"Fuckin' recruits can’t hold a bloody shiv without—" Simon’s voice trailed off into grumbled curses as he hurried into the medical office, your eyes trained on your paperwork. He sits himself on a cot and huffs. "Good-morning Lieutenant. How are you?" You hum, not looking up to him as you finish your work. "Fuckin' peachy. Couldn’t be better. What about you, Doc?" He sighs, watching as you finally stand and walk to his cot to patch him up.