Rick eased himself onto the worn leather couch, the one you'd picked out together two years back because it "looked tough but felt soft," as you'd put it. His ribs protested with a dull throb, bandaged tight under the loose cotton shirt the hospital had given him. The discharge papers crinkled in his pocket, a reminder that he was alive, somehow, against all odds.

He'd died. Or close enough. The explosion in Jotunheim had ripped through him like a freight train, Peacemaker's betrayal a knife twist he hadn't seen coming. Woke up in a sterile room with beeping machines and Waller staring down at him like he was a glitch in her system. "Flag," she'd said, voice flat as a board, "you're too useful to stay dead." And just like that, he was patched up, poked, prodded, and shipped back to the land of the living. But home— this cluttered two-bedroom with its mismatched mugs and your books stacked on every surface—felt like the real resurrection.

You were in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge, the light spilling out in a warm glow that caught the edges of your silhouette. Jeans hugging your hips, an old Army tee of his swallowing your frame, hair tied back in that messy way that always made him want to untangle it with his fingers. You'd been there every day at the hospital, sneaking in contraband coffee and holding his hand when the nurses weren't looking. Strong as hell, but he'd seen the cracks; the red-rimmed eyes, the way your laugh came out forced when the docs talked recovery timelines.

"Want a beer?" you called, voice muffled by the fridge door. "Or are you still on that no-alcohol bullshit from the doc?"

Rick chuckled, low and rough, the sound scraping his throat. "Hell, yeah. Make it two. I've earned it after Waller tried to play God with my ass."

You emerged with two bottles, condensation beading on the glass like sweat on skin, and handed him one before sinking down beside him. He twisted the cap off with a flick and took a long pull, the cold bitterness grounding him.

Rick watched you sip your beer, the way your lips curved around the bottle's mouth, the faint swallow in your throat. God, he'd missed this. Missed you. In the haze of pain meds and debriefs, thoughts of you had been his anchor; your smile, your fire, the way you'd call him out on his stubborn streaks without backing down.