˚˖. angel𓏲🪽

“No.”

You looked up from your tablet. “No?”

Yelena folded her arms. “No.”

You glanced down at the schedule in front of you. “The interview is in twenty minutes.”

“No.”

“You already agreed to it.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You signed paperwork.”

“I did not read paperwork.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It becomes your fault when you continue speaking.”

Your smile tightened. Across the conference room, Yelena narrowed her eyes. You had endured three weeks of chasing the most stubborn woman on the planet through hallways, briefing rooms, training facilities and rooftops.

Three weeks of arguments and sarcastic comments delivered with enough confidence to make anyone else retreat. Unfortunately for Yelena, you weren’t anyone else.

“You need to attend.”

“No.”

“You have a contractual obligation.”

“No.”

“You are going.”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

Yelena looked suspicious. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

Something flickered across her face. Confusion.

You stood, gathering your papers. “I’ll tell Val you refused.”

Immediately, Yelena scowled.

Cowardly satisfaction warmed your chest. There it was, her one weakness, Val. Not fear exactly, something more like annoyance severe enough to qualify as fear.

“You are threatening me.”

“I am reporting back to my employer, which is my job.”

“You enjoy this.”

“Immensely.”

“You are terrible person.”

“You’ll survive.”

Yelena stared at you for several seconds. Then she pushed herself upright. You bit back a smile.

“Good choice.”

“I hate you.”

“See you in twenty minutes.”

The door slammed behind her. You grinned at your tablet. Small victories. Very small victories.

The strange thing was that you genuinely hadn’t expected progress. The first time you’d met Yelena Belova she’d looked at you like you’d personally invented the masses of paperwork she had to be forced to complete. Now she only looked at you like that seventy percent of the time. It was growth, apparently.

The interview went surprisingly well. Mostly because Yelena spent the entire thing glaring at you from across the room while answering every question perfectly. Whenever the presenter asked something awkward, her eyes flicked towards you automatically.

Waiting. Checking. Looking for guidance.

She didn’t seem to realise she was doing it. You definitely noticed, unfortunately. The problem wasn’t that Yelena was attractive. Everybody knew that. The problem was that the more time you spent around her, the harder it became to maintain professional distance. It was difficult to dislike someone properly once you started noticing things.

The way she always made sure everyone got home safely after missions. The way she hovered near Bob whenever he looked overwhelmed. The way she pretended not to care whilst remembering absolutely everything people told her. The way loneliness seemed to settle around her shoulders whenever she thought nobody was looking.

Those moments were worse, much worse, solely because they made her human. Human was dangerous, it made people easy to care about, and you didn’t have time to care about Yelena Belova.

Your job was managing public perception, not whatever this was becoming.

“You’re staring.”

You nearly jumped. Yelena was standing beside you, far too close. The interview had ended. You hadn’t even noticed.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I was thinking.”

“About me?”

“No.” You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet you keep following me around.”

“I literally get paid to.”

That made her laugh. Actually laugh. Not a sarcastic huff or a smug little noise, but a real laugh. Your stomach did something silly, and Yelena seemed just as surprised by it.

The moment stretched, then she looked away first.

“You must stop making that face.”

“What face?”

“That face where you think too much.”

You frowned. “I don’t have a face for that.”

“You definitely do.”

She walked away before you could respond, leaving you standing there like an idiot.

The weeks passed. Yelena continued arguing with every instruction you gave, and then Yelena continued following every instruction you gave.

You told her to arrive on time. She complained for ten minutes and showed up five minutes early. You told her not to threaten reporters. She argued about free speech and behaved perfectly. You told her she needed media training. She called it psychological warfare and attended every session.

The worst part was that she started seeking you out.

At first it happened occasionally, then daily, then constantly. You’d look up from your desk and find her sitting there. Sometimes saying nothing. Sometimes stealing snacks. Sometimes complaining about literally everything.

“Why are you here?” you asked one afternoon.

Yelena shrugged. You stared, waiting for something sarcastic or something earnest. Yelena only stared back.

“Staring is not an answer, Yelena.”

“I am just existing.”

“Elsewhere is an option.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Another shrug. Your chest felt strangely warm.

The rest of the team noticed long before either of you admitted anything. Especially Ava.

“You’re doomed.”

You looked up. “Doomed?”

“Doomed.”

Ava pointed across the room. Yelena was kicking a vending machine, a wide grin on her face as chocolate bars fell into Bob’s waiting hands at the bottom.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never do.”

“There is nothing happening.”

Ava laughed, more amused than you had ever seen her. “You realise she only listens to you, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“Yesterday Bucky asked her to stop throwing her knives at walls indoors.”

