Work Text:
"You need to stop being so reckless." Zayne's voice leaves no room for argument. So you don't. You bite your tongue.
His hands work precisely as they work a needle through your leg. The site is numb, injected with lidocaine to block the pain. The rest of you still hurts, though. The bruises on your back. The scrape on your cheek. Your dislocated and relocated shoulder. The throbbing headache-concussion combo.
It was a messy fight. No backup, no partners, lots of Wanderers. They'd sneak up behind you, catch you off guard. Too many times you dodged from one attack directly into another. But you kept fighting. The thought of retreat never crossed your mind; it was too important to your mission that these monsters be dealt with. So you dealt with them. By the time help did arrive, protocores littered the ground. An ambulance rushed you over to the hospital. Zayne was there to greet you.
It was pure chance, honestly. They needed help in the ER and he finished his rounds quickly, so he offered his assistance. You still remember the way his eyes widened at the sight of your face. The way they scanned down your body at everything injured, broken, out of place. The way they turned cold. Honed in on the job at hand. The tension in his jaw as he grabbed one side of the gurney and guided it into a room. The silence as he worked.
At least now he's talking to you.
He frowns deeper as he finishes the last stitch. He sets the needle and forceps aside. Grabs a roll of gauze and wraps it around your calf. Then he grabs the roll of bandages and gets to work covering it.
"Is it so hard to wait for backup before you run into danger?" he asks. He doesn't want an answer. He sighs. Tugs the bandage a little tighter and secures it. "You're lucky your injuries aren't more serious."
You keep your eyes down as he stands. He grabs a clipboard, already set with papers about your condition and vitals. The scratch of a pen against paper. It sounds rough. He's writing quicker than usual. A lump forms in your throat. Thick and sticky, building with the sting behind your eyes.
"I'm confining you to strict bedrest and observation. You'll stay here for the night. I'm also writing you a doctor's note for work. You won't be allowed to go back into the field until you've been cleared by a doctor. Understand?"
You bite your lip. You're trembling. Body shaking as you fight back the growing tidal wave of emotion. You blink, tears slipping from your eyes.
"Understand?" he asks again, sharper this time. The writing stops. "... Y/N?"
That softness when he says your name. That warmth, that gentle concern. It's all it takes for a sob to break free, torn from your throat. Then it's like you can't stop. Your lungs constrict tightly, heaving around sounds you muffle with your hand. You nod pathetically.
He steps forward, walking on eggshells. The clipboard is set on the examination table beside you. Your knees bump against his hips. You recoil, trying to pull your legs in closer so you don't touch him. So you don't upset him. So he can't find another reason to scold you. But it just hurts. Electricity shoots up your leg.
He shushes you softly. His arms wrap around you, careful not to hurt you further. He steps forward until your knees have no choice but to press up against him as he pulls you into his chest. You don't fight it this time. Your forehead presses against his collarbone. One of his hands cradles the back of your head. His cheek rests on the crown.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. He tenderly rubs your back, featherlight, wary of all the bruises he'd just assessed. You choke on another sob. "Shh. It's alright, my love. I'm sorry."