"Freddie... Me flower. Are ya badly?" 

John's voice touched the very edges of Freddie's awareness, slowly penetrating the kaleidoscopic blur of color and sensation into which her world had melted. Her ears were ringing and the sounds that came to her did so as if through water; dampened, yet with a muffled clarity. For a few agonizing moments it seemed as if time had slowed to an unbearable crawl, as if she were fighting her way through molasses and tar just to think much less move. Then, with what felt like no warning and no reason, a thunderous blast tore through her consciousness from outside. Freddie jumped and backpedaled away from the noise, sending a cascade of broken glass to the floor. And it was almost as if the sounds set off an uncontrollable chain reaction. Suddenly, what had been slow motion felt like fast forward. And as time caught up with itself, all the sensations around her came crashing down in a single lung-crushing pile-up. 

Wild-eyed, Freddie perched atop her dresser amidst the wreckage of broken glass and crushed compacts; a brightly painted shard of porcelain glass clutched tightly in one hand, her robe clenched rigidly closed in the other. Powder was strewn and smeared around her from crushed makeup pallets. And puddles of heavily scented oil leaked onto the floor, the crystal vials that once contained it crushed beyond salvaging in her exodus from Henry's vulgar assault. 

Her body screamed with a tell-tale heat; not unlike a child's scraped knee, but inside. As air tore through her lungs at a frenetic pace, it felt as if every nerve in her entire body came awake with pain, all at once. The back of her thighs felt like needles. Her face felt stiff and swollen, her head was pounding, and her mouth tasted like blood. Why did her mouth taste like blood? Was it her blood? Her fingernails stung. Her fingernails. And her palm pulsed with thick, sticky warmth. 

Flower. John had called her flower. Which reminded her: her vase... the one with the Dahlias... it was broken. Did she break it? What about the flowers? "My flowers," she whimpered, looking at John with glassy, distant eyes. The weight of the double meaning was lost on her, but undoubtedly not on John. "John, I've ruined my flowers." 

Looking down at the porcelain debris scattered about the floor, a dawning realization settled across her features. With a soft gasp, her gaze fell to her bleeding hand and she finally dropped her makeshift shank; the porcelain shard shattering as it fell to the floor. "I'm sorry," she muttered, "I'm so sorry. John, I'm sorry." Recoiling from the noise and the mess, Freddie hugged her knees as John slooowly approached her, his hand upturned in a gentle show of kindness and care. Tenderly he took her hand, lightly -almost skittishly at first - as she tried to lower her bare feet to the floor. 

Her fingers were cold as they slid into his palm. Too cold. And as his warms hands slid up her arms, the chill at her shoulders seemed to trigger something in her memory. Pulling away from him, she stared at her hand as if it were alien life form - reptilian and cold blooded. "This is shock," the realization dawned on her slowly. Trembling, she fought to slow the frantic pace of her breathing. Her heart, already feeling as if it would beat out of her chest, seemed to pound so quickly that it skipped a few beats. "This is shock," she repeated, clarity searing it's way into her consciousness even as her tenuous grip on the situation faltered. "John," she reached for him, clutching his shoulders to steady herself; the pressing urgency in her voice self-evident, "John, I'm going into shock..." 

John nodded as Freddie's realization came to her. He'd been angry at James...Even more so after he went outside and pulled the damned trigger on Henry. He'd told him -QUIETLY-... Of course he hadn't listened, but that wasn't the issue now. The gun shot outside had sent Freddie deeper over the edge. He'd followed her movements as she pushed away, as she spoke on her flowers, and as she came to the realization that her hands were much colder than they should have been. Now she was at least assessing her own situation. She was in shock, or at least was on her way into it. As she grabbed his shoulders, he leaned into her.

"Freddie, I know. Breath dear. Everythin' will be okay. Wot do ya need me to do?" His hands gripped her tiny arms lightly as she continued to steady herself on him. "Tell me wot ya need..."