You paused. “Okay, and?”

“She ignored him.”

“Reasonable.”

“You asked her the same thing thirty seconds later.” You winced. Ava folded her arms, brows raised. “What happened next?”

“…she stopped.”

“Exactly.”

Your face felt hot. “There is nothing happening.”

“Sure.”

“Nothing.”

“Whatever helps.”

You hated conversations with Ava, mostly because she was usually right.

The thought planted by Ava followed you home that evening. It stayed while you made dinner, while you showered, and while you lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Nothing was happening. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure you believed yourself anymore, and somewhere across the city, completely unaware of the crisis she’d caused, Yelena Belova was probably doing exactly the same thing.

Nothing happened all at once. That would have been easier. You could have pointed to a specific moment and blamed it. A mission. A conversation. One particular look.

Instead it happened gradually, slipping beneath your skin so quietly that by the time you realised what was wrong it was already far too late.

Yelena became part of your routine. Morning hot drinks would appear beside your laptop without explanation. She would send text messages arriving at ridiculous hours, about anything and everything, from her childhood to Bucky’s habits.

Most people would’ve found her exhausting, but you found yourself smiling whenever her name appeared on your screen. Which was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing.

The worst realisation arrived on a random Tuesday. Nothing special had happened. You’d spent most of the day dealing with scheduling disasters and a journalist determined to ask invasive questions.

By the time you finished, your head was pounding.

Yelena had been away on a mission. Three days, which was not that long in the grand scheme of things. Yet when you walked into headquarters and realised she wasn’t there, disappointment hit so hard it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

The feeling stopped you in your tracks. You hated it immediately, not because it hurt, but because it meant something.

People weren’t supposed to become necessary. Especially not people like Yelena. Especially not when she could leave tomorrow and never look back.

The thought lingered. Uncomfortable. Heavy.

By the time she returned two days later, you’d almost convinced yourself you were being ridiculous.

Then she walked through the door, tired and bruised, but alive. Relief crashed into you so violently that your eyes burned.

That was the moment you knew.

Not because she was beautiful. Not because she made you laugh. Not because she occupied every spare corner of your thoughts, but because seeing her safe felt like being able to breathe again.

You were absolutely screwed. The rest of the Thunderbolts noticed too. Whether through gossip with Ava or something else entirely, you weren’t sure.

“Just ask her out.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Across the break room table, Bob looked genuinely confused.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not asking anyone out.”

“You stare at each other constantly.”

You glared. Bob remained irritatingly sincere.

“Yesterday she spent twenty minutes looking for you.”

“She needed paperwork.”

“No she didn’t.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Bob smiled, something warm yet mischievous beneath it. You considered throwing something at him.

“You’re all insane.”

“If that’s what helps.”

Everybody had apparently decided gaslighting you was a team-building exercise. Ava smirked whenever Yelena entered a room. Alexei kept asking inappropriate questions. Bucky looked permanently exhausted by the entire situation.

Nothing changed, at least not until the party.

The invitation arrived on a Thursday morning. You hated it immediately. “Tell me we’re not going.”

Val smiled. The expression filled you with dread. “We’re going.”

“Why?”

“Public relations.”

“I am public relations and I’m advising against it.”

Val laughed. You briefly considered quitting.

The event itself was exactly as awful as you’d expected. Every powerful person in New York gathered in one room to pretend they enjoyed each other’s company.

The Thunderbolts looked equally miserable.

You spent the first hour doing your job. Redirecting conversations. Managing interviews. Preventing disasters. The usual. Everything was fine.

Then Kate Bishop arrived. You liked Kate. She was funny and friendly. Easy to talk to. None of this was Kate’s fault, which unfortunately did absolutely nothing to stop the feeling that settled in your chest when Yelena saw her.

The way her entire face lit up. The way she immediately crossed the room. The way Kate launched herself into a hug. The way Yelena laughed.

You’d heard that laugh before, yet somehow hearing it now felt different. Your stomach twisted.

Yelena wasn’t yours, and she never had been. Never would be. The thought hurt more than it should have. So you ignored it. You smiled. You worked. You accepted a drink. Then another. Then another.

By the fourth glass, everything felt pleasantly distant. By the sixth, your emotions had become impossible to ignore.

Across the room, Yelena and Kate were still talking. The sight made your chest ache.

You hated yourself for it. Kate hadn’t done anything wrong. Yelena hadn’t done anything wrong. The problem was entirely yours. Months of feelings you’d never meant to develop. Months of pretending friendship was enough. Months of wanting things you couldn’t have.

You finished another drink. Bad idea. Excellent idea? Impossible to tell anymore.

