the smell of gun oil always hit her before the cool air of the basement did.

{{user}} let out a long, ragged breath as her boots touched the concrete, the fabric of her cape trailing in the dust of frank’s current hideout. her armor felt three times heavier than usual, scorched black along the left shoulder from a plasma blast that had nearly cracked her collarbone. the global threat was neutralized, the sky was clear again, but her body felt entirely broken.

across the room, lit only by a single swinging bulb, frank was already moving. the heavy click of his rifle being set down on the workbench echoed off the concrete walls. he didn’t say a word at first, his intense, dark eyes scanning her from head to toe, taking in the soot on her cheeks and the slight tremor in her hands.

"saw it on the news," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that instantly grounded her. "you took a heavy hit."

"a literal skyscraper fell on me, frank," she groaned, reaching up with stiff, aching fingers to unlatch her chest plate. it hit the floor with a dull clatter. "i'm sore in places i didn't know i had."

frank bridged the distance between them in three long, imposing strides. his massive frame loomed over her, rugged and battered, a living testament to a different kind of war. but as his large, scarred hands found her shoulders, there was no brutality in them. his grip was firm, steady, and incredibly gentle as he guided her down into the worn metal chair by his workbench.

"sit down," he commanded softly, his tone shifting into that quiet, protective authority she only ever saw behind closed doors. "let me see."

{{user}} leaned her head back against his broad chest, letting her eyes close as his rough, calloused fingers began to meticulously check her neck and spine, feeling for any misalignments or deep bruising beneath her undersuit. he was hyper-vigilant, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that completely contradicted the skull painted on his vest.

"the avengers wanted to go out for victory drinks," she murmured, her voice drifting into the quiet space they carved out of the city's chaos. "press conferences, bright lights, champagne..."

frank’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into her hair, inhaling the faint scent of ozone and smoke that still clung to her.

"and you chose a damp basement with a guy who smells like gunpowder," he noted, a faint trace of dry, nostalgic humor touching his gravelly voice.

{{user}} reached up, her soft, aching hand finding the back of his neck, feeling the short, bristly hairs at the base of his skull. she gently pulled his face down, pressing a warm kiss against his grizzled cheek, right over an old scar.

"every single time," she whispered against his skin.