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Davor did not return Misha's smile -- not that he was especially known for returning anyone's -- as he found himself wrestling with that same damnable over-protectiveness that came when he spent any amount of time with someone in close quarters. But they were only roomiemates and this was clearly an accident bound to happen with everyone carrying weapons and needing to know how to use them. But that didn't mean he had to like it, nor the dismissive, playful way these two seemed to be taking it.

He exhaled, slowly. Not quite a sigh of frustration, but close. Davor always felt himself choking on his words when he had the most to say, but he managed to string together a terse reprimand. "You should not spar to injury." At least, he had gathered that's what they'd been doing. God forbid they'd been merely playing with swords for funsies. "There is instructors for a reason."

Rather weak scolding, even with his intense staredown, but Davor was never much of a disciplinarian. Seeing that Misha was tending to Briiva well enough, he backed off to toss the emptied package... wherever he could find a trash bin in her room. A large part of him wanted to leave, too conscious of the fact that he hadn't a chance to put a prosthesis on, but a larger part was still too concerned over his roomie's well being. He'd seen many men bounce back form worse, sure, but he'd seen just the same die from less. He couldn't help but fret and, returning to organize the medical bag he'd so frantically ransacked, he added somewhat sternly, "There is a medic for a reason."

Briiva let out a sigh of relief as the pressure was lifted from her shoulder, using her good arm to push her up into a sitting position and lean against her headboard. She pulled the gauze off, taking a look at their handiwork. The powder had done it's job; she was in no danger of bleeding out anytime soon. Her shoulder still stung being exposed to the air. Bracing herself, Briiva tested her arm, hissing as she slowly swung it around, but looking pleased by the time she brought it back to her side. "I wouldn't make it very tight, mostly just need to keep it covered." Briiva frowned, still unsure herself if she should get stitches. For right now things were okay, and she would be able to see if there was anything Rafe could do tomorrow, now that the threat of bleeding out was gone.

"Yeah, I'll just have to toss that, unless I want to freak people out whenever I wear it." Briiva's voice was more subdued than usual; Davor's tone of voice wasn't lost on her, and if there was one thing she hated to do it was disappointing people. The concern also managed to strike a nerve, Briiva never really thought about her own safety, one of the reasons her medical bag was so well stocked, she went through the supplies more than she would care to admit. Honestly, having people get upset over her safety was something that Briiva didn't get much. "Sorry Davor. Guess with this whole protection of the gods thing, we got a little careless." She looked up at him, smiling a little weakly. "I'll check up with Rafe tomorrow, I don't want you worrying about me."

Briiva laid her head back against her bed, turning her head slightly away from her friends so they wouldn't see her eyes watering.

"We'll be sure to call," Misha completed for Briiva. Davor's body language had adjusted suddenly, almost a deflation as he curled his shoulders inwards and hunched a bit. She softened in response and her smile became less forced and more gentle. "I'll let you know before I leave so you can keep an eye on our headstrong little firecracker here," she added. "I don't care if she complains."

Turning back to Briiva, she missed the other woman's watering eyes as she reached out to stroke a piece of hair back from Briiva's sweaty forehead. "You hear that? You're going to live to fight another day, Queen Arthur."




WC: 403

Grateful for Misha's answer and relieved to know she'd be sticking around, Davor felt less guilty about his retreat. Just a little less. But he paused at the door, only just managing to hold back his surprised confusion. Davie...?

Briiva's idea of a nickname, he supposed. The track on this rollercoaster of emotions made a sudden turn onto bashful. But she expected an answer, and Davor looked back over his shoulder to see if Misha approved of the idea. He'd done his part and he didn't want to impose, but, well, it did sound like a smart suggestion. Also maybe he was a little curious about what 'something special' entailed.

"...I need something," Davor answered, vague as ever. Eager to avoid any questions or argument, he made a quick exit, locking the door behind him out of sheer habit. Abrupt, sure. Could appear rude, maybe. But he could only hide the empty sleeve swinging about for so long, determined to get a prosthesis on and keep up his act.

"Aw mom!" Briiva pretended to pout, very slowly pulling up the medical bag to her. Opening it up, she began to shuffle around clumsily with one hand. "I guess I can just use some prescription strength Morphine, I should have some somewhere in here. Surely, using an opiate is the safer choice in this situation over a substance that I already have a built in tolerance for."

She continued to shuffle, hoping her little speech was enough to get Misha to change her mind. Briiva didn't want to start fighting trying to get drink in her system, it would just end with Briiva needing to seal her wound all over again.

The bag was surprisingly heavy, and deep. There was nothing in it that looked like it had been an over the counter item with the exception of the gauze and bandages. There were a couple small tool boxes, normally designated to organize things like screws and basic hardware that had been re-purposed for holding pills or hospital grade medication. Under that were more pouches like Hemostat, clearly designed to be used in emergency and combat situations, yet nowhere was there anything as simple as Advil to be found.

Briiva did her best to play coy while Misha grabbed the bag from her, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Then, when she was sure that her new friend was sufficiently distracted she went for it. Moving surprisingly fast for someone who had just suffered a shoulder laceration maybe an hour before, Briiva had crawled onto the floor, grabbing a bag from under her bed and pulling it open to reveal a very distinctive box.

Misha looked up in time to see Briiva go down to the floor and Davor enter. Then she saw the magical box of high quality liquid happiness. She dropped the bag to her lap and threw up both of her hands in surrender. "I give up. I swear, sweetie, you have the survival instinct of a drunken lemming," she groaned.

Then her grey eyes flicked to the bottle in Davor's hand and, suddenly, it was just too funny for words and Misha started giggling. Her laughter built and bubbled and overflowed, filling the room with light music. One hand came up to cover her mouth and her eyes squeezed shut and her bare shoulders shook.