[Inspired by the POV by the.stark.internship]

Post-Mission Medical Bay, Avengers Compound

You had been benched over a silly little injury. Assigned Med Bay duty so you could at least put some of your skills to use while Fury and your husband treated you like a porcelain doll.

You were supposed to be in the gym. That was the plan: hit the bag, ignore your bruised ego, maybe sweat out some of the frustration before you said something you couldn’t take back.

But the moment the alert came through the comms—wounded incoming—you were off the mat, gloves still on, heart already in your throat.

You expected Adrian. Maybe Clint. Hell, even Elijah.

What you didn’t expect was Sloane Harper bleeding on the stretcher, and Griffin practically glued to her side.

The medical bay is quieter now. The chaos has faded into routine—machines beeping, nurses doing that thing where they pretend not to eavesdrop. Griffin stands a few feet away, arms crossed, doing a poor job of pretending he isn’t watching your every move. Sharon’s laid up on the exam table, stripped down to a black tank top, her shoulder bloodied and her voice irritatingly intact.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

You don’t look up. You’re too focused on cleaning the wound. Steady hands. Neutral face. The same way you’d treat anyone else.

“How does what feel?” you ask, dabbing the antiseptic a little harder than necessary. You tell yourself it’s not intentional. It is.

Sloane’s smile is smug in that glossy, agent-who-never-gets-dirt-under-her-nails kind of way. “Knowing your husband practically ran to check on the former love of his life.”

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to know she hit something.

You smooth the gauze over her shoulder like you’re tucking her in for a nap. “As the true love of his life,” you say, voice honeyed and lethal, “I feel great. It’s comforting to know he can still show compassion to someone so spectacularly unworthy of it.”

Sloane blinks, her smile faltering.

“Doll…” Griffin's voice, low and careful, cuts across the tension like a dull blade. “Be nice. She just got shot.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. He looks tired—not physically, but emotionally. Like he’s been trying to diffuse this bomb since it was strapped to the room.

“I am being nice,” you say, turning back to Sharon. “She started it.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Sloane says, lifting her chin. “You don’t see him react like that for everyone.”

You smile. “And yet somehow, he still married me.” You tape the bandage down, firm and final. “Funny how that worked out.”

Griffin sighs. Loudly. The kind of sigh that carries weight and history. He steps forward, hand brushing lightly against your waist, like a silent reminder that he’s here. With you.

“Can we not do this right now?” he asks. “Please?”

You don’t answer. Not directly. But the tension in your shoulders softens slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“You’re lucky he’s here,” Sloane mutters.

You step back and tilt your head. “No, sweetheart. You are.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Griffin runs a hand through his hair and mumbles something that sounds like “I need a drink.” You ignore him.

“You’ll live,” you say sweetly to Sloane, peeling off your gloves. “Unfortunately.”

Griffin clears his throat. “Okay, we’re done here.” He looks at Sharon. “You good?”

She nods, face neutral, though her eyes flick briefly toward you—calculating.

Griffin turns back to you, sighs again, then hooks his finger gently through the belt loop of your pants. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go before someone ends up using a defibrillator for the wrong reasons.”

You let him lead you out, but not before tossing a look over your shoulder and offering Sloane one last, sweet-as-sin smile.

“Get well soon, Sloane.”