Mark looked at her, shaking his head as she brought one hand up to massage her temple. "Somehow, being stuck in a room with you at the moment isn't a scary thought."

"Shows what you know," she said dryly. "I don't need to be able to kick your ass to, uh, kick your ass. Ugh." She sat down hard, legs folded beneath her, other hand brought up to hold her head on. "I think I'm going to puke," she said calmly.

Mark backed a little farther away. "Don't get any on me."

She swallowed hard a couple times, trying to control the dictates of her angry stomach. "Next time, try to not hit my head so hard. You nearly killed me. And I still feel like shit."

"Good." He picked up his cane and stood up. He walked around her and looked at the door, then sighed. "I can't believe I'm stuck in here with you. Oh, well." He turned and lifted his cane high, bringing it down hard on her back. "I'm sure I can find something to do to pass the time."

"Dammit," she said, lifting he head from the floor and wiping blood from where her lip had split open again. "Didn't you get that out of your system?" she groused as she tried to crawl out of the way.

"Considering the pain you've cost me, I think I can do this for awhile." He hit her across the backs of her thighs, throwing her to the ground.

"Ow." She gingerly turned over and glared at him. "Some friend… you turned out to be," she panted through clenched teeth.

The cane came down again, and she reached out and grabbed it, tendons straining in her wrist as she kept it from hitting her. Mark's knuckles were white as he tried to break her grip, twisting the cane this way and that, but she refused to let go. Finally, with a loud crack that echoed in the small room, the cane broke.

"Hey," he said, surprised and annoyed. "I need that."

"No. You won't."

He looked at her, puzzled as she scooted back until she was near the wall, then leveraged herself to her feet. "I've been wanting… to do this… for years," she forced out.

"Do what?" He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she licked her thumb.

"This," she said, taking a step away from the wall. Her knees crumbled beneath her, but she did manage to swipe her thumb against his temple. His eyes lots focus and they fell together, landing in a tangle of limbs.

Anne disentangled herself from his sleeping form then tried to catch her breath. "Thanks for not hitting my head this time," she said sarcastically to his prone form. She tried to get him to lay comfortably on the floor, arranging his limbs in something resembling a natural posture, but moving hurt too much for her to do a very good job of it.

After a few minutes she gave up and just sat back, panting slightly from the exertion, and the continued nausea. She swayed in time with her pulse, too tired to try to keep herself stable, and she wondered if she was going to be able to do this. She looked at her shaking hands and tried to calm them.

She could do this. She could. Slowly, slowly she stilled the tremors, drawing upon her last reservoir of strength. The fear she felt receded, the pain was pushed out of her mind as she marshaled the last of her reserves. Finally feeling prepared, she moved to kneel by his waist, and then unfastened his belt. She pulled down his pants and took a good look at the mass of scar tissue on his inner thigh.

"Shhhh," she whispered, an exhalation more than a comment. "Either medical care on this planet is much more primitive than I assumed, or you, Mark, tried to do too much while you were still healing." The muscle had been sliced, but her cuts had been clean and shouldn't have produced the tearing that she saw here. She closed her eyes and looked at the fibers of the muscles themselves, noting the small tears along the edges of the scar.

"Hmm." She looked at her hand and tried to not cringe as she forced her fingers into blades. She swallowed hard as she looked at her hand, but couldn't deny that it was going to be helpful. She controlled the sharpness, and carefully moved the matter of her hand about until the blades were sharp enough to cut the air, a single molecule along the edge of the cutting surface.

Then she turned and carefully made an incision along the edge of the scar tissue, moving slowly, cutting out the scar but leaving the rest of the flesh intact. There were a couple places where this was tricky, where the scar tissue hid under healthy muscle, but she cautiously worked it all out, slicing out a piece and setting it on the floor beside her.

When this was done, she gratefully let her hand return to its normal state, not looking at it as it changed, then shaking it a few times after it felt right to make sure everything was as it should be. Then she moved both hands to cover the wound and started to mend the rent fibers.

Starting from the innermost edge she coaxed cell growth, pulling the severed ends together and merging them. Sweat began to form on her brow, and she paused a moment to wipe at it with the back of her hand. Her fingers were only lightly touched with blood, as she had pinched off the capillaries and kept the blood from oozing through the ends as she worked.

After nearly an hour, she finished, smoothing the fresh skin over where the scar had lain, pleased with the work she had done. She wiped the gore from her fingers, then ripped off a piece of her shirt and picked up the pieces of tissue and wrapped them. Then she flopped backwards and lay there, staring exhaustedly at the ceiling, until fatigue overcame her and she passed out.