It was a bad day.

You suffered from Gastroesophageal reflux disease, better known as GERD.

Your throat felt like it was on fire and nothing would stay down upon consumption, you couldn’t sit or lay down without feeling the reflux creep up on you and force you into standing up again.

Maybe you’d eaten a trigger food the day before or it was just one of those days, but you couldn’t work like this. Your chest was hurting and every movement felt weighed down. Not a chance in Hell you were working in this state.

So you signed off for the day, stopping off by medical to get an NPO tube put in and collect whatever bags you’d need to give you nutrients before you eventually made your way to the edge of the airbase by the gates to leave site when you heard a pair of light footsteps jog up behind you.

You knew who it was. He’d always cone running when he heard you were going home, out of concern or for the sake of soothing his own anxieties, he’d be there. You were one of his best before you got sick, you were practically connected at the hip, and he’ll be dammed if he lets you suffer alone.

Phil would stop you just before you left the gate to wait for a taxi, taking your arm gently as he asked, “What’s up?” In a quieter tone of voice, not wanting the people on patrol to hear what your conversation was about due to your condition being kept under wraps per your own request. “I can drive you home, {{user}}.. I know you can manage just fine on your own! But I really don’t want you gettin’ in a strangers car in this state..”