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"…serious… no moisture… risk of infection…"
June drummed her heels against the examination table, staring up at the ceiling. Some of the cracks looked like shapes. She counted a duck, five faces and a hand. It was like hers, only it wasn't broken. Hers was very broken. Humming under her breath, she tried drumming out a few Russian swears. Fun!
Nearby, Clint was listening to the doctor's instructions. An increasingly worrying expression taking residence on his face as he glanced back at June every once in awhile. The morphine was still making her loopy.
"Just keep it dry. Bring her back in a week and I'll replace the stitches." The doctor jotted another note down in June's file. "It might take another hour for the drug to work its way out of her system. When it does, you can give her a dose of this." He handed Clint a bottle of heavy-grade pain relievers.
"Joy." Clint rattled the bottle experimentally. There was at least a few days' dosage in there. Not that she'd want to take it. "C'mon, Junebug, time to go home."
Grinning, June jumped off the table. Momentum drove her into Clint's waiting arms. Gravity was such a pain when her legs refused to work properly.
"I need a shower."
They were barely home five seconds and already she wanted to pursue one of the biggest items on the NO list.
Clint rubbed his face. This was going to be a long week. "June, you can't get the stitches wet."
"I can do it onehanded!" To make her point, she wiggled her good hand.
"Yeah no. You're not that ambidextrous."
At the time it had been heroic—she'd seen the knife coming straight for Clint and of course she'd reached out to block it. Then her hand slipped and the projectile had sliced halfway through her all-purpose right hand. The only good part about that was Clint hadn't been hit. Stupid knife. Stupid ninja throwing the knife.
"I've got dead man blood all over me."
"I'll help you take care of that." Clint moved past her to set the bottle on the counter. "We can—HEY!" He spun around in astonishment to see June tripping over the pants that were tangled around her ankles. "June, I told you that you can't—"
June stick out her tongue at him and threw her shirt in his face. By the time he tore it off his face, she was already streaking naked up the stairs.
"Forget the pain meds. He should've given her something to make the morphine wear off faster." Clint groaned aloud and tore up the stairs after her.
June leaned over the side, cupped her hand under the running water to test it. Free hand, yes. Not the one with the big bandage. It still felt numb. She put one foot in the tub, swaying back and forth on legs that still didn't want to fully cooperate.
Clint appeared at her side, a hand on her arm to steady her. "No getting the cast wet."
"No getting the cast wet," she repeated dutifully. She smiled evilly when he helped her sit down in the tub and she splashed water in his face. "But I can get you wet."
Clint flumped backwards onto the bed, exhausted. The morphine was still going strong and he'd been on June Sitter Duty for more hours than he cared to admit. This might be an emergency room situation. She might've been playing on him too—toying with him every time he helped her undress, forcing him to feed her and wash her. Somehow she'd come to love the idea of a personal man slave.
"Cliiint." June sashayed into the room. Her lovely blonde hair was twisted into fat, fuzzy dreadlocks that cascaded down her back. "It's the new me!"
He really did scream then.
Clint started to wakefulness when someone nudged him.
"Hey" June ran her hand down his cheek, relief evident on her face. "You pulled through. Ready to go home, soldier?"
"Yeah. Home." He braced himself against the table he was on, grimacing when a sharp pain ran up his right arm. He glanced over to see the bandage and groaned inwardly.
June immediately wrapped an arm around his waist to support him and he glanced at her, a plan forming in his mind. He'd always wanted his own personal maid.