It might have been hours before they reached the man's camp. Days, even. Keeping track of the time was the last thing on Maribelle's mind, but the one thing she knew was that, however long it was, it was much too long.

"Finally!" she said as a tent came into sight. "You walk much too slow!"

"You didn't think I'd drop such a pretty flower into the dirt, did you?" At the very least it had been long enough for the man to regain some of his confidence.

"If I'd gone any faster, I'd have dropped you, don't you remember?"

"Well, I don't remember. You must not have gone fast enough."

The man pursed his lips. "All that blood loss must be messing with your mind."

Maribelle huffed. "My mind is still quite put-together, thank you very much."

"Truly?" The man shifted her in his arms. "Then how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Six, obviously."

The man didn't speak, letting her put the pieces together for herself.

"Wait a minute!" Maribelle hissed. "You're still holding onto me, aren't you?"

"Don't worry, I haven't. I'm not the kind of man to let a girl down."

"I'd sure hope not."

She blinked.

"If you do that one more time–"

"I didn't mean to!" he said, brushing the tent flap aside. "Besides, we're here."

Maribelle felt the soft sheets wrap around her as the man lowered her into the mat laid out over the dirt with much more care than she expected. She'd have thought someone like him would be content with tossing her onto the mattress, and she was pleased that she wouldn't have to spend the next few minutes trying to stop her head from spinning.

Some of it must have shown on her face, since she saw his grin grow a little wider.

"Don't get used to it," she snapped. "I was simply surprised you were as gentle as you were."

"Of course," the man replied. "Girls do like a gentleman more than a man with edges."

Maribelle rolled her eyes. Now that he was no longer clutching her, he'd returned to being a flirt.

Personally, she'd have preferred the nervous wreck.

"Just get your medical supplies. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay for tea, buttercup?"

"No thank you."

"Your loss, then." The man chuckled, and he slid his bag from his shoulders.

As he knelt to dig through his supplies, Maribelle let her head fall back onto the mattress. A sigh escaped her lips, and she shifted to make herself more comfortable. After having spent her afternoon lying on the cold, hard ground her sore back welcoming the embrace of soft straw and fabric. As much as she wanted to leave, she'd admit it would be a shame to have to get back onto her feet so soon.

If only she didn't have to deal with that scoundrel as well.

She shifted in the sheets again, the mattress crackling under her weight, when she brushed something cold and wet.

The first reaction that came to mind was screaming at the top of her lungs.

The man jumped, and he rushed to her side, his eyes wide. "What? What is it?"

"Why are your bedsheets wet?" she shrieked.

"Oh." His gaze flicked to the tent flap, before he turned back to her with a grin. "You know sunshine, after a day of hard work, I return to my camp bathed in sweat and–"

"Wait, nevermind. It's simply a leak in the tarp."

The man's face fell. This time, it was Maribelle's turn to smirk, and he turned back to his bag with a mutter. While he wasn't looking, Maribelle wiped her hand further down his sheet.

She settled back into the mattress, a content smile on her face. She was happy to lie there, waiting for the man to finish his search.

Her smile faltered when she heard him take a sharp breath.

She craned her neck to look at him. "What? What is it?"

"There might be a little hitch in your plan." The man returned her glare with a sheepish look, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Which is?"

"Okay. I'd like you to remain calm and–"

"You mangy, no-good, dog-spitting, disheveled pile of sopping cloth! You rag-chewing, dirt-smearing washboard! You udder-suckling, goat-milking, fire-breathing toothed chicken! You–"

"Woah there! I've yet to tell you what it is! Is all this name-calling needed?"

Maribelle snorted, and she turned her nose up. "Well, you said to stay calm, so I assumed it was very bad."

"It is very bad," the man said, giving her a sideways look, "which is exactly why you need to stay calm."

"That's a bit of a backward way of going about it, isn't it?"

"It could be. But if I did that, I'd never have any idea what was going on, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that. Not with your life on the line."

He had her there, as much as it pained her to admit.

"Very well, then." Maribelle waved a hand over her shoulder. "Spit it out."

The man looked her dead in the eyes. "I don't have any medical supplies."

...

Maribelle quirked an eyebrow. "That's not so bad."

"What?" The man's jaw almost hit the floor. "Buttercup, as much as I admire tenacity in a girl, you're life may depend on this."

"It does?" Maribelle coughed. "Wait, did you say you didn't have medical supplies?"

"I did."

She furrowed her brows. "Maybe that blood loss is meddling with my thoughts. That's terrible news."

"I didn't have enough for them! I assumed they wouldn't be needed!"

She grit her teeth, and an insult bubbled up in her throat. It boiled for a bit, then faded into a simmer, until it vanished completely.

"Dammit. I used all my good insults before, and now I can't think of any new ones," she murmured.

