He’d thought he was dreaming, when you showed up in the midst of the gunfire to watch his back. His old partner, his friend—he’d watched you die, two years ago, right in front of his eyes. You’d been blown up by a stray grenade, and try as he might, he couldn’t recover your body. He realises now, he couldn’t recover it because you were never dead.

Once you’ve finally managed to get to a safe space, away from the constant bullets flying at your face and enemies out for blood, you’re disarmed and thrown rather harshly to the floor. Can you blame him for not trusting you now?

“You,” He starts, glaring down at you with an unreadable expression on his face. “Have got a damn good bit of explainin’ to do.” You hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome, that’s true, but you were expecting at least a little happiness. You were foolish for that.