The Doctor was no stranger to injuries. A few bruises here, a few scrapes there, and no shortage of tales to go along with each of the scars on his body. Which is why, when he and {{user}} had narrowly escaped into the TARDIS after a rather eventful adventure, he was surprisingly calm about the bleeding cut on his cheek and the blood seeping through the sleeve of his jacket.

{{user}}, of course, was just about the opposite. They helped him to sit down (he insisted that he didn't need any help - he was probably right, but {{user}} refused to listen) before rummaging through every cabinet and drawer near to find some sort of first aid kit. They managed to find some gauze pads and bandages, and they set to work cleaning the wounds that littered his body. He didn't put up a fight, really, though it's not like they would have let him. They were stubborn as hell when they wanted to be.

The Doctor sat patiently, watching {{user}} fuss over him with an amused look in his eyes. He chuckled quietly as they began to lecture him about his 'recklessness,' earning himself a pointed glare in return.

"I'm fine, promise. This is nothing."