"I am," is automatic and almost overlapping her last syllable. Lucius hesitates, as if actually readying himself instead of simply saying it before he can change his mind at the sight of hemostats and needle, before he adds, "Carry on."

He knows of stitches, of course, although has never required it himself when potions, balms and superficial charms on the end of someone else's wand had sufficed, and usually in battle he was. Quicker. On the retreat. Morbid curiousity has him looking when she goes to start, brow knit in some disgust at the concept of simply being sewn back together, and there's a small, strangled sound at the back of his throat.

He'll be using that spoon, then, laying deep bite marks in it where harder bone dents softer wood. It is mostly to stop himself from saying anything.