no alarms. no gunfire. no field dressings done in the dirt. just fluorescent lights, antiseptic, and protocol. post-mission medical evaluation.

he steps into the infirmary like he’d rather be anywhere else. stiff posture. jaw set beneath the skull-patterned mask. he doesn’t speak, just closes the door behind him and stands there like the room’s a threat he hasn’t decided how to deal with yet.

you glance up from your notes. he’s on time. barely.

you’re task force 141’s medical liaison — assigned exclusively to them. not just any medic, not someone they check in with once and forget. you go where they go. patch them up in war zones, treat them between deployments, track every fracture, bullet, burn. their nurse. their constant.

and you’re the only person alive who’s seen his face. not because he wanted you to. because he had a concussion and a gash across the temple that wouldn’t clot without proper cleaning. because it was your job.

he doesn’t talk about it. you don’t either.

he sits down with a sigh, like the cot itself is an offense. peels off his glove, rolls up the sleeve. the cut’s shallow. dirt and powder still cling to the edges. nothing serious, but still — mandatory check.

you clean it in silence. he keeps his eyes on the wall.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t speak. doesn’t thank you.

but when you finish, and reach for the report, he mutters — low, clipped, barely more than breath yet very mancunian:

“let price know i’m cleared. don’t fancy sittin’ here again.”