THE ANTIDOTE
Natasha Romanoff x Fem Reader
by summer2224
A mission goes sideways when you’re poisoned by a neurotoxin designed for slow, agonizing death. With no backup and no time, Natasha breaks every rule to keep you alive, administering a volatile antidote that burns through your veins like fire.
Contains: Graphic depictions of poisoning, medical emergency, seizures, pain response, CPR, needles, panic attacks, and emotional trauma.
Written July 20-26 2024
(5016 Words) ------------------------------------------ The lights in the briefing room are a kind of sterile that makes your skin itch. Bright, buzzing fluorescents overhead. No windows. Four walls. No clocks. Time doesn’t exist here, just orders, gear, and the cold press of inevitability that comes before any high stakes op.
You sit on the edge of the long table, boots planted wide, pretending like your body isn’t wound tight from the inside out. Fingers twitch. One leg bounces, restless. You're trying to look calm, calm and professional. Natasha’s across from you, and that makes it impossible.
She’s reading the file like it personally insulted her.
The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.
She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.
Your knee bounces again.
“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.
You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”
That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.
“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”
That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”
She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”
You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”
She turns another page. “Not for me.”
That shuts you up.
There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.
You sit with it for a second.
You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.
You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.
“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”
You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”
She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”
Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.
You feel your throat go dry.
She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”
“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.
She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.
“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”
You stare. “Sounds like a party.”
“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.
You blink.
It’s the first time she’s slipped.
Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.
You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.
“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”
You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”
She doesn’t answer.
You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.
“Natasha.”
Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.
Then.... “Then I carry you.”
The words drop like a blade.
You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.
You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.
“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”
“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.
She steps close.
Too close.
You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.
You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.
Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”
The word sinks into your chest.
You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.
So you nod.
She turns without another word.
You stare at the empty space where she stood.
And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.
And maybe not both walk out of.
The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.
Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.
You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.
You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.
She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."
You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.
You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.
Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.
You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.
You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.
You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.
The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.
"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.
You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.
"Too easy," you murmur.
She doesn’t reply.
You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.
Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.
You hold one up. "Found your death juice."
She glances back. "Don’t open it."
"Wasn’t planning to."
"Then don’t joke."
Her tone makes you pause.
You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.
You secure the canister in your pack.
A noise. Behind you.
You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.
You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.
He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.
A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.
You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.
You look down.
A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.
You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”
But Natasha is already beside you.
“What happened?”
“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”
She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.
“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”
“What? No, it’s--”
Then your hand starts to tremble.
You try to grip your weapon. Miss.
The ground tilts.
“Y/n.”
You hear her voice like it’s underwater.
Your knees buckle.
She catches you.
Your vision tunnels.
Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.
“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”
She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.
“I’m fine,” you slur.
“You’re not.”
You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.
Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”
You reach for her wrist. Miss again.
“It was just a scratch…”
“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”
You blink slowly. The room spins.
“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.
That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”
She hoists you up into her arms.
You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.
“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”
You think you nod.
But then the world goes dark.
Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.
You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.
Then comes sound.
Not an alarm. Not shouting.
Just her.
Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”
You open your eyes. Barely.
The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.
The metal clatter is deafening.
Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.
But now she is.
She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.
"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"
She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.
You can’t.
She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.
She drops everything.
Races back to your side.
You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.
“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”
You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.
“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”
Your lips move. Nothing comes out.
She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.
She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.
Then she bolts again.
You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.
She exhales like she’s been punched.
"Please, please…"
A beat.
Then: “Yes.”
She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.
She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.
You flinch.
She freezes.
“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”
You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.
She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.
“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”
She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.
You nod. Or maybe you don’t.
But she can’t wait any longer.
She drives the needle into your neck.
The world shatters.
Your body jerks.
You scream.
White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.
Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.
“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”
You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.
She holds you through it.
She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”
Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.
Then it crests.
The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.
Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”
Tears slip down your face now.
Not from the pain.
