"Let me see," Abbie says, pulling his hand towards her to inspect the gash on his arm.

"I do not require first aid, Miss Mills-OW!" Crane protests, his brows knit so tightly together they appear to have joined.

"It's only peroxide, Crane."

"You took me by surprise," he insists, looking down at the wound. His eyebrows shoot up, nearly reaching his hairline. "Is it supposed to do that?" he asks, watching the peroxide fizz as it reacts with the blood.

"Yes," she confirms. "It's cleaning it." She dabs it with some cotton, then tosses the bloodied wad into the trash bin at her feet.

He hisses in discomfort when she gently prods the wound, checking for any more dirt.

"Sorry," she mutters. "For being a soldier, you seem kind of..."

"What?" he challenges.

"Wimpy," she answers, her face breaking into a grin.

Crane straightens his back and looks down his nose at his petite partner. "Might I remind you that I was struck in the chest with a broad-axe and bled to death?"

"All the more reason for you to stop acting like a child. You didn't hear me whining when you popped my finger back in its socket, did you?" she asks, holding up her left hand, its pinky bruised and swollen.

"No, but I still bear the marks your fingernails left in my arm in your endeavor to remain needlessly stoic," he reminds her, barely holding back his smug smile as he raises his other arm to show her.

She twists her lips into a scowl to prevent herself from sheepishly grinning. She fails. "Sorry," she apologizes, reaching over to rub the little crescent moons marks on his arm.

He places his hand over hers, gingerly moving his injured arm. "Do not give it a thought, Lieutenant."

"Let's get this arm wrapped up," Abbie says, carefully setting his arm back on the table and reaching for the gauze.

He winces at one point.

She doesn't say a word.