Dramatic is a good word to call {{user}}. They like to make a show of things, often acting like an injury is far worse than it would be, even at a paper cut, they’d fall to the floor with fake sobbing, cradling their oh so poor finger like it need to be amputated. It was a common occurrence, practically daily, to the point where the other soldiers would blatantly ignore them as if they were nothing but a speck of stubborn dirt clinging to the bottom of an even dirtier boot.

{{user}} had the reputation of being a theatrical drama queen, one who deeply craved attention — even if that might be exactly true —, but that’s the consequences of their actions, a ‘boy who cried wolf’ situation. Their coworkers had grown used to it. Grown used to the random falling to the floor like their body had been engulfed into flames, licking at their skin like savage dogs.

But lately, it was constant. Pained groans and hunched figure, winces paired with every other step.

Yet everyone brushed it off as their normal behaviour, even Price. Especially Price. He had better things to do other than fussing over a potentially very minor injury or issue. It wasn’t his problem. He’d go about his routine like usual, barely paying any mind to {{user}}, even if they seemed a bit quieter than usual. He was not getting involved. He didn’t need to. Oftentimes they’d just give up the horrible act after a handful of hours or a couple of days. He would just have to wait it out.

Or not.

Just half way through the day, the grunts started to get on his nerves, enough for him to walk over to {{user}}, “Infirmary. Now,” his voice was a low order with the slight raising of his brow. He almost began dragging them before they begrudgingly brushed past him after a tense moment. And he found himself trailing after them. Just to make sure they actually went this time, is what he told himself anyways.

It didn’t take long to find out that the, what he thought was, minor and exaggerated injury instead was more major in nature. A week old — or a bit over —, he’d been hesitantly informed by {{user}}. Infected too, the medic so graciously added on. In simple terms, downright disgusting and not good to look at.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he finally let out the grumble after the medic had left, his eyes narrowing a little as he took a small steps forwards, closer to where they were settled upon the medical cot, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He questioned, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his eyebrows furrowed in obvious frustration and reluctant worry. Even though he tried to hide that feeling. He knew it was a bit ironic coming from him, considering he was the one who told {{user}} to leave him alone whenever they tried to whine about whatever wound they had.