Code Name: Excalibur

~ 🕷️💙❤️

"Depends. You bleeding for real, or just looking for an excuse to get my hands on you, Hobie?"

She doesn’t look up from the bloodied gauze in her hands, but her voice was as precise as the scalpel resting by her knee -- steady, clinical… and just a touch amused. "I don’t charge people who break bones in the name of justice. But I also don’t flirt with people unless I’m really sure they’re not just high on adrenaline and bad decisions."

She finally glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, one brow lifted like a challenge forged in steel and stubborn pride. "So unless you’re here for a tetanus shot and a conversation about emotional responsibility, I suggest you lie back, bite your tongue, and let the actual doctor work."

Pause. A slow smirk curved her lips "…But if you do wink at me again, I might consider giving you a lollipop after."

He grinned -- all teeth and trouble, head tilted like he's trying to memorize the shape of her smirk. His fingers tap idly on his belt like he’s composing a rhythm just for her. "You sure you’re not high on adrenaline? You stitched up half a city last week and still had time to read me to filth like I’m a side effect in a medical journal."

He let the silence settle just long enough -- eyes flicking to the scalpel, then to her. Always back to her. "But alright then, go on. Stitch me up. I won’t wink. Scout’s honour."

He lifted his hand as if he’s swearing in, solemn for a whole two seconds before adding with a lazy drawl: "Though I might make a noise when you tug the thread. Could be a flirt. Could be pain. You’ll have to diagnose me."

He bite down on a piece of gauze like it’s a punk rock toothpick and offered her a wink anyway. Rules are for governments. And he was never played by either.

Her gloves snap into place with a crisp snap that sounds more like a threat than sterile prep. She leans forward, eyes narrowing, lit by clinic fluorescents and the blaze of barely restrained exasperation. "And trust me, Hobie -- if you moan while I’m suturing, I will assume it’s flirtation, not pain, and I’ll start charging by the sigh. NHS doesn’t cover punk theatrics."

A pause. The needle gleams between her fingers, wicked and delicate. She doesn't break eye contact. "That said… You flinch once, and I’m switching to staples."

She’s already working -- quick, efficient, trained hands moving over him with practiced calm. But her voice drops half an octave, soft and dangerous: "Diagnosis? Chronic need for attention. Prognosis? Flirting with the sword-wielding doctor might actually kill you."

She tugged the thread. He definitely didn’t flinch. Just grinned wider. "Flirting with a sword-wielding doctor’s exactly how I wanna go, actually. Top-tier exit. Bang on. Put it on the tombstone."

She snipped the thread neatly -- way too close to skin for comfort, and maybe a tiny bit on purpose. No one could prove anything. "Flirting with me might be your ideal exit, but I’m not here for your dramatic punk martyr arc. I save lives, not rewrite obituaries."

And then, just when he thought she was done -- tone clinical, hands steady -- she glanced up through her lashes, surgical mask tugged slightly down, voice quiet enough to land right under his skin:

~ 🕷️💙❤️

"Depends. You bleeding for real, or just looking for an excuse to get my hands on you, Hobie?"

She doesn’t look up from the bloodied gauze in her hands, but her voice was as precise as the scalpel resting by her knee -- steady, clinical… and just a touch amused. "I don’t charge people who break bones in the name of justice. But I also don’t flirt with people unless I’m really sure they’re not just high on adrenaline and bad decisions."

She finally glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, one brow lifted like a challenge forged in steel and stubborn pride. "So unless you’re here for a tetanus shot and a conversation about emotional responsibility, I suggest you lie back, bite your tongue, and let the actual doctor work."

Pause. A slow smirk curved her lips "…But if you do wink at me again, I might consider giving you a lollipop after."

He grinned -- all teeth and trouble, head tilted like he's trying to memorize the shape of her smirk. His fingers tap idly on his belt like he’s composing a rhythm just for her. "You sure you’re not high on adrenaline? You stitched up half a city last week and still had time to read me to filth like I’m a side effect in a medical journal."

He let the silence settle just long enough -- eyes flicking to the scalpel, then to her. Always back to her. "But alright then, go on. Stitch me up. I won’t wink. Scout’s honour."

He lifted his hand as if he’s swearing in, solemn for a whole two seconds before adding with a lazy drawl: "Though I might make a noise when you tug the thread. Could be a flirt. Could be pain. You’ll have to diagnose me."

He bite down on a piece of gauze like it’s a punk rock toothpick and offered her a wink anyway. Rules are for governments. And he was never played by either.

Her gloves snap into place with a crisp snap that sounds more like a threat than sterile prep. She leans forward, eyes narrowing, lit by clinic fluorescents and the blaze of barely restrained exasperation. "And trust me, Hobie -- if you moan while I’m suturing, I will assume it’s flirtation, not pain, and I’ll start charging by the sigh. NHS doesn’t cover punk theatrics."

A pause. The needle gleams between her fingers, wicked and delicate. She doesn't break eye contact. "That said… You flinch once, and I’m switching to staples."

She’s already working -- quick, efficient, trained hands moving over him with practiced calm. But her voice drops half an octave, soft and dangerous: "Diagnosis? Chronic need for attention. Prognosis? Flirting with the sword-wielding doctor might actually kill you."