You rush out, eyes darting wildly between personnel and patients. You spot Jentorra slumped in a seat, looking dangerously pale.

You make your way over to her, wiping at the damp sweat that has formed a film on her face. She sports numerous cuts and bruises all over her body, but she manages a smile at the sight of you.

"Hi, treasure."

"Jentorra, we're all perfectly capable here," you scold her, gesturing towards the chaos behind you as your coworkers tend to other patients.

"Why?" Alarm is suddenly painted on her face. "Were you with a patient? Go back to them, come back for me later—"

"No, you pillock, I just don't want you to bleed out because you're picky."

Blood pools around the hand she's using as a makeshift bandage; gingerly, you lift her hand and move it aside. The gash is deep and shows no sign of clotting anytime soon. A surge of anger rushes through you; Jentorra carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and this is how the Conquerer thanks her? Day in and day out, she leads a broken group of people who have nothing left, yet his vicious attacks come unrelenting, providing no reprieve for Jentorra or her people.

Clenching your jaw, you place your hand on her back, coaxing her out of the seat. She grabs your wrist with a clammy hand.

"No, treasure," she hisses, "not enough rooms—save them for the others—"

"Jentorra—"

"We won't argue about this. Either you help me right here, or you take me to the morgue." Jentorra doesn't enjoy painting these nasty pictures in your brain, but she must think of the others. It wasn't her idea to ambush a nearby Conquerer station, but she had signed off on it; now, too many of them were suffering the consequences.

You sigh, dropping your head as you weigh your options, though Jentorra has left you with virtually none. She takes the opportunity to snake her fingers in your hair, rubbing gently.

"Okay," you give in. "Okay."

You slip your coat off your shoulders, moving it between her wound and her hand. She hisses at the sensation. You leave her as you quickly grab all of the supplies you need. You return, kneeling in front of her, looking behind you for your teammate with powers that dull pain.

"Zerelda!" you call as you move your now-crimson coat away from Jentorra's wound. You swear she was just behind you.

"No—don't need her," Jentorra says through gritted teeth. "Just you, treasure—just you." She leans her head back as you clean her wound.

Jentorra's eyes are squeezed shut the entire time, banging her fist on the chair to distract herself from the pain. You can't work when her gestures shake her whole body, and you move her hand to hold your shoulder instead. She seems to relax with her hand on your skin, sinking into her seat. Your skilled fingers make quick work of the wound, suturing the deep gash closed within a matter of minutes. You place a bandage over the top of the stitches, indicating that you were finished.

"There," you say with a relieved sigh, sitting on your heels.

Jentorra sits up slowly. She looks at you as you wipe your brow, discarding your tools beside you. Your eyes are cautiously watching her wound. Should she tell you that you look somehow more attractive with blood and sweat caking you, or—?

"Need anything else?" you sass, placing your hands on your hips, trying to mask your fatigue.

She stifles a wince as she leans forward, cupping your chin. The muscles in her abdomen tense with the strain of holding herself up.

"I can think of a few things," she murmurs, sage eyes dropping to your lips. The pain nearly melts from her body as she watches your lips part ever so slightly for her.

She chooses to plant a kiss on your forehead instead before rising and moving nimbly towards the exit. As long as her fighters are out there, there's no way she can sit around and wait for her wound to heal.

"Jentorra!" you call after her exasperatedly.