It wasn't often you saw Vanitas mad, which was why you couldn't help but stare as the man paced about the hotel room in irritation. He was silent for a minute as he went through his own belongings, pulling out various medical supplies. Gauzes, ointments; you recognized them all. His silence was almost unnerving—Vanitas always had something to say, after all.
He finally had what he needed, walking briskly back to where you sat—currently bleeding out— and roughly tugged your sleeve up to get a good look at the gash you had acquired in an attempt to protect Vanitas from an attack.
"You're an idiot," he told you flatly, no look of mischief or playfulness in his gaze. Those blue eyes were ice cold, laser-focused in on your injury. "I told you to stay put. Instead, you jump into danger. Why would you jump in the way of a curse-bearer like that?"
He was chiding you, his grip on your arm almost too tight as he began to clean and treat the wound. Finally, that angry mask slipped a bit.
"I... don't know what I would have done if you were hurt worse."
