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When Charles approaches, it’s accompanied by the sound of sloshing water.
Javier turns to look from the crate he’d perched himself on, curious.
“It’s easier with a cup you know,” he jokes but knows Charles isn’t here to relieve some of the thirst no amount of ducking in the shade spared him from.
Charles says nothing as he kneels to meet Javier and reveals a torn rag floating in the water. He lifts the rag out of the water, wrings it twice, and holds his hand out, palm up.
Javier mutters about how this isn't worth the fuss but proffers his hand anyway after setting his rifle to rest in the dirt close enough to reach.
“How did you even know? I came straight here,” he asks.
“You aren’t so soft that holding a rifle makes you tense. Took a guess and I was right,” Charles explains, as if noting the slightest change Javier himself wasn't aware he had about him was obvious. ”How did this happen? Dutch said no trouble in Rhodes,” he counters, taking Javier’s hand in his own and gently dabbing the wet rag along raw knuckles.
Javier purses his lips as dried blood and dirt are wiped away and in their absence comes stinging clarity from what had calmed to a dull ache he could put up with. The rag is cool though and he feels himself relax at the slight relief from the sweltering heat.
"I heard him, this happened on the road. A couple of gentlemen disagreed about sharing the trail and we talked it out. You know, the friendly American way,” he replies, watching as blood wells up after each cut and nick is cleaned. “They agreed with me, in the end,” he adds with a lopsided grin.
Charles hums—a flat sound that Javier can practically hear the unamused eyeroll on—as he tosses the rag back into the basin.
"Can't help stupid, but watch yourself anyway," Charles chides, inspecting his handiwork, and Javier lets him; knows that Charles knows it's all superficial and ultimately won't even leave scars for the saloon girls to tell him he's rough and tumble and just their type for having.
Javier shrugs, but nods anyway, if only to settle Charles’ mind. They both know they don’t have a say in when they catch the wrong eye and bloody and bruised knuckles are the discounted price of turning away the attention.
They do have a say in indulging in the idea of it being worth the fuss Javier dismissed though, as Charles strokes his thumbs across the unmarred skin above reddened knuckles in a slow drag, callused hands soft and kind despite their roughness, and Javier leans to rest on his knee with his free arm as if to supervise, though his eyes aren't on his hand.
This close, Javier can see the humidity of Clemens Point has begun to wreak havoc on Charles' usually smooth hair, can see the tiny beads of sweat dotting his hairline that wearing his shirt looser hasn't spared him from, can almost feel the scars he's traced before that cut through a few days of stubble.
He's still handsome though, Javier thinks not for the first nor last time. For the slight downward tug of his lips that worry brings, the preference for being overlooked despite how easily Javier’s eyes are drawn to him, and the ever stark lines along his jaw and cheek that tell of violence far worse than the scuffs he's tending to now, Charles is effortlessly handsome, and Javier is equal parts envious and appreciative. He hasn't an eye for art like Arthur's, but he knows when he's seen something special.
He'll tell him as such later, when the air's cooled and it's their breath in closeness warming it just for them again. For now, there's a shared space in which they breathe syrupy air, and an unspoken promise as Javier feels Charles trace the tendons along the back of his hand.
"You'll be fine," Charles announces, and the moment passes as Javier’s hand is let go.
Javier huffs and leans back into his own space, giving the back of his hand an exaggerated once over.
"I don't know, it looks pretty bad. The men here, their skulls are thicker than Bill's. Hurts something fierce," he says in a feigned whine and he grins when he sees the look Charles gives him through his raised fingers.
In a moment Javier's hand is taken back into Charles' again and Charles presses his lips to the back of his fingers. It's only for the briefest moment as they're keenly aware being on the fringes of camp still isn't enough to be considered privacy, but it's enough that Javier feels his ears warm and a tingle runs up his spine.
"You'll be fine," Charles repeats after he lowers their hands and rises from the kneel he’d been in. They maintain the contact for a second longer and then Charles lets go to head back into camp, basin and rag in his hands and stony faced once more.
Javier watches him go, and he wants to follow, wants to kiss his thanks into the hollow of Charles' throat that's visible from the extra undone button of his collar—show that his mouth doesn't have to get him in trouble. He wants to do that and so much more with quick fingers that Charles saw fit to tend to. He doesn't, instead turning back on the crate and trying to at least give the impression he's occupied with keeping an eye out for intruders and isn't eager for nightfall.