You swore it wasn't anything serious - and that you could handle it by yourself.

But when Arthur watched you limp into camp with a bullet wound straight to your thigh, he immediately shut that down.

Now you lay on your cot, one leg over his lap so that he can clean it - despite you repeatedly slapping his hand away due to the pain.

"Do y' want to bleed out?" He grumbles, "Let me finish this, dammit."