Hey guys, welcome back! Again, thank you for the awesome reviews on last chapter, they make my day :)

Sorry for the brief delay with this one, I've done a lot of travelling over the last week!

Enjoy x

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It seemed she'd traumatized Weller.

In the ten or so minutes since he'd finished stitching her up, he'd been careful to keep at least three feet away from her at all times— which, given the limited dimensions of their current surroundings, was actually somewhat of an achievement. No doubt his distance and silence was completely deliberate, all part of some ridiculous gentlemanly apology for the terrible crime of having to see her in her underwear.

She couldn't care less about that; she'd suffered far worse 'indignities' in her life than being partially undressed before an acquaintance. Or whatever the hell it was that he was to her— a colleague? Teammate? She didn't really know— didn't really have a basis for comparison, given that until today she'd simply classed anyone outside Shepherd and Roman under two basic categories: enemies or potential enemies.

For five months, she'd considered him as the latter, and it was technically still as true now as it had been then; she was all too aware that anyone could become a threat at any time, and that certainly included Weller.

And yet she couldn't escape the feeling that he didn't fit into either group— that his loyalty, once given, was indelible and unshakeable.

Didn't mean she believed it, and definitely didn't mean she was stupid enough to trust him.

If her usual categories didn't apply, though, then he would have to be something else. 'Ally' was probably the closest she would grant him, the two of them uniting for a common goal: to get the fuck out of this desert alive.

She found herself still thinking about him as she hobbled out of the cave to relieve herself— something that was now much easier than it had been earlier, without that annoying bandage clamping her fatigues to her leg— her mind dwelling on what he'd told her, all his naive dreams of fixing a system that was already beyond repair.

Because in this at least, she knew Shepherd was right; the US Government was a lost cause, a broken thing too far gone to ever be salvaged.

Just like her.

So why did this idealistic, overly-trusting man make her feel like there was somehow hope— not just for their country, but for her as well?

God, barely half a day alone in his company and she was already starting to sound like him. Shaking her head in disgust, she made her way back into their cave, seeing him sitting against the rough wall with his legs stuck out in front of him, his features blurring slightly in the rapidly fading light. The large, dark stain on his neck and torso was still glaringly obvious, however, and she felt her annoyance rise all over again at the sight of it.

Mouth twisting, she crossed the space between them with a determined stride, picking up the rifle on the way and swiftly removing its flashlight attachment. Clicking it on, she handed it to him, and he accepted it automatically as she set the rifle down at his side. Then, she stepped forward, lightly kicking his legs a little further apart before lowering herself to her knees between them, gritting her teeth to hold back the hiss of pain that wanted to escape her lips.

Ignoring his wide-eyed stare, she settled herself a little more comfortably— she'd never hear the end of it if she popped his precious stitches already— then gestured curtly to his right.

"Kit."

There was a moment's delay, then he hastily reached out and pulled the medkit over, its side coming to rest against the outside of his knee. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out an assortment of items, already knowing exactly what she'd need.

Looking up from her task, she found him still watching her, his eyes full of surprise and something else that she had no interest in trying to decipher right now.

"Weller."

He blinked. "What?"

"Are you going to take that off so I can work, or?"

"What?" he repeated blankly, a confused frown creasing his forehead as he stared at her.

"Jesus christ," she muttered, then reached for the front of his tattered fatigues, her fingers making quick work of the few buttons that had survived the crash.

"Right, shit, sorry," he sputtered, his hands lifting to help her, but she waved them away.

"No, just— I've got it," she said, finishing with the last button before switching to his cuffs. At least now he seemed to get with the program, his upper body leaning forward slightly, their foreheads almost touching as she reached up and pushed the fabric back over his shoulders. He managed from there, his arms shifting back as he worked himself free of the dusty sleeves. The dried blood slowed him down a fraction, the fabric sticking to his skin— but he didn't ask for her help and she didn't offer it, and soon enough the jacket was crumpled in the space between his lower back and the wall, and they were faced with their next problem.

The tight tan undershirt was all but glued to his body, three-quarters of it stained black with sweat and dirt and blood, so much of a mess that she couldn't even gauge the wounds underneath.

For a moment she paused, frowning at it as she weighed their options.

"Just cut it," he told her, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I won't miss it out in the heat tomorrow."

