For all Jack’s cavalier attitude, Eliot can’t help his alarm at the sight of the wound. There’s surely a lingering infection if it’s still this red and puffy after what, weeks? A month? He scowls, and sucks in a sharp breath when Jack reveals the other scars terracing his shoulder. They’re not even that extreme but it’s a shock to see them, all the same.

“If it--” Eliot huffs, almost apoplectic at the piss-poor reassurance Jack gives. “This is absolutely not fine, are you kidding?” He struggles to keep his voice low as he rounds on Jack and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “For fuck’s sake,” he hisses, “you should have seen someone about this, you could have--I don’t know, fucking sepsis, it shouldn’t take this long to heal.”