The man, on the other hand, had more of a reaction than her. "Oh gods," he said, running a hand down his face. "I can't let you die. I came back to save people. What can I do, what can I do?"

"You can start by giving me your shirt."

"M-my what?"

"The piece of clothing you wear over the upper half of your body." Maribelle raised an eyebrow at his rapidly reddening face. "I'm sure a refined ladies' man such as yourself would have no problem showing a bit of skin to a... what was it you said? A pretty flower like me?"

"I called you buttercup."

"Do you mean to imply that buttercups aren't pretty?"

"Of course not! Their petals are the most beautiful shade of yellow, and they have such a pleasant scent."

"If you're not talking about the flower, I will haul myself over there and beat some sense into that thick skull of yours."

"...I'll just take off my shirt now."

What little armor the man had clattered to the floor. She heard the rustling of cloth, then heard him curse. She glanced over just in time to see him pull his shirt over his head, revealing a well-toned chest that glistened in the last traces of sunlight.

The man cleared his throat. Maribelle raised her eyes from his chest to find a blue shirt dangling in front of her face. Curiously enough, the man seemed to find the entrance flap more interesting than her.

Maribelle huffed, thinking it a little strange. Still, she took his shirt and held it up over her, the sunlight seeping in through the tarp lighting it up in an orange glow.

"So," the man said, turning back to her, "you like what you see–hey! What are you doing?"

Maribelle leveled him with a flat look, her hands on the seam on his shoulder. "Since you clearly lack the brains to recognize when medical supplies are a necessity, I'm taking things into my own hands."

The sleeve ripped from its socket. Maribelle was on the other sleeve a second later.

"I didn't have any gold for medical supplies!" the man complained. "And I won't have any gold for a new shirt either!"

"Oh, hush. I'll buy you a new one."

"Really?" The man coughed, wiping the flustered look from his face. "Is that a date?"

Maribelle ripped his other sleeve off. "Don't get your hopes up."

She tossed the shirt back to the man. Taking her strips of cloth, she wrapped one around her leg, the other around her head. She pulled it tight and as she tucked it in, she caught the man staring.

"What are you looking at? Does something amuse you?"

"Not at all," the man said, and he shook his head. "Just... I don't think you've done it quite right."

"Of course I've got it right," Maribelle scoffed. "My mind is still quite sound. I think I can put on a bandage just fine, thank you very much."

To prove her point, she pushed herself off the bed. The bandage on her head came loose and fell over her eyes. Through gritted teeth, she let out a long hiss.

"Would you like my help?"

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

She tried to tie her bandages again, but her arms refused to let her maintain a steady grip. She cursed and grabbed one hand with the other in an attempt to steady her trembling fingers. Still, they refused to stop shaking.

"Allow me."

Firm hands wrapped around her bandages. Maribelle glanced up at the man, surprised. One at a time, he wrapped the bandages over her wounds, all while refusing to meet her curious gaze until with one final tug, he had them snugly fit.

Maribelle tugged at the cloth over her leg, then over her head. When they didn't budge, she turned to the man with a raised eyebrow.

"Quite the skilled hands you have," she remarked. "Not the clumsy fingers of someone of your standing, as I'd have thought."

"What can I say? A delicate flower calls for delicate care."

"Don't get any ideas, dolt. Your words are still as ham-fisted as ever."

The man laughed for a bit. "Well, now that you've got your wounds dressed up, what's the plan?"

"You'd better not be planning on leaving me here."

"Oh no, I was thinking I'd take you out for dinner in the next village over."

"Dinner? You said you wouldn't be able to buy clothes for yourself. How do you think you'd be able to buy me dinner?" Maribelle scoffed. "And don't think of trying to ask me to pay. If you want to take me out, you'd have to pay for yourself."

"I wasn't planning to. What do you take me for, some ill-mannered scoundrel?"

"I'd hope not. As much as I'd have hoped for someone else, right now you're my only chance of ever returning to civilization alive."

"You flatter me."

"You flatter yourself, more like. Now, are you going to stand there or what? We have a town to get to."

The man glanced out the tent flap, his eyes narrowed. "You want to leave? This late into the day? What do you say we call it a night for now?"

"And get into bed with you? No way! In your dreams!"

The most blood I've ever lost was when I cut my hand with a pair of big scissors back in kindergarten. That was a long time ago, so my memory of how it feels to lose a ton of blood. If anyone was offended with my portrayal of people lacking blood, please know that was not my intention. I could have done research on it, but like I said, this story is sort of an "in the moment" thing for me.

Maribelle is such fun to write. If you asked me what I was thinking when I wrote out those insults, I'd say I was probably on a sugar crash or something.

Anyway, I wish you all well, and stay safe!