(585 words.)

"It's not that bad. You'll be fine."

Billie sucked in a sharp, hissing breath as he adjusted the makeshift bandage and put more pressure on the wound. "You know," she said through a grimace, "for a career criminal, you're a fucking terrible liar."

"I don't usually spend much time talking to my targets. If you were trying to have a conversation, that may be why you got stabbed."

"You're such an asshole."

"So you've told me. Now stop moving." Daud glanced up toward the Whaler standing across from him at Billie's other side and asked, "Do you have what you need?"

Marco, who had steady hands and once spent a few months working as a physician's assistant, therefore making him the closest thing they had to an actual surgeon, picked up his curved needle and nodded. "Do it."

Daud reached down to grab the half-empty bottle of Dunwall Whiskey on the floor beside the bed and lifted it into view.

Billie's eyes went slightly wide. "You serious?" she muttered.

"It'll sting like hell, but it's probably still better than dying."

"Probably?"

"That's all I can promise."

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the mattress. "I'll cut your throat while you sleep," she threatened weakly.

"I don't think you'll be doing anything for the next few days, so I'll take my chances." He shifted his grip on the neck of the bottle. "Are you ready?"

"No," she said, but her fingers scrabbled along his side until she had a handful of his shirt gathered up in her clenched fist. She gritted her teeth and gave a short nod.

Daud nodded back. He quickly removed the now blood-soaked cloth, put an arm across her chest, and leaned his weight on it to hold her down. Then he tipped the bottle and poured the whiskey over the wound.

She managed not to thrash too much, through both the cleaning and the stitching, but her cries of pain were worse than he expected. Billie wasn't much of a complainer, and he'd seen her walk away from dozens of lesser injuries without a word. It was unsettling to see her in such obvious and extreme distress. By the time Marco finished his work, she was barely clinging to consciousness, her eyes open but unfocused and her fingers still curled weakly around the end of his shirt.

"You'll be fine," Daud said again, quieter this time. He brushed his hand over her forehead, pushing away the sweat-soaked strands of hair clinging to her skin. After a moment, Billie's eyes drifted shut.

He watched for a while to ensure she was still breathing, then straightened up and turned toward Marco.

The other Whaler was looking studiously down and away, cleaning and organizing his tools in silence.

"Will she live?" Daud asked bluntly.

Marco swallowed nervously before answering. "That's up to her now. I did all I could with what we have. We just have to hope the wound doesn't get infected, or if it does, that she's strong enough to fight it off."

Daud frowned and said nothing.

Marco cleared his throat. "Lurk's as stubborn as an ox, sir," he offered. "If anyone can pull through that kind of damage, it's her."

"She is," Daud agreed. He reached down and unhooked Billie's fingers from his shirt. He let her hand rest in his for a moment before laying it down across her chest. "You can go back to your patrol. I'll summon you if anything changes here."