At least Fenris doesn't make Astarion's job difficult. He stays still, keeps his arm out of the way as the pale elf tends the seeping wound with deft touches and care. It doesn't trouble him and he does not flinch, used to enduring discomfort for less savory reasons than his own survival.

Astarion's grumbling earns a smile, small as it is, and some amusement in the keen eyes watching him.

"I'm not on death's doorstep anymore," he says with a roll of his eyes. "It might do me well to be more active."

He probably shouldn't push his luck, but Fenris isn't sure he needs to be bedridden any longer. The only way to decide one way or another, he feels, is more activity. And though he has been sleeping more than his usual rest, he's still been awake often enough to be getting bored, even with Astarion's stellar conversation skills.

He looks at Astarion again.

"Get the blood moving."