Charcoal Grey [H.S.]

☆CHAPTER TWENTY ONE - CARE☆

Lennon scribbled down the symptoms of the most recent patient on her pad. She pursed her lips in a thin line, her hair up in a clip with a few strands falling over her forehead. Antiseptics, ointments and sanity liquids wafted through the air which would have made anyone wince at its strong smell but she had grown used to it.

A knock on the doorframe made her look up from her notes. Her eyes immediately widened in disbelief. Standing there, sporting a black eye, split lip and bruised knuckles was none other than Harry himself. His muscular frame leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His usually meticulously styled hair was a mess and his dark clothes were rumpled. He wore a scowl on his face, but his gaze softened when they landed on her.

"Harry," she frowned. They literally had a talk about this just a few days ago.

He saw the expression on her face and the displeasure in her eyes. He knew he was going to get a lecture, just not that quickly. He could feel himself getting annoyed. He pushed himself off the doorway and sauntered into the room, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. He stopped a few feet away from her, giving her an unapologetic look. "Before you say anything," he started, his voice low and gruff, "I'm fine, grey. Just a few bumps and bruises."

She narrowed her eyes, obviously not buying his bullshit, gesturing to the edge of one of the hospital beds. "Sit down."

He let out a huff, his shoulders sagging a bit at her authoritative tone. He knew better than to argue, not when she gave him that look. He obliged, sitting down with his legs spread apart and his hands resting on his knees. "You're really gonna mother hen me, huh?" he said, his tone a mix of irritation and a hint of amusement.

"Shush," she turned her back to him, reaching over the cart and grabbing a bottle of saline, some ointment and a couple of cotton balls. She was still irritated at him for just going ahead and letting himself get used like a bloody punching bag but she would talk to him later about that.

He huffed again, his eyes following her every movement as she prepared the materials she needed to patch him up. His expression softened slightly as he observed how focused she was. It was endearing, the way she took it upon herself to take care of him, even when she was clearly not happy with him. His eyes flickered to his bruised knuckles and a pang of guilt settled in his gut. "You're mad at me," he commented quietly, stating the obvious.

She sighed, "I'll first treat you, OK?"

He nodded.

She walked over to him with the supplies, standing in the gap between his legs, unbottling the saline and then using her hand to reach a cotton ball to press it to the rim and tilt the container downwards so the cotton gets soaked. She then slowly stroked it to his wounds and bruises, making sure to sterilise the ruined areas.

He closed his eyes as she began to treat his wounds, her gentle touch sending tingles down his spine. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but it was hard to do so as her touch was both soothing and somewhat arousing. Harry desperately wanted to reach his hands out and grab her hips but he restrained especially since she was mad at him. He grunted softly as she tended to his busted lip, wincing a bit when she accidentally pressed a little too hard. But then, he felt a strange kind of bliss as she took care of him with such tenderness, "Fuck."

She wiped the excess liquid from the corner of his lip with her thumb, "How did you even manage to get through the lobby? Did you threaten the receptionist?"

He smirked, the feeling of her touch making his heart skip a beat. He opened his eyes and met her gaze, his expression still holding a hint of mirth. "Well, they were annoyed and somewhat scared of me. However, no threats, I was on my best behaviour," he replied, his voice a little raspy. "Except I definitely was a dick to the receptionist then I may have sweet-talked the security guard a bit to let me sneak in."