The mission had gone south faster than either of them expected. Roach and Y/N had been deep in enemy territory, relying on stealth and silence to complete their objective. They had made it out, but just barely. A sniper, hidden in the shadows of the crumbling buildings, had taken a shot just as they were reaching the extraction point.
Roach barely felt the impact at first, the adrenaline surging through him keeping the pain at bay. But when Y/N noticed the blood spreading across his tactical vest, her heart dropped. The mission no longer mattered—getting him to safety did.
Y/N had managed to half-carry, half-drag him to a nearby safe house, an old, abandoned structure they had scouted earlier. She barricaded the door as best she could, then turned her attention to Roach. He was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, and she could see the pain in his eyes despite his attempts to mask it.
"Hang on, Roach," she muttered, trying to keep the fear from her voice. She had some basic medical training, enough to know that the bullet needed to come out. But out here, with no supplies, no backup, and no chance of calling for help without giving away their position, it was up to her to save him.
Roach grunted as she gently eased him onto the bed, his breath coming in short gasps. The bullet had lodged itself in his abdomen, and she knew there wasn't much time before things took a turn for the worse.
"You're going to be okay," she assured him, more for herself than for him. Her hands shook as she cleaned the wound with what little she had—a flask of water and a torn piece of cloth from her own shirt. He groaned in pain as she worked, but he bit down on a piece of leather she'd given him, refusing to make a sound.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally managed to extract the bullet. The relief was short-lived, though. She knew this was just the beginning. The wound needed to be cleaned, stitched, and most importantly, Roach needed to be watched closely for any signs of infection or internal bleeding.
Y/N did what she could, dressing the wound and making him as comfortable as possible. But there was no question in her mind that he needed a medic—something she couldn't provide. The radio sat on the table, taunting her with the possibility of help. But using it would be like lighting a flare, drawing the enemy straight to their position.
So she stayed by his side, watching him through the night. She kept her fingers on the pulse at his wrist, counting each beat, willing it to stay steady. She checked his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, and every few minutes she placed her hand on his forehead, praying there wouldn't be a fever.
Roach drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain and blood loss pulling him under. But even in his delirium, he was aware of her presence, of the way she hovered over him, her expression tight with worry. He wanted to tell her it would be okay, that she had done enough, but his words were lost in the haze.
As the hours dragged on, Y/N fought to keep her eyes open. She had to stay awake, had to watch him. She couldn't afford to rest, not when his life was on the line. But exhaustion was a relentless enemy, and eventually, it claimed her. She slumped forward, her head resting on the edge of the bed, one hand still clutching his.
Morning came slowly, the first light filtering through the cracked windows. Roach stirred, the pain in his stomach flaring as he shifted. He grimaced, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. His vision cleared, and he saw her there, sleeping next to him, her face peaceful despite the worry that had lined it the night before.
For a moment, he simply watched her. Even in the dim light, he could see the exhaustion in the way her shoulders slumped, the tension that had finally left her body. She had stayed with him all night, and he felt a surge of gratitude mixed with something deeper, something he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge until now.
With a slow, careful movement, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek before the pain flared again, sharp and insistent. He winced, the movement waking her instantly.
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up quickly, her hand going to his forehead. "Roach," she breathed, relief flooding her voice. "You're awake."
He managed a weak smile. "Yeah, thanks to you."
She shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "Don't thank me yet. We're not out of this."But Roach knew they would be. With her by his side, he felt like they could face anything. He captured her hand in his, holding it tightly. "We will be," he said, and for the first time since the mission began, he believed it.
-------------------------------------------
The days following the injury were a blur of anxiety and exhaustion for Y/N. She had done everything she could, but Roach's condition teetered on the edge. He didn't get worse, which was a small mercy, but he wasn't getting better either. His skin remained pale, his breaths shallow, and he slipped in and out of consciousness with alarming frequency.
Y/N barely left his side, hovering over him, checking his pulse, wiping the sweat from his brow, and whispering words of encouragement even when she wasn't sure he could hear her. She kept the wound clean, changed the bandages, and rationed the little water they had left. She forced herself to stay strong for him, but inside, she was breaking.
Two days passed in tense silence. The world outside the safe house remained eerily quiet. No footsteps, no voices, no signs that their enemies were still searching for them. Y/N took it as a good sign, a small glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could risk a call for help.
She hesitated, staring at the radio as if it were a lifeline and a death sentence all at once. They had come too far, endured too much, for her to lose him now. She couldn't do this alone anymore. Roach needed medical attention, and he needed it soon.
Finally, with a shaky breath, Y/N made the call, keeping her voice low and steady, giving their coordinates and explaining the situation. The response was immediate but cautious—reinforcements were on their way, but it would take time. Time they might not have.
She returned to Roach's side, gripping his hand tightly as if sheer willpower could keep him tethered to life. His eyelids fluttered, and he looked at her with glassy, unfocused eyes. "Y/N..." His voice was a weak whisper, barely audible.
"I'm here," she replied softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
He swallowed, his throat dry. "You... you need to eat. Can't help me... if you're not strong."Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Don't worry about me. You're the one who needs the strength. You're more important."
