When he speaks that way, Molotov pauses and glances at his face -- he isn't going to be thanking her in a minute, that's for damn sure.

She stays crouched, reaches up to touch his cheek, and grabs her bottle of gin. "Bite back down," she tells him, her eye focused on his, then twists his shoulder to pour alcohol in the wound, so that it doesn't get infected from the inside. She immediately wipes it back out with gauze from the first aid kit, sops up blood and gin that's run pink, discards pad after pad of gauze until she reaches the last one. She tapes it over the hole, dries his skin with a clean part of the pajama pants.

Then she stands and sort of disappears, only to return a moment later with a questionable tee shirt and a skirt she's already tearing open to make a better sling.

"Think you can change shirts?"