The Quinjet touched down on the compound landing pad with a slight jolt, and Natasha was already unbuckling her harness before the engines fully powered down.

The mission had been rough—not catastrophically so, but enough that both she and {{user}} were sporting injuries that needed attention. Nothing life-threatening, but enough that they were both moving a little slower than usual as they made their way down the ramp.

Natasha’s arm was bleeding through a tear in her tactical suit, and she could feel the cut above her eyebrow still trickling. {{user}} was favoring one shoulder, and Natasha had seen the wince when {{user}} moved it during the flight back.

They walked through the compound in comfortable silence, both too tired for words. Debriefing could wait until morning. Right now, they just needed to get cleaned up.

Their shared room was quiet and familiar. Natasha grabbed the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink—the same one they’d restocked last week after the previous mission.

This was routine. They both knew it well.

Natasha sat on the edge of the bed, shrugging out of her tactical jacket with a wince. {{user}} sat beside her and reached for the first aid kit without needing to be asked.

{{user}}‘s hands were gentle, cleaning the cut on Natasha’s arm with careful dabs of antiseptic. Natasha watched {{user}}’s face—the concentration there, the familiar furrow between eyebrows that always appeared when {{user}} was taking care of her.

They’d done this so many times. The silence between them was comfortable, familiar.

Once the arm was wrapped with butterfly bandages, {{user}} shifted focus to Natasha’s eyebrow. A gentle hand tilted Natasha’s chin up, and {{user}} leaned in close, one hand cupping Natasha’s jaw to keep her steady while cleaning the wound.

This close, Natasha could see every detail—the tiredness around {{user}}’s eyes, the small scrape on the cheekbone, the way {{user}}’s lips pressed together in concentration.

{{user}} applied a small bandage to the eyebrow, fingers lingering for just a moment. Then {{user}} leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Natasha’s lips—quick, gentle, routine.

Natasha smiled against the kiss, her hand coming up to rest on {{user}}’s waist.

When they pulled apart, Natasha’s eyes were warm.

“C’mere,” she murmured, already reaching for the antiseptic wipes. “Your turn. Let me look at you.”