"How about when you freeze your ass off tonight?" she shot back, but he just shook his head, that infuriating little smile still on his face.

"I'll live. Just cut it."

"Fine," she muttered, then found the shears in the kit and started cutting up along the left side of the shirt, his skin warm beneath her fingers. She already knew what she'd see when it was gone; you didn't live with nine men for five months without seeing all of them half-naked on a regular basis. And of course, theirs was an elite unit, which meant that they were all in the peak of physical condition; some were that lean, wiry type, others so jacked they looked like human balloon animals. She had no interest in either.

Weller, though— he was different, fitting somewhere in the middle; broad but not soft, toned but not overly defined. His body was that of a warrior, even if it seemed his heart was not.

Not that she gave a shit either way.

Finishing the last cut from the collar to the hem of his sleeve, she positioned his hand holding the flashlight to where it would give her the best light, then began peeling back the crusty fabric, loosening its hold by tipping a tiny amount from her canteen over his chest as she went, proceeding with more gentleness than she was used to showing anyone.

Before she could analyze that too deeply, however, the shirt was gone, exposing the firm, somewhat hairy chest beneath— and the ragged wounds marring it.

"Jesus, you're a fucking hypocrite, you know that, Weller?" she snarled, her eyes pinning his. "You made all that noise about fixing my leg and you're walking around like this?"

Startled by her sudden ire, he pressed back against the wall a little, stumbling over his words. "I didn't— uh, it's really not that bad—"

"Do you know what the subclavian artery is? If this wound had been just a little deeper, you wouldn't have lived long enough to find out," she growled, anger making her hands tremble. "All three of these cuts are to the fucking bone, Weller. You're goddamn lucky they clotted up as well as they did or you'd have dropped before you even made it halfway here."

He at least had the sense to take her seriously, his voice genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry, Briggs. I swear I didn't realize how bad they were."

Letting out a huff, she forcibly controlled her temper, making herself focus as she shifted her eyes to his upper arm, then his temple, her gaze assessing. "The others are shallow. I'll do the basics, then someone at the village can deal with you."

She felt the breath he let out, could hear the faint trace of relief in his tone. "Understood."

"It's going to hurt like a bitch," she warned, already reaching for the packet of Vicodin. "You'll want some painkillers."

He shook his head. "Save them. I'll manage."

Pressing her lips together, she fought the reflexive urge to argue; after all, he was a big boy, and if he wanted to suffer through this, then that was his own damn decision.

Any pain that he was about to experience, he'd brought on himself— so no way in hell she was going to feel even a moment's guilt about it.

Soaking some gauze, she shifted closer and carefully cleaned the wounds on his chest, washing away the blood and grime until she could see the edges clearly, her jaw clenching every time she caught the glint of pale white sternum or rib peeking from the moist red of his flesh. Both soon disappeared, though, her sutures appearing much more quickly and efficiently than his, her movements steady and practiced.

Before long, she had turned the slashes on his chest into three tidy lines, all of which was hidden under a securely taped gauze pad. As she gathered fresh materials from the medkit, she felt his eyes leave her face for the first time since she'd started working on him, and looked over to find him staring curiously down at his chest.

"You're good at that," he commented, admiration mixing with a faint note of surprise.

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "I've had a lot of practice."

He glanced up at her again, his words more of a question than a statement. "But you're not a medic."

"Very perceptive, Weller. Gold star," she mocked, hoping it would be enough to discourage him from the conversation, but he only sounded more intrigued.

"Were you in some kind of medical profession before you enlisted?"

She sighed. "No."

There was a pause, then: "Taxidermist?"

"No."

"...Seamstress?"

"No. What are you doing, Weller?" she demanded, her irritation edged with suspicion.

"Just trying to learn a bit more about you," he answered blithely, seemingly unfazed by her prickliness. "And since you've spoken more words to me in the last several hours than you have in the entire time we've known each other, now seemed like a good time to ask."

That threw her; for a long moment she just stared at him, for once at a loss for a cutting remark or even a threatening glare. Then she blinked and shook her head, returning wordlessly to her task, keeping her focus on her hands as she cleaned the cuts on his upper arm.

The silence didn't last long.

