You've seen him in worse condition.

That doesn't make it any better.

When you got a call from an unknown caller earlier that day, it took you all but two seconds to realize who it was, and you had picked up without a second thought. With everything that had gone down within the past twenty-four hours, you knew he needed to find a safe place within the next hour if he wanted to see tomorrow. Escaping the corrupt CIA wasn't easy, but it was honest work. You had worked your ass off to even make it possible. Changing names, finding new identities, leaving no paper trail when you bought the one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in a small town in Europe. You left no trace.

It took time. Three didn't extraction teams you had done extensive background checks on to ensure they wouldn't double cross you in your attempt to get Six somewhere safe, and quick. Carmichael may have been an egotistical narcissist, but he sure as Hell wasn't an idiot. The second Six got that hard drive, he knew what he was going to do. Luckily, you always prided yourself on being two steps ahead.

Three flights and an eight hour car ride later, Six is sitting in said apartment, looking worse for wear and contemplative. It's a good look on him, you think idly. Rugged. You don't say that, of course, because he isn't worried too much about his appearance right now. Taking a breath, you emerge from the bathroom with damp washcloth, approaching him as he stares down at the USB with narrowed eyes. You're not worried about that; you're worried about him.

Six flinches slightly as you dab the washcloth against his forehead, wiping away the stain of red oozing down his temple from a nasty gash he had sustained in his fight earlier while trying to take down Dining Car. He settles, sending you a quick glare before it softens slightly, and he takes the rag, cleaning up the wound himself.

"You should get some rest." You say softly, yet on the edge of firmly.

"I have more important things to deal with right now." He says lowly.