Freddie trembled and shook violently, leaning into John's chest as she struggled to reign in her thoughts enough to instruct him. "I... I need... umm... I need... C... cayenne oil, nettle tincture, umm..." Freddie huffled softly, struggling to catch her breath, "Mantas. I mean... Blankets. Definitely blankets." She nodded pathetically, "Umm... Arnica, Aconite, and Stramonium. I should... I should have a mixture in the storeroom. It'll say sss...sobr... Sobresalto." 

Freddie rocked back and forth a little, one hand rubbing her forehead in fragile frustration. "I... I think I still have a... umm... a... calentador," she looked at John helplessly, struggling to find the right word, "How... how do you say...? Ummm... hot...er... warmer... HEATER! I have a heater in the kitchen. Water. And witch hazel. And clean bandages. I think." 

She nodded gently, pushing away from him so that he would feel safe to go fetch her things, "I think that will do... if you wouldn't mind getting me away from the glass." She wiggled her bare toes, glass scraping between her thighs and the dresser as she slid forward. "Please?" 

John nodded, but his eyes darted around as she spoke. It was obvious he was lost. He had hardly an inkling of an idea of what she was talking about, but he'd figure it out. Blankets, heaters, and water. That was simple enough. The rest he'd have to search for. Regardless? He needed to get her away from the glass. He lifted her from the dresser and moved her over to the bed where at least she could sit softly. His hands ran over her cheeks once she was safely from the glass and, with a heavy sigh, he was off throughout the house.

"Wot tuh fuck am I looking for again?" he mumbled quietly... "Cayenne oil, net'le tincture... Wot tuh fuck is net'le tincture?" He grumbled to himself as he tore through the kitchen pantry. He grabbed the oil and something that said nettle on it, assuming that was right, and headed for the storeroom. "Sobresalto... Soooobreesalto." The word did NOT roll off his tongue as smooth as it did Freddie's... Even in her current state.

"Go' it," he grabbed a bottle with a label on it. Turning back to the kitchen he grabbed a bowl and set all of the bottles inside it. A second bowl was filled with water and he began searching for the witch hazel she'd asked for. He found clean bandages first... Where were these earlier?! Regardless, he tossed them into the bowl with the other supplies and continued the search for witch hazel.

He ran his finger along the bottom of the shelf of bottles and tinctures. "Witch 'azel, witch 'azel, witch 'azel, witc... AH! Witch 'azel!" he exclaimed excitedly as he came to it. He snatched the bottle and put it in the bowl of bottles and looked around for the heater. Heaters, blankets, and two bowls... That might be hard to carry up stairs in one trip.

Spotting the heater, he snagged it and took it upstairs first. "In a bit lass!" He took off back downstairs and reemerged with all of her requested supplies... Minus blankets, which were in the closet upstairs anyway.

"Now wot?"

Freddie pushed herself back against her headboard for support as John darted in and out of the room. Jack was still out cold, slumbering through laudanum-fueled dreams. And Freddie tucked her dainty feet under his back for warmth.  "Heater first," she gestured to the electric, fan-shaped contraption (http://bit.ly/2mFL2Up). "Foot of the bed. Move a table if you need," she told him curtly, sliding off the bed. Reaching into the bowl, she tried to open one of the bottles, but her hands simply wouldn't cooperate. With a sniffling moan of frustration she tossed it back into the bowl with a flailing wave, "And then I need you to open those." 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Freddie cradled her bleeding hand in her lap as John did as she asked. Once the bottles were open, she unceremoniously downed a mouthful of Nettle and Cayenne in equal proportions, cupping her hand to drink some water out of the bowl (wtf, john?). Motioning to the box by the door, still full of everything she'd used to save Jack, she wearily gestured for John to bring it over. "I need the yarrow powder and the ointment," she told him, gesturing to her hand. "Spr...sprinkle that inside. Then push the skin back right. Ointment on top. And then wrap it. Firma... tightly." 

