A/N: I found this while rummaging through old files yesterday and now its here at the request of a very good friend. This fic wouldn't have been possible without her.

He takes great care with her when it's all over. Even though he's just as injured as she (and she tells him so more than once) he carries on as if he's not. He helps her keep up a strong front in front of their friends and teachers but the moment they are alone he lets her collapse and carries her once more. She's too tired and sore to feel much at all, but she feels him, his soul. Even though it wears her out further and he tries to sever it for that reason, she stubbornly grasps onto a weak resonance. Not long ago she had been willing, demanding, to give this up. His wavelength settles to it's usual prickly hum. To any other meister she is sure it would feel like a barrier and a warning. She knows better. It is not a grumble, but a purr. His wavelength strokes against hers like (she's sure) his fingers will through her hair once they are home. The nuances of his soul are a part of hers now, a second nature and instinct.

She underestimated that book.

Blair isn't home when he quietly kicks open the door. She wonders briefly if he phoned ahead. As much as she loves the cat, now Blair is not the friend she needs. He would know that. He doesn't set her down on the couch like he usually does. Instead, he carries her wordlessly to the bathroom and sits her on the closed toilet lid. He turns on the bath and reaches directly for the first aid kit. Words aren't needed, this is an old routine by now. She carefully shrugs out of her jacket and blouse, letting them drop to the floor. She notes absentmindedly that even her overbuying of uniforms for exactly this circumstance isn't saving her the time she thought it would. She's restocking almost as much as she used to clean and mend.

He turns off the bath tap and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. She doesn't need to hear the thud of his body hitting the floor to know that he's waiting outside. After battles, he always waits right outside, just in case. She doesn't take her time. She doesn't need to. She is familiar with the pained hiss that escapes her mouth as hot water hits fresh wounds and she is used to scrubbing through fatigue and sore muscles until the water is pink and she is clean again. She towels down on autopilot and puts on her underwear and the first shirt within reach.

Despite her lectures about cleanliness in shared spaces, somehow it's always one of his.

She opens the door and he enters, ice, antiseptic and bandages ready. They move like manufacturing machinery set specific pre-programmed tasks. He focusses on the task at hand without wavering, patching up the gashes on her legs and thighs without batting an eyelid (but scrunching his eyebrows). Her shirt is lifted, pushed aside, but never moved to reveal anything that would usually warrant a book to the head. Not that she would in these circumstances. The moment he stills and lets out the breath he's been trying to hold through the whole procedure she stands and turns him around to sit.

He tries to protest (he always does), but she refuses to hear it.

Their routine is as simple as lather, rinse, repeat. She lets him bathe and re-enters only when he's done and dressed in boxers. She approaches his wounds with the same care and disregard for small flinches that he shows her. It's not his occasional flinches that bother her, those are to be expected. It's not new wounds that bother her. Though she has now seen it countless times, she cringes at the mark of devotion stretched across his bloody chest. She hesitates in placing a bandage near it, her hand shaking slightly. His reaches to cover it and she cracks the way only he can make her do. He tapes the bandage himself while her trembling fingers hold it in place. She stands and he stands with her. His arms are around her before their knees straighten and he doesn't smell so much like himself as blood and antiseptic and new gauze.

But now this scent is almost as familiar.

He squeezes tight for a moment before pulling back enough to take the lead. He leads them to her room and sits them both on the bed. His hands are careful as they disentangle elastics from her pigtails. Her hair falls damp and frizzy around her face and sinuous pianist fingers comb out the worst of the knots, lingering at the base of her neck. His hand moves to rest at the crown of her head and he uses that leverage to pull her to him. Her head lands in the space between his neck and his shoulder.

This is where the scar begins and she will end her day.

She can sense his soul as easily as she can sense his pulse. It's not just his body embracing her, clinging for all its worth. Nights like these after missions like that she can't help but cling back. Even so, she is tired, more tired even than she is desperate. She pulls away with a tired sigh and together they stand. He tucks her in under the covers and only when she reaches for his hand does he join her.

Their foreheads touch and their hands link in a clasp tight enough for instant resonance.

Her soul sings apologies she could never relate verbally. His soul hums warm and reassuring around her. She knows she will eventually drift into dreams this way like she knows that when she wakes from them they will be closer than foreheads and hands. And if it's a hellish scream that wakes her instead of her alarm she knows she will actively engage that closeness.

She has for a while now.

His thumb rubs across the back of her hand. Though they are shrouded in silence she hears and she understands. He is hers whether she wants him or not. There is no hesitation when she lets him know she does.