Eventually someone sat beside you. You didn’t look up.

“You are drunk.” Yelena, because why wouldn’t she be there?

You laughed weakly. “No.”

“You can barely focus eyes.”

“Rude.”

“You are drinking somebody else’s champagne.”

You looked down. Apparently she was right.

“That explains a lot.”

Yelena sighed. The sound was surprisingly fond, and that almost made things worse. Almost.

“Come.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m working.”

“You stopped working approximately three drinks ago.”

You frowned. “Maybe four.”

“Definitely six.”

Your dignity was rapidly abandoning ship. “You’re very bossy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You taught me.”

Warmth spread through your chest. Dangerous warmth, the sort that made honesty feel tempting.

Yelena crouched beside your chair. Concern softened her expression. “You need go home.”

The tenderness in her voice nearly destroyed you.

You looked away first. “Fine.”

The journey home blurred together, all taxi lights and rain against windows. The only vivid thing was Yelena’s shoulder beside yours. Every time the car turned a corner your arm brushed hers. Each touch lingered far longer than it should have.

By the time you reached your apartment, emotions had tangled themselves into something impossible to contain.

Yelena helped you inside. You hated how much it made your chest hurt.

“Better?”

You stared at her, at the concern in her eyes. Something cracked.

“You like Kate.”

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Yelena frowned. “What?”

“You like her.”

Realisation flickered across her face. Then confusion. Then something else. Something unreadable.

“No.”

You laughed. It sounded awful. “That’s okay.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Explain what?”

The room tilted slightly. Your throat tightened. Every emotion you’d spent months burying suddenly felt impossible to hold.

“Nothing.”

Yelena moved closer. “Tell me.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence, complete silence. Your stomach dropped. You wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to open beneath you. Wanted anything except the look on Yelena’s face, something hopeful, like she’d spent months wanting to hear those words.

Like they meant something. “Oh.”

You laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

Yelena didn’t move. Neither did you. The space between you suddenly felt microscopic.

Your gaze dropped to her mouth. Then back to her eyes. Something changed. The air itself seemed to shift. You could feel it. The pull. The possibility.

Yelena leaned forward slightly. Your breath caught. So did hers. For one suspended moment it felt inevitable. Then she stopped, her eyes closed briefly.

When she opened them again, there was something heartbreaking in her expression. “No.”

The word barely sounded like her. You stared, confused, hurt, and embarrassed. Every horrible feeling at once.

Yelena’s jaw tightened. “You are drunk.”

The disappointment hit harder than it should have. You looked away, humiliation burning through every inch of you. Yelena stood and took a step back, creating distance where moments earlier there had been none.

“Get some sleep.”

You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear it. The front door clicked shut minutes later, leaving you alone with the worst sinking feeling you’d experienced in years.

What you didn’t see was Yelena standing outside your building in the rain for almost twenty minutes afterwards. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Trying desperately to convince herself she’d done the right thing, and failing completely.

The hangover was unpleasant, but the shame was worse. You woke with fragments and scattered memories of champagne and rain against taxi windows. Then came the memories of Yelena’s voice, brewing a feeling in your chest so intense it still lingered even after consciousness returned.

Every attempt to piece the evening together made your head hurt. The details stayed frustratingly out of reach. You remembered getting drunk. You remembered Yelena taking you home. You remembered crying.

Everything after that dissolved into haze.

By lunchtime you were considering moving countries, or actively considering changing your name.

Then Yelena stopped answering your messages. The first day wasn’t unusual. Sometimes missions happened, or schedules changed. You told yourself not to overthink it.

The second day felt strange. The third day hurt. By the fourth, there was no pretending anymore.

Something had happened. You just didn’t know what.

Every interaction became awkward. Brief. Careful. Whenever you entered a room, Yelena found a reason to leave. Whenever meetings finished, she disappeared before you could speak to her. Whenever your eyes met, hers darted away first.

The rejection settled heavily beneath your ribs.

You couldn’t stop picking at it, couldn’t stop wondering. Had you embarrassed yourself? Had you said something awful? Had you crossed a line?

The uncertainty was almost worse than knowing.

At least certainty would’ve given you something solid to grieve. Instead you found yourself trapped in limbo, unable to move on and unable to understand.

The situation reached its lowest point during a team briefing. You were discussing media appearances. Normally that would’ve meant arguing with Yelena for twenty minutes. This time she barely spoke.

You hated how much you noticed. You hated how much it mattered.

When the meeting ended, everyone stood. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped. The familiar sounds barely registered.

Yelena left without looking at you. Again.

Something inside you finally cracked.

