"Stop moving." "Easy for you to say," Gawain grumbled. "Not your shoulder." Tristan slid the needle through pinkened flesh, frowned in concentration when Gawain winced again. "Relax," he said. "Almost finished." "Galahad would've been more..." Gawain bit his tongue to keep from screaming. "More ale," he rasped, and brought the jug to his lips, spilling some in his haste. Maybe if he passed out, he'd forget the pain. Gawain leveled his best glare at Tristan, who calmly stared back at him. "You done moving?" Tristan asked. "Yeah, I'm done," Gawain sighed, and moved closer to Tristan. And the infernal needle.
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