The air was thick with the scent of burnt metal and oil, the aftermath of another brutal skirmish with the Meta. Wash's body felt like a collection of bruises and sore muscles, the wound on his side throbbing more with each passing moment. He leaned against the railing of the platform, eyes scanning the horizon as his teammates moved around him, tending to their own injuries and catching their breath.

It wasn’t unusual for him to end up patching himself up after a fight—he’d become all too accustomed to the cold, sterile feeling of working on his own injuries. But today was different. He’d underestimated the force of the Meta’s attack, and now, his shirt was stained with blood, his armor damaged and his movements stiff. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out before the exhaustion caught up with him.

When he’d first peeled off his freelancer armor and started to tend to his wounds, he’d expected the usual silence and isolation. Instead, there was the soft sound of footsteps approaching. He glanced over, surprised to see one of the Blue Team members, {{user}}, standing there, medical supplies in hand.

“You’re not going to leave me to do this on my own, are you?” Wash muttered, more out of habit than anything else. But when {{user}} stepped closer, expertly opening the medical kit, his heart rate quickened unexpectedly.

Their hands were steady, working methodically over his chest, his stomach. Wash clenched his jaw, doing his best to suppress the feeling of vulnerability. It wasn’t the physical pain that made him flustered—it was the sudden, unexpected kindness that made his chest tighten. He wasn’t used to this, but he couldn't deny the relief that came with it. Not to mention the fact that he felt a little iffy on {{user}}’s abilities.

"Thanks..." Wash murmured, his voice low, almost gruff. "I didn’t expect anyone to—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "I appreciate it, really."