Freddie hissed as the powder did it's work, wiggling slightly as John tugged at her gashed flesh. Luckily for them both, he showed no squeamishness about following her directions nor any hesitation over hurting her... so long as it was for her own good. Once her hand was properly bandaged, Freddie stood... shakily... and slipped hesitantly out of her robe. Clutching it to her chest, she turned her back to him and huddled by the warmth of the heater. Below the hem of her short, silk night slip, her thighs were littered with cuts and scrapes; both from the attack and her subsequent exodus across the dresser. "Witchhazel,"  she stated flatly avoiding eye contact as she glanced over her shoulder. "And then cayenne... umm," Freddie's voice broke and faltered. "Cay...enne oil on... on my back," she lowered her head and hid her face in her robe as she sniffled. Her voice was muffled softly as she fought through the crushing wave that threatened to shatter her, "It helps with pain relief. And warms the... the skin," she trailed off with a strangled whimper as John's warm hands enveloped her shoulders. She was still shaking, and her shoulders trembled and heaved as she sighed heavily into the soft silk of her robe, trying her best to control the impending avalanche of emotion. 

John worked as quick and fast as he could; putting the powder on her hand, pulling the skin back in place, bandaging her hand... All of it was done with the utmost care, but with necessary action. It might hurt, but it would be best in the long run. Kind of like pushing a fishing hook or a harpoon through all the way instead of pulling it out. John's lips pursed as Freddie turned. He wasn't shy to her body, but he was wary of her feelings in the current situation. He knew she felt vulnerable and that was perhaps the worst feeling. Aside from that, was shame... She was a delicate roller-coaster of emotion at that moment, and it would be best approached with caution from the large Englishman.

He grabbed the witch hazel, "Freddie, me flower, I'm gonna touch your thighs now, put this on ya. Can ya nod if ya be ready?" She nodded, sucking a deep breath in. She knew both that it would sting and with her current emotional state it would be like needles in her skin as he touched her there and rubbed the ointment in.

"Okay then, brace yessen, lass." He sighed as she prepped, then he began to rub the ointment over her thighs and calves. She fidgeted but held herself as steady as she could until he was done.

"In a bit, lass. I'm gonna wash this off me 'ands an' then I'll get tuh cayenne oil." John disappeared for a moment and Freddie heard the running water of her sink. When he returned he grabbed the oil and looked at Freddie. "Gimme anot'er nod or summat, lass. Ya ready for tuh oil?" Again she nodded and again John stepped in to take care of her. He poured a bit of the oil over her shoulders so it would run down her back. Following, he began to rub his hands and massage her shoulders, around her neck, down her back, and back up again.

"Ya okay Freddie? 'Angin' wit' me?" His thumbs worked the oil hard into her middle back and out from the spine. "C'mon me flower. 'Ands up an' stretch. Breat' wit' me. In an' out." He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled a few times, attempting to get her to breath some. It always helped him in France... And back here in New York now. Of course, a stiff drink and a cigarette helped too most of the time. However, he was certain there were a few -other- things in the shop that were better than a typical cig...

"I'm okay," Freddie whimpered over her shoulder. "I'm okay. I'm okay," she chanted it; like an empty, distant, broken record. The witch hazel stung, but not nearly so much as the revulsion she felt at being touched. She liked John. Less than an hour ago, his hands on her things would have made  her melt. Now she had to fight just to keep herself from flinching away. A nauseated loathing roiled in the pit of her stomach. 

The oil felt warm and provocative as it slid down her back. And the conflicted sensation made her squirm and groan. "Hands... HAnds!" she fussed, unable to clearly articulate, "In your hands... please." 

Freddie followed John's careful instructions, raising her arms above her head with a deep breath as John's hands slid rhythmically up and down her back. The Cayenne was warm and numbing. And she focused hard on that singular sensation as he continued to work the oil into her back. As she lowered her arms, the thin straps of her slip slid loosely from her shoulders, and Freddie's breath hitched in her throat. For a moment they both froze - John careful not to violate her already fragile boundaries, and Freddie struggling to maintain stoic detachment.

"Go ahead and do the rest," she told him coldly, not looking over her shoulder. With a hiffling breath, she let the slip slide to her waist, still clutching the robe tightly to her chest. As the thin cloth crumpled around her slim waist, the story of her life revealed itself to the gentle giant of an Englishman through the myriad scars that blanketed her back and sides. 

