The field was a mess, the aftermath of a mission gone sideways. You barely made it back, limping, body battered, bruises mapping themselves across your skin. Dinah and Barbara were waiting, their expressions unreadable, poised between concern and that razor-sharp edge that came with knowing they’d seen worse but still cared.

“Damn it,” Dinah muttered, pulling you into a chair, her hands rough but steady as she examined your injuries. “You’re a mess. How do you even survive half the things you do?”

“Luck,” you wheezed, attempting a smirk that fell flat against the ache in your ribs.

Barbara knelt beside you, her fingers gentle as she inspected a nasty cut along your side. “Luck isn’t enough this time,” she said, voice firm but calm. “We’re going to fix you up. And no heroics while we do it.”

Dinah’s gloves came off, revealing her hands—calloused, scarred, yet careful as she pressed gauze to a fresh abrasion. “You always think you can push past the pain,” she said, leaning close, her green eyes studying you like she could see straight through the adrenaline haze. “You can’t. Not today.”

You tried to protest, but the words caught in your throat. There was something grounding in the way Barbara’s fingers traced the edges of a tear in your uniform, something maternal and precise. The kind of care that made you realize just how much you’d been running, ignoring your own limits.

Dinah’s hand brushed against yours, accidental or intentional, you couldn’t tell. The warmth hit you differently than the antiseptic and bandages. “Look alive,” she teased, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’ve patched up worse, but you’re stubborn. Makes it fun.”

Barbara shook her head, rolling her eyes, though her smirk betrayed her own amusement. “Fun isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

You flinched as Dinah pressed a poultice to a particularly sore bruise. “Hey! Careful—”

“You’re supposed to be hurt,” she said, voice teasing. “Not dead.” Her green gaze softened for the briefest moment, and your chest clenched.

Barbara’s voice cut through, clear and firm: “I’ll handle the deep stuff. Dinah, you can amuse yourself with the rest.” She tied off a bandage, checking it for tension. “Better?”

Dinah smirked, leaning back against the wall, but didn’t leave your side. “Better than nothing. But you’re still lucky you’ve got us. Admit it.”

“I…” You swallowed, feeling the weight of exhaustion and relief. “…I know. I really do.”

Dinah ruffled your hair, smirking. “Good. Now sit still for five minutes. Or else.”

Barbara chuckled softly, hands finally free, but her eyes stayed on you, vigilant. “Or else what?”

Dinah’s grin was all teeth and mischief. “Or else we patch you up anyway, and you’re stuck hearing how worried we were the entire time.”

You laughed despite the pain, the two of them a strange, grounding combination of chaos and calm, tenderness and sharp wit. And for once, you didn’t mind being stuck in the middle.

Because sometimes being patched up was about more than healing cuts. It was about the people who refused to let you fall apart, no matter how stubborn or reckless you were.