Lazarus' own expression is difficult to read; it's relaxed, but there's a troubled undercurrent playing tricks with the light in his glassy eyes. He blinks, but doesn't flinch when she snaps at him.

"We won't heal if we stay in bed forever," he says, standing again, wondering if doing so in front of Misa will inspire the damaged muscle tissue to better cleave to bone and support his weight. "Do you need me to get you anything? Your deodorant, maybe? It's in the bathroom. I know you like to smell nice..."

It's a sincere attempt, if one that some might find insulting, and he's already off to fetch it on a leg that screams hot daggers every time his weight tentatively falls on it.