The wound was no longer bleeding freely, but the way it glistened pink and raw in the light still made his stomach gurgle.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the ER?” he asked.
“Look, Doc, can you do this or not?”
Her voice flared quick and hot as her flames. He took a step back, hands raised in appeasement before he realized that one, she couldn’t see him; and two, she’d asked him for help. He didn’t have to take her lip!
“I was only asking because it seems like it might need stitches,” he said. “But if you’re going to be snippy, you can just— get some kind of bacterial infection, then! See if I care!”
“Considering that this only happened because you—!”
Whatever else she was going to say turned into a strangled sigh. She took one of her yoga—pilates?—whatever breaths, the kind that stretched on for several seconds and that had made him feel dizzy the first and only time he attempted one. Shego claimed they were supposed to calm you down; her shoulders did droop a few centimeters from their “locked” position as she exhaled.
“Never mind,” she said. “Doc, I’m a superhuman. Remember? What looks ER worthy to you is like a skinned knee for me, so can you…please just bandage it up for me so that I can put my shirt back on?”
“Oh. Right. Yes, uh—”
He reached for a cotton ball. Yes, of course she wouldn’t want to be…exposed in his kitchen all night. Besides, it was nippier in the lair than usual. If even he, an unabashed lover of the cold, was wishing he’d brought his robe out with him he could only imagine what the chill was doing to her—
—actually, no, best not to imagine that at all. He cleared his throat, and set to work.