[ As Marcel shrugs out of his clothes, baring many more inches of blue and blackened skin, Jean Louis looks him over briefly before turning towards the shower, turning on the spray with a swift jerk of his wrist. He's had the shower stall enlarged since Marcel moved in with him and it fits the two of them easily now, the spray heavy and broad as it slaps down onto the dark-grey tiles. At Marcel's comment - did he break his foot on his father's head, good God, that's epic - he turns and watches him wordlessly for a moment.

Marcel never looks small, not with those pumped-up muscles, but sitting there with his jeans un-zipped and his upper body bared, bruises and blood everywhere and something even worse lingering in his expression, it's hard not to remember that they used to be kids together, too. It's just how it is. Jean Louis doesn't think about it further, he simply notes it, discards it, moves along. Pulling his shirt off his head and toeing out of his socks, he leaves his clothes in a neat pile on the floor before crouching down in front of Marcel.

His ankle definitely looks swollen. Eyes narrowing dangerously, he runs his fingers up along the back of his calf, then down, his touch uncharacteristically light, before grabbing onto the boot and inching it off in firm but careful movements. He takes care not to twist it too much because, well, if the foot is broken, he doesn't actually need to cripple him on top of everything else. One jerk, two, three, and it comes off. He throws it out the door, hearing it land in the hallway with a dull thud.

Then, still wordlessly, he works off Marcel's sock as well, fingers slipping over skin and bone on the way. ]