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It had been a slow shift, up until that point. Early mornings in the heavy rain usually were, and today had not seemed likely to throw up any surprises. After two agonisingly drawn out hours, Steve had finally parked the Area Car up across from one of the Tube stations and told Barry to amuse himself while he fetched them coffee.
Of course, Steve being Steve, he’d gone and gotten the cheapest coffee possible - but Barry had thanked him anyway, and forced it down without complaint. It was warm, at least, which was more than could be said for the inside of the car. Steve had refused to leave the engine running while they sat idle “in case it knackered the battery”. Barry thought that was a load of bollocks since the Area Car was made of studier stuff than the other patrol vehicles, but arguing about the car with Steve was pointless; so he had stayed quiet, sipped his coffee, and prayed that Steve would eventually cave in and turn the damn heating on before they froze to death.
The call to a shoplifting-in-progress had come as a welcome relief. They were nonsense calls, usually. A wasted trip at best, or a gobshite teenager and tedious paperwork at worst. Any other day, they might have left it for another unit to take but they were bored, and Steve had a habit of getting tetchy when he was bored, so Barry accepted the call in the hopes that having anything to focus on would help the morning go by easier.
Except right now, it was hard for Barry to focus on anything other than the gun currently pointed at his face.
He was aware - dimly, somewhere to his right - that Steve was trying to talk the guy down. He may even have been doing a decent job of it, but Barry’s world had narrowed down entirely to the thin barrel wavering unsteadily in front of him. Turns out it was an armed robbery in progress, not shoplifting.
It would have been nice to know that before they’d walked in the door.
Barry couldn’t tell what kind of gun it was, other than an old service pistol of some kind. It looked dirty and rusted, and a little voice in the back of his head pointed out that his best hope at this point was that it misfired and took its wielder's hand along with it.
The voices at the edge of his hearing grew louder and more insistent, but they did not get any clearer.
Then there was a bang, and the sound of shattering glass.
The gun did not misfire.
Barry dropped to the ground without a thought. There was no pain he was conscious of, other than the painful ringing in his ears, and there may have been shouting or screaming going on above him, but the ringing covered that up to. His lungs burned, but it wasn’t until he looked down to see his uniform rumpled but undamaged that he realised it was because he had somehow forgotten to keep breathing.
Another loud crash pulled him back into the moment, and he snapped his head up just in time to see Steve stumble back into a display cabinet, their suspect on top of him with his fist pulled back and ready to swing.
He knew he should check on the location of the gun, first. That was the protocol. That was the sensible thing to do.
Then he heard the cracking of bone and the dull wet sound of flesh hitting flesh, and protocol went out the window. Barry barely managed to stumble to his feet before he lunged at the robber, but a swift elbow caught him in the face and sent him staggering back just as quickly. There was another nasty crack, and the taste of blood filled the back of his nose. If it hurt, he was too panicked by this point to notice.
His failed intervention had been enough of a distraction for Steve to get back to his feet, however, and Steve was better at this part than him. His footwork steadier, his punches more controlled - Barry might have had the advantage of weight and stature, but Steve was a nasty fighter, and a quick one.
The first punch landed neatly against his opponent's jaw, blood and spittle spraying out onto the floor, and then a swift knee to the stomach. The man doubled over, blood and foamy bile spilling from his mouth, and that was the end of it. Steve wrenched his arm back behind his back, and Barry could hear the bone grinding as the shoulder almost dislocated.
“Barry…” Steve’s voice was ragged and clipped. “Put the cuffs on him.”
The world still swimming slightly in front of him, Barry wiped the blood from his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and did as he was told. The cuffs went on quickly, and Barry marched the guy out to the car while Steve bent over, hands on his knees and exhaling shakily.
Having put the prisoner into the car and taken the First Aid Kit out of it, Barry headed back inside. The shopkeeper seemed to be whittling on about the damage, but their back-up could deal with him later. He had more important things to attend to - Steve was still standing where he had left him, staring somewhere into the distance, the gun retrieved and secure in his hand, and his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath.
