"I'm so sorry, dove, so sorry." he whispered frantically, having to pull the cloth from your abdomen, which had fused with your skin upon burning, and sent your nerves flaring.

You cried out, and he hurriedly pressed his lips to your temple.

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry, luv." he muttered. This was all his fault; he didn't see the grenade coming, and you only managed to deflect it by a short distance. You meant to trade your life for his in that instant, and either by good luck or bad, had survived, with only some skin missing and vessels blasted to oblivion.

He hushed you, wiping the involuntary tears that fled your closed eyes from your cheeks, and got down to work, patching up your organs, as you whimpered softly. The blast took you out, but not as well as anaethetics would have.