John made gentle and quick work of his task, and once again slipped off to the bathroom when he was done. "Don't touch your eyes!" Freddie called down the hall in a small, hollow voice as she slipped her gown back over her shoulders and tugged her warm, silken robe back on. By the time he made it back to her room, she was fully clothed and wrapped in blankets, huddled at the foot of the bed. 

John came back in, drying his hands on a small towel, and chuckled lightly at the sight of Freddie cuddled up and tucked into her blankets at the foot of the bed. He made his way over and sat down near her. "C'mon Fredericca. It been time ya slept." He slowly guided Freddie back to her pillows and headboard, "Lay back lass. Nice an' easy." John fluffed her pillow and pulled the blankets up over her. "Keep breat'in' nice an' slow, Freddie."

He tucked the blankets around her and covered pretty much everything, making her a cocoon of safe. He even went as far as kissing her forehead... Dad mode.

"There ya go lass... I'm gonna go get messen some wat'er an' a smoke, then I'm gonna sleep 'ere on tuh floor an' make sure ya stay safe."

John rested his hand on her head, rubbing her temple with his thumb, and smiled to her before vanishing from her sight. She'd hear the water run in the kitchen, long enough easily for about three glasses of water. Then came the sound of footsteps across the upper floor and the opening of the french doors. The breeze blew through but it wasn't enough to make Freddie cold wrapped as she was; not to mention the heater at her feet.

John lit up and sat on a chair outside, taking a deep breath and decompressing from the day. It had been long; James came home, they went for a drink, got attacked by Rielly's men, retaliated, saved Jack, Henry was stupid, John yelled at James, James killed Henry, James ran off on his own still angry at John for yelling at him, and John helped patch Freddie up after her incident...

All in all, it was a day well worth a cigarette. John and James would catch back up later, they had a history of it. It was always that way. James was a hot headed Irishman (what's new there?!), John was an equally (if not more) brutal but much more mild-tempered Englishman... until pushed to far. Every man had his breaking point, but tonight that was beside the point. Freddie was really all that mattered. James would be fine on his own now that Rielly had been taken care of. John was capable of handling himself (most of the time). Jack had already been patched up and was sleeping it off. That simply left Freddie. John tugged on his cigarette, exhaled overhead, then put the stick out and headed inside. As the doors clicked shut he removed his coat and jacket, tugging at the red tie around his neck, loosening it and unbuttoning his collar.

"Ya ready for bed, lass?"

"Fredericca"... the name stumbled off John's tongue, heavy and awkward, emphasis in all the wrong places. It made her laugh... sort of... it was more of a snort; strangled and weak. She squirmed a little as he laid her back, panic creeping into her eyes. The weight of the blankets felt restricting and sinister as he tucked her in, but his gentleness was soothing. 

Her breath caught in her throat as he kissed her, tears stinging her eyes as  he rubbed her temple. Sniffling, she rubbed the tears away roughly; scowling as if her own body betrayed her. She nodded softly, brushing John's hand away from her face. "Go. I'll be fine." 

The warmth from the heater radiated up the bed. Even as John opened the balcony doors, Freddie was warm. And with the heat came a numbness that permeated her being. She knew eventually it would pass and the hurt would come back, but for now she simply curled up, back against Jack, and stared out the quickly fogging glass doors at the swirls of smoke above John's head. 

She tried to smile for him as he came back in, but her eyes were distant and hollow, tinged with exhaustion. She gave a worn shrug, disentangling one arm to pat the side of the bed. "Don't sleep on the floor though, Juanito. At least pull the chaise over... or... something," she trailed off, turning her face away from him as she snuggled back down into the covers. 

John smirked as he looked over the the chaise lounge. At this point, he'd rather burn that piece than sleep on it. Not to mention the amount of glass that was scattered all around, and probably -on- it as well. Pursing his lips, he went in search of a broom and dustpan. The glass at least needed to be swept up before anyone stepped on some barefoot. (I.E. Freddie). In the closet a broom was located and John swept the glass into a pile. Lacking a dustpan, John picked up the larger shards by hand and tossed them onto the dresser with a myriad of other broken bottles and such. This was a huge mess. He sighed and looked down to the small glass shards and swept them into an even neater pile.

