Soap pt2

Every breath sent a pain through your ribs, even though your breathing had calmed down. The building around you wasn't a base—it was too far away—but it was still a calm and safe place. Much better than that basement from which Soap had dragged you, risking his own life. Now you could close your eyes without wondering where the next blow would land.

For the last half hour, Soap had been working on you with the first aid kit—he wanted to do it carefully, but it was all coming together. He seemed more focused than during the escape from the enemy camp; a deep line had formed between his brows. Occasionally, he muttered something under his breath—"Does this hurt?" or "Be patient"—but mostly he worked in silence.

"Damn it. They didn't even spare my face. I wish a doctor would stitch this up properly." His internal monologue was more emotional. His calloused fingers firmly secured the cotton wool to the treated wound with an adhesive bandage.

"This one is ready. Where else?"

Soap's eyes scanned your seated figure. The question was more of a urge to act than an actual question. He'd seen one of the kidnappers "count" your ribs. The blow had been so hard, there was a chance those ribs were broken. Now Soap needed to patch them up so you could move on, but something kept him from directly telling you to lift your shirt. So he just stared, waiting for you to take the hint. The back of his neck seemed to turn redder.