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Jenny Flint has killed more gene-spliced human bees, met more sentient bipedal reptiles and played chess with one too many limbless owl beasts than the average Victorian cockney girl will ever be inclined to. Just a week ago she shot a humongous bear fish with a steam-powered pistol she made herself after tinkering with a dismantled kerosene lamp. Even the books she reads are books borrowed from distant libraries too far away, too far ahead. All of this has become very ordinary for her. So why then is she so very confused and angry and red at a piece of floppy bleeding skin on her arm Vastra’s currently tending to? Jenny has obviously gotten her fair share of injuries, injuries much more serious and bloody than this one. She never ever winces once when she washes the blood off herself and dabs stinging liquor on whatever scars or cuts she ever happens to attain in the heat of battle. Why then is she blabbering and sobbing at this mere scratch? Simple. This time, Vastra doesn’t have any wounds of her own to tend to, and has taken it upon herself to try to help treat Jenny’s bleeding arm. Worse still, the Madam is not using liquor or water, but her body’s own form of antiseptic to clean the wound - her saliva. You should feel extreme pity for the young Jenny Flint, not because of the bleeding wound torn down the curve of her wrist, no, not because of that. Jenny Flint is far too strong for that. You, reader, should feel so very empathetic because this is what is happening: Jenny Flint is in her leather fighting gear, sitting, sweating in front of a warm fireplace in her Madam’s office, she is sitting and sweating and her arm is being licked by aforementioned Madam, who is otherwise very elegant and fearsome and murderous, and very very beautiful, but now her Madam is being very tender and calm but still very beautiful, and Jenny is very confused because Jenny has known this feeling in her chest for a while but not so much as she does now, and her Madam is still bent over her arm, licking softly and tenderly and oh, how wonderfully torturous all of this is.
“That should be enough to disinfect the wound. I will go and boil some linens to stop the bleeding.”
“O-of course, sorry, yes, thank you so much Ma’am, but I’m - this’s jus’ a small wound, I’ll take care of it! I can wrap it up nice and tidy for myself - I’ll go boil them righ’ now I will -”
“Jenny. Stay here, I can get the linens for you.”
“Alrigh’. Thank you.”
Jenny hears her Madam pad down the stairs lightly, hears the pot as it steams thick linens and the cotton bandages they keep in the kitchen for emergencies. The pot is hung to dry against the wall and the cloths are laid down on a tray and brought up to Jenny. She walks to the table to put the tray next to Jenny’s arm and begins bandaging. First, a dry linen is placed over the wound, and the careful pressure of Vastra’s hand is comforting and slightly soothing as it holds the folded linen to the bleeding avulsion. Then, the warm gauze bandages (Jenny loves the word gauze, it sounds homely when she says it) are stretched over the cloth and wrapped around her wrist neatly, each layer overlapping neatly over the one before as it conceals the original linen and holds it in place, replacing the pressure from Vastra’s own hand. Each action is precise and accurate, but strangely soft and very gentle. Jenny has never seen this side of Vastra before. To Jenny Flint, Vastra is always focused and brusque and reticent. She is never what she is now. So very… human.
“Ma’am Vastra?”
“Mm?”
“Why’re you helping me out?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, this is a really small cut, and I’m not drained of all my blood that I’m in a dizzy spell or nothin’, you don’t really need to help,”
“Well, I can ask the same of you, Jenny. Why do you make tea for me at 9 in the morning even though I don’t ask you to, even when it’s clear I can take care of it myself?”
Vastra tugs the end of the bandage and nudges it under the folds. She pats it down and leaves it be. Her scales reflect the light from the fire and usually everything about her face is angles and edges, except now, because the hard, cornered scales seem soft in the flickering orange light, and her eyes seem so very blue, and the lashes look longer than they have ever looked before. At this point in time Jenny is not aware she is staring at her Ma’am with a slightly gaping mouth.
“Jenny?”
“U-uh yes Ma’am. I make you tea at 9 in the morning ‘cause I want to say thanks. You’ve helped me all this while so I’d like to say thanks.”
“Mm.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question though, Ma’am.”
“I too, wanted to say thank you, because I realised that you risked your wrist for me just now.”
“Well, you would’ve done the same innit Ma’am?”
“Yes, but I would’ve thought of all the consequences of doing so beforehand. Everything I do is calculated, purposeful and for logical reasons, but you threw yourself in front of me out of instinct.”
“Say what you will Ma’am, but sometimes instinct isn’t as primal and disgustin’ as you think it is. We humans still rely on it although we’ve moved a little ways from the apes we used to be,”
“I’m not criticizing your instinctual responses. I’m actually quite fascinated by them.”
“How so?”
“Well, especially in the scenario you put yourself in, your instinctual response was to come to my defence. If we break down the action, the innate agency was your need to protect me, which means that…”
Vastra fell into a deep silence, and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She rested the side of her head on the desk, a habit she has when she’s tired, or thinking deeply about something.
“Means what, Ma’am?”
“That you place me in a position of importance?”
“Mm. That I place you in a position of importance. Or simply, that I care for you.”