"¡Ey! ¡cuidadoso! It's not like I've been shot in the leg or anything, now you're prodding and poking at me.."

You weren't. Javier was being dramatic. You'd already plucked the bullet out of his leg with Swanson's help—who was astoundingly sober this time—and were now working to disinfect the wound itself. 'Prodding and poking' was an exaggeration; you were being diligent and sympathetic enough.

He had sought for your assistance after returning to camp in an elevated state fueled by adrenaline after narrowly avoiding death. Javier was only being temperamental regarding the injury he had sustained, and you were offering him your consideration and support.

Javier knew this. He was just mad he was in this situation in the first place.

How did he get here? Robbing the wrong person. A gaudy pocket watch had piqued his interest, and it appeared to be an easy steal. From the perspective of an ignorant idiot. That ignorant idiot being Javier—the man had frantically wheeled around and shot at him shortly after he discovered he was being pick pocketed. And Javier didn't even get the pocket watch...just some lousy bullet wound in his leg.

He had only become aware of said wound once the frenzy started to wear off. And as you treated the damaged area, he really felt it. Javier's hand clenched the cot beneath him with such intensity that his knuckles grew white, a pained groan trapped in the back of his throat and was replaced by a raspy hissing sound as you wrapped the bandage around his leg.

"Ah...knew I should have never robbed that man.."