“Owww,” he hissed.  “That fucking hurts.”

He felt a familiar pang sting the back of his head, his hand immediately reaching up to swat away the invasion, his assailant yelping in response.  He grunted, armed and ready to swat anything that came near him again.  Pain was not something he dealt with willingly, preferring to avoid it at all costs.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.  So glad you could join us today,” she replied.

Her voice was serene, yet somehow it managed to ooze the sweetest hint of sarcasm that he had ever heard.  The sound was quickly muffled by the rattling of items just beyond his peripheral view, assuming she was arming herself with more weapons from the first aid kit.  He’s glad that he can’t see what she’s doing, or he’d probably pass out.

When did I become such a pussy?

“Hey...you try sitting here while the same stranger that just assaulted you with a baseball bat tries to ‘nurse your wounds,’” he finished snidely.  If she could be sarcastic, then so could he.  He definitely had the practice.

She’s just trying to help you...

She had been attempting to nurse his bleeding head wound from the earlier truck fiasco for about twenty five minutes now, and he wasn’t even trying to comply with her valiant efforts.  Unfortunately, it was becoming more apparent to him that she wasn’t the quitting type, immediately making him regret the decision not to run when he first met her.

“If you’d prefer me to get the baseball bat and knock you unconscious first, I’m more than happy to do that,” she replied sweetly, a hand resting on her hip, right eyebrow raised in a challenging fashion.

I definitely should have run.

But he hadn’t, and here he was--sitting backwards on the ridiculously small toilet, in probably the ugliest bathroom he has ever laid eyes on.  If the dude from Queer Eye came in here, he probably would have vomited at the mismatched decor.  He glanced up at the extremely dated floral wallpaper that was curling slightly at the joints from wear, slightly revealing the ugly wood colored paneling beneath it.  In disgust, his eyes shift further down, catching the hand-made tissue-box holder that was laying dormant on top of the toilet bowl. His fingertips gently touched the yarn absent-mindedly as he impatiently awaits her next move.

“Look...Justin, was it?” she asked, obviously hoping she remembered his name correctly.  “I don’t have to do this, but it’s a nasty cut.  If you don’t treat it, it could get infected, and you wouldn’t even know it.”  

She giggled slightly before deciding to attempt a joke, obviously trying to relieve some of the tension in the room. “I mean, unless you have eyes in the back of your head.”

He rolls his eyes. Classic. 

He’s busy trying to come up with a spicy retort when her slight giggle is abruptly interrupted by a strange, strangled noise.  His head snaps to look at her, brow furrowing, as he tries to discern if the noisy intrusion was merely a figment of his imagination.  Taking in her long frame, he doubted that something as small and petite as her could possibly...snort?

After a few moments had passed, he sees the recognition register on her face, her petite hands moving to cover her mouth, obviously in embarrassment. 

She snorted!

He laughs.  Again.  

“Okay, okay.  If you snort again, I’ll let you fix me up without any problems...but you have to promise me that I’ll hear that snort again before the day is out.” His eyes lightened a little with an amused smirk, his skin crinkling slightly from his smile, creating a subtle hint of crows feet on the corners of his eyes.  No one in his well-to do circle would even dare to let such a demeaning sound pass their perfectly painted lips, so the urge to hear it again was even more pressing for him.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” she replied.  His face fell at the effortless dismissal.

“...but trust me--it’s not hard to get the snort reaction,” she adds, obviously still slightly embarrassed, despite her humorous self-deprecation.  

He eyes her carefully, watching her close the distance between them and wait, silently seeking his approval to finish fixing his wound.  After contemplating the situation that just occurred, his body secedes and an obvious comfort slides over his features.  He nods to her, consenting to her silent request to touch him. 

He winces again as the pang returns with her touch, patiently letting her finish with the peroxide before dressing the wound with gauze.  After she finished completely, he felt her hand move to his shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting way in attempt to signal her completion. 

A smile crept to his face when he realizes how long it had been since someone had touched him, closing his eyes and remembering the way his wife used to lightly scratch her nails along his shoulder while they were at dinner or watching a movie.  And then his brain remembers everything else that he hated about his wife, and a pained expression paints his features, standing abruptly.

I need to get out of here.

“That’s it.  We’re done,” she smiles, clapping her hands triumphantly, not even noticing his strange behavior.  She had already starting to put items back into the first aid kit, her attention diverted from him now that her task was complete. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?  You totally made that like 812 times harder than it needed to be.” 

He watches her for a moment, her random choice for a number forcing him to abandon his previous thoughts. 

 “Really?  812?  That’s....a random number,” he offers.  He watches a small blush creep up her cheeks, seeing her rearrange the first aid kit in an obsessive-compulsive fashion.

“It’s my favorite number,” she offers, a slight smile replacing the blush she had previously.  A slightly awkwardness surrounds them.  He didn’t even have a sarcastic response to counter with.

Now’s a good time to leave, jackass.  

“So?” her face gently turned back up to him, her soft green eyes catching his in the muted glow of the bathroom light.  “You up for lunch?  You mentioned you were going to the Market for food...figured I could at least feed you before I leave you to your own devices.  We know how well that went last time.”  Her smirk was evident on her features.

She must want something.

“Really,” his voice started, trying to reason with her.  “You don’t have to feed me, or take me to the market.  I’m sure I can just get a cab or something.  I don’t want to inconvenience you.” He looks down, but he is interrupted by the loud rumble of his stomach.  By the look on her face, he knew she heard it.

Shit. 

“Don’t be silly,” she responds. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and I just heard your stomach growl, even though you’re four feet away from me. C’mon, MeeMaw started lunch about thirty minutes ago--we should have perfect timing.”

Perfect timing?  Yeah, right.

“Uh, yeah.  Perfect,” he laughs timidly, his right hand moving up to scratch at the back of his head, just above his bandaged cut.  “How can I say no to that?”

“You can’t.  No one says no to me,” she smirks playfully.  “That’s why I have a baseball bat.”  

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her candor.  He wanted to protest, but he knew there was no point, especially after she had spent thirty minutes patching up his head. “Thank you, very much, Victoria.  You know, for everything.  I...uh...”

“Don’t mention it,” she interrupts. “No need for thanks here. C’mon. I’m starving.”

He just stood there for a second, watching her smooth down the creases of her yellow sundress as she peers in the mirror.  She pauses before lifting her hand effortlessly in a wave, motioning for him to follow her.  Every ounce of his being was screaming at him to take the detour to the front door, but his stomach had long since ceased listening to his brain.  

Lunch, it is.