Not dramatically, not visibly. Just enough. The sort of break that happened quietly. The sort nobody noticed except the person experiencing it.

You gathered your things and left before anyone could speak to you.

Unfortunately, the Thunderbolts had never respected boundaries in their lives.

You made it halfway down the corridor before hearing footsteps.

“Hey.” You kept walking.

“Hey.” Ava. You continued walking. She caught up easily. “You look miserable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I gathered.”

Ava fell into step beside you. Silence stretched. You knew that look, the one that meant she was thinking. You dreaded it immediately.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

You sighed. “Ava.”

“What happened?” The concern beneath her voice nearly undid you.

You looked away. “She won’t talk to me.”

Understanding flickered across her face. Followed by irritation, though not directed at you. At someone else. Someone very specific.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

You frowned. “What?”

Ava pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.

“What?”

“She’s an idiot.”

Your stomach twisted. The words landed harder than they should have, because part of you already knew.

If Yelena didn’t feel anything, she wouldn’t be avoiding you.

People only ran from things they cared about.

The thought offered comfort. It also offered absolutely no solutions. By that evening, apparently the entire team had reached the same conclusion. Yelena discovered this the hard way.

The intervention happened without your knowledge, which was probably wise. You would’ve died from embarrassment.

Yelena walked into the communal kitchen expecting coffee. Instead she found five people staring at her.

Alexei smiled. The expression was deeply concerning. “Hello.”

Yelena immediately turned around.

Bucky blocked the doorway. “No.”

“What is this?”

“Intervention.”

“I would rather die.”

Ava pointed at a chair. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

Eventually she sat, muttering something in Russian that probably wasn’t complimentary.

“You’re being stupid,” Ava informed her.

“What else is new?”

“This time it’s affecting other people.”

Yelena’s jaw tightened immediately. Everyone noticed. Bob leaned forward.

“She looks sad.”

“I know.”

The words escaped before Yelena could stop them.

Ava raised an eyebrow. “There it is.”

Yelena groaned. “Please stop talking.”

“No.”

“I hate all of you.”

Alexei looked delighted. “Excellent. We are making progress.”

Yelena considered violence, but, unfortunately, there were too many witnesses.

Bucky folded his arms. “You like her.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“You’ve been miserable for days.”

“No.”

“Yelena.”

She closed her eyes. The argument was becoming difficult to maintain. Mostly because it was complete nonsense. The truth sat heavily in her chest. Painfully obvious. Painfully unavoidable. She liked you. She liked your stubbornness, your sarcasm, the way you challenged her, the way you looked at people like they mattered.

The way your happiness had somehow become important. Terrifyingly important. Yelena hated that. Loved it too, which was arguably worse.

“You are all very annoying.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“No.”

Ava sighed dramatically. “Then stop acting like an idiot.”

Yelena stared at the table. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The sound filled the silence.

“You don’t understand.”

Ava’s expression softened immediately, more than enough to make Yelena uncomfortable.

“We do.”

“No.”

“You really think she cried over this because she doesn’t care about you?”

That got her attention. “What?”

Ava froze. Realisation crossed her face. “Oh.”

“What?” Nobody spoke. Yelena stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped over. “What!?”

The answer arrived anyway, visible in every expression around the room. Before anyone could stop her, she was already moving. Out the door, down the corridor, and into the rain.

You were exactly where she expected. The small café two streets from your apartment. The one you visited whenever you needed to think. The one she’d memorised months ago without realising.

Rain poured from the sky, and you stood beneath the awning staring out at the street. Lost in thought. Yelena stopped several feet away, suddenly terrified. For someone who fought monsters and survived impossible situations, this felt absurdly difficult.

You noticed her a second later. The moment your eyes met, your expression shifted. Hope. Confusion. Pain. The sight nearly broke her.

“Hi.”

You swallowed. “Hi.”

Rain hammered against the pavement. Neither of you moved, neither of you looked away. Eventually you laughed softly. The sound carried no real amusement.

“Have I done something?”

The question hurt, because you genuinely didn’t know. You’d spent days blaming yourself.

Yelena felt sick. “No.”

“Then why—”

“I was scared.”

You stared. The answer clearly wasn’t what you’d expected. Yelena took a shaky breath.

“I did not know what to do.”

Your brow furrowed. “What happened?”

The memory returned to Yelena immediately. Your confession, the almost kiss, the look in your eyes. Yelena stepped closer. Rain soaked through her jacket. Neither of you seemed to care.

“You told me you loved me.”

Your face drained of colour. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh God.”

The horror in your expression would’ve been funny under different circumstances. Yelena couldn’t quite manage laughter.

“I almost kissed you.”

The world seemed to stop. Everything narrowed.