"So you weren't a medical professional, a taxidermist, or a seamstress," he persisted recklessly, and she shot him a disbelieving look, beginning to wonder if he'd actually hit his head harder than she'd realized. Fixing his eyes intently on hers, he asked frankly, "Then what were you?"

"Someone who saw a lot of wounds," she answered sharply. Then, more quietly, she added, "And inflicted them."

That finally seemed to get through to him— in a rare show of sense, he fell silent, even managing to stay that way as she finished dressing the cuts on his arm and moved to the one on his temple, his head turning obligingly to allow her easy access.

Leaning in a little closer— even with the flashlight, it was difficult to see what she was doing— she ignored the heat that radiated from his body, her eyes fixed only on his injury. The cut was fairly shallow, but the edges were clean and dead straight; whatever had done it had been as sharp as a razor.

Clearly, his helmet had taken the brunt of the hit; if it hadn't, he'd be dead right now.

And her too, probably, not that there was any way in hell she was going to admit that to him.

Thankfully, Weller remained quiet as she worked, only the faint sounds of their breathing breaking the silence. Once the wound was clean, she put the adhesive steri-strips over it, but left it otherwise uncovered. Automatically reaching for another bit of damp gauze, she started to wipe it carefully over his cheekbone, cleaning away the blood that had run down the side of his face— then abruptly registered what she was doing, and pulled back.

"I'm done," she told him gruffly, then tossed the gauze into his lap. "If you want the rest of the blood off, that's on you."

He started to thank her, but she waved him off, not wanting to hear it. Abruptly uncomfortable with their proximity, she pushed herself to her feet, only to have her damn useless leg almost give way beneath her, the sudden change in position sending a flame of agony up her thigh. Throwing out her hands, she caught herself against the wall, feeling Weller's hands instantly cupping the backs of her knees, holding her steady.

"Woah, Briggs, you okay?" he asked worriedly, his concerned eyes staring up at her, his face inches from her crotch for the second time this evening.

"I'm fine," she growled, "Let go, Weller."

His hands dropped away instantly, but she could feeling him still watching her closely, ready to offer help if she needed it.

She didn't; he hadn't figured it out yet, but she didn't need a damn thing from him.

And didn't want it, either.

Jaw clenched, she pushed off from the wall, limping backwards a couple of steps until she could turn and cross to the other side of the cave, her hand out in front of her in the gloom. Behind her, she could hear Weller climbing stiffly to his feet, then the soft scrunch of his footsteps as he moved towards the cave's entrance, the flashlight clicking off as he went.

"Back in a minute, Briggs. Just going to do a last check before we bunk down."

She didn't bother to reply.

Nor did she let herself wonder why the space suddenly seemed colder with him gone.

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It was freezing out in the ravine.

He'd pulled the outer layer of his fatigues back on, but hadn't bothered to button it, and a faint breeze chilled the bare skin of his chest and face, skin that just minutes ago had felt ablaze under her touch. He was still stunned by everything that had just happened, half-convinced that he must have taken a much harder knock to the head than he'd initially thought, because nothing else seemed to make sense.

Maybe it was just that she hated being indebted to anyone, so she'd felt that she had to help fix him up like he'd done for her. Maybe she'd just wanted to make sure he wasn't going to somehow up and die on her, leaving her to make it the rest of the way without any backup.

But it had felt like more than that.

As his eyes traced the moonlit walls of the ravine, searching for any movement, he mulled it over.

The guys had always liked to joke about her. Corporal Briggs: hot as hell on the outside, cold as ice on the inside. He'd never entirely bought into that— well, the second part at least, given that the first was completely indisputable. He agreed, mostly, that she wasn't exactly a warm person; she didn't take part in anything that wasn't directly related to their op, didn't socialize during rec time, barely even spoke. And the only smiles he'd ever seen on her face were small and sharp-edged, more the look of a predator than anything else.

And yet he'd always felt that there was more going on beneath the surface, locked away behind that expressionless mask. More than once he'd glimpsed her showing kindness to one of the local children, or one of the many stray animals. It was always a brief, furtive moment, as if it were something shameful she had to hide, or even something she would be punished for if caught— which made absolutely zero sense, yet was exactly how it felt.

Plus, there wasn't a guy on the squad whose life she hadn't saved at some point or other, most of the time putting her own life on the line to do so. Before today, he'd already owed her his life twice over— and those were just the times he knew about. No doubt the actual count was far higher, with the way she watched over them all.

