he who hesitates is toast

"You'd think you'd have a better attitude about this, considering what a mother hen you are," she tells him, and shifts to her knees, laying her left arm on his leg so she can gently work the soapy cloth into the abrasions. She goes slow and careful, her touch as deft and gentle now as it was seven years ago, the first time she forced him into allowing her to tend to his injuries.

Now, though, she pauses every so often to press a kiss to his thigh (or to take a breath from the oxygen mask), and when her stomach does flips when she looks up and meets his eyes, she doesn't lie to herself about why.

"It's not too bad," she says, a little grudgingly, but that doesn't stop her from being as thorough as possible. "But I'm pretty sure that was a piece of denim I just fished out."