"Flowe-" he paused as he turned... She had already passed out. He chuckled and made his way to the kitchen, digging around until he produced a dustpan and brought it back to sweep the pile. Once done, he set everything aside and sat on the edge of the bed. It stirred Freddie and he rubbed her shoulder softly. "I'll probably still sleep on tuh floor, lass. I slept in many a worse place than this an' na'er makes a mat'ers to me anymore. I can sleep anywhere. 'Oweva, I'll stay up 'ere for a bit if ya need me near ya."

He pushed his shoes off as he swung his feet around, leaning back against the headboard of Freddie's bed as he stretched his legs out down her mattress. "I'm 'ere for ya, woteva ya need." His hand rested on her shoulder as he leaned his head back. He tugged his gun from his holster under his left arm and set it on the nightstand beside her bed. It was safer if it wasn't in reach of a still recovering, panic ridden, emotionally unstable Freddie. Clicking the safety on, John closed his eyes and attempted to rest. It was needed, but like always, might not come for the man.

"You need a shower," Freddie muttered drowsily as she snuggled up next to him, laying her head in his lap. Their exhaustion was palpable, and even in her current state she couldn't fight the haze of fitful sleep that took hold of her. It wasn't peaceful, but it came nonetheless. 

She slumbered for what felt like an eternity, mumbling softly to herself through a parade of misty watercolour memories from days long past and best forgotten. For a while, the three of them were actually able to rest uninterrupted. And that, alone, seemed like a blessing... a short-lived blessing. 

As the night wore on Freddie's mumbling grew louder, her sleep more restless, until she finally awoke in a flailing fit of screaming spanish curses. 

With Freddie's screaming and flailing, John woke up flailing as well. He rolled off the bed, gripping his gun as he did, and flipped the safety off. He was on his feet in a moment, gun aimed forward and scanning the room. He'd woken up back over in France for just a moment, the gun coming to aim at Freddie and Jack, switching between the two.

"BACK OFF! GET TUH FUCK BACK YA...Ya....ya-" he trailed off quietly as he slowly came back to and realized his gun was aimed at the beautiful Hispanic Flower Freddie Flores. Lowering his gun, he started laughing at the both of them. He'd awoke in France... She was obviously somewhere else when she flailed herself awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, still chuckling, though he was sweating profusely from the startling rouse.

"Are ya okay, Freddie?"

Regardless of when or where you wake up, the barrel of a gun in your face is enough to sober anyone up quick. Shuffling backward, Freddie tripped over Jack's near lifeless body and tumbled over the opposite edge of the bed with a painful thud. Huddling behind the bed, she peeked over Jack as John tried to decide where to aim his piece. His eyes were glassy and dark as he screamed at them... at her.

Suddenly something snapped, and for a brief second Freddie thought he really would shoot. But much to her surprise, he began to laugh instead. As she slowly, carefully turned on the small lamp beside the bed, the sheen of sweat on his neck was visible even from her position across the room. 

Hesitantly, she fetched a bottle of whiskey from beneath her bedside table and crossed the room slowly. her bare feet made almost no noise as she approached him, exhaling tensely. "I'm alright, cariño," she reassured him, kneeling by his feet. Tenderly she slipped her hand into his. Her small, calloused fingers traced grounding circles on the back of his hand as she uncorked the bottle with her teeth and took a small swig before passing it to him. "Are you?" 

Something in her eyes told him she knew it was a stupid question. She tried to hide it, but it was obvious she knew. And she looked at him in that way that people do... when they know and they don't want to look at you differently, but they just can't help it. Freddie was different, though. There was no pity, or shame or disgust in her expression. Only bone-deep compassion. And that was almost worse. 

Still holding his hand, she stood and tugged lightly. "Come. I have tea in the kitchen that will help... both of us." 

