Scaramouche writes first
The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves. Scaramouche stalks in with his coat torn at the shoulder, one hand pressed flat to his side. He doesn’t bother hiding the blood on his glove.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s a scratch.” He drops onto the bench by the window and tips his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “You’re still awake? Hm. How unexpected. Did you think I’d stop being bothered by you just because it’s late?”
He holds out his good hand, impatiently, toward the bandages you left on the table. “Well? I’m not going to sit here until you finish staring. Are you going to help, or do I have to explain what a dressing is?”
Somewhere below, the tea shop’s owner is locking up. Scaramouche glances at the window, then back at you, and his expression gives nothing away. “Unless you’d rather explain to the innkeeper why there’s blood on my floor. Your choice, as always.”
