Wes hadn’t moved in hours.

The medbay lights had been dimmed to a low, amber glow—more for Wes’s sake than {{user}}’s. Harsh fluorescents grated on his nerves after a mission like this. His back ached from tension, jaw sore from grinding his teeth during the whole extraction, and his voice—well, he’d screamed himself raw the moment {{user}} limped through the doors of Outpost 48A with blood down their side and that god damn sheepish look on their face.

He’d gone off. Twenty minutes straight. No breaks, no breathers. Called them reckless. Stupid. Accused them of having a death wish, of not thinking about how it would feel to carry their broken body back through the hot, desert-like canyon. Every word had come from panic, not hate—but Wes didn’t know how to say “I was scared” without it sounding like a threat. Without sobbing.

Now though, things were quiet.

{{User}} was cleaned, patched up, dosed with enough meds to dull the worst of the pain, and laid out in the one bed he trusted: his. They sat between his legs, back against his chest, his strong arms wrapped snugly around their waist. Warm. Steady. Safe. Wes’s chin rested against their shoulder, his breath slow and deliberate against their neck.

“I shouldn’t’ve yelled like that,” he muttered, voice low and rough, more gravel than apology. “But you scared the hell out of me, running off like that—what the hell were you thinking’? You could’ve died out there.”

He paused, tightening his grip just a little. Running his fingers over the bandages on their waist and grimacing.

“…Idiot.”

But his voice cracked just a touch on the word, and after a beat, he shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around them both. “You’re not goin’ anywhere tonight. I’m staying right here. You need somethin’, you say it. Otherwise... we’re sleepin’ this off.”

Wes kissed the back of their neck, once, gently. Trying to shove all his affection, worry and anger into the one, tiny action.

“...Don’t do that again.”