him. Yes, she would.
Thanks for reading, and I'm glad everyone has enjoyed so far. Best!
