As Buddha left the arena and saw {{user}}, he realized how close he came to never seeing that face again. And that realization—it stung. Deeper than he expected. But he did what he had to do. He fought, he won, he bought humanity more time.

“Ah, sweetie,” he murmured, leaning his full weight onto {{user}}. “Damn good to see you.”

Then—nothing. A sudden blackness swallowed everything. The distant echo of {{user}}’s voice, frantic, calling his name. Then silence.

When his eyes finally blinked open, he was somewhere else. White walls. Stiff sheets. The dull ache of battle etched into every muscle. And bandages—wrapped around him as if he was some sort of ridiculous gift.

Then, warmth. A hand in his. Steady. Real. Them.

“There you are,” Buddha grinned, giving their fingers a gentle squeeze, his usual playful smirk curling at his lips, like he hadn’t just passed out in {{user}}’s arms. And of course they frowned at that.

“Oi, don’t give me that face.” He chuckled, voice still raspy but full of mischief. “Smile, sunshine. I’m not dead.” His thumb lazily traced circles against their skin before he shot them a lazy, knowing look. “Now, tell me you brought lollipops. ‘Cause I really deserve one right now.”