Pain was a constant.
It sat at the base of Hawkins' spine, curled in his muscles like a vice, gripping tighter every time he moved. His body had been reforged through trauma, and now it was rejecting his own attempts to reclaim it.
The room was sterile, the sharp scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Overhead, fluorescent lighting cast a dull, clinical glow, making the walls feel even colder than they were. The rehab facility was quiet, save for the hum of machinery and the occasional murmur of medical personnel moving about.
Hawkins sat on the edge of the therapy bench, sweat beading at his brow. His left hand clenched into a fist as he focused on his leg—his own damn leg, the one that should move without effort.
"Again," the therapist instructed, voice calm but insistent.
Hawkins exhaled sharply, planting his hands on the bench. He forced himself to lift his leg.
It moved, but slowly, sluggishly, as if his body was fighting him every step of the way. The muscles tightened, burning with effort. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, willing the movement to be faster, stronger—the way it should be.
It wasn't.
The motion was uneven, weaker than he wanted, but it was there. That should have been enough. It wasn't.
"You're tensing too much," the therapist noted. "Let it move naturally."
Hawkins lowered the leg carefully and tried again. The burn of exertion made his jaw clench, but he forced the limb upward once more. Slower than it should be. Slower than he could accept.
"This is useless," he muttered.
"You know it isn't."
The voice was familiar—measured, unshaken, carrying that clinical precision he had come to associate with Dr. Angela Ziegler.
Hawkins didn't turn, but he knew she was watching. He could feel it—the weight of her gaze, ever observant, never missing a detail.
"It should be easier," he said through gritted teeth.
"It never is," she replied, stepping forward.
Ziegler wasn't in her usual combat gear; today, she wore a simple white coat over a fitted blue medical uniform, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal faint scars on her forearms—small, old, but noticeable.
"You've made progress," she said, glancing at the therapist's datapad. "Three weeks ago, you couldn't sit up unassisted. Now you're—"
"Moving like I'm trapped in mud," Hawkins cut in.
Ziegler raised an eyebrow but didn't flinch.
"You're frustrated."
"No shit."
She folded her arms, regarding him for a moment before speaking.
"You nearly died, Lieutenant," she said, her voice devoid of pity, but not unkind. "Your body isn't betraying you. It's trying to keep up with what happened to it."
Hawkins let out a slow breath. She was right, but that didn't make it any easier.
Ziegler sighed, checking something on her datapad before tucking it under one arm. "Take a break. Then try again."
"I don't need a break."
"You do," she countered. "You're not fighting a war right now. You're healing. That takes time."
Hawkins hesitated but relented, leaning back slightly as he rubbed a hand down his face. His body hurt, and admitting that—even silently—was worse than any battlefield wound.
Ziegler lingered for a second longer before stepping back.
"You're not alone in this, Hawkins," she added before turning away. "Remember that."
For a long time after she left, he simply sat there, flexing his fingers, staring at his leg. It had moved. It just wasn't enough.
Not yet.
The next few days blurred into a cycle of effort and failure, each session stretching Hawkins' patience thinner.
At first, it was simple movements—small shifts in weight, engaging muscles that felt rusted shut. Every motion required conscious effort, every twitch of movement coming with a price: a sharp ache, a dull burn, a reminder of what had been taken from him.
"Again," the therapist instructed, firm but never condescending.
Hawkins gritted his teeth, steadying his breathing as he lifted his right leg first—no issue there. It responded instantly, muscle memory taking over.
Then the left.
The moment he engaged it, the resistance set in. Slower, heavier, like dragging himself through wet sand. He willed it upward, his thigh trembling as the muscles strained against their own atrophy.
Halfway up. Almost.
A sharp pull at his side—his core compensating too much. His balance wavered.
"Control it," the therapist reminded.
Hawkins exhaled sharply, steadying himself. He lowered the leg deliberately this time, refusing to let it collapse like dead weight.
Better. Not good. But better.
The therapist marked something on his datapad. "Stronger response than yesterday. Keep going."
Hawkins barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere.
Too slow. Still too damn slow.
She had been there for three sessions now, standing just beyond the active rehab floor. Not interfering, not instructing. Just watching.
Hawkins noticed her, of course. She wasn't exactly subtle, even when she tried to be. The way her arms crossed, how she occasionally tapped at her datapad but never really looked away—he knew the difference between a medic monitoring a patient and a commander evaluating a soldier.
And that's what it felt like.
Evaluation.
"Are you waiting for me to start running laps, doc?" he muttered between controlled breaths, lowering his leg after another slow repetition.
Ziegler didn't look up from her datapad. "Not today."
He let out a short breath—not quite a laugh, but close.
"How long do you plan on standing there?"
"As long as necessary."
"That right?"
She finally met his gaze, unreadable. "Yes."
Something about the certainty in her tone made his jaw tighten. He looked away first.
"Again," the therapist instructed.
Hawkins pushed himself into the next repetition, ignoring the way his muscles screamed in protest.
