"Okay. You’re okay." Elliot's hands moved, checking for obvious displacement, watching Fernandez's face for pain responses. "Can you move your fingers?"
Fernandez flexed his hand slightly. "Yeah."
"Good. That's good. Probably not broken, just dislocated or a bad sprain." Elliot glanced up at the others standing around. "Someone get the medic. Novak, grab that jacket—we need to stabilize his arm."
They followed his instructions without question, and Elliot talked Fernandez through it, keeping his voice reassuring. "You're going to be fine. Probably a few weeks of light duty. I've seen worse injuries from less dramatic falls."
Fernandez let out a pained laugh. "Trying to make me feel better?"
"Wouldn’t dream of it." Elliot helped him sit up,supporting the injured shoulder. "You did almost stick that rebound, though. Points for effort."
"Thanks, man.” Fernandez winced. “This is all weirdly comforting.”
Elliot let out a genuine laugh that took them both by surprise.
The medic arrived and took over, but Elliot stayed next to Fernandez, helped transfer him to a sitting position against the wall, making sure he was comfortable before stepping back.
When he turned around, he found Hale looking at him.
No, not looking—staring. Like he was seeing something unexpected. Something that didn't fit whatever box Hale had put him in.
Elliot's defenses snapped back into place. The easy warmth from moments ago evaporated, replaced by familiar tension.
Putain.
"He'll be fine," Elliot said, voice flat now. Professional. "Probably just needs rest."
"Yeah," Reed said. "Thanks for... you know. Handling that."
Elliot nodded once and grabbed his jacket from the wall. "I need to get to my workout."
"Shaw—" Hale started.
"See you at dinner."
Elliot walked away before anyone could say anything else. He didn’t want Hale to finish whatever observation he'd been about to make.
His pulse was still elevated, but not from the game. From the realization that he'd let them see too much. Had let his guard down, even just for a few minutes.
His father's voice echoed in his head:Weakness is failure. Emotion is weakness. Control is everything.
But in that moment, playing basketball and laughing and taking care of Fernandez, Elliot hadn't felt weak.
He'd felt like himself.
The next day,they were all gathered in one of the simulation buildings.
"Listen up," Sergeant Kowalski bellowed. "You've got forty-five minutes to clear the building, disengage all hostages, and reach the extraction point. You'll be evaluated on speed, efficiency, and strategic soundness. Fuck up and you do it again. Questions?"
No one had questions.
Four-person teams, a simulated hostile building, and instructors playing enemy combatants. Simple. Elliot had run variations of this exercise a dozen times, knew the geometry, the calculus of entry angles and threat prioritization. He could do it in his sleep.
What he couldn’t account for was Hale.
Elliot glanced at him at the opposite end of the staging area. Hale was checking his gear—unhurried, completely in his element. Elliot had watched him fail to impress exactly once, during the first week's blindfolded weapon breakdown when Hale had come in fifth. Since then it had been relentless. Irritating.
They'd barely spoken since last night in the storage room when Hale had shown up ten minutes early again and Elliot had pushed him against the wall before he could even get a word out.
