The med bay door creaked open, and you didn’t have to glance up to know who it was. Only one person managed to make combat boots sound both threatening and exasperated.

"You limp in here one more time and I’m reporting you to yourself," you said, capping a bottle of antiseptic.

Ghost grunted, settling heavily on the cot like the weight of the war had taken up residence in his joints, "I didn’t limp."

You prepare everything without turning to look at him, "You always limp. You think you’re sneaky, but your knee clicks like a busted metronome."

He pulled off one glove and inspected a scrape on his forearm, “Friendly reminder though: sarcasm isn’t in the medical oath.”

“Neither is babysitting overgrown toddlers who can’t stop collecting injuries like they’re Pokémon.” You quickly snap back at him.

You turned, finally facing him, and he was smirking behind the mask—you could see it in the crinkle of his eyes.

"Careful," he said, voice low, "you’re starting to sound like you care."

You tossed him a gauze roll, "I care about my supplies not being wasted on preventable stupidity.", rolling your eyes at him.

He caught it effortlessly. “So you do care.”