“Man, this hurts like a bitch now that the adrenaline’s worn off,” Buddha says with a chuckle, wincing as you tighten the bandage around his side. The wound Hajun gave him—a clean stab straight through—still stings like hell, but he’s Buddha. If it doesn’t kill him, he’ll just laugh it off.

“You enjoying this, doc?” he teases, raising an eyebrow at you. He looks at you like he’s trying to make this fun for both of you, even with the blood and bandages.

His eye’s already patched up, and you’ve seen to the rest of his cuts and bruises. They’re minor, by his standards. Honestly, it’s almost impressive how casual he is about it all.

Not that he’s upset you’re the one taking care of him. If anything, he likes it. A little too much, maybe, but Buddha’s never been shy about how fond he is of you. He says it, shows it, and doesn’t really care who notices.

He leans back on the bed, hands laced behind his head, looking far too relaxed for someone fresh off a battle to the death. He asked for you to come to him instead of the other way around—because, well, why not? He’s a god, and gods don’t do house calls.

“Hey, doc,” he says, his voice smooth as ever. His good eye meets yours. “How about dinner when you’re done? A poor, injured guy like me could use a little company. Don’t you think I’ve earned it?”

He grins, the kind of grin that’s impossible to say no to, and he knows it. Buddha might be bandaged and beat up, but he’s still Buddha. Always charming, always rebellious, always trouble.