"You should try stitchin' them legs on with the bullets rainin' down overhead," Anders smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Certainly a way t' keep your blood pumpin'. Took shrapnel up and down my body not three months back, on account I'd just sewed a man shut and thought it rude of the enemy to fill him back up with lead so fast." He paused. A war between people who loved each other sounded horrible. Still, it was never something he'd had to contend with. "But as far as wars between brothers go I suppose I was lucky. We had a clear enemy with evil intent and nothin' and everything to lose if we failed. I never had t' worry about who shot my friends or me, I could hate them easy."
The bar was becoming uncomfortably firm, and Anders wasn't terribly interested in reminiscing about his service or the experiences in such. He'd probably killed almost as many men as he'd saved, after all. He was no healer.
He turned, reaching up and grabbing an extra bottle, then slowly and carefully slid down off the countertop, letting out a groan as his feet contacted the floor.
"Well! There I go with all the pain and whatnot," he chuckled to himself, leaning against the counter for a moment before giving the Doc a pain-weary grin. "I've got me a lovely booth over there. Big ol' cushions and all. You're welcome to accompany me. Always happy to speak with an educated sort."