Disclaimer: It's probably quite clear that I have no ownership claims to the characters, world, etc. I'm simply playing in the world Ms. Pierce created.

Author's Notes: A somewhat plotless one-shot that ended up more risqué than it began. Originally posted at The Dancing Dove.

"Stitches"

--- --- ---

It might tell you something about Evin Larse to know that the first thing he tried to do was get me out of my breeches.

"You have mud in your hair," I told him, scrambling backwards on my rear in the small tent.

"I have mud everywhere," he replied.

This was true. The entire Seventh Rider Group was fairly coated with the stuff, pony and human alike.

"You, however," he added, "have a very nasty wound on your leg that needs to be seen to. Don't try to change the subject."

"I was simply stating a fact. I thought you'd like to know the state of your appearance."

"Surprising as it may sound, my appearance isn't what I'm concerned about right now."

Meet Evin Larse, Rider Group Commander. This Evin is somewhat different from Evin Larse, Flirt and Narcissist; or Evin Larse, Player and Practical Joker. They're all facets of a fair-haired, bright-eyed, awfully charismatic young man, but that doesn't mean I want him looking at my undergarments.

I don't care how long I've known him. A girl's got to draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at loincloths and breastbands.

"Couldn't you just cut them?"

He looked at me with a mirthful gleam in his eyes. "I could, but then you'd have to ride back in half a pair of breeches. Not that I would complain about seeing that, but I imagine it'd be a bit chilly and uncomfortable for you."

"I could borrow a spare pair from someone."

An eyebrow went up. "From who?"

"Er…"

"The breeches are coming off, Miri."

My fingers clutched at the waistband. "No, they're not."

"Yes, they are," he replied firmly. His hands wrapped around my wrists.

"Are not." My knuckles slowly turned white.

"Are too." His fingernails dug into the tendons at my wrist.

"Are not," I ground out, now in more pain at the wrists than my leg.

My fingers slipped…

…and with one swift yank on Evin's part I found my breeches past my knees. I yowled as the cloth ripped free from the slash on my thigh. Cool air rushed over me, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

"Are too," he told me with triumphant finality.

I saw him grinning through my watering eyes and tried to cover myself. He pushed my hands away. There were two pink spots burning holes into my cheeks.

"Be a woman about it, Miri. It's not like you have something I haven't seen before."

I'm not sure what to call my reaction, but "strangled cat" comes to mind first. "I hope you fall off your pony," I said when I recovered the use of my voice. "In front of everyone. In a mud puddle. A deep mud puddle, with slime in it."

He shook his head and bent to inspect the wound, dabbing away blood, dirt, and things I didn't want to know were there if they were. There was a lot of bleeding, and it didn't look like it was going to stop. Where my breeches had been stained crimson, bright red had been smeared on pale flesh.

After a few tentative prods he finally said, "I think you're going to need stitches."

"Stitches?" I squeaked.

"Yes, stitches. A medical procedure in which—"

"I know what stitches are, you idiot." I hated stitches. And with nothing to numb the area…

He took out a needle and thread from our saddlebags and I shuddered at the sight. I would willingly face a slobbering bandit who wanted to slice me three different ways with a blunt, rusty sword, but the methodical deliberateness of stitching a person back together made me want to lose my breakfast.

"Sorry, love. I know how you feel." Evin was genuinely sympathetic. The last time he'd needed stitches I'd been the one to do it and he actually had lost his breakfast. I blame that entirely on the process, not my medical skills.

I flopped onto my back with a grimace. "Do your worst, Larse."

He chuckled. "I'll save that for another time." The tone of his voice made me suspicious. I glanced up and saw him sneaking a few peeks that a more polite man wouldn't be taking.

When he threaded the needle I squinched my eyes shut and imagined all the ways I would make him pay for those looks. I could take the stirrups off his saddle and hide them. Let him have a nice bouncy ride back home. I could let his ponies off their picket. It'd been fun to watch him chasing them all over the camp. I could put mud in his boots when he took them off to sleep. That'd be a lovely surprise. I could put honey in his hair while he slept. Bet he'd like that. The insects certainly would.

"There, done," he announced a few minutes and a handful of imaginary revenges later.

I sat up and peered at the wound. "A third of them are crooked!"

"Do you want me to pull them out and put in new ones?"

"No!"

He looked like an artist whose masterpiece had just been offended. "Then don't criticize my handiwork." I snorted, but he ignored it. "Lift your leg so I bandage it."

"Thanks," I said after he had placed a pad of fabric over the stitches and wound a strip around my thigh.

I received a quick smile over his shoulder as he packed the remaining thread and bandages away. "Always a pleasure." He turned as if to leave, but then shifted back. "Oh, and Miri? You know what I said about you not having anything I hadn't seen before? I lied. I've never seen legs like that on a woman until now."

And he tossed me a clean pair of breeches.

Meet Evin Larse, Stitch-maker and Shameless Scoundrel, and make the introduction quick because I have to kill him as soon as I figure out how to get my breeches back on.

--- --- ---