#root day

           “You should eat something,” you said, turning the faucet off and reaching for the hand towel to pat her arm dry. “When was the last time you ate?”

           “Eight hours ago,” Root replied softly. She was watching you with a fascinated look on her face, something that always happened when you patched her up. “I think I want Chinese.”

           You nodded, mopping up the last droplets. Before you dropped her hand you checked on the bandage over the wound, making sure it was taped properly and securely. You’d pressed hard against it, minutes earlier, eliciting a hiss from Root. Her eyes were still dark from it, but she made no move to act on whatever she was feeling.

           “Orange chicken and fried rice with egg?”

           She pulled her shirtsleeve down, careful not to brush the wound. “That’ll be nice.”

             You had your arms wrapped around Root’s waist for once, the wind whipping past your bodies and the bike at high speed, rushing in the cracks underneath your helmet and sounding like a snapping flag. She made sharp turns that caused that jumping sensation in your gut that sometimes happened when you fell from high heights. Not fear, just the sensation that the ground was coming to greet you sooner than you thought it would. With each turn you felt a leg shift on the footrests and the flex of abdominal muscles to keep herself situated on the bike. You felt her concentration humming hotly underneath her leather jacket as she wove through traffic, horns blaring behind you that Root paid no heed. She was determined to get to the safe house in Queens in one piece after what happened at an upstate server farm and you were in such a rush to escape the hail of bullets and the threat of an imminent explosion that you hadn’t checked her over for new wounds. The only one you were aware of was a bullet graze on your left thigh. It caused your jeans to stick to your skin, the blood acting like glue.

           Once again you found yourselves taking the long way there, taking several detours, and by the time you arrived at the safe house it was well past eight at night, the sun already gone. You tore yourself away from Root’s back, your breathing a little harsher than you’d originally thought, and unlocked the front door. Root followed close behind, helmet resting against her hip and underneath her right elbow, wavy hair mussed, leathers shining in the lights as they were turned on one by one. It wasn’t an unattractive look, nor were the glasses that sat perched on her nose, still looking perfect despite the earlier mess.

           “Let me help with that, Sameen,” Root said softly, jerking her chin towards your thigh. She followed you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe and watching you peel out of your jeans. You would ask her about her wounds later. “I’ve had a little more practice.”

           “If it needs stitches, I get to do them,” you said, inhaling sharply when unbending your leg sent a jolt of pain up into your hip and to your spine. There was a small smile playing at her mouth now, something you hadn’t seen in a while. The strange feeling inside that had been building uncoiled itself into something more pleasant. You gestured underneath the sink, where the medical kit was. She unlocked it and gathered the necessary materials, kneeling beside your leg, cold, gloved fingers barely touching your skin. The wound was still seeping blood and the circumference of it was an angry red. Gently, she dabbed at it with a hot wash cloth and alcohol swabs.

           “Is this the only one you have?”

           Your eyes glanced at her, focused on cleaning, her mouth inches away from the clean patch of skin next to the wound. Her breath was warm. You replied, “Yeah.” The last bit of the wound stung when it met the heat of the washcloth. “Any new wounds for you?”

           “For once I came out unscathed,” Root said, pleased. “Guess we’re in for a bit of role reversal.”

           You huffed at the suggestive note in her comment, a smile threatening to tug the corners of your mouth up. It wasn’t, you admitted, a terrible idea. It was welcome, even. Sometimes you liked to make her wait, and she was vocal in her pleas and twitchy in her impatience. And she let you take the reins, because she knew you wouldn’t do anything to hurt her or take her too far away from her comfort zone.

           “Does it need stitches?”