Mary comes back with the supplies, unphased by the rigid way he sits and waits for her. "Dammit," she mumbles under her breath when she sees the new line of blood rolling slowly down from the wound. With the soft sigh of an exasperated wife, she swipes the fresh blood away with the cloth she'd grabbed. "You are so messy, Jon," she chides him lightly, but there's an amusement in her tone too.

She takes her time, because no ticking clock or imminent danger is pressing the matter, and she's as gentle as she can be as she cleans up the long-dried blood from his back. She knows he would never show it if any of it pains him anyway, but she still likes to afford him that much.

"Cold," she murmurs in soft warning as she pours a bit of liquid disinfectant along the wound, the cloth pressed just under it to catch the excess that rolls down his shoulder. The house is so quiet, she can hear the soft bubbling of the peroxide as it works against the gash that she's realized she will probably need to stitch, at least a bit, until his healing kicks in a bit more. It was deeper than he realized, probably.