“I was drunk.”

“You were.”

The words sounded painfully final. Your chest tightened. Of course. Of course she’d waited because you were drunk. Of course she’d regretted it afterwards.

The disappointment must’ve shown. Yelena stepped even closer, close enough that you could see raindrops clinging to her eyelashes. Close enough that your pulse became impossible to ignore.

“I wanted to kiss you.” You stopped breathing. Yelena’s voice softened. “I wanted to kiss you before you were drunk.”

Something fragile unfolded inside your chest. Dangerous hope. The kind you’d spent months trying to kill.

“I didn’t remember.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were avoiding me because—”

“I know.”

Her hand found yours, warm despite the rain, steady despite everything. You looked down, and then back up.

Yelena was smiling. “I am very stupid.”

A laugh escaped you. Unexpected. Wet with lingering emotion. “Yeah.”

“I know.”

“You really hurt my feelings.”

Guilt flashed across her face immediately. “I know.”

The sincerity made your chest ache. You squeezed her hand. Yelena squeezed back. Neither of you let go.

“You could’ve just talked to me.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is true.”

Yelena watched you carefully, like she was still waiting for permission, still waiting for certainty. You solved the problem by stepping closer. Close enough that her breath brushed your skin. Close enough that neither of you could pretend anymore.

The smile that spread across Yelena’s face was beautiful. You’d never seen anything like it.

“You know,” you murmured, “if you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve started with that.”

Yelena laughed. A genuine, bright sound. Then she kissed you, soft at first, even tentative. Almost disbelieving. The moment your lips met, months of tension seemed to unravel all at once, finally becoming something real.

You kissed her back immediately, one hand finding her jacket, and the other settling on her cheek. Rain soaked both of you completely, but neither of you cared.

The world had narrowed to this.

To her. To the way she smiled against your mouth. To the way relief flooded your chest so intensely it almost hurt.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved far. Foreheads touching. Breathless and laughing. Yelena brushed her thumb across your cheek.

“You still have terrible schedules.”

You rolled your eyes. “There she is.”

“There I am.” Then she kissed you again before you could answer.

This time, neither of you stopped.

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Jack had collapsed against the wall, his face entirely drained of colour and slick with a sudden, cold sweat. His eyes were clamped shut, and his right hand was wrapped desperately around his left forearm. Dark, thick blood was already spilling through his fingers, pooling rapidly on the pale timber he had just been prying up.

"Fuck, Jack," you breathed, dropping to your knees beside him. The sheer volume of blood made your stomach drop, your hands hovering over him, trembling violently. You had seen him in his hospital scrubs a thousand times, completely unshakable in the face of trauma, but seeing him as the patient completely paralysed you.

Jack opened his eyes, the pupils blown wide with shock and pain. Even as his breathing hitched, the seasoned emergency doctor in him fought through the agony. He looked at your shaking hands and forced his voice to remain steady, though it came out as a strained, gravelly rasp.

"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart," Jack whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as a fresh wave of pain hit him. "Don't look at the floor. Look at me. I need you to be my hands right now, okay? I slipped with the chisel. It’s deep."

"What do I do? Tell me what to do," you pleaded, your voice cracking as you tried to anchor yourself to his gaze.

"Go to the bathroom. Grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, and grab a clean towel," he instructed, his breath hitching as he shifted his weight. "Move fast, honey. Go on."

You scrambled to your feet, your socks skidding on the hallway runner as you burst into the bathroom. You grabbed the heavy medical kit and yanked a towel off the shelf, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Within seconds, you were back on the floor beside him, unfolding the towel with trembling fingers.

"Okay, I'm here. I have it," you said, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Good girl," Jack murmured, his head leaning back against the wallpaper. "I need you to open the kit and get the thickest trauma dressing in there. If not, the towel will do. You need to apply direct pressure right over my hand. Don't be gentle, sweetheart. You have to push down hard."

You nodded, swallowing down the rising panic. You folded the towel into a thick pad and placed it directly over his bleeding arm. As Jack slowly pulled his own crimson-stained hand away, the sight of the jagged, deep laceration made your vision swim, but you didn't hesitate. You placed both hands on the towel and leaned your entire body weight into his arm.

Jack let out a sharp, agonised groan, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as his body went rigid.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, tears finally blurring your vision.

"Don't be sorry," he panted, his forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You're doing perfectly. Keep holding it like that. We need to stem the flow before I can try to stand up."

For a few minutes, the landing was silent save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. You kept every ounce of your weight pressed onto his arm, feeling the warm pulse of his blood beneath the heavy fabric. Slowly, the bright red seeping through the white towel seemed to slow down, the direct pressure doing its job.

