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"Hold still."
"Easier said than done.' Sam braces himself either way, trying not to lean out of Tron's reach on instinct. The moment the warm washcloth in his hand makes contact with his damaged scalp, he hisses through his teeth.
"Apologies." His reaction doesn't stop Tron, who plucks at the roots of his hair as gently as he can. The hospital staff had only cleaned up enough of his head wound as they'd needed to — the rest of the dried blood was apparently his own problem to deal with.
" 's fine." There's no reason for Sam to be upset with him, not over something like this. If he could clean the blood by himself, he would. As it stands, he's not supposed to submerge his head under the shower spray, so his options are limited.
Tron was the one to offer to help; Sam hadn't even needed to ask. The program still wasn't entirely comfortable around blood, much less when it was coming from someone he cared about, but he wasn't the type to let Sam suffer alone if he could be of assistance.
That's how they'd ended up like this; Sam sitting on the edge of the bathtub with Tron leaning over him, delicately picking around the staples in his head so he could rid Sam of the discomfort of congealed blood knotting his hair.
It's oddly intimate, in a way. Sam couldn't think of anyone else he'd ever dated in the past who he would have trusted to help him like this, much less someone as delicate as Tron's attempting to be.
"At least my hair's light," he offers, trying to lighten the mood. "Makes it easier to see."
Tron only hums in affirmation above him, still too focused on the task at hand. He pulls at another clump of hair from the root, and Sam can feel the way he runs the washcloth over whatever stains he's managed to spot.
"You have Neosporin, correct?" He asks after a few minutes. "The notes you received from the hospital mentioned applying it twice daily to prevent infection."
"Uh, yeah, I think so. Should be in the cabinet behind you?" If it wasn't, he could always ask Alan to pick some up for him. His godfather would be all too thrilled to hear about how he'd managed to injure himself this time.
Stupid marble countertop.
Tron hands him the washcloth to hold momentarily — and there's more blood on it than Sam expects there to be, that's definitely going to stain — as he turns around to check the cabinet for himself. Sure enough, on the top shelf sits a small white tube of the cream he's looking for. He picks it up along with a q-tip before resuming his position overtop Sam's head.
"I'm unsure if this will sting," he says as he applies some of the cream to the end of the q-tip in his hand.
"It shouldn't." And even if it does, Sam thinks it can't be worse than getting the staples in the first place. He'd skipped over the Lidocaine after all — he figured he wouldn't need it if he was only getting two of them.
The Neosporin doesn't sting, but it does feel cold to the touch on top of his already tender flesh. He suppresses a shiver as he lets Tron work, determined to get this over with as soon as possible.
"That should be enough, I think." Tron drops the used q-tip into the trash bin beside the door before inspecting Sam's head one last time. "Do you still feel like there's blood anywhere?"
"Nope." Sam runs a careful hand through his hair, making sure to avoid grazing over his injury. "Think you got it all."
"Good." The program takes the washcloth out of Sam's hand and that too he deposits in the trashcan.
So much for saving it, Sam thinks.
"You were right, by the way."
"About what?" Sam asks as he stands up, his knees cracking with the motion. Tron washes his hands in front of him, picking some of the blood out from under his nails as he does.
"About your hair," he clarifies as he turns back around, grabbing a fresh towel so he can dry his hands. "It was easier to see the blood because of the color."
That was maybe the only good part of the entire ordeal. It'd made the hospital staff's job easier as well when they were tending to him.
"Thank you. For helping with…you know." If there was one thing that Sam knew about Tron, it was that he wasn't a coward. Even if he couldn't stand the sight of User blood, he wouldn't shy away from it when his assistance was needed.
Tron simply shook his head. "You don't need to thank me. If you need help again later on —"
"I'll let you know."
The program was maybe the only person who Sam could say that to and actually mean it. A testament to how thoroughly he'd settled into Sam's life; he didn't fear Tron leaving him easily, even when things got hard.
Or when I get a stupid injury and have to go to the hospital for it.
He doesn't expect it when Tron suddenly pulls him close, into an embrace. He's careful not to tuck Sam underneath his chin like he usually does, instead laying his head on Sam's shoulder.
"I'm…glad. That it was nothing serious," he admits, his voice muffled by the fabric of Sam's shirt. "Please be more careful."
If Sam didn't already feel bad for scaring Tron before, he definitely does now. "I'll try," he says, knowing he can't make any promises, not with the lives they both lead inside and outside of the Grid.
"That's all I ask for." Another moment of holding onto Sam a bit tighter than he probably needs to, and then Tron lets him go. "Go lay down. I'll worry about cleaning up in here."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I'll join you once I'm finished."
There's no point in trying to argue with him, and frankly Sam doesn't feel like it. His head does still hurt. Laying down actually sounds pretty good right about then.
Later, when Sam's situated and Tron lays down at his back, pulling him close so he can hold him through the night, he'll think about how lucky he is to have someone who cares this much around so often.
He's not always sure how they got here, but he wouldn't trade what they have for anything. He knows that much, at least.