Monthly Checkups and Grumpy Soldiers (part 2)
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The first time he comes back to the med bay on his own, you assume it’s an accident.
You’re sitting at your desk, legs tucked under your chair, carefully lining up a row of bandages by size while your pink clipboard rests beside you. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something sweet from the lip balm you keep absentmindedly using.
Bootsteps echo in the doorway.
Lieutenant Simon Riley, filling the frame like he always does, broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides, skull mask stark against the sterile white of the room.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks around the room—at the pink notes, the ribbons, the soft clutter that doesn’t belong in a place like this.
You tilt your head slightly. “Are you hurt?”
He shifts his weight once.
Your smile softens, just a little brighter this time. “You’re early.”
But you don’t call him out on it.
Instead, you pick up your clipboard and stand. “Well, I’m glad you came.”
He sits without being told this time.
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Not all at once. Not obvious.
But you start noticing him more.
Sometimes he lingers in the doorway like he’s deciding whether or not to walk in. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he just stands there long enough for you to glance up and smile before he disappears again.
The first time he shows up with an actual injury, it’s minor—a shallow cut across his knuckles.
You notice it immediately.
You’re already standing. “Sit.”
You clean the cut gently, your fingers steady as you press gauze against his skin. He doesn’t flinch, but he watches you closely, dark eyes tracking every movement.
“You should come in sooner when things like this happen..” you murmur.
He huffs quietly. “S’not necessary.”
“It is if you don’t want it getting infected.”
You wrap his hand carefully, neat and precise.
When you’re done, you reach for your clipboard—then pause.
You rummage through one of your drawers and pull something out.
Small. Pink. A little smiley face.
You place it gently on the back of his bandage.
He looks back down at the sticker like it personally offended him.
But he doesn’t take it off.
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After that, you start giving them to him every time.
A rainbow. A flower. Once, a tiny cartoon cat.
At first, he just… tolerates it.
Stares at them. Says nothing.
But he keeps coming back.
And slowly—very slowly—he starts talking.
“Because I still like it.”
You learn the rhythm of him. The pauses. The way he stands just a little too still, like he’s always bracing for something bad.
The way you hum quietly while you work. The way you tap your pen against your clipboard when you’re thinking. The way you always smile at him like he’s not something to be feared.
One day, he comes in without saying a word and sits down.
You glance up, already smiling.
“Alright. But you still have to let me check you over.”
He exhales, but there’s no real resistance in it.
When you finish, you press a small sticker—a pink heart this time—against the back of his wrist.
Your fingers brush his skin.
You don’t pull away quickly. Don’t make it awkward.
“See?” you say lightly. “Worth it.”
And something in his gaze shifts.
Dangerously close to something he doesn’t let himself feel.
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He starts finding reasons to come in.
A sore shoulder. A headache. A cut that definitely could’ve waited.
You just take care of him.
And each time, he stays a little longer.
One afternoon, he leans against the counter instead of sitting, watching you organize supplies.
“This.” He gestures vaguely at the room. “All of it.”
You smile a little, softer than usual.
“Because someone has to take care of people.”
He watches you for a long moment.
And there’s something heavy in the way he says it.
Like he’s not used to being one of those people.
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The day everything changes, it happens fast.
You’re in the med bay, halfway through reorganizing your drawers, when the doors slam open.
You turn, heart jumping into your throat.
It soaks through his gear, dark and spreading, dripping onto the floor in a trail that makes your stomach twist.
“Gunshot,” someone says. “And shrapnel—he’s losing a lot—”
“Get him on the table,” you cut in, already moving.
The softness disappears—not gone, just… buried.
Your hands are steady as you strip away his gear, as you press gauze hard against the wound.
“Simon,” you say, firm. “Stay with me.”
His head turns slightly at the sound of his name.
“Hey,” you murmur, softer now, even as your hands work quickly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
His blood stains your pink scrubs.
“Pressure.” you say, and someone else takes over where you guide them. You move to the next wound, assessing, thinking, acting.
You know what you’re doing.
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper under your breath as you work, voice barely audible over the chaos. “You still owe me like… ten checkups.”
His hand twitches weakly against the table.
You grab it without thinking and squeeze.
For a second, his grip tightens—just barely—but it’s there.
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Orders. Movement. Blood. Pressure. Sutures.
At some point, he’s stabilized.
At some point, the bleeding slows.
At some point, the room gets quieter.
All you remember is standing there, hands stained, chest tight, staring down at him as he finally lies still.
not lifeless, just… resting.
“…You’re okay.” you murmur, more to yourself than him.
But your hand is still holding his.
Even when everything else is finally still.
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