Ziegler didn't move.
She didn't need to.
The world outside was still.
Hawkins sat on a reinforced bench along the rehab facility's exterior balcony, the cool night air washing over his sweat-dampened skin. The sessions had left him drained, his muscles aching in ways that battlefield wounds never had. This was a different kind of pain. Slower. More personal.
He wasn't used to this kind of quiet.
The distant hum of medical equipment filtered out through the open doorway, but beyond that, it was just the breeze, the faint glow of city lights, and the ever-present pull of exhaustion settling into his limbs.
Then came the familiar sound of heels against tile.
He didn't have to turn his head. He already knew who it was.
"You're avoiding the recovery wing."
Ziegler's voice was calm, but she wasn't asking.
Hawkins exhaled, keeping his gaze on the horizon. "I'm getting some air."
She moved into his peripheral vision, stopping just at the railing. "And getting out of your own head while you're at it?"
He huffed a quiet breath—not quite amusement, not quite annoyance. "No offense, doc, but don't you have bigger things to worry about?"
Ziegler leaned against the railing, arms folding neatly in front of her. "I make time for the things that matter."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
She wasn't pushing, wasn't analyzing him like the others did. She was just… there.
It was a strange feeling.
After a long pause, Hawkins glanced at her. "You ever get tired of this?"
Ziegler didn't react immediately. She looked out at the city lights, as if considering the weight of the question.
"Of what?"
"The mission. The responsibility. Always trying to fix things that are… way beyond fixing."
For the first time, she actually looked surprised. Not by the question itself, but that he was asking.
A quiet laugh escaped her. "I wasn't expecting philosophy tonight."
Hawkins shrugged, shifting slightly on the bench. "Got tired of staring at the wall."
She studied him for a moment, then exhaled. "Yes."
Hawkins blinked. He hadn't expected an honest answer.
"Yes," she repeated, softer this time. "I get tired of it. I get frustrated. And sometimes, I even think about walking away."
A beat of silence.
"…So why don't you?"
Ziegler tapped her fingers lightly against the railing, lost in thought. "Because someone has to do it."
Hawkins frowned. "That's it?"
She smiled faintly. "You think I'm lying?"
"No." He shook his head. "Just thought there'd be… more."
Her gaze drifted skyward, as if searching for the right words.
"When I was younger, I thought medicine would be enough," she admitted. "That I could heal people, make a difference, and that would be the end of it."
She paused, her expression unreadable.
"But it's never that simple, is it?"
Hawkins didn't reply. He understood that truth better than most.
Ziegler continued, her voice quieter now. "You reach a point where healing isn't enough. Where you have to pick a side, take action. Otherwise, you're just watching the world burn and hoping someone else puts out the fire."
Hawkins studied her then, not just as a doctor, not even as a soldier—but as someone who had been fighting a different kind of war all her life.
It wasn't just duty that kept her going.
It was guilt.
Regret.
Responsibility.
He had seen that look before. In men who had lost too much to ever let themselves rest.
"You think it's your job to fix everything," he murmured.
Ziegler met his eyes, and for a second, the mask slipped.
"Isn't it?"
The words were so quiet, so certain, that for a moment, Hawkins had no answer.
They sat in silence after that, both of them staring into the night.
Not speaking. Not needing to.
The med bay never really slept.
Even in the late hours, there was always motion, sound, the quiet hum of machines keeping things running. For someone like Hawkins, whose world had been built on discipline and routine, it was a strange kind of comfort. The constant movement reminded him of the field—of something still happening.
He sat at the edge of the therapy bench, rolling his left ankle in slow, controlled circles. It still felt stiff, but the progress was there.
Across the room, Dr. Angela Ziegler was still working.
She hadn't noticed him watching—not in the way a soldier watches a superior, not in the way a patient studies a doctor, but in the way a man starts piecing together something he hadn't before.
She had her back partially turned, standing at a workstation, typing out medical notes on a sleek holo-terminal. Every so often, she'd lift a hand to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from her face, a movement so habitual that it was clear she didn't even think about it.
She looked exhausted.
Not the kind of exhaustion that came from missing a night's sleep, but the kind that settled into a person's bones—the kind that never really left.
Hawkins had seen it before. In men who had been fighting too long, carrying too much.
Ziegler, for all her reputation, wasn't immune to it either.
She rolled one shoulder absently, her fingers pressing into the muscle near her collarbone—a silent attempt to loosen the tension there. The weight of the day was pressing down on her, but she never let it show in front of others. Not in front of her patients. Not in front of the people who needed her to be more than human.
It was the little things.
The way she rubbed at her temple between scans, the way she muttered under her breath in Swiss German when something in the data annoyed her. The way she never left a single workstation cluttered, despite the fact that she seemed to live in this med bay.
She was precise, methodical, always moving—but there was an edge of fatigue in her shoulders that didn't belong there.
For someone who spent her life keeping others together, she didn't seem to have anyone doing the same for her.
"Staring is impolite, Lieutenant."