"Is it stopping?" you whispered, looking down at his pale face.

"It's slowing," Jack managed, offering a weak, strained version of his usual reassuring smile. "You're amazing, you know that? My brilliant girl. Now, we need to tie it off tight. Use the roller bandage from the kit. Wrap it over the towel, as tight as you can manage."

Working with one hand while keeping pressure with the other, you managed to fish out the heavy bandage. Under his quiet, patient whispers, you wrapped the fabric securely around his arm, pulling it taut until Jack gave a tight nod of approval.

"That’s it. That’s got it for now," Jack breathed, leaning back against the wall with a sigh of sheer exhaustion. His face was still ghostly pale, but the immediate, terrifying torrent of blood had been contained. "Now, can you grab your phone? We need to get the crew out here."

"It's on the top step," you said, turning your head to look at the mobile device resting just a few feet away near the banister.

You started to shift your weight to stand up, your muscles stiff from the tension. But as you moved, your foot found the slick, wet patch of blood that had splattered onto the edge of the exposed, loose floorboards. Before you could even register the lack of friction, your foot shot out from under you.

"Whoa—!" you cried out, your hands flailing for a grip that wasn't there.

Your momentum carried you sideways, right over the lip of the top step. With a sharp gasp of terror, you tumbled awkwardly down the first half-flight of stairs, your body bouncing painfully against the carpeted steps before you landed with a dull, heavy thud against the wall of the half-landing.

A searing, white-hot pain immediately exploded in your left ankle, so intense that it stole the air right out of your lungs. You lay there on your side, pinned to the floor by the sudden, throbbing agony, clutching your leg as tears stung your eyes.

"Honey? Sweetheart, talk to me!" Jack’s voice echoed down the stairwell, completely stripped of its professional calm. It was pure, unadulterated panic. "Are you alright? Answer me!"

"My ankle," you gasped out, your voice small and choked with pain. "Jack, I can't move it. It hurts so bad."

From the top of the stairs, you heard a heavy drag and a grunt of pain as Jack, completely disregarding his own severe injury, began crawling toward the edge of the landing. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with horror as he saw you curled into a ball on the landing below.

"Don't move, honey. Just stay completely still," Jack commanded, his voice thick with emotion as he held his bandaged arm tightly against his chest. "I'm coming down to you."

"Stay there, Jack, don't move!" you cried out, looking up at him through a blur of tears. The sight of him dragging himself toward the edge of the stairs, his face entirely grey and his newly wrapped bandage already showing a fresh blossom of crimson, was almost worse than the white-hot agony radiating from your ankle.

"I'm not leaving you down there, sweetheart," Jack panted, his voice strained as he carefully manoeuvred his weight onto his good arm, slowly lowering himself down the first step. Every movement was a battle against shock, his breath catching sharply in his throat with each hitch of his body. "Just keep breathing. Nice, deep breaths for me."

It took him what felt like an eternity, but Jack finally managed to slide down the half-flight of stairs, collapsing heavily onto the landing beside you. He let out a ragged groan, leaning his back against the wall and immediately reaching out with his uninjured right hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, his touch warm and desperate.

"Look at me, honey. Let me see you," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, looking for any signs of a head injury before his gaze drifted down to your left leg. "Where does it hurt the most? Is it just the ankle?"

"Yeah," you choked out, squeezing his hand tightly. "I just slipped on the... on the blood, Jack. I tried to grab the phone and my foot just went. It snapped so loud."

"Okay, okay, let me have a look. I'm going to be very gentle, I promise," he whispered, leaning forward slightly. With practiced, tender precision, his steady fingers gently hovered over your ankle, barely brushing the skin. Even that tiny movement made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, his brow furrowed in deep concern as he assessed the rapidly swelling, distorted joint. "It’s a nasty sprain, possibly a fracture. We need to get that elevated and iced, but first, we need to actually call the ambulance. Where's the phone?"

You pointed a shaking finger up toward the top step where your mobile was still resting, completely out of reach for both of you.

Jack let out a dry, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Plan B. My phone is in my back pocket. Do you think you can reach it? My left arm is completely useless right now."

Carefully shifting your weight while trying not to jar your leg, you slid your hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. Your fingers were still trembling so hard you almost dropped it, but you managed to unlock the screen and hand it over to him.

Jack didn't dial the standard emergency number; instead, he tapped in a direct line straight to the local ambulance dispatch handling the Pitt’s intake area. He pressed the speaker button, setting the phone down on the carpet between you. Within two rings, a familiar, crisp voice boomed through the speaker.

"Ambulance dispatch, what is the nature of the emergency?"

