Oh my god I'm so behind on my updates of these. I swear though I WILL catch up. And then I'll get back into the cycle. Don't worry. I can do this I swear.

This one actually was a struggle for me. I knew where I wanted to go with it but it took me many an edit before it got where it needed to be.

So without further ado...

Chapter Rating: T
Chapter Warning: Nudity, some implied past stuff
World: An AU where Marco survived the battle of Trost, but was seriously injured (not in the typical "lost an arm and an eye" way though)
Word Count: 1339

Four: Bath Time

There was something about looking at Jean's face that made Marco feel profoundly sad.

He often found himself staring when Jean wasn't paying attention and what he found there tugged harshly at his heartstrings. Jean looked tired and, more than that, he looked old. There were lines on his face Marco had never noticed before the battle of Trost and those lines made him look weathered and frail. At the same time, he seemed hardened and closed off.

Marco had never seen someone look so strong and vulnerable.

"Marco."

Jean's voice was gruff and low, trying to get Marco's attention but careful not to startle him. Marco had noticed the gentility of Jean's voice when he spoke to him lately. Jean was a callous type of guy, which was something his voice usually reflected. It was sharp and quick, never unsteady and always willing to raise in volume and force to make a point. But that's not how it sounded when he spoke to Marco. It used to be. But it was different now. It was cautious, quiet and so very full of anguish.

Marco forced himself to refocus his eyes. He'd been staring at Jean but he definitely wasn't paying attention to him.

"Stop staring," Jean said, though it lacked any true bite. "It's time to wash up."

Marco's eyebrows tilted into that soft, sweet, sad expression and offered Jean a gentle smile, full of inauthentic warmth.

Marco tried for a moment to catch Jean's eye, but it soon became clear that Jean was pointedly avoiding looking at his face as he leaned over Marco and started fiddling with the intricacies of the wheelchair he was seated in. Marco stifled the urge to let his frown overtake his face and instead offered another forced smile.

"Okay, Jean."

The way to the bath was silent. Marco used to find comfort in the silence between them. Late at night when their whispered conversations would finally reach an end. Or early in the morning when Marco would help Jean straighten his uniform straps because he could never seem to get them on right. Or over dinner as they listened to the constant babble spouted from Connie and Sasha. It was a warm silence.

This silence was not that silence. It was thick and palpable and it tasted sour in Marco's mouth. He could practically feel the tension of Jean's stiff body as he clutched at the handles of the wheelchair. How Marco wished to smooth away that tension, run his hands over Jean's neck and shoulders until they became limp under his careful fingers and a delicately sweet sigh would pass between Jean's lips. His face would be free of all those he'd added to it.

But Marco couldn't do that. He frowned as he looked down at his hands. One lay limp at the end of a makeshift sling and both were swathed in bandages, completely useless. The burns were getting better but he still had no feeling in them. The nurse had said that they may not ever work properly again.

Once he started staring at his injuries, he couldn't stop. His eyes traveled further down, to his right leg, cut off at his knee. They said it was a miracle her even lived through the amputation. Once it was healed enough, they'd promised to fit him for a prosthetic so he could walk. That would still take weeks of rehabilitation.

Marco felt his heart sink into his stomach. He was usually very good at keeping a positive attitude and staying optimistic, because one of them had to and he couldn't put that burden on Jean. But sometimes, the idea that he'd never walk on his own two feet again, or the idea that his fingertips wouldn't be able to feel the subtle twitch of Jean's skin under them, was almost too much to bear.

But he'd bear it. He knew that if he went on a downward spiral, it would be cripplingly stressful for Jean. Jean would always try to do what's best for Marco and right now, he was the worrywart to counteract Marco's cheerful recklessness about his injuries. This was easier for Jean because he could be open about his grief, guilt and anger. If their roles were reversed by Marco falling into his depressing thoughts of self-pity, it would be painful for Jean to try to be the one to make Marco happy when he couldn't even seem to make himself happy. It just wouldn't be fair to him.

Jean had already done more than enough. When Marco woke up, Jean was there, dark bags under his eyes saying that he hadn't slept. When the nurses had said Marco would need care for several weeks, Jean hadn't hesitated when he'd offered. When the officer had come to honorably discharge soldiers too injured to continue fighting in the future, Jean had stood toe-to-toe with his superiors, arguing on Marco's behalf. He hadn't won that screaming fit but at least he'd tried.

There wasn't anything Jean wouldn't do for Marco. That was entirely clear now.

"Marco," Jean's voice finally broke Marco out of his reverie. "C'mon. Quit daydreaming. I need you to lean forward."

Marco blinked slowly, looking to see Jean's face as he frowned at the stubborn buttons of Marco's shirt. "Sorry," Marco mumbled as he obliged Jean's request.

Jean carefully slid Marco's jacket and shirt off his good arm first and then removed the sling, face steeling when Marco winced slightly. When he moved his hands to Marco's belt, he made a point to really look at what he was doing so he didn't have to meet Marco's eye.

Marco smiled fondly at Jean and raised the bandaged hand attached to his unbroken arm and placed it atop Jean's head, ruffling his hair. How Marco wished he could feel it between his fingers. "Don't get shy on me now. Not the first time you've done it," he said, obvious amusement in his voice.

"Be careful with your hand," Jean scolded, ignoring Marco's suggestive comment, though the blush crawling across his cheeks told Marco that he knew exactly what he had meant. He looked up to see Marco's soft smile and immediately looked away again, rolling his eyes. Then he was carefully moving Marco's arm by a loose hold around his wrist. "Okay, you gotta stand now."

Marco nodded as he wrapped his right arm tighter around Jean's neck, feeling Jean's own arm slide around his waist. "One," Jean said, his voice regaining its earlier focus. "Two, three." And then Marco was standing on his left leg, body pressed closely up against Jean's as he swayed with the momentum. Jean's strong hands steadied him easily. "I gotcha," he breathed, breath hot and tingling in Marco's ear. "Now hang tight. I know this is hard but we can do this." Jean's babbling was clearly due to nerves, but Marco found it comforting as Jean bent slightly, reaching to slide the remainder of Marco's clothing down and off.

"Good," Jean said, still bracing most of Marco's weight. "Alright, put your arm back around my neck. ...Good...and...up we go." He lifted Marco's naked form into his arms, one hand under his knee and the other arm wrapped around his shoulders. In the next moment, Marco was resting in the tub of hot water, smiling up at Jean. Jean's returning smile seemed a little less forced than usual.

"We can do this," Marco said.

Jean rolled his eyes but Marco thought he saw the corners of Jean's mouth twitching.

The bath was refreshing until Jean had to take away Marco's hand wraps and make him clean the still-raw wounds in the hot water. It was excruciating.

Marco wished he could ignore the way Jean's entire body stiffened and guilt filled his eyes as Marco shouted at the initial pain.

After that, he clenched his teeth harder to quell the urge to scream at the stinging burn, not wanting Jean to worry anymore.

There wasn't anything Marco wouldn't do for Jean.