agent [ reader x zussman ]

• iv •

Your sore body groans in protest as you pull yourself up off the jeep. The men disband from the huddle they had previously been in, looking for a place to rest for the night. While your mind swims with fatigue, you know there are things still to do before you can rest. You have to document the happenings of today to report back to Major Crowley and you have to redress your wound. If you have time, you need to look over the case you had been working on before you left. Maybe you'll luck out and catch a lead.

Heading into an empty building, you head up to the second floor. The room is still slightly furnished. A dusty piano sits in the middle, surrounded by debris and shattered glass. A few chairs are around it, most likely set up by the German's when they got here first. A rather large hole is blasted out of the side, but you didn't mind. July nights get nice and cool, and the moonlight will help you be able to read over your notes.

You slump down against a wall, kicking your boots off and changing your socks. The last thing you need is trench foot. You'd seen enough cases in your time as a nurse to want to avoid it as much as possible.

Tilting your head against the wall, you take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, feeling the air enter your lungs and then filter out. A few breaths later, your mind is beginning to calm. You feel the tense muscles in your torso, legs, and arms begin to relax with your breathing. Subconsciously, you reach a hand up to massage a sore knot in your neck, tilting your head to expose the area.

The door to the room that you had left ajar creaks open, two familiar faces appearing in the dimming light. You drop your hand to your lap and offer a slight smile.

"Is it alright if we stay here tonight? Everywhere else is taken." Daniels asks, his frame slumping slightly with fatigue.

"Be my guest." You shrug. Daniels and Zussman thank you as they drop their things onto the ground nearby.

Looking through your own bag, you find the small medical kit you always keep on you. Unfortunately, you were unable to reach it earlier in the chaos of battle. Pulling it out, you flip open the pouch and place a few materials down onto your thigh. A small pair of small, steel surgical scissors, gauze, iodine, forceps, sutures, and a needle.

Pinning back the torn pieces of your pant leg, you drip some iodine into the wound, clenching your fists and biting down on your lip to stop from growling in pain. Next, you clean your tools with the iodine and get down to work. You gently open the wound slightly with your non-dominant hand, finally able to get a better look at the wound.

"Bloody tank." You snarl, grabbing the small pair of forceps to make an attempt to remove the chunks of dirt and metal lodged in the wound.

Pulling a few larger pieces out, you use an iodine swab to thoroughly clean the interior of the wound. Grabbing the sutures and the needle, you take a breath and begin to stitch the wound. Your breathing becomes heavy due to the radiating pain shooting up your hip and down to your knee. A wound this deep and this wide needs at least seven stitches.

"Damn, are you really stitching yourself up right now?" Zussman questions, looking down at you in disbelief.

"Honestly, I don't trust anyone else to do them properly." You explain through gritted teeth. You dig a tad too deep and yelp slightly. "Son of a bitch!" You curse, slamming your fist down on the wood floor beside you to distract yourself from the pain.

With the sutures soon completed, you wrap the gash with gauze and let it rest for a moment before trying to move it. Slowly, you get to your feet and walk with a sluggish pace. There's no point in pushing it. After all, a big fight like tomorrow's would require you to be in top shape. No rest for the wicked.