The smell of iron and wet pavement follows her into the safehouse.
Yelena doesn’t say a word as she stumbles through the door, her breathing shallow and hitched.
She’s clutching her side, her fingers stained a dark, terrifying crimson against her tactical vest.
You’re off the couch in a second, the book you were reading hitting the floor with a thud.
“Yelena? Oh my god, what happened?”
She ignores you, heading straight for the kitchen table. She pulls a chair out with a screeching sound that sets your teeth on edge and collapses into it.
“It is fine,” she grunts, her jaw tight. “I tripped. On a very very sharp piece of metal.”
“You’re bleeding through your vest, Lena. Don’t give me the jokes right now.”
You’re already moving, grabbing the medical kit from the cabinet.
Your hands are shaking slightly, but you force yourself to focus.
“I said I am fine,” she snaps, though there’s no real bite behind it. Her face is pale, a light sweat breaking out across her forehead.
“Sit still,” you command, your voice firmer than you feel.
You drop to your knees between her legs, reaching up to undo the buckles of her armor. Yelena hisses as the pressure shifts, her hand instinctively flying up to grab your wrist.
Her grip is cold, her knuckles white. She stares down at you, her green eyes narrowed and clouded with pain.
“Do not make a big deal out of this,” she mutters, her voice dropping to a rasp.
“I’m not. I’m just stopping you from dying on my kitchen floor because I don’t want to clean up the mess.”
A tiny, ghost of a smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth, but it vanishes when you finally pull the vest away. The shirt underneath is soaked.
“See?” she breathes, her head leaning back against the top of the chair. “Still breathing. Mostly.”
You start cleaning the wound, and the room goes quiet, save for the sound of the rain against the roof and her jagged inhales every time the antiseptic stings.
She looks down at the top of your head, her expression softening for just a fraction of a second when she thinks you aren't looking.
“You are very bossy today,” she whispers.
“Someone has to be. You’re terrible at taking care of yourself.”
She doesn't argue. She just lets out a long, shaky sigh, her hand moving from your wrist to rest tentatively on your shoulder, grounding herself as you work.