"John, looking at the tub is not bathing. One usually adds water and removes clothes." Ridley said, peaking round the bathroom door. He had only arrived ten minutes before, and of all that ten minutes John had been in the bathroom but there had yet to be the sound of running water.
It wasn't often that he got to spend time in gravity, let alone together and he always started with a hot bath, pools of water something that was not encouraged or practical at work. Tonight he was standing, lost in thought, gazing at the tub.
"Oh for gods sake," she muttered, pushing the rest of the way in and turning the taps full on. "You have several PhDs I'm sure you can manage this."
"I'm not so sure I can," he said softly. Ridley peered at him, tilting her head slightly. They were just starting their usual routine of settling onto earth and to being around other people from a long rotation with little gravity and less human contact. The frowns she first thought were tiredness took on another shape. His pale skin was more of a parlour under the warm bathroom light and the way he moved – stilted and jerky may not be the effect of sudden gravity.
"What's wrong?" she asked, feeling his slight shudder as she lightly rested a hand on his arm.
"It's been a tough few days. Can you help me out of the suit?"
She did so with hesitation, finding and easing the hidden seem that John could usually manage himself. She peeled the fabric from his lankily solid frame, unable to supress a gasp as she revealed a mottled pattern of bruises that crept up from his hip to cover his back and shoulders.
"What the hell John?"
"Like I said, a tough few days. I'm having a bit of trouble bending and moving at the moment."
"Have you had this checked out properly? I'm not going to have to cart you off to hospital am I?" She asked, taking his weight as he stepped carefully out of the legs of the flightsuit.
"No, I've been cleared by Virgil himself. A little rest will do wonders and he actually recommends hot baths. I just can't manage it on my own." John lived most of his life in isolation so a certain level of self reliance was essential. That had also spawned a certain amount of resistance to physical dependence on someone else: he didn't often accept help, let alone ask for it. It was one of the many boundaries they were slowly negotiating in their relationship which made his request a damning indication of how he was feeling.
The marks on his back – colours ranging from black to a sickly green – indicated not just one but several field missions for him recently, and ones that didn't go smoothly. That was uncommon and Ridley was surprised she hadn't heard even a whisper through the high atmosphere grape vine. Space was certainly dangerous but the number of incidents that needed IR was comfortingly small, and always a topic of gossip between the various space stations and ships.
She could ask what happened and John would give her the bare bones and no more – a stark mission report told blandly. Or she could wait and he would share when he was ready: the full details and the undercurrents of fear and desperation that he would never put in any official document.
Patience was a virtue, she reminded herself, helping John step into the steep sided bath, and just about managing not to fall in herself manoeuvring him to sitting.
John closed his eyes and visibly relaxed into the warm water, shoulders lowering and jaw unclenching. She would leave him alone to detach from International Rescue, clear his head and refocus on the here and now. On them. Another boundary they had discovered together.
She didn't close the door all the way on her way out, wanting to hear when John was making moves to get out as he surely couldn't do it alone. She started to comb through the menus for their favourite takeaways, anticipating the need for comfort food in the long night ahead.