Blood Loss, Trail of blood
“..easy in and out they said. The Soldier is a great stealth operative, he’ll get the mission done quick,” the handler rages on the phone, pacing.
“And what does he do? He gets seen. And shot. And leaves a trail of blood, leading them directly to our safe house!”
The Soldier does feel a little bad about that. Although, in his defense, he hadn’t realized that he had been shot. Or that he was being pursued. (Probably poor thinking due to the blood loss.) It was an excuse, he should have been more diligent.
After he had returned to base, it wasn’t long until their enemies came after them. There was no chance to dig the bullet out, and he had sustained more injuries during the following skirmish. They were forced to relocate.
As punishment (the Soldier presumes. The Handler hadn’t actually said) they have not removed the bullets or tried to stop the bleeding. Although the bleeding has slowed.
He knows that if left alone long enough, so long as the injuries are not fatal, they’ll heal on their own. But he would prefer to be allowed to pull the bullets out, before they heal over. Being reopened to dig out metal always seems to be worse than the initial injury.
Glancing up at the handler, who is still raging to the higher ups, he tentatively pokes at the bullet wound in his side. It’s barely bleeding anymore, thank goodness. But definitely healing. He hasn’t been told to see to it, but he also hasn’t been explicitly forbidden. Using metal fingers, he probes at it and..
“Soldier.”
His head snaps up to look at the Handler. His gaze is cold. Heart pounding, the Soldier lowers his eyes. Moves his hands away from the hole in his side, feeling ashamed for trying.
“Is the bullet still in there?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Soldier keeps his head bowed as the handler moves about roughly, looking for something. He comes back, wearing a glove.
The Handler orders him to sit up, and clasp his hands behind his back. The Soldier complies. With a warning look to behave, the Handler jams his hand inside the wound, making no effort to be gentle. The Soldier gags. He’s certain the handler is doing it on purpose, as punishment for ruining the op. He grits his teeth and bears it.
After roughly digging around, the handler yanks out the bullet. More blood flows out of the wound. He inspects the bullet briefly, before pressing it into the soft part under the Soldier’s jaw. The Soldier tilts his head back slightly, but the handler follows the movement, pressing the bullet further.
“Do not,” growls the Handler, “ever get followed again. Do you understand me?” The Soldier nods, shutting down a wince at the pain under his chin. “If it happens again, you’ll wish it was just a bullet.” The handler lifts a bloody hand to the Soldier's face, leaving a trail from his temples, across his cheekbones, to the corner of his mouth.
The Handler stands, moving the bullet away. The Soldier drops his head down. The bullet bounces off his chest. But he does not look up.
“Tsk. Go clean up.” The Handler dismisses him.
Wordlessly, the Soldier complies, grateful it wasn’t worse