John smiled at Freddie as she grabbed his hand. "Aye, mamacita." He nodded to her. "I'm okay... Tea may do tuh trick though. That an' a cigarette."

He stood with her slowly, her hands were no where near as cold as they'd been earlier. She seemed at least a bit better, and his sweating would slow as he calmed himself and got out of his own head. As he followed her to the kitchen his mind was plagued with many questions, anything from 'Why am I still alive' to 'How many scars has Freddie gained through her life, and why'... However, he wouldn't ask about her scars if she didn't ask about his war that constantly waged inside of him. Not that he wouldn't speak on it, but sometimes he wondered if it was better left alone or out in the open.

"Wot kinna tea, lass? Dark, light? An' mind if I smoke in tuh shop or should I wait till we go outside for some fresh air?"

Her little fingers never stopped rubbing his hand. She was quiet. Not that she didn't have questions. She did. But much like him, her biggest question was whether such things were better aired or contained. Trying to keep the questions from her eyes, Freddie busied herself making the tea. It didn't take long. The kettle was already hot from the earlier fiasco. So it was just a matter of steeping the herbs, which she fished from an unmarked tin above the stove. 

"It's herbal, mi amor," she told him softly, "for the nerves." Placing the kettle and two cups on a tray she moved toward the tiny card table., pausing when John asked about the smokes. "Pues... um... will the air help?" She smiled... a wee, apologetic little tickle at the very corner of her mouth. "I... I wanna do whatever is best for you." 

John gave a small nod.

"Tuh air allus 'elped me, lass. That an' a smoke. Makes me feel alive. Brings me back to tuh 'ere an' now."

He chuckled a bit. "Summat about tuh cit'y lights I think." John removed the cuffs from his sleeves and rolled them up, allowing the cool air to run over his arms causing the hair to stand slightly. If Freddie looked she would see multiple scars and even some ink that covered his inner forearm. That was probably why he often wore long sleeves. A red and black tattoo (link) set near the inside of his wrist on his right arm. Running up his arm from the insignia is " 108th " inked in black. His left arm is mostly bare aside from more scars, which probably only led Freddie to more questions.

With a sigh, he tugged out his pack of smokes and offered Freddie a cigarette before taking one for himself and lighting it. For a moment he stood there and stared up into the night, the moon high and bright, before he offered Freddie a light.

"Tuh cool air, cigarette, tea, an' yessen bein' okay be wot's best for me, lass..." He finally lowered his gaze and looked to the woman he found himself growing increasingly more attached to.

Freddie poured him a glass of tea, the liquid steaming in the cold night air. "I'll be fine, John. Really." She forced a smile and took a smoke and a light from him, "It'll take a while. Always does. But I'll be fine." Now it was John's turn to have more questions. Slipping past the sheer curtains that hung in the doorway, Freddie emerged a moment later with one of her signature glass bottles that seemed to be everywhere tonight. With a soft smile, she placed it on the table and hesitantly reached up to undo his tie. 

John arched a brow, but didn't protest. So she continued, silently puffing on her cigarette as she unbuttoned his shirt. "Drink your tea," she told him flatly as she tugged the shirt loose from his belt and slipped it off down his arms. "And don't go getting too excited. It's not what you think." 

With a soft chuckle she reached for the bottle she'd brought out and sprinkled some into her palms. Slowly, and with purposeful obviousness, she moved around behind him and began meticulously applying the liquid to his back. Her hands were warm, thank goodness, but the oil cooled with astounding speed; tingling and enhancing the air's already crisp effect. Whatever thoughts might still have been wandering through the annals of time, would surely be drawn back to reality almost immediately. 

Running her hands over his shoulders and down his bare chest, she did her best to ignore the myriad raised scars. After all, he'd given her that courtesy already. Taking his tea from him and stealing a small sip, she handed it back with a soft content(ish) sigh. "So," she said, softly resting her cheek against his neck as she continued rubbing his back, "Do we talk, or is quiet better?"

