Are you Real?

Stitched Wounds

As consciousness slowly seeps into your senses, you feel the soothing touch of a wet cloth on your forehead. Blinking your eyes open, you find yourself face-to-face with Natasha, her fiery red hair cascading around her.

"Natty?" you mumble, still groggy from sleep. "You should be resting."

She gazes down at you, her hand gently patting the washcloth against your face. "We've been asleep for almost 24 hours," she says with a soft smile. "I think I've rested enough."

"But you," she says, her voice filled with sadness, "are not well." With a swift motion, she tears open your shirt, revealing a soaked dressing on your side. "Did you stitch yourself?" she asks, her tone laced with concern.

"Yeah," you say softly, "I tried my best." You wince as she brings the cold cloth down to clean the area.

Natasha's eyes soften as she surveys your injuries, remembering how you took care of her despite your own pain. "Detka," she murmurs, "I have to restitch you. Your stitches have popped."

You shake your head, not wanting to go through the pain again. "I'm fine," you insist, but she shakes her head in disagreement. "You are most certainly not fine," she says, her tone filled with worry. "You're going to die if I don't do something."

You glance down at your injured body, watching as Natasha's hand hovers gently over your side. Her eyes well up with tears as she looks back at you. Letting out a defeated sigh, you nod your head in agreement.

Natasha swiftly but carefully moves off the bed, ensuring not to hurt you or herself. When she returns, she brings everything she needs. "How many first aid kits do you have?" you joke, and she chuckles. "A lot. It's a safe house, darling," she teases.

Straddling your lap, she undresses the wound on your side, placing a wet cloth on the open wound. You hiss in pain, gripping onto her thigh for support. "I'm sorry, baby," she says as she cleans it as gently as possible.

Setting the cloth aside, she reaches for the suture kit. Leaning down, she captures your lips, murmuring, "I'm sorry for this, Detka."

A mix of pain and tenderness washes over you as Natasha begins to stitch up your wound. Her hands move with practiced precision, her touch both gentle and firm. Each careful stitch pulls the torn edges of your skin back together, bringing a sense of relief amidst the discomfort.

As she works, Natasha breaks the silence, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and distraction. "You know," she says softly, "your mom is going to kill you." She jokes, eliciting a chuckle from you that causes your body to shift.

"Stay still, baby," she says softly, her focus on the task at hand. Her heart breaks at every hiss of pain you try to hide, but she knows you need this.

You pause for a moment, a smile tugging at your lips. "She's probably raising hell as we speak," you reply, picturing Wanda's fierce protective nature kicking in.

Natasha's lips curve into a sympathetic smile. "I can only imagine the chaos she's causing," she says with a chuckle, her voice filled with amusement.

You laugh gently, grateful for the momentary distraction. "Poor Steve, he has no idea what he's in for," you say, your voice filled with affection for your mother.

Natasha continues to stitch up your wound, her hands deftly working. "Steve?" she questions, her voice laced with curiosity.

You nod, wincing slightly as the needle pierces your skin. "Yeah, he's the one who told everyone they had to leave," you explain. "I insisted that they go, didn't want to risk anyone else."

Natasha's eyes soften with understanding. "You stayed behind," she says, her voice filled with admiration.

Meeting her gaze, you feel a rush of love and care. "I had to find you," you say with conviction.