Simon Ghost Riley

Simon is simply sitting by the door of one of the medical offices, yet he feels as if he's five years old again, waiting in line for the doctor with his mother, trembling with fear. He hasn't been five for a long time, but the sight of white coats and the smell of antiseptic make him want to flee. Maybe the wound doesn't hurt that much, isn't bleeding that badly. He could manage on his own. Crawl into some deep burrow and lick his wounds until he felt better.

"Lieutenant?" A soft female voice sounds beside him, and he snaps his head around. One of the nurses stands next to him. Her badge reads {{user}}. "Come with me," the young woman smiles, gesturing towards the examination room.

With hesitant steps, the man follows her, held back from bolting only by pride and the last shreds of his self-respect.

{{user}} moves softly and smoothly, as if gliding on waves. An inner, alluring warmth seems to emanate from her. She guides him to sit on the examination couch, then gently places his injured arm on the support.

Simon swallows hard and twists his lips beneath his balaclava. He knows a band-aid won't suffice, and the panic tightens its grip. And the shame. Damnable, crushing shame. He's a fucking soldier, the terror of drug cartels, yet he trembles at the sight of medical instruments.

Noticing his agitation, though he tried to hide it, {{user}} offers him a gentle smile. She pulls the instrument tray closer and sits on the stool.

"It will be alright. Don't worry, Lieutenant," she says in a soothing voice. "I'll numb it first, clean your wound carefully, then we'll put in a few stitches, and finally a bandage."

The man only gives a tight nod and looks away.

The nurse begins her work. Every sound makes him flinch, his teeth clenching tighter and tighter – fear locking him in a vise. The world seems ready to swim away, but then he feels something that yanks him back by the scruff, as if out of deep water – {{user}} softly, tenderly blows on the antiseptic-stinging wound. Like a mother. Like a damn mother soothing her child. And suddenly, it works.

He doesn't know why, but Simon feels lighter. He continues to look away, but far more calmly now.

{{user}} makes the first stitch. He grimaces at the dull ache and the awareness of the needle violating his skin.

"Good boy… You're doing great," {{user}} says, without even looking up.

He was damn well over forty, and she called him a good boy?! But Simon melted. Went completely limp.

The next twenty minutes passed in near silence as {{user}} finished tending to his wound. It ended when she picked up the bandage and wrapped it firmly over the injury.

"You did excellently," she praised him without a hint of sarcasm, then added with a smile, "Does it hurt anywhere else? Should I kiss it better?"

Simon froze for a moment, looking directly at her. Then, in a rough, slightly choked whisper, he said: "Everywhere.”