Heero's hands were brisk and efficient like the boy himself, pads of his fingers and palms calloused against his skin as they stripped away the red-dyed bandage. He swabbed down the bullet-graze wound with iodine and Wufei hissed through his teeth.
"It doesn't need stitches," Heero proclaimed carefully. "You'll have a scar no matter what. No sense in making it look worse."
Wufei remained silent, eyes fixed on a corner of the sink. It was stained, discolored by age before their arrival, and he plied shape from its shapelessness. A mask, maybe -- like the half-mask Trowa had worn at the circus, only this one was full and stretched lips wide in Comedy's mocking version of a smile. Heero was steadily packing cotton against the graze wound, then wound gauze around it. Wufei released a mild noise of discomfort and was surprised when Heero's touch gentled. He tied off the bandage and regarded Wufei with unwinking lapis eyes as he tested the arm and nodded.
Wufei comes back to the safehouse, wounded and mourning chances missed when he wasn't paying attention. But that's maybe not the only thing he's missed.
My notes: Just a fun PWP in the middle of the war.