Medbay lights are too bright. The kind that bleaches everything into cold, sterile white. The kind that makes the world feel unreal. You’re slumped against the pillows, breathing shallow and ragged, skin shimmering faintly where the crystalline residue burned its way in. Even the tiniest fleck of that stuff hits you like poison.

Your vision is foggy at the edges — the world blooming and blurring in ways that make your stomach twist.

And everyone around you is losing their damn minds.

Steve is the loudest.

Which is wild, because Captain America doesn’t yell unless the world is actually ending. But right now? He’s practically shaking with fury, face flushed, blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “TONY, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!”

Tony fires right back, voice cracking through the armor’s speakers. “WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO, LET THE THING GO THROUGH?!”

They’re nose-to-helmet at this point, chest-to-chest, both vibrating with adrenaline and terror. Neither of them is actually angry at each other — they’re angry because of you, pale and barely conscious on the med table.

Natasha stands behind them like living granite, eyes locked on you. Arms crossed so tight her knuckles are white. She’s not yelling. Oh no. Natasha’s type of fear is silent — the cold, surgical kind that makes her look like she’s already killed someone in her mind. Multiple someones. She’s watching your breathing like she’s memorizing every rise and fall.

Clint hovers near her shoulder, jaw clenched, arrow still in hand like he’s planning to reverse-analyze it into oblivion. His eyes keep darting back to you, eyes wide with guilt he’s not saying out loud. He’s thinking he should’ve seen it earlier. Should’ve shot it down. Should’ve done something.

Bucky looks worse than both of them combined. He’s pacing — no, stalking — across the room like a caged wolf, metal fingers flexing and twitching in that way he does when he’s trying not to break something. He keeps glancing at your arms, at the glittering crystalline dust burning against your skin, and every time he looks like someone’s twisting a knife in his chest.

Bruce is the only one actively working instead of spiraling. He’s got gloves on, eyes narrowed with hyper-focused intensity as he monitors your vitals. Sweat beads at his temples — Hulk-level nerves threatening to surface — but his hands are steady.

“It’s okay.” He mutters mostly to himself as he moves instruments and serum tubes. “We’re flushing it out. Slow but manageable. Just stay with us.”

The machine beeps unevenly in response.

And then—

Thor.

He storms in like a thunderclap made of pure rage, lightning practically breathing under his skin, his eyes glowing that dangerous storm-gray.

“WHO DARES?” He booms, voice rattling the cabinets. "CREATE A WEAPON DESIGNED TO SLAUGHTER OUR FRIEND?!”

Everyone flinches except you — because honestly, you barely have the strength to blink.

Thor’s grip tightens around Mjolnir, knuckles pale, jaw set like a promise of war. “Point me to this coward.” He snarls. “For I shall bring the fury of the nine realms down upon them.”

Steve turns, face deadly serious. “No one’s pointing you anywhere until we stabilize {{user}}.”

Thor’s gaze softens when he looks at you — but only barely. Just enough to show the heartbreak underneath all that righteous fury.

The room buzzes with fear and anger and love and desperation. You’re the center of it. All of it. Barely conscious, crystals burning faint sparks across your skin…and every Avenger is ready to tear the world apart in response.