Ghost
I knew nothing about bandaging up wounds or stitching up deep cuts. So when Ghost showed up at my house requesting medical attention, I didn't know what to do.
He had come in through my window and I expected him to be as quiet as he usually was. But the moment he was in the apartment he was yelling for me to grab a first aid kit. I did as I was told, since disobeying Ghost was similar to suicide, and grabbed a poorly thrown together first aid kit from my kitchen.
He had already stripped off his sleeveless turtleneck(this is still fucking hilarious to type)and was currently in the process of observing a wound in his side.
"What the fuck happened?!" I yelled, and Ghost gave me an angry stare.
"What the fuck do you think happened?! I got shot, dumbass!" He yelled back. I groaned and shoved the first aid kit into his open palm.    He gave me this weird look, like he expected me to bandage him up. I rolled my eyes and walked out, feeling a slight pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I would never admit it, but when it came to this shit I had no clue what to do or how to react.
     Needless to say he didn't really need my help. Within minutes he had the wound all patched up and his shirt in the washer along with my clothes. I had to admit I didn't mind him walking around like that. Shirtless and exposing his tattoos even further. The only sad part was that I didn't get to touch.
When he decided to join me on the couch, his arm went around my waist and I assumed my lack of medical skills were forgiven. I leaned into his side and tried not to think about his toned body too much.
Needless to say, I failed.

M.C.
Watching my boyfriend crawl through my tiny kitchen window on a Saturday  night was a huge surprise for me, especially because he could barely fit in it in the first place...
     And because he was bleeding. A lot.
     My first reaction was to make sure he got in okay before rushing him up the stairs and into the hallway bathroom. Already knowing what to do, he stripped off his shirt and vest, leaving him bare-chested. I got out the first aid.
     His chest was fine, but his back was a mess. He had thin cuts all along his back like he had been hit with a razor-sharp whip. None of them were deep, so all I had to do was clean them and patch them. It was a quick process, and soon enough he was on his feet. I gave him a white tank-top my father owned so he didn't run around half-naked.
     "What happened?" I asked, walking back down the stairs and feeling the rush of adrenaline fade away. He sat down on the couch and sighed, throwing his head back and staring at me upside-down.
     "Jumped. I got sent out on patrol by myself and the next thing I know I'm getting the shit beat outta me and I'm not even three blocks away from the hideout."
     I sat down next to him and his arm draped lazily around my shoulder. His head was still thrown back and he seemed enraptured by the ceiling above him. I decided to just relax there with him, and he didn't seem to mind my company. We stayed like that for most of the night.