"Hey, it's Jack Abbot," Jack said, leaning his head back against the wall, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone he used when directing a chaotic trauma bay. "Listen, I need a crew at my house. We've got a bit of a situation here."

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of furious typing. "Jack? Dude, what’s gone on? You’re supposed to be off until Monday."

"Yeah, well, the world had other plans," Jack grunted, wincing as he shifted his bandaged arm. "I've managed to put a chisel through my left forearm. Deep laceration, heavy bleeding, but we've got a pressure dressing on it now. My wife just slipped on the landing trying to help me and has taken a tumble down the stairs. Suspected fractured left ankle, severe pain, non-weight bearing."

"Jesus, Jack, you don't do things by halves, do you?" he replied, his voice a mix of professional urgency and fond disbelief. "Alright, I’ve got a unit just three minutes away from your street. It’s Mac and Sally. They're en route now. Keep that pressure on your arm, and keep your wife still."

"Thanks. Tell them the front door is unlocked," Jack said before hanging up. He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Hear that? Three minutes, honey. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."

"I was trying to help you, and I just made it worse," you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "Now you're stuck on the floor because of me."

"Don't you dare worry about that," Jack chided gently, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you as close to his side as he could manage without hurting either of your injuries. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "You stopped the bleeding, sweetheart. You saved me from a massive haemorrhage. If anyone is to blame, it’s me and my DIY projects."

A few minutes later, the heavy thud of the front door swinging open echoed from downstairs, followed by the hurried footsteps of two paramedics moving into the hallway.

"Jack? Where are you, buddy?" a loud, cheerful voice called out from the bottom of the stairs.

"Up on the half-landing, Mac!" Jack shouted back, his voice cracking slightly with the effort. "Mind your step as you come up, it’s a bit of a disaster."

Two paramedics, loaded down with trauma bags and an extraction chair, rounded the corner and stopped dead in their tracks. Mac, a burly man with a thick beard, stared at the two of you huddled together on the small landing. Jack pale and blood-stained, and you clutching a ballooning ankle.

Sally, his partner, let out a loud, astonished bark of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, you have got to be joking. Jack, what on earth have you done to your poor wife?"

"I didn't do anything to her, she was trying to rescue me!" Jack protested, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he winced as Mac knelt down beside him.

"Hm, likely story, doc," Mac teased, his hands already moving efficiently to check the pulse in Jack’s wrist below the bloody bandage. "Honestly, Jack, we leave you unsupervised for one weekend."

While Mac focused on Jack, Sally slid gracefully onto the floor next to you, opening her kit with a reassuring smile. "Alright, let's have a look at this leg. Jack’s a terrible patient, so you're my priority right now."

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of efficient, careful movement. Sally administered a dose of medication for your pain, which finally took the sharp, agonizing edge off your ankle, while Mac reinforced Jack’s dressing and got him a dose of something strong.

Despite their teasing, the paramedics were incredibly gentle, carefully loading you both onto separate carrying chairs to navigate the rest of the stairs. Jack refused to be loaded into the ambulance first, stubbornly waiting until you were securely inside so he could have his stretcher positioned right next to yours. The entire drive to the hospital, his hand never left yours, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your knuckles as he murmured sweet, groggy assurances that everything was going to be fine.

The moment the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, the familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of bleeping monitors washed over you. But the usual professional quiet of the admissions bay was shattered the instant Mac and Sally wheeled your matching gurneys through the automatic sliding doors.

"Heads up, team, we've got a double intake!" Mac called out at the top of his lungs, a massive, mischievous grin on his face. "Your best doctor has managed to incapacitate the entire Abbot household."

The reaction was instantaneous. Langdon, who had been charting at the central desk, dropped his pen entirely, his jaw hitting the floor. "What the... Dr Abbot?"

Dana emerged from Bay 4, a clipboard tucked under her arm, but stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from Jack’s heavily bandaged, blood-stained arm to your elevated, ballooning ankle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. The hell did you do to this lovely lady, Jack?"

Within seconds, a small crowd of familiar faces converged on the two stretchers. Mel hurried over from the staff room, a half-eaten sandwich still in her hand, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and absolute amusement. "Oh my… are you okay? Well clearly not but… what happened?”

"I slipped on his blood!" you called out, the pain medication making you laugh weakly as the stretchers were wheeled side-by-side into the major trauma bays.

Robby walked out of the resuscitation unit, snapping off a pair of surgical gloves, his expression instantly melting into a look of profound, theatrical despair. He walked over to the foot of Jack’s bed, crossing his arms. "Abbot. I leave you in charge of your own home for twenty-four hours, and you bring your lovely wife into my ER on a stretcher? Explain yourself."

