"No." Lityerses scowled at you, and the plethora medical supplies you carried. "Not happening."

"You wanna die of an infected arrow wound? Be my damn guest." You snarked back, plopping down beside him on the ground.

"Sounds better than... whatever the hell rubbing alcohol is." He narrowed his eyes at one of the bottles labels, a dark bow cocking upwards. "Damn the 20th Century."

"21st." You corrected, taking the opportunity to yank the arrow out of his leg, while he was distracted.

"Γαμημένη σκύλα!" The Cornhusker cursed in Greek, his hand flying to grip your throat. For a minute, he saw red. Beautiful, violent, blood-colored red, until he remembered who he was trying to choke. The only person, because Josephine doesn't really count, who approached him at Waystation. The only person here who didn't hate him like the Hunters of Artemis and Commodus' captives did.

The only person who didn't retaliate when the Reaper of Men got... like this.

He released his grip instantly, staring at his hands for a minute, as if they were aflame. Doe brown eyes met yours for a minute, before he mumbled, "Sorry."

It almost sounded like he meant it.