“Come on mate, let’s look at you.” Barry tried to sound commanding, but the softness of his concern was unmistakable. Steve was a mess, though when he finally zoned back in to look at Barry, his eyes were clear and he didn’t seem as badly injured as the large trails of blood running down his face and staining his crisp white collar suggested. His usually fair hair was plastered to his forehead and darkened with blood, but that seemed to be smeared up from the gaping cut on his cheek rather than an actual head injury.
“Do you need an ambulance…?” Barry asked, running his eyes over the rest of Steve for injuries. He seemed to be resting more of his weight on his left foot than normal, but beyond that it was mostly dirt and blood splatter with a light dusting of shattered glass.
“It’s nothing the FME can’t sort at the station,” Steve half-shrugged, wincing as he did so. Almost reluctantly, he held his hand out to Barry. There was a small gash running across his palm, presumably from some glass, but nothing too serious. “Couldn’t wrap that up though, could you?”
“Yeah, no worries.” Barry placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder, steering him out through the crowd of gathering onlookers towards the car. Steve shot a scowl towards the prisoner now secured in the back, before perching on the driver's seat and letting Barry attend to his hand.
“He better not throw up back there…” was all Steve muttered, before hissing sharply as Barry got to work cleaning through the cut.
Barry didn’t care if the guy threw up. It was at the bottom of a long list of problems and inevitable questions they were going to have once Monroe caught sight of the state of the three of them. He wanted to say something as he wrapped the roll of bandage tightly around Steve’s hand, but no words would come, and he watched in silence as the blood seeped through the formerly pristine white bandage.
The ringing in his ears still hadn’t stopped.
Barry was slumped against the corridor wall opposite, waiting dutifully, when Steve finally stepped out of the FME’s office. In Barry’s opinion, he didn’t look much better for having received medical attention. Dark, dried blood still streaked through the front of his hair and across the pale, clammy skin of his face. The FME had apparently only cleaned up what was necessary to get the cheek stitched up, and the cut on his lip had been cleaned a bit, was still open and weeping slightly.
And yet, despite that tight knot of worry in his stomach, it wasn’t difficult to look at. Steve looked good at the best of times - pretty, the likes of Dave and Tony would snicker in the locker room - but there was something to that savage edge of his that was irresistible to Barry. It shouldn’t be, but it was. The crooked bloodied uniform didn’t help either; where Steve was usually so neatly put together, his blazer now hung open and his tie dangled precariously from one clip, the dark spots of blood on the black fabric much more noticeable under the fluorescent corridor lighting. The top button of his shirt was undone, the drying remnants of blood trailing down over her clavicle to dip under the fabric.
He must have been staring, because when Steve cleared his throat and Barry finally looked back up, Steve’s eyes were narrowed in something that might have been annoyance.
“Monroe wants me to get cleaned up before we go to his office,” was all Steve said, though. The ringing in Barry’s ears had abated somewhat, but not disappeared completely, and he ached all over, so when Barry nodded and pushed up to follow Steve through to the locker rooms, his movements were slower and more sluggish than they otherwise might have been. It held him back enough to catch the wobble in Steve’s step though, now favouring his left even more than he had been back in the shop, the muscles starting to stiffen as the adrenaline began to wear off. After a few steps it seemed to give in entirely, and this time Barry was upright enough to catch him as he stumbled into him. Steve froze for a moment, tensing slightly as Barry’s arm wrapped around his waist to hold him steady.
“I’m fine,” he grumbled, trying to pull away enough to put his weight back on the leg. His knees refused to cooperate though, and Barry had to pull him tightly into his side to stop him swaying over face first into the wall. Barry wasn’t sure if it was just Steve’s usual reluctance to show weakness, or if he was uncomfortable with Barry’s arm around him so openly in the middle of the corridor, but either way he was in no mood to indulge Steve’s stubbornness right now.
“You’re clearly not fine.”
Steve did not respond, and Barry shot a panicked glance to the side. Steve was even paler than before, eyelids fluttering and weight sinking against Barry’s side as he fought to stay conscious.
“Hey, no, don’t do that!” Barry’s grip tightened against his side as he tried to jolt him back awake.
