It's too late to leave now...

Of course the look Mal gives her absolutely suggests it was up for debate. But he manages to somehow resist outright calling her an asshole.

“Ooh c’mon, it’s not that bad.” he tuts as he takes the bandages, ripping them open with his teeth, dabbing up what was left of the alcohol before getting started, “I’ve done much worse, believe me.”

Mal sets to wrapping up her arm in a surprisingly professional and tidy manner. He’s done this before, too many times, looking at her just as he’s finishing patching up the wound he’d given her, “You want painkillers or something, Doll?”

“If it scars I’ll kill you,” she replies, and wants to tell him it is that bad, it is, because she can’t stand that particular brand of jeering. World get too much for you again, Dahl? Her upper lip curls; she fiddles with the edge of the bandage, examining the job. “And no.”

There’s no healthy way to mix painkillers and her particular cocktail of medications, and though she isn’t known for her healthy habits, for the moment she’s a fan of breathing.

He thought to ask her if she's sure about turning down the offer for a painkiller but thought better not to. She was a big girl afterall and she could ask for Vicodin or Oxy if she wanted it.

Shifting he abruptly sinks down to his knees on the floor in front of her chair, then sitting back on his legs, maintaining eye contact for as long as she could stand it. Or at least until he broke it to look at her hand as he lightly tucks two digits, his middle and pointer finger, into the hand of her wounded arm, curling them and maneuvering it to raise as gentlemen oft do with ladies as if he planned to kiss her hand. Though he stopped short of it.

"How can I make it up to you?" He asks gingerly, seeming a bit more subdued and gentle for the moment. Looking at her expectantly, amused but feigning apologetic now.