( out of everyone, she'd expect him not to bat an eye at bumps and bruises — least of all on her. she's seen civilians shy away from touching her, seen the moment they recoil, usually accompanied by a gasp. at least he doesn't do that. but marc spector doesn't seem to want to flirt when she's injured and a part of her is ... disappointed. not annoyed, not really; it comes from a good place (probably). but she doesn't want a good place, not after what she just did (had to do).

still, it's his choice. his house, technically. moving her fingers away from the bruise, she touches his cheek and then a lock of hair under the spray. not curly, but not entirely straight either. )

Satisfied I'm not going to bleed to death? ( if it had been that serious, she wouldn't have dragged herself over here. pulling herself gently out of his grasp, she dumps shampoo from the bottle in one hand into the palm of the other, setting it back on a ledge and then reaching for him again. ) At least let me wash your hair.

( it's not about washing his hair. it's not really about him at all. but if she can do this, provide this small amount of comfort... maybe it'll make her feel a little more human. a little less like a machine, a little less like the weapon they made her. it's always a tentative compromise, after a mission like this. how much will she do to revive herself? how much will she lose to a void she's been taught to stare at since childhood? )

You're going to have to lower your head a bit. Must be a super hero requirement to be over six feet. ( there's a distance in the smile in her voice. )