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Requested!

So uh

I lwk did both in his house and on the bus

So

Yeppers

1 - in his house

The room was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock and the sharp, metallic snip of medical shears. Meursault moved with a clinical precision that bordered on the mechanical, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady as he worked. He did not ask how the altercation had occurred; to him, the cause was irrelevant. The current state of {{user}}'s physical form was the only variable that required his attention.

He knelt before {{user}}, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor of his sparsely decorated living quarters. With a quiet grunt of effort, he peeled back a blood-stained sleeve, his small green eyes scanning the bruising with the same intensity he might use to read a mission briefing. He dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water, wringing it out until it was merely damp before pressing it against the wound.

"Hold still," he commanded, his voice a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in the small space. There was no judgment in his tone, nor was there any of the frantic worry others might have displayed. He was simply a man performing a necessary task. "The laceration is shallow. It requires antiseptic and a standard dressing. I shall apply them now."

He worked in methodical sweeps—cleanse, treat, wrap. Every movement was efficient, designed to minimize discomfort without wasted energy. When he finished securing the final bandage around {{poss}} arm, he did not immediately stand. Instead, he looked up, his expression as unreadable as a blank slate, though he lingered a second longer than necessary near {{obj}}.

"You are shivering," he noted bluntly. It wasn't a question, but an observation of a biological fact. Without waiting for a response, he stood and retrieved a heavy quilt from the foot of his bed, draping it over {{user}}'s shoulders. He paused, his hands resting on the fabric near {{poss}} neck. "Based on my observations of social cohesion, physical proximity is often sought after sustaining trauma. Do you require this?"

When {{user}} leaned into him, Meursault did not stiffen. He sat on the edge of the sofa, allowing {{sub}} to settle against his broad chest. He was like a pillar of warm stone—immovable and solid. He wrapped a massive arm around {{user}}, pulling {{obj}} flush against the sturdy vest of his uniform. The golden buckle of his belt pressed slightly into the cushions as he adjusted his weight.

He didn't speak. He didn't offer platitudes or sweet nothings. He simply stayed. His breathing was slow and even, a mechanical rhythm for {{user}} to follow. He rested his chin atop {{poss}} head, his eyes closing as he allowed the productivity of the day to finally lapse into the quiet of the night. In the stillness of his home, the tall man simply anchored {{obj}} to the present, his grip firm and unwavering.

2 - on the bus

The hum of the Mephistopheles engine vibrated through the floorboards, a low, constant growl that filled the silence of the back of the bus. Meursault sat rigidly upright in his seat, the sharp lines of his white collared shirt pristine despite the chaos of the recent encounter. On the small table before him, he had laid out a sterile kit with mathematical precision: gauze, alcohol, and a roll of medical tape, all aligned at ninety-degree angles.

He did not look up as {{user}} approached, though his head tilted slightly to acknowledge {{poss}} presence. With a single, blunt gesture, he pointed to the seat directly opposite him.

"Sit," he stated. It was not a suggestion, but a directive meant to streamline the recovery process. As {{sub}} sank into the chair, Meursault reached out, his large hands encompassing {{poss}} battered knuckles with surprising gentleness. He began to dab at the grime and blood with an antiseptic wipe, his movements rhythmic and unwavering. "The Sinner's healing capabilities are currently suppressed by the intensity of the trauma. Manual intervention is required to prevent infection."

His small green eyes were fixed entirely on the task. He did not ask if it hurt; he simply watched for the slight flinch of {{user}}'s muscles, adjusting his pressure by fractions of a millimeter in response. The rest of the bus was a blur of noise—the distant bickering of the others and the sound of the rain against the windows—but in this corner, Meursault created a vacuum of stillness. He worked upward, his fingers grazing the skin of {{poss}} arm to check for fractures with the focused intent of a craftsman.

Once the last bandage was smoothed down and tucked away, Meursault did not pull back. He observed the way {{user}} leaned forward, the exhaustion finally overriding the adrenaline of the fight. He processed the shift in {{poss}} posture for a silent beat before he shifted his own position, moving to the bench seat and clearing a space.

"The corridor is drafty," he remarked, his voice a steady anchor in the dim light of the bus. He reached out, his heavy hand resting on {{user}}’s shoulder to guide {{obj}} closer. "Your core temperature has dropped. Logic dictates that shared body heat is the most efficient method of stabilization in this environment."

He pulled {{user}} against his side, his large frame acting as a shield against the rattling of the bus. {{sub}} felt the solid weight of his Limbus Company vest and the steady, slow thrum of his heart through his white shirt. Meursault didn't fidget or shift; he remained perfectly still, a mountain of a man providing a silent, immovable sanctuary. One of his gauntleted hands, now stripped of its weapon, rested protectively over {{user}}'s wrapped hand, his thumb tracing a slow, idle line over the gauze in a rare, unprompted gesture of comfort.