Hawkins didn't react outwardly, but his eyes flicked up.
Ziegler didn't turn around. She was still reviewing the holo-display, but there was a small, knowing smirk on her lips.
"Didn't realize you had eyes in the back of your head, doc."
"I don't," she said simply, tapping through another set of scans. "You just aren't subtle."
Hawkins exhaled through his nose. "That a complaint?"
"An observation."
She finished whatever she was typing, then finally turned to face him. The usual sharpness in her expression had softened slightly, but the exhaustion hadn't faded. If anything, it was clearer now that he was looking for it.
"You should be resting," she said, motioning toward his leg.
Hawkins leaned back against the bench. "So should you."
A pause.
The corner of her mouth twitched upward—just a fraction. "I don't have time for that."
He let the words settle between them. They weren't a complaint. Just a fact.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
Hawkins could feel every muscle in his leg protesting, but he didn't stop.
Not now.
The reinforced parallel bars stretched ahead of him, their cold steel gripped tightly beneath his fingers. He had walked this distance before—but always with assistance. Today, the therapist had given him a different task.
Let go. Take the steps unassisted.
It should have been easy.
It wasn't.
His left leg felt heavier than it should, slower than it should. His muscles were still working against him, still remembering the trauma that had broken him in the first place. But he could feel it responding now. Not perfectly. Not fully. But enough.
"Steady," the therapist reminded.
Hawkins took a breath. Shifted his weight. Released his grip.
And moved.
The first step was slow—too careful, too deliberate, but he corrected quickly, letting instinct override hesitation.
One step. Then another.
Then a third.
His foot met the ground with a little more confidence, his balance adjusting. His arms hovered near the bars but never touched them.
A fourth step.
A fifth.
By the time he realized it, he had already reached the other end.
He stopped, standing upright, heart hammering—not from exertion, but from something else.
Something he hadn't felt since before the crash.
Control.
The therapist marked something on his datapad, nodding. "Good work."
Hawkins just stared ahead, not moving, not speaking. It wasn't a perfect run. It wasn't a miracle recovery. But it was real. It was happening.
He clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly.
A figure at the edge of the room shifted.
Hawkins turned his head slightly, eyes meeting Dr. Ziegler's.
She had been watching. Not hovering, not interfering—just observing from the sidelines.
She didn't say anything at first, just held his gaze. Then, with a small nod, she spoke.
"Good. Again."
A small smirk tugged at the corner of Hawkins' mouth.
"Yes, ma'am."
He turned back to the bars.
And took another step.
Hawkins wasn't sure why he was here.
Walking to the med bay took more effort than he expected. The strain in his left leg was manageable, but it slowed him down just enough to remind him that he wasn't fully there yet. Each step had to be calculated, steady. He felt the muscles responding—not perfectly, not painlessly, but enough to move.
That was progress. But it wasn't what was on his mind right now.
What was on his mind was why the hell he was making this trip in the first place.
It wasn't about the therapy. It wasn't about his leg, or his progress, or anything that could be explained with a medical chart.
It was about her.
And that part bothered him.
Hawkins found her at one of the side stations, skimming through a holo-display filled with reports, data flickering across her face in pale blue light. Her posture was relaxed but alert, the way people held themselves when they were used to working through exhaustion.
She didn't glance up immediately, but she knew he was there.
"Lieutenant," she greeted, her tone calm, unreadable. "It's late."
Hawkins hesitated just slightly. "You're still here."
Ziegler gave the faintest smile. "I always am."
He shifted his weight slightly, unsure how to start this conversation. He wasn't a man prone to small talk. He had walked into dogfights with more certainty than he had right now.
Finally, he exhaled. "Why'd you push me so hard?"
Ziegler blinked, just once, before tilting her head slightly. "Because you needed it."
"That's not what I mean."
Her eyes searched his face, gauging something deeper.
"You could've just stuck to protocol," he continued, voice lower. "Given me a recovery plan and checked in when required. But you didn't. You were always… there."
Ziegler leaned back slightly, folding her arms as well. "Are you asking why I did my job?"
He huffed. "You know what I mean."
A brief pause. Then, for the first time, she hesitated.
Finally, she exhaled.
"Because I've seen what happens when people give up on themselves," she said, voice softer now. "And I wasn't going to let that happen to you."
Hawkins held her gaze. She meant it.
No grand speech. No over-explanation. Just truth.
He nodded slowly.
"Well," he said, voice lighter now, "I'm not planning on giving up anytime soon."
Ziegler studied him for another beat, then gave a small, approving nod.
"Good."
Hawkins glanced at the datapad she was working on. "You ever take a break?"
Ziegler arched an eyebrow. "Coming from you?"
He smirked slightly. "Touché."
She exhaled, shaking her head lightly before finally stepping away from the console.
Hawkins noticed. And for now, that was enough.
He hesitated for a moment, then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Call me Nate."
Ziegler looked at him, something unreadable flickering in her expression. Then, with the faintest of smiles, she gave a small nod.
"Alright, Nate."