It worked, and Steve hissed sharply through gritted teeth.
“Fuck me, Barry, go easy there, yeah?”
That was close enough to fine as Steve was likely to get, so Barry continued to walk him down towards the locker rooms, though much more carefully this time as he guided each of Steve’s steps. The corridor remained mercifully empty for the prolonged shuffle towards the showers, but there was still a noticeable thread of tension running through Steve that Barry suspected wasn’t entirely down to the pain.
The tension had not let up by the time they reached the showers. In fact, Steve seemed determined to avoid eye contact entirely as Barry insisted on helping him undress, glancing cautiously towards the door every now and then and his expression set even tighter than before.
Barry could feel his own jaw start to tighten in response, biting back the urge to snap that he’d undressed him enough times before. He had always been patient with Steve’s reluctance to out himself and go public with their relationship, but fucking hell, the man could barely stand up straight. No one was going to care that Barry was helping him into the shower. At worst, there’d be a few off-colour jokes until the next, more interesting target showed up.
But there was no point in arguing about it now, so Barry respectfully stepped back and let Steve undo his own shirt, eyes lingering on the split and swollen knuckles as he worked down the buttons. Barry inhaled sharply as Steve finally shrugged the bloodied shirt off, revealing the livid purple bruises underneath.
“Steve-”
“FME doesn’t think they’re broken.” Steve cut him off sharply, his tone clipped and dismissive. “Told me to go up A&E if the pain gets worse.”
“Why didn’t you say something?!” Barry stepped in closer, resisting the urge to run his fingers over the mottled skin. Or to pull him into a hug. Or simply both.
“They’re ribs. What could you do? Even the doctors wouldn’t do anything, just x-ray me and send me home.” Steve seemed to be muttering more to himself than to Barry as he fumbled with his belt.
“Still…” Barry sighed and took the final few steps forward to close the gap between them, closing his hands over Steve’s. He looked at Steve, sincere and pleading. “Let me help.”
This time, Steve did not resist.
The water wasn’t as warm as Barry would have liked, especially since he had to hold Steve up at an awkward angle to avoid getting the sutures on his cheek too wet, but it was better than nothing and in lieu of Steve just letting him take him straight home, it would have to do for now. For his part, Steve seemed to have decided to stop being stubborn and let Barry take care of him, only moving when Barry told him to and keeping one arm braced against the tiles to keep himself steady.
Barry washed away the worst of the blood and dirt in silence, working the flannel and cheap MET-issue shower gel over the planes of bruised muscles and taking care not to apply any more pressure than necessary. Steve stayed quiet too, an almost uneasy silence sitting where there would usually be come-ons and innuendos. Barry could only hope it was because they were in the station, and anyone could walk in at any point, rather than the more worrying thought that Steve might be blaming Barry for not doing more to stop him from getting so badly injured.
He considered asking, but stopped himself. Steve had never been shy about making his displeasure unknown - if he blamed Barry, he would have already said something.
The guilt sat tight in his stomach regardless.
Steve’s hair was the last thing to wash, and the trickiest to manoeuvre under the spray of the shower. Barry carefully cupped Steve’s jaw to keep his head still as he used the flannel to ease the more stubborn clumps of dried blood from the strand of hair falling over his face, deliberately trying not to look at the jagged sutures on his cheek or the glistening cut on his lips. They would heal well enough, but they would certainly scar, and join the various others that littered Steve’s skin.
Barry sighed, pressing a soft kiss against the scar on his jaw, the one that had long since silvered and which Steve had dismissively waved away questions about whenever Barry had asked. Steve tensed again, but this time he did not pull away. Later on, in the privacy of his flat, Steve would let Barry kiss him properly, regardless of the cut lip.
But for now, this would have to do.
“All done,” Barry said, turning off the spray and wringing out the flannel so he could help Steve back out of the shower.
“Good. Now help me sit down-” Steve muttered, this time leaning into Barry as his arm slipped back around his waist without prompting. “-before I pass out.”
Barry smiled to himself as he helped Steve stiffly put one foot in front of the other.
The ringing in his ears had finally stopped