"I'm fine, Martin," he repeated for what felt the hundredth time. "It's just a sprained wrist, I'm sure I can manage on my own."
"It's not fine," his friend replied with unrelenting stubbornness. "It's my fault that you've hurt yourself, and the least I can do is help you out with the Christmas dinner."
He shook his head wearily; they'd just spent too many hours at the A&E, and the last thing he needed was a fretful captain blaming himself for the result of Douglas' instinctive reaction when the younger man had slipped and almost fell flat on his face.
"Martin, I told you – it's not your fault that there was ice all over the parking lot. And while I flatter myself that I may have saved you from breaking one of your bones, the part where I banged my wrist against the side of your van was merely due to a slight miscalculation on my part."
"Well, point in case anyway; you spared me a fall, and now I owe you big time. Either way, I'm not going to leave you alone with a sprained wrist on Christmas Day. Sit down, and let me handle the dinner."
Douglas sighed and fell into the nearest chair. "Dare I ask if you even know how to cook, Captain?"
"I do, actually. And it's not like I ever get the chance to use my skills these days."
The wistful note in his tone made Douglas pause. His daughter was spending the holidays with her mother this year, and he was fairly sure Martin didn't have anyone to celebrate with either; as for himself, having a friend over for dinner was probably better than spending the day alone with his regrets.
"Right," he agreed at length. "But I will be here all the time, supervising."
"Spoilsport," Martin grumbled to himself, though he was actually smiling.
(And it wasn't anywhere near a perfect Christmas, but it was still one of the best Douglas had had in years.)