But from the look in her eyes.
Raw. Terrified. In love.
Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”
She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.
“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”
You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”
She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.
She doesn’t care.
She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.
“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”
You blink. “Hurts.”
“I know.”
“Still burning.”
“I know, detka. I’m here.”
Silence hangs for a second.
Then, softly, almost broken:
“I can’t do this without you.”
You stare at her.
“You don’t have to,” you whisper.
She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.
“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”
You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.
You whisper, “Say it.”
She doesn’t move.
Then “I love you.”
Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.
“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”
Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.
“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”
You can’t smile, but you want to.
“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.
She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”
You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”
She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.
Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.
“Next dose in eleven minutes.”
You swallow. “And if I need a third?”
“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
Her hand brushes your cheek.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”
Your heart rate steadies.
But her panic doesn’t fade.
Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.
Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?
You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.
Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.
But she does.
Because you’re her mission now.
No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.
“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”
You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
But your eyes flutter. Barely.
She keeps going.
She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.
You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.
You hear the thud of bodies falling.
You hear the silence that follows.
Then her hand is on your face again.
“Still with me?”
Your head lolls.
She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.
“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.
The symptoms are returning.
It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.
Natasha feels it too.
You’re seizing.
She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.
“Don’t do this,” she whispers.
She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.
“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”
Your body convulses.
“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.
She plunges the second dose into your neck.
This time, you black out entirely.
No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.
Too much of it.
For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.
She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
Faint. But there.
When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.
You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.
The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.
“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”
You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.
Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.
And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She can’t carry you anymore.
Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.
She can’t feel her arms.
She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.
Barely.
Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.
You groan weakly.
“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”
Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.
You round a corner.
You see it.
Light.
The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.
“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.
But then, shouting. Footsteps.
Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.
Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.
She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.
The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.
She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.
She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.
She lifts you again.
Two more steps. Then your heart stops.
Literally.
You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.
She doesn’t even scream.
Not at first.
She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”
Nothing.
She switches to mouth-to-mouth.
Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.
“You’re not dying here.”
Another round of compressions.
She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.
“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”
Still nothing.
She leans in again. Breathes again.
Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.
She catches you before you turn your head.
You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.
You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.
You try to smile.
“Made it… to the date.”
She collapses into your chest.
“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”
You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.
You let her.
Because you do too.
Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.
This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.
She kisses you once.
Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.
Then she’s moving again.
“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”
You try to stand. You try to help.
You can’t.
Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.
Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.
“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.
Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.
But she keeps going.
One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.
She sees them then.
SHIELD medics.
Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.
One lifts a radio.
“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”
“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”
They sprint toward you.
“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”
They reach you just as your body spasms again.
Natasha doesn’t let go.
She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.
“You need to let us--” one medic says.
“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.
They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.
When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.
Her hand never leaves yours.
Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.
You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.
You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.
She is.
She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You look at her, really look.
There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.
“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.
She kisses your forehead, hard.
“You’d better,” she says.
Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.
And she starts to pray again.
You wake to the sound of beeping.
Soft. Steady. Mechanical.
It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.
Everything is white.
Too bright. Too still.
The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.
You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.
But you’re alive.
You blink again, slowly.
And that’s when you feel it.
Her hand.
Wrapped around yours.
Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
You turn your head with effort.
There she is.
Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.
She looks wrecked.
You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.
Still, something rasps out.
“…Tasha.”
She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.
Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.
And then they fill with tears.
“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”
You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”
She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Only returned the favor,” you croak.
She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.
You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.
“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”
She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.
“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.
She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”
“Hot,” you whisper.
She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.
But she feels it.
Her expression softens.
“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”
You look up at her. “And?”
She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.
“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”
She closes her eyes.
“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”
You smile, finally. Weak. But real.
“I want that.”
She kisses your knuckles.
“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”
Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.
Her hand stays in yours.
And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.
Not from pain. Not from poison.
But into rest.
Safe. Held. Loved.
And alive.
