Every part of you protests the movement. A symphony of pain plays in a dull throb along your ribs, a sharp, percussive ache in your shoulder, and a general, all-over sting that feels like you’ve been rolled in broken glass and gravel. You’re good at this, at compartmentalizing, at shoving the hurt into a little mental lockbox labeled ‘Later.’ But here, in the dim light of the hallway, ‘Later’ has arrived.

He’s already there, of course, sitting on the arm of the sofa, still in his own mission-day tactical pants and a thin grey tank top, a book open on his knee but his eyes, sharp and blue, are already on you. The air shifts. It always does when he’s in it, becoming heavier, more charged.

“Hey, soldier,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble, a bedrock sound in the shaky aftermath of your night.

“‘M not a soldier,” you mumble, the retort automatic as you toe off your battered boots. “I’m… freelance.”

“You’re a pain in my ass is what you are,” he counters, but there’s no heat in it. It’s their ritual. The book is closed, set aside with a quiet finality. He stands, and his presence seems to fill the entire living room. He doesn’t rush over, doesn’t fuss. He gives you space to cross the minefield of your own pride, his gaze doing a quick, professional assessment—the way you favor your right side, the slight hitch in your breath, the dark bloom of a bruise peeking from the collar of your jacket.

You make it to the bathroom, your sanctuary of tile and steel, and he follows, a silent shadow. The contents of the medkit are laid out on the closed toilet lid with military precision: gauze, antiseptic, suture kit, tape. You shrug out of your jacket, wincing as the leather pulls at the raw skin of your bicep. The rest—the blood-soaked shirt, the torn cargo pants—follows, landing in a heap on the floor, a testament to the night’s failures and narrow successes.

Rick takes a slow, controlled breath, his jaw tightening so slightly you’d miss it if you didn’t know the landscape of his face like your own. His eyes trace the map of damage on your skin: the purple and black constellation on your ribs, the angry, weeping graze along your shoulder, the countless smaller cuts and bruises.

“Got a bit close this time, huh, sweetheart?” he murmurs, the endearment a soft contradiction to the grim set of his mouth.

“You should see the other guy,” you quip, your voice thin.

“I’d rather see you in one piece.”

He moves then. His hands, which can be so brutally efficient, are infinitely gentle. He’s all focused intensity, the same man who can coordinate a squad of psychotic metahumans, now directing all that command presence to the task of cleaning a single cut. The cool sting of the antiseptic makes you hiss, and his thumb strokes the unbruised skin of your hip in a small, soothing circle. The intimacy of it is a different kind of wound, deeper than any cut.

He works in silence, and you let him. When he’s done, he doesn’t move away. He stays there, on his knees, his hands resting on your bare thighs. He looks up at you, and the raw, unguarded love in his eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s a look he can never afford to give you anywhere else.

Slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to the dark, ugly bruise on your hipbone. His kiss is warm, impossibly soft. A benediction. He moves to the smaller bruise on your ribs, then to the red mark on your bicep. Each kiss is a silent prayer, a spell to ward off the pain. You close your eyes, a shiver running through you that has nothing to do with the cold tiles.

He doesn’t say a word. He just gathers you into his arms, careful of your injuries, and holds you. It’s an anchor, a tether, pulling you back from the edge of the adrenaline crash and the cold solitude of the job. You bury your face in the hollow of his neck, breathing him in, and for the first time all night, you feel the rigid tension in your spine begin to unlock.

“I hate this part,” he mutters into your hair, his voice thick. “The waiting. The not-knowing. Knowing you’re out there, alone, and I can’t have your six.”