<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">With surprising strength, Cat used the pads of her fingers at strategic points to <i>push</i> just right, snapping the bone back into place.  She knew from experience that it hurt like hell -- as bad or worse as the initial injury, because now there was inflammation to deal with.  She placed her hand flat over the rib, applying a soothing pressure.  It didn't do much to fix the injury, but she'd long felt that sometimes just having a hand there helped psychologically.  "Remember to breath deep even though it hurts, or you'll court pneumonia," she ordered.  Then... because she'd had more liquor in a short amount of time than she normally did, her mouth continued without her consent.  "If you court anything, I'd rather it be me."  <br/>
<br/>
She backed off and dealt with the detritus of first aid, throwing away the used alcohol wipe and the packages that everything had came in.  Her cheeks were burning and she was resolutely not looking at him.  Not only was this a spectacularly bad time for a flirtation -- he was a dangerous man to indulge in it with.  What if he took her seriously?<br/>
<br/>
Did she want him to take it seriously?  Fuck, this was why she didn't drink around people.</span></span>