Adelaide puts some clean gauze over the stitches, though she doubts it will last very long, tapes the edge tidily and smooths it down over muscle, and she can't really complain about a job like that. The trash is all balled up and set aside where Charlie can't reach it, as he lays lazily on his blanket, drinking a bottle with drooping eyes and watching Skittles' tail twitch on the bench seat above. The dog is asleep by the door, Jims has started to snore in his room, and Adelaide can't believe that they all made it back to be here in this cramped little space. She leaves her hand rested next to the dressing she's just put on, shakes her head and lets that grim that came into her eyes go. He'll heal, and so will Jims, and what-if doesn't mean anything. "I like your face," she protests. "I think it's more likely those real aggressive patches you all like to wear," she opines. "What a fucking great patch," she quotes, grinning at him because even when she first saw it, amid all her dislike for the whole system, she had to laugh. Just leave it to him.
Still kneeling, sitting back on her feet beside him, she looks over his face while he reacts to her nudging at him. She's poked and prodded him into interacting with her like it's her right maybe forever, but it's especially apparent now, with this. He won't ever get away with retreating from it, certainly not now that she's amassed so many clues that he does, indeed, like the idea of being with her. She can see the pulse jump in his throat as he lays there still. He can't look her in the eye, and isn't that quite a damn thing? She's smothering a grin when she responds. "Well that's all well and good for you, but I didn't have any such excuse," she says. She ducks her head and laughs a little, shrugs. "Then again, I'll be damned if she doesn't already think we're nuts."