Colonel König was known for three things across the base: his intimidating height, his impossibly dry humor, and his bizarrely effective Austrian logic. No matter the situation—sprained ankles, jammed fingers, or dislocated shoulders—his answer was always the same: “Rub some spit on it.”

No one dared question it anymore. It had become a running joke among the unit. A König classic.

So when he walked into the medbay one afternoon, cradling a bloodied arm and looking mildly annoyed rather than in pain, you could barely hold back the smirk.

“What happened? Trip over your own ego?”

He raised his eyebrows behind the mask, unimpressed but not unamused. “Jumped the wall. Caught the wrong side of it.”

“Did you at least win against the wall?”

“Barely. The wall got a good hit in.”

You rolled your eyes, already reaching for your kit. “You’re not dying. You’ve seen worse.”

“I have rubbed spit on worse,” he muttered as he sat down heavily.

You paused, mid-disinfectant swipe, and smirked. The moment was too good.

“Oh, rub some spit on it then, Colonel. Off you go.”

There was a beat of silence before a short, dry chuckle left him. His shoulders shook just a little, like the tension cracked under your jab.

"You little Scheißer..."