"I'm a favored son of the god of luck," Ryouma said. "Or something." He twisted to inspect her neat bandaging job, rolled his shoulder experimentally, and winced. "The rubber dolls probably don't hurt."

Actually, it wasn't that bad. They'd both taken another painkiller, and the ache was now pleasantly distant, as if he'd left it behind with the clones outside the inn. He smiled down at Katsuko. "Thanks."

Her mouth tilted in a wry returning smile, almost a smirk. The curve of her lower lip--thin, a little chapped, split from the same blow that had cracked her mask and opened a narrow gash under her left eye--snared his gaze. He wet his own lips, remembering the taste of ginger candy, and her smirk widened.

Right, then. Two could play at that game. Ryouma reached around her for the alcohol and bag of cotton swabs she'd used to clean his wounds. His hip protested a little with the sudden movement, but the cut had crusted over long ago and it didn't break open now. He pushed off the bench, skirted the medical kit laid out at her feet, and sank down again straddling the bench behind her. His breath brushed the strands of hair escaping from her bun and trailing down her neck. "Armor off, Katsuko."