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"Meta, it's time to leave."
The voice calling to him was quite clear, but the intense pain and fatigue gnawing at his body had not gone away with rest, and was uncomfortably close to overwhelming at this point. Something was wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong, but he would not mention it, and Washington would not acknowledge it.
If Washington said everything was okay, then everything was okay.
"Meta." The tone was as cold and stern as the expression of the helmet visor emerging at the entrance to their small cave. The sigh isn't transmitted by the radio, but he can see it clearly enough in his body language. "You're not even in your fucking armo --"
The sudden stillness in Washington is an instant cause for concern, prompting the larger of the two men to quickly turn his head in order to hopefully see the new threat.
He stares at the bare, fire-lit stone wall for a moment before looking back at Washington. The soldier remains still, his rifle lowered for what must have been the first time since taking on this mission. There was something in the body language of the power armour that called out to him; an openness, a request-- a plea .
And then, as the adrenaline fades again, new pains within his body come to his attention: ones of fire, intense and all-consuming. He snarls at the discomfort of it, one hand going to the source at his throat-- it's wet. Fingers come away red, but--
"Maine stop , don't--" His attention snaps instantly back to Washington, who's stepped forwards now, hand outstretched towards him.
Neither of them know how to react.
"You're hurt."
No shit; he might not be the sharpest spoon in the knife rack, but even he could tell that much.
He vocalises: a soft rumble as he gestures towards Washington. They were both hurt, he could tell.
"You know damn well I don't mean like that."
But he wasn't wrong.
There's another moment of tense, silent staring between the two before someone moves. Washington leaves, exiting back out the cave and leaving him alone with the fire.
Again.
---
Except this time, Washington returns for him. He comes back with the small amount of medical supplies they'd been carrying with them, presumably after having already packed them onto the warthog.
"Don't move." He didn't intend to, and allows his chin to be gently tilted up to further expose the mess of scar tissue, letting out a hiss of air as the stretch of the skin causes another tear.
Gloved hands gently poke and prod around the area as Washington attempts to figure out what's caused it. He shouldn't be bleeding like this.
"Sorry." The word was quiet enough to be barely picked up by the armour's radio, and was explained as Washington's attention moved to prodding at his face, and the metallic tang of blood entered his mouth. The missing chunk of his lip was bleeding too.
Washington sits back and looks at the sorry mess of a supersoldier before him. The apparent reopening of old wounds was only the tip of the iceberg now that he considers it: the Meta had been unusually reluctant to do things, and almost fatigued in its behaviour; then there were the hisses and huffs of pain when lifting heavy objects that shouldn't be an issue for it that certainly hadn't gone unnoticed; but most notably was the apparent lack of appetite. Washington mentally kicks himself for not noticing this sooner.
"You need to eat this." A packaged nutrition bar gets shoved into the larger man's hand, and once opened, it's revealed to be foul-smelling and muddy yellow, not entirely unlike diarrhoea in colour. The look of disgust and disapproving gurgle explains his opinion well enough.
"I don't care , Meta. Eat it." There's a beat of silence where neither of them do anything, then, in a much softer tone, " Please . You're unwell, and this will help you feel better."
Fine. He gives in, albeit hesitantly, and eats the genuinely disgusting bar while Washington goes about preparing the disinfectant, at least allowing him to swallow before assaulting his neck with the painful substance. There wasn't much they could do other than that, and so Washington takes out another two of the bars and repacks the supply chest.
"Eat these at 1000 and 1500." Wash gently hands them over, stands, and without another word turns to leave. The confused, gurgled rumble and shuffling of armour plates prompts him to pause. "No, Meta. Stay here and rest. I'll be back later."
That was a promise .