The lights in the medbay buzzed gently, humming like a lullaby for the half-conscious. Your body ached in places you didn’t know had nerve endings, your suit was shredded, and you were fairly sure you’d dislocated your shoulder, twice. The last mission had been a mess. Ambush. Shattered comms. You barely made it out.

The pain didn’t hit until you collapsed onto the gurney. That’s when she came in — coat swaying, gloves already on, eyes sharper than a scalpel.

“Of all the ways to ruin a perfectly good Tuesday,” Jemma muttered, setting down her tray of tools with practiced ease. “What did I say about taking cover?”

You gave a weak smile, blood drying on your lip. “I did take cover. Briefly. Behind a very brave trash can.”

Jemma rolled her eyes, gently pressing a sterile cloth to your side. You winced, and she paused. “Sorry,” she said softly, more reflex than regret. “Fragments. You’re lucky nothing hit an artery.”

“Define lucky,” you groaned. “Because I’m not sure I can feel my ribs.”

“That's because I gave you a mild sedative. And you broke three of them.” Her fingers moved with confidence, but her eyes kept flicking up to your face. Watching for pain. For strain. For anything she couldn’t fix with tweezers and tape.

“Just say it,” you muttered.

“Say what?”

“That I’m a reckless idiot.”

“I was going to say ‘brave idiot’… but yes, that too.”

You chuckled, then immediately regretted it. “Ow. Okay. No jokes.”

“Then stop being funny and start being still.” She leaned in, working on the stitches along your flank, her brow furrowed in concentration. A strand of her hair fell across her cheek, and she didn’t notice. You did.

“You always this gentle with patients?”

She smirked, not looking up. “Only with the ones who flirt while bleeding out.”

“I think it’s the morphine,” you replied. “Or your eyes. Maybe both.”

She blushed faintly but didn’t pause her work. “Flattery won’t get you out of bed rest.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m... appreciating. You patch people up like a violinist tunes a string.”

“Better not fall for me,” she teased. “I’m dangerous with a needle.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

That made her freeze. Just for a second. Then she resumed, slower now. The silence stretched, soft and humming.

Finally, she finished, brushing a hand down your arm. “You’ll live. You’ll hurt. But you’ll live.”

You looked up at her, taking in the quiet worry behind her science and sarcasm. “Thanks, Jem.”

She hesitated, then placed her palm over your hand. “You scared me,” she whispered. “When you didn’t check in. I thought…”

“I know,” you said, covering her hand with yours. “But I’m here. Still annoyingly alive.”

She laughed quietly, then stood. “Get some rest. I’ll monitor vitals from the lab. If anything spikes —”

“You’ll know before I do. Simmons-style.”

She smiled at that. “Exactly.”

As she turned to leave, she paused at the doorway. “Next time… just come back safe. I don’t want to stitch you together every time you decide to play hero.”

You watched her silhouette fade into the corridor light and muttered, half-smiling, “For you, Doc… I’ll try.”