The smell was coppery. A pungent scent of disinfectant as he finished applying the bandage after cleaning the wound. His hands had moved quickly, cleaning the wound of the dead skin and removing your own sloppy stitches. There was independence, and then there was stubbornness.

When finishing up a solo mission, you'd taken a bullet to the side from a nearly dead soldier, who started pushing up daisies before you could even give retribution.The shot missed all vital organs, simply embedding itself in your side, leaving you without the proper resources to remove it without risking further irritation. A few days of infection and sloppy radio connection later, you'd made it back to the extraction point on time and with enough adrenaline coursing through your veins for your behavior to not arouse suspicion with the soldiers you came in contact with. The bullet was still lodged in your flesh, and it stayed there till you had gone back to your barracks and begun trying to remove it yourself, belt clenched between your teeth and forceps in trembling hands.

Letting the medics know about the injury would result in being taken off further missions for a recovery period and would cause more of a fuss than you deemed necessary for an injury you'd managed to deal with so far. Even if painfully. You could handle it yourself. Though it seemed your "luck" had run dry when Gaz had entered the room. His reason for the intrusion was never brought up, instead, he saw whatever medical malpractice you were indulging in, and demanded you go to the medics. You insisted against it, It was irrational, but you seemed more terrified of being seen as "weak" instead of the risk of death from the improper treatment.

You'd argued back and forth till he set the condition that he wouldn't pull rank and order you to the medics, as long as you let him look at it right this moment.

"How bad were you planning on letting this get?" He sounds mad. An irritation and edge to his voice as he scolds you. "Neglect like this is plain immature."