Well, that one was answered: John was on the floor across from her bed, lying on his side, his head resting on the inside of the arm he'd curled up into a pillow. He looked tired even as he slept, his brows tight, his mouth in a weary grimace.
The comfort she took in seeing him was a stunner, but she didn't fight it. Not enough energy--and besides, no witnesses.
"John?"
The instant she said his name, he was up off the linoleum, in a fighting stance, with his warrior's body between her and the door to the hall. Pretty clear he was prepared to shred anything that threatened her.
Which was. . . really sweet.
And better than a bedside bouquet that would have left her sneezing.
"John. . . come here. "
He waited a moment, cocking his head as if listening for sounds. Then he dropped his fists and walked over. The instant his eyes swung toward her, his brutal glare and his bared fangs faded into a gut-wrenching compassion.
He went right for his pad, wrote something, and flashed it.
"No, thanks. I'm not hungry yet. " Which had always been true for her. After a feeding, she didn't eat for hours, sometimes a full day. "What I would love. . . "
Her eyes shifted to the bathroom in the corner.
Shower, he wrote, and showed her.
"Yeah. Jesus. . . I would love some hot water. "
He was all about the nursey-nursey, going in to start the spray, setting out towels and soap and a toothbrush on the counter.
Feeling like a piker, she went to sit up. . . and it became clear someone had tied a house around her chest; it literally felt like she was lifting a two-story colonial up with her shoulders. What got her legs swinging off the side of the mattress was a lot of effort--and the conviction that if she couldn't at least get partially vertical on her own, he was going to call the doc and she was going to lose her shower.
John came in just as her bare soles hit the floor and he was Johnny-on- the-spot with the steadying arm as she stood up. When the sheets fell away from her, they both had a moment of. . . Holy shit-- naked. But this was hardly a time for modesty.
"What should I do about the dressing?" she murmured, looking down at the white bandage that stretched across her pelvis.
When John glanced over at his pad, as if he were trying to decide whether he could reach it while still holding her up, she said, "No, I don't want Doc Jane. I'm just going to take it off. "
She picked a corner free and as she weaved on her feet, she figured it probably would have been better to do this lying down--and under medical supervision. But fuck it.
"Oh. . . " she breathed as she slowly revealed the line of black stitches. "Damn. . . V's female is good with a needle and thread, huh. "
John took the bloodstained gauze pack and nothing-but-netted it into the trash can in the corner. And then he just waited, as if he was very aware she was thinking about getting back on the bed.
For some reason, the idea she'd been cut open made her light-headed.
"Let's do this," she said gruffly.
He let her set the pace, which turned out to be only slightly quicker than reverse.
"Can you turn the lights off in there?" she said as they shuffled along, her baby steps measuring at the most three inches. "I don't want to see what I look like in that mirror over the sink. "
The instant he was in range, his arm snaked out and he clicked the switch on the wall.
"Thanks. "
The feel of the humid air and the sound of the falling water eased her mind and her spine. Trouble was, the tension had helped keep her up and now she was sagging.
"John. . . " Was that her voice? So weak and thin. "John, will you get in with me. Please. "
Talk about your long silences. But then in the light that streamed in from over at the bed, he nodded.