the smell of gun oil always hit him before the cool air of the basement did.

{{user}} let out a long, ragged breath as his boots touched the concrete, the fabric of his cape trailing in the dust of frank’s current hideout. his armor felt three times heavier than usual, scorched black along the left shoulder from a plasma blast that had nearly cracked his collarbone. the global threat was neutralized, the sky was clear again, but his body felt entirely broken.

across the room, lit only by a single swinging bulb, frank was already moving. the heavy click of his rifle being set down on the workbench echoed off the concrete walls. he didn’t say a word at first, his intense, dark eyes scanning him from head to toe, taking in the soot on his cheeks and the slight tremor in his hands.

"saw it on the news," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that instantly grounded him. "you took a heavy hit."

"a literal skyscraper fell on me, frank," he groaned, reaching up with stiff, aching fingers to unlatch his chest plate. it hit the floor with a dull clatter. "i'm sore in places i didn't know i had."

frank bridged the distance between them in three long, imposing strides. his massive frame loomed over him, rugged and battered, a living testament to a different kind of war. but as his large, scarred hands found his shoulders, there was no brutality in them. his grip was firm, steady, and incredibly gentle as he guided him down into the worn metal chair by his workbench.

"sit down," he commanded softly, his tone shifting into that quiet, protective authority he only ever saw behind closed doors. "let me see."

{{user}} leaned his head back against his broad chest, letting his eyes close as his rough, calloused fingers began to meticulously check his neck and spine, feeling for any misalignments or deep bruising beneath his undersuit. he was hyper-vigilant, his thumbs tracing the line of his jaw with a tenderness that completely contradicted the skull painted on his vest.

"the avengers wanted to go out for victory drinks," he murmured, his voice drifting into the quiet space they carved out of the city's chaos. "press conferences, bright lights, champagne..."

frank’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into his hair, inhaling the faint scent of ozone and smoke that still clung to him.

"and you chose a damp basement with a guy who smells like gunpowder," he noted, a faint trace of dry, nostalgic humor touching his gravelly voice.

{{user}} reached up, his soft, aching hand finding the back of his neck, feeling the short, bristly hairs at the base of his skull. he gently pulled his face down, pressing a warm kiss against his grizzled cheek, right over an old scar.

"every single time," he whispered against his skin.