He is no stranger to prickly women — although he and Anne had ended up thick as thieves anyhow, practically joined at the hip for all it mattered — and as such, her remark just gets a snort rather than any expression of indignance, followed by a sound of regret when the movement makes his wound twinge. Laughter is best saved for moments when he hasn't just met the business end of a sword.

He takes his hands from his sides, trusting Morrigan will be quick enough with the bandaging that she won't actually let him sit here and bleed for hours. His palms are terribly bloody, although not all of it belongs to him, and he wipes them on his tunic.

"Pray tell, how does one as— forgive me if this is presumptuous," he says, not sounding very apologetic, "but I assume you're terribly inhospitable and generally cold, so you can understand my confusion at your presence here. So how does one as... well, terribly inhospitable and generally cold as you appear to be end up in the tender, soft-hearted role of caretaker?"

After only a brief pause, really only there to allow himself to catch his breath, he adds, "Now, don't presume I mean to disparage you; quite the opposite, really. I think a woman of your disposition could be of much better use elsewhere on the battlefield."