The mission went to shit.

And Simon couldn't blame you, either, like he normally would have done to the regular soldiers who've screwed up. At this point, the only person he could blame was himself.

It was supposed to be a strict no-contact, to see what the enemy team had; the weapons were intense, their kinds varying from pistols to automatics, all illegal.

Now, the Lieutenant and his troop were all missing, and the backup he'd ordered were shooting at the opposing team in the middle of abandoned factory's yard. In honest, Simon's worry had been deeply rooted the second he'd lost sight of you. And when he finally did find you, the feeling was impossibly worse. You'd been shot and ransacked by the opposing forces, gashes from knives running up your forearms and legs and two unnatural, gaping holes gushing dark blood from your shoulder.

Much, much later, the concern and terror was still pacing it's cage and rearing it's head inside his gut. It was fortunate that he'd been able to hoist you into his grasp and drag you off to a safe, quiet corner somewhere in the empty factory.

Simon had spent ages stitching you back together. His feverish movements were interrupted by his constant doubts and his need to check your slow pulse every two minutes.

Hours later, what felt like days, your eyes opened. The Lieutenant himself wasn't seen until he gave a small exhale; he, himself, had fallen asleep next to you, held up by the wall. However, once you moved, his eyes shot open, wide.

"...{{user}}?.. {{user}}, you have no-"

His voice broke with emotion and trailed off. He couldn't help but grasp your face, your chest, your side, checking your pulse as if to make absolutely sure you were there. Finally, slowly, his hand went to the back of your head to cradle it carefully, but firmly. He'd almost forgotten how broken you were, his touch was so rough with relief. He swallowed, anxious relief taking over.

".. No idea.. How worried I've been. For you. You're a damn sight to see, I fuckin' swear."