With Luck Like Yours
Harvey helps Troy clean himself up after taking a bad fall on his skateboard.
Troy sits on Harvey's bathroom counter in his boxers, making the awkward, vulnerable position look effortless and comfortable with the same ease a self-assured housecat has as Harvey sets up his fist aide kit. Troy's knee and both elbows are slick with fresh blood that seems to glitter in the whiskey-amber light of the late afternoon that comes in softly through the clouded glass window in Harvey's shower, and is pleasantly diffused to a warm blue by his shower curtain. As Harvey accounts for everything and finally finishes up he mutters to himself under his breath and chastises Troy for being an idiot.
"You could've shattered your goddamn leg, you know," though Harvey's words are harsh, his voice isn't, and his eyes are warm and friendly as they focus in on Troy's.
"That seems statistically unlikely," Troy mindlessly gestures with his other leg, the prosthesis that starts just below his right knee fully revealed without his jeans on.
"That's rich coming from someone with luck like yours," Harvey, sitting on the closed toilet beside Troy, begins methodically separating a cotton ball and carefully wetting it with hydrogen peroxide.
"Well... you're not wrong. Though I don't particularly like it," Troy reaches down, and ruffles Harvey's thick, black hair, to which the man snorts and shakes his head.
Troy just acknowledges this with a dry chuckle, falling quiet to watch Harvey work. Harvey gestures with his hand, and Troy casually holds out his arm for Harvey to take. Harvey has large, rough hands that are surprisingly dexterous and careful. This is apparent by the gentle way he turns over Troy's freckle-spattered arm, and begins to remove any grit still lodged in the first of Troy's heavily bleeding scrapes. The deep, vibrant crimson stands out starkly against Troy's pale skin.
"Ow," Troy says flatly, not actually hurt in any way, but trying to find a low effort way to affectionately bug Harvey.
"Oh, please. You lost the privilege to complain when you decided to skate without pads. That's illegal, you know," Harvey looks up at Troy, but does not stop what he's doing, though he smirks slightly, revealing one of his heavily impacted, fang-like canines in a crooked, charming way.
"Look at Mr. Five-O over here. Don't you have to read me my Miranda Rights? Or do you count as a canine unit?" Troy shifts backwards, bracing himself on his free arm, as blood from his other wound begins to slowly trickle its way down his forearm.
"Holy hell, Murry. You better hope not, because abusing an animal officer is a federal offense," Harvey rolls his eyes, and proceeds cleaning up Troy a little less cautiously "But I'm not a cop, and you know that. I'm a humble scarecrow. I just don't want you to have to deal with the local PD, you know? Absolute jackasses. They loooove an easy ticket."