Still, he'd always thought she'd disliked him and the other guys, hated them even, but now... now, he knew that it wasn't true.

Earlier, he'd thought she'd simply chosen to tolerate him out of necessity, their circumstances robbing her of any real choice in the matter. But tonight— whether she'd meant to or not— she'd let that ever-present mask slip just a fraction, and he'd finally seen who was underneath.

And somehow, at least in some very small way, that person cared for him.

Now, combine that bombshell with the fact that she'd just spent close to the last half hour practically in his lap, with her hands on his chest and her breath hot on his skin, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to think straight again.

Which was just what he needed while crossing miles of desert in hostile territory with minimal supplies and a single, partly-loaded weapon.

Christ.

With a heavy sigh, Weller finished his sweep of the area, then quietly relieved himself before turning and moving back into the cave. Though it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, he instinctively knew Briggs hadn't moved from her spot against the wall, her eyes feeling like lasers on his skin.

Spotting the faint glow of the medkit's reflective cross, he went over to it, kneeling and setting the rifle securely on the floor before reaching into the kit, his fingers taking only a moment to find the object he was after. Pulling out the plastic-wrapped package, he tore it open, then shook out the contents, the foil blanket making a satisfyingly crinkly sound as it unfurled.

"Here, Briggs," he said, holding it out in her vague direction. "It's not much, but it's something."

Her voice rose out of the dimness to his right, her words firm.

"You're already a layer short, Weller. Stop trying to be a gentleman and just keep the damn blanket."

"You said you'd follow orders," he reminded her. "Take the blanket."

A huff of irritation answered him. He couldn't see the annoyed twist of her lips in the darkness, but he could picture it all the same, his mind far more familiar with her every expression than he was entirely comfortable with.

"Fine, then we'll share it," she said finally, scooting over so she was beside him in the center of the floor. Her night vision was clearly better than his; she seemed as unfaltering here as ever.

Certain he'd misheard her, Weller repeated stupidly, "Share it?"

She sighed. "God, Weller, quit being such a little girl. You're not going to catch cooties."

Recovering himself, he arched an eyebrow that she couldn't see. "First I'm a gentleman, now I'm a little girl. Which is it, Briggs?"

"Somehow you manage to be both," she shot back, her voice dry. "Now shut up and lie down."

Hesitantly, he obeyed, lying down onto his side and tucking a hand under his head, thankful for the cushioning provided by the sandy floor. He heard her shifting in the space behind him, then started slightly as her body suddenly came into contact with his, pressing snugly against him from her chest to her feet. There was a crinkle of foil and then the blanket settled atop them both, her arm curling around his abdomen in a way that had him tensing even further.

"Christ, Weller, relax," she grumbled against his back. "There are probably boulders out there that would be more comfortable to sleep next to."

Releasing the breath that had suddenly frozen in his lungs, he pushed himself up a little on his shoulder, trying to keep his voice steady. "Shit, Briggs, let me go. One of us should be sitting watch."

"Easy, soldier," she ordered, stilling him. "It's safe. The gun's beside me, and I've spent my entire life sleeping with one eye open. We'll be fine."

The words immediately distracted him, curiosity overriding his awkwardness, and he could tell by her brief silence that she regretted them. Clearing her throat slightly, she continued gruffly, "Trust me, Weller. If anyone comes, I'll know."

After several moments of silence, he spoke her name. "Briggs?"

"What is it, Weller?" she asked, and he could hear the fatigue in her voice, the faint trace of impatience that lay underneath.

"I do."

He could tell she was frowning now. "Do what?"

"Trust you."

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. "I know."

Then she tucked her forehead into the space between his shoulderblades, and within moments, her breathing had evened out, her body relaxing into his. He'd seen her practically fall asleep on command before, but not from this close.

Letting out a slow, unsteady breath, he closed his eyes, letting the tension slowly seep from his body. Somehow, he believed her when she said they would be okay.

And if not, if they were discovered and killed in the night— well, spending his last hours with Remi Briggs wrapped around him like spaghetti was a good way to go.

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Thanks for reading! Btw I promise we're pretty much to the end of the injury-focused bits now, so we can focus on other fun stuff instead, like more spooning haha