"It was a loose floorboard, Robby," Jack groaned, the morphine making his voice deep and slightly slurred, though he still managed to shoot a mean glare. "The chisel slipped. She was brilliant, actually. Total natural."

"And then she fell down the stairs because you're a terrible husband," Trinity chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of the bay with a massive smirk on her face. She looked over at you, giving you a sympathetic wink. "Don't worry, beautiful, we'll make sure his stitches hurt extra bad for making you go through this."

Samira pushed through the crowd, carrying a fresh bag of IV fluids and a splinting kit. She looked at the two of you, shaking her head in fond disbelief as she began setting up near your bed. "Right, let's get a look at this ankle, shall we?"

Despite the relentless teasing and the chorus of laughter echoing through the department, the underlying warmth and care from the staff were palpable. The curtains between your bays were pulled completely back, creating one large room so Jack could keep his eyes on you. Even as Samira gently examined your leg and Langdon began prepping Jack’s arm for a neat row of sutures, Jack kept his right hand stretched across the gap between the gurneys, his fingers hooked securely around yours.

"You're in good hands, sweetheart," Jack whispered, completely ignoring Trinity and Robby, who were currently debating which one of them got to write ‘DIY FAIL’ on his medical chart. He squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes soft with devotion. "They're going to fix us both up, and I promise you, I am never touching a tool again."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Abbot," Langdon chuckled, pouring sterile saline over Jack’s forearm to clear away the dried blood. He winced on Jack's behalf as the true depth of the laceration was revealed. "Though looking at this, you won't be holding a chisel or a scalpel for at least a few weeks. You've sliced right down. You're lucky you missed the important stuff."

"I told you, she stopped the bleeding," Jack said, his voice thick with pride despite the sharp intake of breath he let out as Langdon administered the local anaesthetic around the edges of the wound. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his grip on your fingers tightening as the needle did its work. "She was incredible, Langdon. Didn't even faint."

Over on your side of the bay, Samira was carefully wrapping a temporary fiberglass splint around your rapidly bruising ankle, having just come back from reviewing the digital X-rays that Robby had rushed through the scanner. "Well, your brilliant wife has a nasty grade-three sprain and a tiny fracture. No surgery needed, thank goodness, but you're going to be on crutches and a boot for a while."

"Hear that, honey?" Jack murmured, a look of profound relief washing over his pale features as the morphine and the local numbing agent finally took the edge off his pain. "No surgery. You're going to be just fine."

"I'm more worried about you," you admitted, your voice still a little breathless from the lingering adrenaline and the effects of the medication. "You look like you've been through hell."

Dana walked back into the bay, holding a selection of takeaway menus, placing them on the bedside table between your gurneys. "Right, since you two managed to completely ruin your Saturday, the department is buying dinner. Santos wants pizza, Mel wants Thai, so you two get the deciding vote. Consider it a consolation prize for having the most embarrassing admissions of the year."

"Pizza," Jack grunted without hesitation, earning a loud cheer from Santos, who was still lingering near the desk. Jack looked back at you, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. "We'll get the one you like, sweetheart."

As Langdon methodically began placing neat sutures into Jack’s arm, the initial chaotic energy of the department began to settle back into its usual professional rhythm. Robby and Dana headed back to the central desk to handle a new influx of patients from the waiting room, leaving the curtains open just enough for the staff to keep an eye on their favorite patient duo.

By the time Jack’s arm was neatly bandaged and your leg was securely immobilized in a heavy boot, the evening sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows across the trauma bay. A delivery driver had dropped off three massive boxes of pizza, and Samira had kindly brought over two cups of tea, served in the mismatched mugs from the staff room.

Jack managed to shift his gurney a fraction closer to yours, his right arm slung comfortably over the metal guardrail so he could remain completely connected to you. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to both of you, the quiet hum of the hospital a strangely comforting background noise compared to the terror on the stairs just hours earlier.

"I really am sorry, honey," Jack whispered, his voice soft and entirely devoid of the bravado he had shown in front of his colleagues. He leaned his head against the side of his pillow, looking at you with an expression of pure, unfiltered devotion. "I wanted to fix that stupid floorboard so you wouldn't trip on it, and I ended up putting you in a cast instead."

"We're a matching set now," you teased gently, reaching over to squeeze his uninjured hand, gesturing to his heavily wrapped arm and your massive black boot. "Besides, you heard the crew. We really don't do things by halves."

Jack let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound warm and familiar as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your skin. "No, I suppose we don't. But from now on, we are hiring a professional for absolutely everything. Next weekend, you and I are staying on the couch."

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