Sticks And Stones

[anotherknight]

He's never wrong.

He never allows himself to be wrong.

But it's staring him right in the face.

A lapse in judgment.

An error.

The few strips of gauze he's pulled from the drawer just aren't going to be enough to fix this mess.

The blood soaked wad currently in his hand is hurled in the direction of the sink.

Comments

[_alfred_]

The bloody mess is caught deftly before it hits the sink. "Tch, tch ... medical waste belongs in the orange bin, sir."

[anotherknight]

"Leave the lid open and I'll just climb in."

[_alfred_]

"Might I suggest a different course of action, sir?" Alfred approaches with a deference that would fool anyone except the World's Greatest Detective. "Allow me, sir."

[anotherknight]

He's not in much of a position to protest. The wounded arm leaves him one available hand with which to work. "Tell me it doesn't need stitches and I'll consider it a successful evening."

Piss and vinegar.

[_alfred_]

"A curious choice of goals, sir. Myself, I would recommend that you give thanks that you have avoided septicemia."

With his usual efficiency, Alfred has assembled what he needs to clean and dress the wound, shaking his head in ostentatious yet silent disapproval.

[anotherknight]

"Should have been worse." The comment is more of a self-reprimand than a response. Distraction can be a lethal enemy. It proved a constant companion this unusually short evening. Truth be told, he should never have left the water tower.

He absently rubs the free hand over his face.

[_alfred_]

"Assuredly." Despite the acid tinge to those four syllables, the old man's touch is gentle as he dresses the wound. "Regardless, this shall require a single suture. Would you like a boiled sweet or shall you engage your usual tactic of gritting your teeth most stoically?"