[She waits until his collar is open, until she approaches. Syringe in hand, but out of sight. He's anxious enough for so many reasons, and she'll not give him another. Not when all she wants is to help. Not when he's always been so kind. The fabric of his shirt is held away from his skin, she finesses her other hand inside and even blind, the needle slides home. A small pinch, then? Relief as she depresses the plunger.

Sweet soothing morphine at the core of his pain. It's the most she can do for him, well. The most he'll allow. And the least she'll let herself get away with doing.]

Give it a few seconds. If it aches yet, I will give you more. As I'm not entirely certain as to the extent of the damage I cannot in good conscious give you more than this in one go.