Francis likes the color. It's one of those things that feels familiar, safe, not that he'd ever admit to it. Of course it's hardly a conscious thing anyway, just what he gravitates toward, one of the things probably twisted up in Clint. He smiles, lips curving as he seems to pick up on the thing Francis didn't quite say out loud. "Yeah. It is." At the question he nods in agreement, reaching over to pull a nondescript black box from the top drawer of the nightstand. It's not really an official first aid kit so much as a box of odds and ends, that also includes tools for adjusting arrow shafts to fit the trick arrowheads he used, lube, and a swiss army knife.
"I don't have too much, but feel free." It had seemed like a good idea, so he'd picked up what he could find from the duty free shop in the hotel. So the supplies he had were mostly gauze, bandages and disinfectant, but it was better than nothing. He sets the box on the bed, a little distracted for a moment as he watches Bullseye peel his shirt off. Francis can't entirely help enjoying the view- even if those cuts are deep in places it doesn't entirely ruin the sight. Nothing that looked dangerous, at least.
And then he's in the blonde's space, hands pulling off his shirt, and he lifts his hands and shrugs out of the fabric. The damage isn't quite so bad on Francis, though there's old scars on his skin, too. Not copious, but evidence of a life of fighting that didn't come with Asgardian physiology or a Super Soldier Serum or mutant powers. There's still fresh cuts on his skin from the punishment room, but they're shallower. Maybe it was chance, or maybe it was the wages of sin, that even for the word cut into arm, Francis did try to do good, could be talked into doing the right thing. Most of the time.
"Doesn't seem that bad. Yours are worse," he murmurs, shifting a little toward the other man as he picks out the first aid supplies and offers them over.
no subject
"I don't have too much, but feel free." It had seemed like a good idea, so he'd picked up what he could find from the duty free shop in the hotel. So the supplies he had were mostly gauze, bandages and disinfectant, but it was better than nothing. He sets the box on the bed, a little distracted for a moment as he watches Bullseye peel his shirt off. Francis can't entirely help enjoying the view- even if those cuts are deep in places it doesn't entirely ruin the sight. Nothing that looked dangerous, at least.
And then he's in the blonde's space, hands pulling off his shirt, and he lifts his hands and shrugs out of the fabric. The damage isn't quite so bad on Francis, though there's old scars on his skin, too. Not copious, but evidence of a life of fighting that didn't come with Asgardian physiology or a Super Soldier Serum or mutant powers. There's still fresh cuts on his skin from the punishment room, but they're shallower. Maybe it was chance, or maybe it was the wages of sin, that even for the word cut into arm, Francis did try to do good, could be talked into doing the right thing. Most of the time.
"Doesn't seem that bad. Yours are worse," he murmurs, shifting a little toward the other man as he picks out the first aid supplies and offers them over.