#libby's fics

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“You know you don't have to be all macho about this,” she said calmly. “If it hurts, tell me. I can't help if I don't know something's wrong.”

“That's not what it is,” Douxie told her. “Trust me. It really isn't that bad.”

She made a noncommittal noise, carefully pulling back the cloth. “Well, looks like the bleeding's stopped, at any rate. Let's get this cleaned and wrapped.”

Douxie stood so he could hold his arm under the running water, and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Still need those stitches?”

Dr. Lake wet another of the cloths and started wiping at his arm, movements steady and gentle as she gave it a more thorough inspection. “Looks like, yeah.” She returned the raised eyebrow. “And I notice you've got a suture kit in this box. You were going to do them yourself, weren't you?”

Douxie bobbed his shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. “Like I said: wouldn't be the first time.” Then he waved his left hand. “And it's not my dominant hand, so messy stitches aren't a worry.”

She pursed her lips at him, but then returned her focus to cleaning his arm. “Don't see any debris. Sit down and hold this while I get ready to stitch you up.” Douxie opened his mouth to protest, but Dr. Lake just looked at him, something in her eyes piercing straight through the centuries to make him feel like an actual teenager again. “Doctor's orders, young man,” she told him, face resolute.

He froze, totally at a loss for a second, then let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head with amusement. “Alright, alright,” he said, lifting his free hand in a gesture of surrender before dropping back to his seat and holding the cloth in place. He gave her a crooked grin. “Suppose I'll owe you lunch when you come back to take them out?”