Gaz never enjoyed hauling his wounded body into the infirmary. Usually, he’d wrap up the blooded gashes and cuts on his own, but this specific one was too deep for him to properly care for solo.

Entering the medical wing, the head nurse called a name, watching as you walked over with a clipboard, “Take care of Garrick here, left shoulder.”

He rolled his eyes, turning away to refocus on a different patient, leaving you to bring Gaz to a separate room. Walking inside, he huffed. What are the odds he’d be stuck with a rookie?

Gaz hated rookies, bubbly ones the most. Just fix the damn problem in silence, it can’t be that hard. He sat down on the edge of the patient bed reluctantly, holding the open cut.

{{user}} walked up to him, inspecting the wound before grabbing some supplies. Gaz looked over the items you taken, groaning at the sight of a needle and thread. This required stitches, fucking fantastic.

“Hold still,” you mumbled.

Gaz despised these idiotic looking hospital gowns. He felt exposed without his usual gear and fitted uniform, making the experience 10x worse but right now… he was quite comfortable. {{user}} wasn’t over talkative or extremely rude, just in the middle. The perfect example of how every man or woman with your job should act.

He flinched, feeling the needle pierce his skin, never showing much emotion other than slight discomfort. The pain was manageable, nothing he hasn’t felt yet for some reason, the silence that surrounded him was unusually loud. Gaz never felt the need to start up a conversation in these moments… except for now.

“So… how’s the gash looking?”