Solace & Taproots

3.5

Sam sighed to herself. Well, shit. That was fucking terrifying but could have been a lot worse. Granted, she didn't know what kind of losses the army/marine types camped out on their doorstep saw, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the overwhelming relief that she and her peeps were okay. Well, mostly okay. Last time Remy had come home hurt, it had pretty much been one spot. Not terrible thank GOD but still pretty gnarly. This time her face, forearms, and even her exposed fingertips had a myriad of nicks and scratches. At one point Sam lifted their grasp of each other's hand, examining the lightly tanned fingers entwined in her melanin-challenged smaller ones, dismayed to see the scraped knuckles and nasty little rip at the base of a nail. Usually she was content to explore the still slightly foreign calluses and longer fingers of her buddy-turned-girlfriend's hands idly by feel when they sat and talked, or watched Rufus frolic like an oaf, but now she was exquisitely careful to let Remy choose the finger placement and restrain the urge for little passing caresses.

Then there was that gash above her collarbone, front to back. Clearly, sharp debris had gotten inside the neckline of her armor. What if it had been a couple inches further in, or if she'd been turned another direction? At least the backs of Rebecca's hands had been fully protected by her gloves, and Sam kissed one softly as they worked their way down to and across the underpass area.

**

Rebecca's mind wandered to what tidbits she could remember from the core psychology and human development classes from her interrupted education, wondering if she could dust off any scientific backing for her fuzzy thoughts. There was something primally comforting, perhaps even neotenic, harkening back to early childhood memories, about being bathed by someone else. She hadn't dawdled by any stretch of imagination in the barely tolerably tepid showers, but Sam still made it out first. Unsurprising, Rebecca supposed, since Sam had dramatically less crap caked into her hair and pores. Maybe their next firefight could be somewhere tidy? A semiconductor manufacturing lab perhaps?

Now she sat in the workshop, where Sam had arranged a stack of medical supplies and clean rags, two sizable buckets, and multiple insulated water bottles. Sam wrapped her in a blanket under her arms, sat her in a (thankfully padded) steel folding chair, and then perched lightly on Rebecca's knees facing her, her own knees bent on either side of the chair and her toes on the floor, supporting a little of her weight. Rebecca carefully held a reusable ice pack wrapped in a clean shirt against the spot a pinched nerve was hurting Sam, and idly traced her fingertips over the tattoo where Sam's shirt was rolled up over her ribs.

Meanwhile, Sam was methodically dipping a clean washcloth in one bucket, its temperature moderated by additions of hot water from the bottles, and squeezing it over Rebecca's skin to wet an area. Then she would use another cloth to carefully wipe and dab the encrusted dirt, dust, tiny splinters, and dried blood away. Those cloths got squeezed into the second bucket and discarded when they became more soiled than where she was working, and sometimes once she had an area clean, she would tsk disapprovingly and pick up a pair of tweezers when there was a splinter to extract. Rebecca really hoped Sam hadn't carried the water-filled buckets herself with her back hurting... but convinced herself Sam was feisty enough to enlist help, or clever enough to find a little cart or something.

The gash on Rebecca's shoulder had really hurt to clean, but afterwards, when Sam had dabbed it dry with gauze, applied something-caine (lido? benzo?) laced Neosporin, and bandaged it, she'd cradled Rebecca's head against her chest. The way she was tenderly wiping Rebecca's shoulder blade clean with a warm washcloth was incredibly soothing. Maybe they could do this someday WITHOUT being shot at?

When she spoke to mention the idea, the airflow of her breath close to Sam brought whiffs of faintly hinted cinnamon to her nose again. (Okay, girl seriously must have her own bottle of soap she was playing mixologist with somewhere. Maybe she could find some accents of her own?) Sam liked the idea, if her happy little hum and the kiss she planted on Rebecca's hair was any indication. Rebecca was self-conscious about that part, as she hadn't been able to do much to clean her head in the cooling water with only one hand she could really lift overhead. But Sam didn't seem to mind, given how she nuzzled her cheek against it after.