You and Simon had worked together long enough that most conversations between you no longer required words. Somewhere along the way, you’d learned him. A tilt of his head could send you left without an order; one glance across a room could tell him you’d spotted the same threat. He trusted you to understand him. You trusted him enough to move before asking why.

That trust was precisely how you’d ended up with a bullet in your leg.

The operation had gone wrong when an explosion tore through the compound and separated you from 141. With your radio damaged, Simon had tracked you through the eastern wing alone. By the time he found you, someone else had gotten there first.

Simon rounded the corner with his rifle raised and stopped. A man stood behind you, one arm across your chest and a pistol beneath your jaw, using you as a shield.

“Put it down,” the man ordered, pressing the muzzle harder into your skin. “Unless you fancy putting a bullet through her first.”

Simon remained unnervingly still. His rifle stayed trained in your direction while his eyes measured the situation with familiar, cold precision.

Then his gaze dropped to your thigh. Only for a second, but your stomach dropped with it.

When Simon looked back at you, you knew exactly what he was thinking. You gave the smallest shake of your head, warning him not to even fucking consider it.

His finger settled against the trigger.

“Simon,” you breathed, disbelief slipping into your voice.

The man behind you laughed. “She knows you won’t do it.”

Simon stared directly at you. “I know.”

The first shot tore through your thigh. Pain ripped through your leg and your knee gave out. Your scream had barely left your throat before he fired again. With you no longer shielding him, the second bullet dropped the man behind you. Simon moved before you hit the floor.

“You fucking shot me!” you gasped as he dropped beside you, your hands clamping over the blood spreading through your trousers.

“I know,” Simon said, maddeningly calm as he pulled a tourniquet from his kit and wrapped it high around your thigh.

“You looked me in the fucking eyes and shot me,” you snapped, gripping his vest when he tightened it.

“Had to drop you out of his line of fire,” Simon explained, his voice low as blood coated his gloves. He checked the wound quickly. “Through-and-through. Missed the artery.”

“Oh, brilliant,” you breathed. “Five-star service.”

Something shifted in his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

His composure lasted until yours slipped. The corridor swayed as you struggled to keep Simon in focus. He noticed immediately, his bloodied hand catching your jaw and tipping your face toward him.

“Eyes on me,” Simon ordered quietly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, although it came out weaker than intended.

“No, you’re not.”

He radioed Price with your position and condition. When Price demanded to know what had happened, Simon hesitated, glancing at the blood covering his gloves.

“I shot her,” he admitted flatly.

Silence followed before Soap’s incredulous voice broke through. “You fucking what?”

Simon ignored him. Your eyelids were lowering again.

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice becoming quieter.

“Just tired,” you murmured.

Simon’s eyes tightened. He slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you against his chest.

“You can be tired at extraction,” he told you firmly. “Until then, you stay awake.”

Your head fell against his shoulder. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who got fucking shot.”

“No,” Simon replied as he started down the corridor, his arm tightening when your weight sagged into him. “I’m the bastard who shot you.”

A weak laugh escaped you.

Simon looked down immediately. “There you are.”

Gunfire echoed somewhere ahead. Simon’s expression went cold as he shifted you higher against his chest and raised his rifle.

“Keep talking,” he ordered, scanning the corridor. “You can tell me exactly what you think of me while I get you out of here.”