[ her fingers pause briefly when he turns his hand over, almost as if she were caught in the act. but she can't pass up all that new real estate, lightly tracing the lines running across his palm with a finger. his hands are bigger than hers, rougher and calloused, but she likes how warm they are and how they remind her of home: a small church in the middle of winter; a kind priest who opened his doors to a mother and her daughter with nowhere to go.

he's right, though. mercedes' smile widens as her finger reaches the heel of his palm, tracing the same path in reverse. ]

Even if I have, it doesn't mean I wouldn't want to hear it again.

[ in combat, your medic is your priest, your confidant, and your saint. they know your blood type and your pain tolerance; they know what you dream about when you’re pathetic and feverish, calling out names in the dark. ]

I don't mind. But I hope that you'll be able to hear those things from others sometime.