[ it's almost impossible to imagine the point of view of someone who isn't as familiar with the violence, not when he's seen it before his eyes since he was twelve years old, since he held a gun in his own hands and pulled the trigger himself. but seeing it in her face tells him all he needs to know, the uncertainty of it when she speaks out and even not having been out there, he can see the kind of terror that might have been featured in her face when she'd been out there.

for a moment, he says nothing at all, making sure the cloth in his hands is well wet before he wrings it out, leaving it plenty damp before stepping across the room to her, sitting beside her on the bed, knee gently nudging against hers as he turns to face her. ]

When I accidentally called you from the shower, you came running. [ his voice is quiet but calm, mimicking the same kind of composure he always bears even when he's the one on the other side, when he's injured, skin stained with blood. ]

You didn't ask questions. Didn't think about what you'd find. You just showed up as quick as you could because you thought I was in trouble. [ he gives the cut above her brow a close look before he lifts his hand, carefully dabbing the cloth against the skin around it. ] Whatever you must've heard out there tonight, however dangerous — you ran out because you were ready to help people, whatever the risk.

[ he doesn't need to have been there to be able to tell. enough time with her and he can see the difference between her more routine nervous behaviors and the kind of intensity she gets in her look when she's ready to be a nurse, ready to mend a wound, ready to look after someone. wet cloth wiping gently at the dried blood, he exhales a breath, eyes peering at hers. ] That's the kind of person you are.