( yes, it would be this exact moment where she absolutely regrets not just walking out of the infirmary and going back to--whatever it was she'd been doing, oh, she'd completely forgotten at this point. it's highly annoying that her thoughts are now turned to this idiot lying in a hospital bed of his own doing; it's not even like he'd been really in a battle, just practicing some dumb shot that he likely wouldn't get the hang of in time for any of the mock battles anyway, and so what's the point? just a waste of energy, as she sees it. normally she might rip right into him or at least give him the gracious disapproval of walking away, but: well, he really is injured, and it really is his blood on her hands, which is enough to have her furiously scrubbing a bit more at her fingers, trying desperately to rid every little line and ridge of the stain.

it's absurd to think about, anyway. the blood just makes her thoughts go to places more serious--but then, if he'd been in a real battle, there would be so much more of it, wouldn't there?

her lips press together, a slight inflation to her cheeks before she lets all the air out in a scoff. )

This is the last place I would get around to... doing whatever it is you're thinking of. Come on, I'm not going to take it off for you.

( her hands reach and wring out the cloth that's inside the basin; the water is cold and uncomfortable, which will bode well for claude and his silly wound, but it does make her hands feel a bit clammy. once she's certain it won't drip everywhere, she draws it out, holding it awkwardly between her fingers like she isn't quite sure how best to do this, even as she steps uncertainly close to his side. listen, no one ever said she had a great bedside manner. )

Well, do you want my help or not? Last offer, you know.