~MOUSE~
The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete as Ophelia slowly blinked awake.
She felt weightless, suspended in a surreal state between sleep and reality.
Gradually, the haze that veiled her vision began to dissipate, revealing the familiar surroundings of the barrack.
As she stirred, a gentle yet firm grip cradled her, guiding her to lie down.
The softness beneath her was a paradox, like sinking into a cloud that bore the subtle fragrance of sandalwood.
It was a comforting aroma, a fragile tether to the world she was regaining.
Her eyes, still drowsy and unfocused, attempted to make sense of her surroundings.
König's presence loomed above her, his features obscured and hidden beneath his hood.
Despite the mask, Ophelia recognized the quiet strength in his eyes, the unwavering determination as well as the panic.
König's movements were deliberate as he gently laid her down, his hands cautious yet confident.
She felt a strange mix of vulnerability and security in his touch.
He could kill her easily, she had seen him do it. But he was being gentle with her.
The sensation of being laid upon something soft prompted Ophelia to shift her gaze sideways, her surroundings coming into sharper focus.
The barrack.
When had they gotten back?
The mask that had shielded Konig's face now hovered close, his deep blue eyes wide as he nodded down at her.
"Okay, I-I think I have to take your shirt off," König's voice, muffled by the mask, broke the momentary silence.
His words were tinged with a stiffness that betrayed an unfamiliarity with vulnerability, a discomfort that mirrored Ophelia's own.
Groaning softly, Ophelia mustered the strength to sit up, the pain in her body a reminder of the gaping stab wound and bullet graze on her arm.
Her memory snapped into focus as she realised why she was lying down with her body on fire.
With a weary determination, she began to undo the gear that clung to her, the metallic clinks ringing in the stillness of the room.
The layers peeled away, revealing the marks and bruises that painted across her body, all of her scars and burns on display.
She had no time to feel self-conscious.
Ophelia's hands moved with mechanical precision as she rid herself of the protective layers encasing her.
Her eyes, mere slits struggling against the weight of exhaustion, were greeted by the sudden assault of cold air on her exposed skin.
The barrack's temperature seemed to drop as if mirroring the chill that ran down her spine.
Despite the weariness etched into every line of her face, Ophelia retained a stubborn resolve.
As she reclined, the softness beneath her moulding to the contours of her body, the ache in her side became an insistent pulse.
The wound throbbed with a rhythm that matched the beating of her heart.
In the stillness that followed, a warmth enveloped the injured side of Ophelia's body.
At first, it was a gentle touch of fingers, as if a fleeting breeze had brushed against her exposed skin.
Then, the warmth intensified, transforming into a searing sensation that tore through the numbing haze of fatigue.
A sharp intake of breath escaped Ophelia's lips, her eyes snapping open in response to the unexpected assault on her senses.
The pain, fierce and unrelenting, radiated from the point of contact.
Her nails sunk into the arm above her as she hissed in pain.
"S-shit, sorry," he stammered, his voice carrying the weight of regret.
His gloved hands, accustomed to precision, now moved with a hesitant tenderness as he gently pressed down on her wounded side.
The tears welled in Ophelia's eyes as the pain throbbed through her body.
Her gaze drifted downward, revealing a wet cloth in his hands, pressed against her side.
The fabric absorbed the blood wiping away grey dirt and snow.
"We don't have a medic?" she questioned, her voice stiff, the words punctuated by a groan as he continued to tend to her wound.
His eyes, a shade of blue as changing as the ocean, briefly met hers.
It was a look that spoke of capability.
Her head fell back in annoyance and surrender.
Of course, he was the fucking medic.
"I need to shower, otherwise it won't clean properly," Ophelia declared, frustration lacing her words as she felt the tackiness of blood clinging to her skin.
Her own blood and that of others.
The man in front of her stiffened, his eyes darting around the barracks as if searching for an answer.
Ophelia winced as he continued to press the cloth against her side, the pain now accompanied by the discomfort of being covered in blood.
If they didn't clean it off it would infect the wounds on her arm and side.
There would be no point stitching her up, she'd die of infection.
He knew that. But he was hesitant for some reason.
It took a while but he finally nodded in understanding, Ophelia couldn't help but sense the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.
"Wait here and don't die," he instructed, the words delivered a gravity that belied the unexpected humour.
A loud, unbridled laugh escaped Ophelia's lips in response to his directive.
"You're funny," she remarked sarcastically, the levity of her words momentarily cutting through the tension that hung in the air.
He moved swiftly across the room, his purpose evident in every step.
She'd always know when he was walking, it was a soft thudding sound that rang around the room.
The door to the bathroom creaked open, and the sound of running water filled the barrack.
