Bob is enjoying the quiet hum of the common room in the Avengers compound. It's always too quiet when the rest of the Avengers are gone on missions, but today, he doesn't mind the peace.

There's a long crash in the hallway—something glass, maybe—and then the unmistakable sound of little footsteps pattering on the floor.

A little kid runs up to Bob, wide-eyed and fearless, craning their neck to look up at him. “You're tall,” they declare, pointing a chubby finger at him like it’s a shocking revelation.

Bob chuckles, crouching down to meet them at eye level. “Well, who might you be?”

Before the child can respond, you come skidding around the corner, hair a mess, slightly out of breath from chasing your kid through the compound. “I am so sorry,” you say, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “My babysitter cancelled last minute, and, well… they’ll be with me while I’m working today.”

You’re the doctor for the Avengers—always professional, always composed—but right now, with a frazzled expression and a crayon mark on your sleeve, Bob thinks you’ve never looked more real. Or more beautiful.