“Ouch. Damnation.” Lena cursed quietly, sucking at her thumb. The needle fell into her lap, barely visible in the firelight against the off-white color of her torn skirt. (It had been a white skirt once upon a time, but time and travel had stained it a permanent off-white color that no amount of bleaching seemed to lighten) The tang of blood ran across her tongue. She’d really stabbed herself this time… A shadow fell across her torn skirt, and she looked up just in time to see Damien lift the skirt and needle out of her lap.

“Let me.” He murmured quietly.

She half rose, reaching out to grab the skirt. “Damien, no.” She insisted. “You already bandaged my leg and made dinner. Let me do my own mending. There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“You’re terrible at sewing, Lena.” He pointed out dryly. “If I let you keep trying to sew this up, there will be something wrong with your hands, and the seam will be all lumpy.”

She scowled, but let the skirt fall. He was right, after all. He moved to the log where he had been sitting before she had jabbed her thumb with the needle and began to make neat, tiny stitches in the tear. “I don’t see how you’re so good at this.” She grumbled.

“Practice, mainly.”

“That’s what you said when I asked how you got so good at fighting too.” She observed grumpily, rubbing at the cut on her thigh. It wasn’t deep or serious, but it ached and itched. They had been ambushed by bandits, and one of them had gotten under her guard to slice her thigh. That was why she had a skirt to mend, and why he’d had to bandage her thigh in the first place. She sat now in a spare pair of his pants. They were, she noted, much more comfortable, but much more worn than anything she owned. The bandages on her leg were faintly visible through them. She made a mental note to look into buying him some new clothes next time they were in town.

“That is how I became good at fighting.” He insisted. “That’s how everyone becomes good at it.”

She grunted. “I still think you should have let me cook dinner at least.”

He scowled at her from over the fire. “Not on that leg. I bandaged you, but it still needs time to heal.”

She sighed in frustration and surged to her feet. He stood almost in the same breath, dropping her skirt on the log and reaching out a hand towards her. She walked toward him, limping only slightly and held her arms out. “So? I can walk just fine. It barely hurts, Damien. You worry too much.”