Ophelia listened, the rhythmic flow of water merging with the sound of him moving around.
As the water continued its cascade, Ophelia closed her eyes, allowing the symphony of sounds to envelop her.
Sounds were good. Sounds meant she was safe.
A minute later, he returned, his demeanour now transformed from uncomfortable to incredibly calm.
With quiet efficiency, he helped Ophelia shed the rest of her clothes, his eyes dancing around the room and not once falling on her body.
His long fingers worked fast. Unclicking her belt and pulling her boots off.
She offered no resistance, her weariness and pain eclipsed by a pragmatic acceptance of the situation.
He was going to see her naked.
She just had to be fine with it and would be as long as he stitched up the fucking gaping hole on her side and let her sleep.
Medics were medics.
Guiding her to the bathroom, he lowered her gently onto the shower floor.
She tried not the let her eyes drop closed as cool tiles met the warmth of her bare skin.
She sat beneath the cascading water, the temperature cooler than she liked but she didn't care as water rushed over her hair and skin.
Staining the floor beneath her red.
Ophelia winced as water made contact with her wounds, but she needed to wash away everything.
She remained seated, resolute in her determination to wash away the traces of blood and sweat that clung to her like a second skin.
Her trembling hands, the aftermath of adrenaline and fatigue, rose hesitantly.
Her fingers flexed as she began to rub away the dirt and blood that adorned her skin.
It took a long time and he didn't help.
She looked over her shoulder and a small smile curled across her lips as she saw him with his back turned.
With the blood and sweat now washed away, Ophelia turned her attention to the aftermath of their mission that throbbed on her side.
Thank fuck, it wasn't too deep but it would need stitches.
She would have been fine if she had stitched it up ages ago, but the chopper ride took so long.
And she was not getting undressed in front of O'Conor.
For some reason, she felt safe being vulnerable with the man behind her.
And she did not have the energy to unpack why.
As her eyes descended to the wound, the water droplets clinging to her lashes, she assessed the damage with a detached familiarity.
It was a ritual she had performed countless times.
"Thank fuck. Just needs stitches, thought that one was gonna kill me this time," Ophelia remarked with laughter that danced on the edges of relief and defiance.
Wiping water from her face, she glanced up, meeting his blue-eyed gaze as he turned around and looked at the wound.
The intensity within those eyes held something she didn't understand.
The man, having turned off the shower, draped a towel over Ophelia's shivering form.
His movements were a stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded mere moments ago.
She wondered what the men he had killed with his bare hands would think of him being so gentle with her.
With quiet grace, he helped her stand, the towel enveloping her like a cocoon of warmth.
As she dried off, the towel clutched close, Ophelia felt a semblance of normalcy returning.
The man, with a respectful gesture, turned his back again, allowing her a moment of privacy.
It was a rare luxury, she'd never had someone do that before. In other barracks, they'd just leer.
"Let's stitch this fucker up so I can sleep," Ophelia declared when she was ready.
He turned, his nod a tacit agreement as his hands found her shoulders and he helped her walk.
And for once she felt his silence comforting.
Together, they walked from the bathroom, traversing the narrow space of the barrack.
He guided her towards his bed, eyes not moving away from the piece of furniture as he moved her closer.
Ophelia halted, her eyes fixated on the bed.
"What—" Ophelia began, her question hanging in the air, but the man's frustration preempted any further inquiry.
With a grunt of annoyance, he gently picked her up and placed her on the bed as if she weighed nothing.
The mattress embraced her like a familiar refuge, and she remained still as he moved with a purpose.
Mostly because she was shocked.
He had picked her up twice in one day and it was slightly irritating to be reminded he could.
She watched with a clenched jaw as he walked over to his drawers, extracting one of his black shirts.
With a tenderness that fought against the way she had seen him stomp someone's head in, he placed it over her head and pulled it down.
The fabric cascaded down her frame, transforming the borrowed garment into a makeshift dress that reached her knees.
It was soft and smelt like sandalwood.
Kneeling down beside her, he sighed in irritation as he retrieved a medic kit from beneath the bed.
Ophelia felt her anger grow.
His eyes lifted to meet hers, with a blend of weariness and determination.
"Can you close your eyes?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice that caught Ophelia off guard.
Her gaze locked with his, confusion etched on her features.
"I need to take the hood off," he explained, a silent request for understanding as he gestured to the needle and thread in his hands.
Ophelia, sensing the seriousness in his words grit her teeth and nodded in reluctant agreement.
He'd seen her naked but whatever.
Laying down on the bed, she snapped her eyes shut.
Her arm instinctively rose to shield her eyes, the gesture both a defence mechanism and a silent acknowledgment of trust.
The thought made her freeze.
Her body tensed.
She trusted him.