With his brow perched, Freddie removed his shirt and uncovered the rest of his scars and tattoos. A gun shot scar in his lower abdomen from when he was younger, the large scar from the gash in the middle of his chest made by the bayonet in France, and a myriad of other smaller, less significant cuts, scrapes, and burn marks. On his right upper bicep there was a coat of arms insignia for the 108th (link), and under it a banner with -VIRTUE NON VERBIS- inked in; an emboldened 54 in black ink on his left upper bicep. He took a sip of his tea as she warned him against getting too excited about what was going on which caused him to laugh and almost spit his tea out.

"An' wot be it ya think I'm thinkin' lass?" He winked at her playfully before her warmed, oiled hands began to work themselves over his shoulders and back. He sucked in the crisp air as the oils nearly super-cooled his skin. He was definitely back in the here and now, and quickly. He shivered a bit as her hands ran over his chest, rubbing specifically over the large scar near his sternum as she stared for a moment. She didn't ask though. Then she stole his tea for a sip. He chuckled. She was presumptuous, much like himself. He liked it.

After handing his cup back, her question broke his train of thought. "Mmm? Well. Most of tuh time I don' speak about it, but then again Jack was there wit' me an' knows all of it. Sometimes it drives me reight maddy just thinkin' about everythin' ova there..." He chuckled and looked up to her. "But I waint bore ya wit' war stories. All tuh bullshite about comin' 'ome as 'eros, an' for wot? Na'er a fuckin' thin'..."

John shrugged and looked at the moon again before glancing back. "Trut'fully, it only mat'ers if ya wanna talk or na. I'm good eit'er way."

Truth be told, she didn't need to talk. His scars spoke volumes to someone who knew how to read them. And there was, after all, a reason she'd know the brisk temperature change would help. She'd seen it all before. And unless he needed to talk, she would never make him. Running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, she worked the last of the oil on her hands into his toned... and inked... biceps before moving back to the rapidly cooling tea kettle. Pouring herself a small cup, she slipped into his lap, sitting sideways on his knee and pulling her feet up to rest on the edge of the chair. A tea cup of a human, she was.

Sipping her tea softly she laid her head over on his chest, without making eye contact. Her right hand clutched her steaming cup between the two of them, her left hand tracing the scars up and down his right arm as her cheek rested lightly over his heart. "Well..." she whispered softly, the word hitching a little in her throat, "as dumb as it sounds, you are definitely my hero tonight." Her body bounced lightly against his chest as she chuckled. Yep... that sounded just as cheesy as it had in her head. "Really, though," she looked up and her dark eyes sank into the misty pool of his gaze, "I'm very happy that you came home, John. 'Bullshite' be damned." She lowered her head back to his chest and continued, "And you could never bore me, Cariño..." she lingered on the word for a moment, a sudden thought creeping into the edges of her consciousness. Her soft curls brushed and tickled his skin as she nuzzled him with her cheek. 

"You don't have to tell me anything," she whispered softly, wrapping a thin arm around his chest, "And I won't ever ask. But if you ever get a little too 'maddie' from holding it all in, know that I'm here for you... just like you've been here for me." 

Tenderly her soft lips brushed his chest, and then she fell silent. Quietly sipping her tea and listening to the heavy beating of his heart. 

John smirked as Freddie slipped into his lap and laid against his chest, stroking the scars over his arm. He couldn't help but chuckle as she did the same, making jokes of him being her "hero". His left hand worked it's way up and down her back, comforting the woman as she snuggled into him. When she looked up into his eyes her statement made him smile wide, "Ta, lass... Glad to be 'ome messen."

John rested his chin on her, shivering a bit with the breeze, and pressed his lips to the top of her head as she kissed his chest. His right hand held her legs just above her knee so that she wouldn't slip off his lap. As she wrapped around him he laid his cheek against her soft hair and hummed an old tune slightly off key, but still very soothing. He rocked back and forth which was comforting to both of them, oddly enough.

"I'm glad that ya be 'ere for me, lass. An' I'll be 'ere until ya don' let me, or I stop breat'in'."

He kissed the top of her head again and continued to rock them both, returning to his humming.