His jaw tight and teeth grinding as pain shot up his body. A wound in his thigh. In an attempt to escort civilians, he'd been shot at the leg.

He protested against seeing anyone, having dealt with worse than a bullet wound. He protested even as blood soaked his pant leg. You were kneeled in front of him, his pants cut open as you carefully patched up the wound on his thigh.

He grunted at the anaesthetic stung against the injured flesh. "Careful, damnit." He hissed.