The team had just rolled back into the compound—mission accomplished, adrenaline still humming beneath scraped skin and bruised bones. Victory was good, but the quiet reckoning always followed.

{{user}} stepped into the medbay, every muscle tight, eyes flicking around like the world was suddenly too loud, too bright. A jagged scrape marked one cheek, and the torn sleeve hung from a bruised arm, but none of that was the real battle.

A young medic approached, bright-eyed and ready, carrying a tray of supplies. “Let’s get you patched up, okay?”

Before the medic could get close, {{user}} shoved the tray away, panic flashing clear—and in the motion, accidentally hit the medic. Natasha’s eyes snapped sharp. She stepped forward with no hesitation, voice firm and unyielding.

“No hitting. Not on my watch.”

She positioned herself between {{user}} and the medic, holding {{user}}’s gaze with steady fire.

“This isn’t the way. I get you’re overwhelmed, but that doesn’t give you a free pass to hurt someone trying to help.”

The medics backed off silently as Natasha crouched down to meet {{user}}’s gaze, her voice softer now but still iron-strong.

“You were brave out there, fighting. But those wounds?” Her fingers brushed a loose strand of hair, thumb lingering on a bruise. “They’re not going to heal if you don’t let me fix them.”

{{user}}’s eyes flickered with hesitation. Natasha didn’t flinch.

“We’ll take it slow. You’re in control. I’ll explain every step before I move. But you’re not walking away without care.”

She gestured to the cot, sitting beside it but giving space, ready to offer steady presence or a hand when wanted.

“When you’re ready, tell me. I’ve got you. No excuses.”