Asuma stared at her.

"Salsa dancing," he said, after a beat, and shook off her hand. Deliberately, he held up the cloth and empty bottle of antiseptic, shaking them slightly. "They not familiar with the concept of complete medical care on your planet? Because I'd hate to see your back make it home alive while your neck rots off."

Tsume's hand darted to her clawed, knife-bitten throat, fingers hesitating over bruise-ringed stitches. Clotting scabs. She winced, then snapped, "It's fine. You doused it and stitched it."

"Yeah, and now I'm bandaging it," Asuma told her firmly. "Are we going to have an argument about this? Because I warn you right now, I will definitely fall on you." A smile twitched his lips, undercut by steel. "Twice, probably."